Pet Perfect

From the Farm:

PET PERFECT

Published in the Casper Journal November 1, 2011

Last month we inherited a rooster, two cats and three goats (all within a few days of having a new baby). The rooster was promptly named “Bar-B-Que” by the children. We didn’t tell him about his name, but have thoroughly enjoyed his happy crowing each morning, the perfect touch to any farm. The cats (still kittens) will hopefully soon be trained in their duties - mousing — a great help as the cold weather sets in. And the goats? Their cute, furry antics and friendly bleating from the pasture have won our hearts over. Perhaps they’re the “perfect pet” we’ve been searching for.
I’m from a large family, and my parents raised children, not pets. No cat. No dog. I was never introduced to the task of caring for animals. However, wanting to be good parents, my husband and I eventually gave in to our own children’s pleading for a pet.
The first pet we agreed to was a fish. After a day of selling lemonade, my three oldest children had money in their pockets, and soon we had a fish bowl with a pretty “kissy” fish inside of it. The fish was the center of attention for the first hour or two of joining our family. She (or he) was fed often, perhaps too much, as feeding is the only activity one can really engage in with a fish. After a week, the fun wore off, summer ended, and the children went back to school. “Feed the fish” was one job marked very blackly on someone’s morning chore chart, yet it was often forgotten. Not wanting to fix meals with a hungry fish watching me, I often gave in and fed Kissy. Feeding wasn’t as much of a nuisance as the fact that Kissy would sometimes “flip” out of her fish bowl onto the floor. Although I eat fish, I don’t touch them, yet several times I found myself chasing a loose, flipping fish across the linoleum to carry her back to safety. When we went on vacation a few months later, I was secretly thrilled when Kissy died under our neighbor’s care.
Despite our sad fish tale, when our boys became excited about raising gerbils, we agreed to try some new pets. However, this time we required that the children read several library books about gerbils before we purchased the animals. Once the boys had studied up on their new hobby, we all made the exciting trip to the pet store. Inside, the store associate positively assured us that we were only purchasing male gerbils, and by evening we were all watching the cute, furry things run happily through their tunnels. The gerbils were friendlier than fish, and aside from making lots of noise during sleeping hours and successfully chewing up the bedroom curtains, they seemed relatively harmless.
One day, after a month of gerbil peace, my youngest called, “There’s a bug in the gerbil cage!” Everyone hurried to look. A strange, naked looking creature with a huge head was burrowed into the sawdust. Next to it was another, and another, and another. “Those aren’t bugs,” I ventured. “They look more like baby gerbils.”
“Oh!” offered my excited daughter. “The library book said that gerbils can reproduce every 28 days!” My eyes popped out. Someone had failed to fill me in on that detail. “But how did we get a girl and a boy gerbil?” asked my son. I’m sure the overly-eager store associate couldn’t answer that question.
The next few weeks were definitely interesting as we not only cared for the new babies, but welcomed two more batches of gerbils into our growing family. After the third litter, I had had enough. One afternoon, we took the cage and all of the inmates to an “exotic” pet store. “We’ll gladly take the gerbils,” one associate smiled. We followed him to the back of the store where he placed our cage among a menagerie of snake aquariums. I stifled a gasp as the children waved goodbye.
It’s been a few years since our fish and gerbil pets. In the meantime, we’ve also tried hermit crabs and a desert tortoise (both as cuddly and exciting as fish.) The children are older now, and we gave in again. My daughter received a goat for her birthday. Of course, one goat deserves another, and my son purchased the twin goat so they wouldn’t be “lonely.” Now they’re prancing around in our pasture, watched by the rooster and kittens.
I’m not sure exactly what the next few months will bring. However, this time, we have a deal: I feed people inside the house (including the baby) and the children must feed the animals outside. In addition, I’ve done my own research. Goats are cuddlier than fish, they sleep when it’s dark, and they do NOT reproduce at gerbil speed. I can only hope for the best.

Twice Blessed

TWICE BLESSED

Published in the Casper Journal October 19, 2011

I’m the mother of twins. Hooray! Hooray! Friends warned me that there would be twice as many diapers, twice as many feedings, and twice as much crying. “Never mind,” I thought. “By now I’m twice as good at being a mother.” Besides, one mother told me that the first six children are the hardest, after that it “just gets easier.” Now that I have nine children, I’m

Welcome, Autumn

Published by the Casper Journal October 4, 2011

Last week we celebrated autumn with a joyful harvest. Among other things, we harvested our garden ... a bit unexpectedly. The overnight frost forced us to gather tomatoes, peppers, squash, melons, potatoes and onions into our dining room. Our kitchen table suddenly became a cornucopia, spilling over onto the floor. Although we were sorry for the end of the season, we were filled with joy at seeing what our labors had produced. The spring and summer months of planting, weeding and watering were suddenly worth it.

Summer Dreams

From the Farm:

SUMMER DREAMS

Published in the Casper Journal September 13, 2011

After three summers in Wyoming, we FINALLY made it to the downtown farmers’ market. What fun! A lovely evening, good music, friendly people and great booths - a perfect example of the American entrepreneurial spirit. Oh, did I mention? We went to the market as a vendor ...
After our successful family garden last summer, we had the bright idea to expand, and planted part of our land in corn (a long shot for former Las Vegans!). We planted, weeded and watered it all by hand. It was an experiment and, except for the seed and the deer fence, cost us nothing but time. When only 1/3 of the plants grew, we were a bit discouraged, but still watered and weeded throughout the summer.
Two weeks ago, my son came running in to tell us our corn was ready. We could hardly believe it! Like magic, the stalks were full of rich, ripe ears. After a few nights of corn on the cob (which is yummy, but redundant), we hit the farmers’ market with a van full of corn and a home-painted sign.
Within an hour, we had sold out. The kids were elated. Was the corn extra yummy? I hope so. Were the kids extra cute? I think so. But more than the profit, we were thrilled with the fact that our “corn dream” had worked!
Our corn experiment also brought out the entrepreneurial spirit in our children. One afternoon they put their heads together and made a list of jobs: lawnmowing, tree cutting, weed pulling, and even “barn painting” (not sure how that one got on there). With a hand-written flyer naming their price (between $5 and $10 per job), they bravely approached several homes in our neighborhood. It was a hot afternoon, and when they returned an hour later, they were a bit discouraged.
“We gave everyone a flyer, but no one said they wanted us to work.” I said nothing, knowing the seeds of their experiment had at least been planted.
Two days later, a neighbor called, asking for help to weed her garden. More than thrilled, the kids went out the door and returned with cash in their pockets. A week later, they were called on to watch a dog while the owners were gone. Another day, they washed windows. They were in heaven! Trying not to interfere, I let them work out the details of each job, noting that the neighbors were generally more generous than the initial price my children had listed. (No barn-painting jobs, though.)
Watching his older siblings come home with money in their pockets, my 4-year-old asked one day if he could sell eggs. Slightly embarrassed about a small child and an egg stand in our driveway, I tried to hold him off. However, his eager spirit finally convinced me to let him try. He set up a table with a hand-printed sign near the road: Eggs .25 each. I put six of our chicken eggs in a bowl and watched him go out and sit in the sun, certain he would be disappointed. However, glancing out the window a few minutes later, I was surprised to see our neighbor carefully put four eggs into his pockets and hand my son a dollar bill. My little boy pounded on the door. “I sold some eggs!” Within 10 more minutes, his other two eggs were sold as well, and I made him clean up the stand. (I needed the rest of the eggs in the house for dinner.)
Thankful that he had been successful, I was also grateful to our considerate neighbors who gave him and my other children a chance. The corn, the eggs and the odd jobs not only provided my children with a great experience, but helped them each purchase most of their school supplies.
The money is beside the point, however, and the real victory is the opportunity to set a goal and reach it. Some day they’ll be beyond homemade egg stands and handwritten flyers, but for now, thanks to the farmers’ market and some very friendly neighbors, they’ve experienced the American dream.

Kokoro Kara: From the Heart

From the Farm:

KOKORO KARA: FROM THE HEART

Published in the Casper Journal September 5, 2011

It’s been a while since I’ve been the “minority” in a crowd. But I certainly was this past weekend at the Heart Mountain Interpretive Learning Center dedication in Cody. I’ve studied World War II, I’ve been to Japan, but the weekend’s events gave me a greater appreciation for the Japanese-Americans who were interned during the war. Ten thousand people lived in one square mile of barren land between Cody and Powell below the jagged image of Heart Mountain. They were some of the 120,000 Japanese Americans who were relocated during World War II.
Dedication activities of the new ILC lasted three days. The tent at the opening banquet was crowded with people, most were Japanese-Americans — nisei (second generation), sansei (third generation) and even yonsei (fourth generation). The nisei were nearly all in their 70s and 80s. They walked into the tent, supported by their children and grandchildren. I loved their faces, so Japanese, so calm, so traditional. It made me homesick for the quiet ways of Japan. During the presentation, they watched the screen as pictures of Heart Mountain, then and now, were shown ... the old hospital boiler, the swimming hole where Boy Scouts passed their swim checks (only the diving board remains), the irrigation pipe, the water reservoir (now a dustbowl). Although some of the pictures were sobering, the mood in the tent was light, even jovial, as stories and memories were shared.
While we stood in line for dinner, I visited with Judy Murakami. Judy was an infant during the internment. Her mother never spoke of the experience during Judy’s growing up years, after the family relocated to Minnesota. However, Judy kept the wooden doll bed her father made for her in the camp. The bed is now on display in the ILC.
After we finished our peach pie, Tom Brokaw spoke, calling the center a “fitting place for renewal and reflection. A symbol of failure now becomes a symbol of triumph.”
Norm Mineta, former U.S. Secretary of Transportation under President George W. Bush, and Secretary of Commerce under President Clinton, also spoke, recalling experiences at Heart Mountain. Mineta was a 9-year-old boy when his family was relocated from southern California to Heart Mountain. He wore his Cub Scout uniform. Later, he joined one of the seven active Boy Scout troops at the camp and became fast friends with a young Boy Scout from Cody named Al Simpson.
Serving under President George W. Bush, Mineta was the official who downed all flights on 9/11. In a cabinet meeting two days later, there was some discussion about a possible roundup of Muslim-Americans. Thankfully, the president insisted that history wouldn’t repeat the same thing that “happened to Norm.”
Throughout the weekend, downtown Cody bustled with hundreds of dedication visitors. Signs on nearly every store door welcomed the Japanese-Americans.
“I remember signs during the ‘40s that read, ‘Japs not allowed,’” recalled Al Simpson. “The situation was so confusing to me, because as a Boy Scout, I would go with my Scoutmaster out to Heart Mountain and we were friends with those people.”
Well, those times are over, and a time for celebration is here. The dedication, although somewhat sobering, was a joyful event. Eighty-year-old former Boy Scouts Bill Shishima and Donald Yamamoto, proudly wearing Scout uniforms, raised the flag over the new ILC, while cameras everywhere snapped photos. Once boys, maintaining a semblance of their American heritage, they’re now heroes, returned to claim what’s rightfully theirs. The crowd was gracious and spellbound throughout the presentation. At the adjournment, souvenirs sold out and Japanese bentos (lunches) were eaten and enjoyed. The day was warm and dusty and the trails of Heart Mountain were filled with walkers, remembering another time and grateful for the understanding we have now.
I enjoyed the ceremonies. I learned as we toured the grounds. But my most priceless souvenir of the weekend is a greater appreciation of the Japanese people: simple, beautiful, and for the most part, without bitterness. The theme of the weekend reverberated everywhere: “Kokoro Kara: From the heart” ... a time to let hearts heal and stand up together again as Americans.

Plein Air on the Plains

From the Farm:

PLEIN AIR ON THE PLAINS

Published by the Casper Journal August 9, 2011

It’s been an artful summer. I started by watching a friend, Alicia Blevins, complete a pastel drawing of the plains of Wyoming in one hour. Wow! In only 60 minutes, she created a masterpiece. It accurately displayed Wyoming hills, a winding road and wildflowers. I was in awe.
A few weeks later, I coincidentally met one of my neighbors for the first time — Ginny Butcher. Discovering that she was an artist, I checked out her website and saw the term, “Plein air.” At first, I thought it was a typo. Don’t you spell plain with an “a?”
I learned the truth when I visited Ginny’s house a few weeks later. From the outside, her home resembled most of the others in our small, farming community. However, once inside, my children and I were overwhelmed with beauty. Ginny graciously showed me her painting studio, photo studio and display table. But the tour didn’t stop there. Stepping onto her back terrace was like stepping into a painting. The view was incredible. Plains as far as the eye could see. Green vines crawled up her deck, a stream twisted through the property, and wild flowers grew on the hills and in her garden. My children loved the rambling bridge and pathways through the tall grass.
Ginny explained what “plein air” means. In French, it describes being outside — painting in open air, from a real view, not just from a photograph. It wasn’t a typo, artists prefer the French term.
The day after visiting Ginny, a friend gave us a private tour of the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody ... another wow. We saw interns carefully checking and preserving historical posters and artifacts. One room stored Remington pieces not currently on display. The room had a regulated temperature, and we spoke quietly while inside. The precious masterpieces portrayed the American West. The worth of the paintings was astronomical.
Did Remington paint in “en plein air?” I’m not sure. (Remington lived in New York.) Nevertheless, the art was amazing.
After leaving the museum, we drove west from Cody, through some of the most gorgeous “plein air” of the world. At Buffalo Bill State Park, the reservoir was overflowing. The Shoshone National Forest displayed its usual incredible grandeur, and we soon were nearly into Yellowstone. As we pulled over to take a photo, the vehicle behind us stopped and the family asked us to take their photo. “We’re from Chicago,” they said. “Where are you from?”
“Wyoming,” I said, almost embarrassed at the short drive we had taken to enjoy what the world comes to visit. We waved as they drove on into the park. Our conversation was a good reminder to enjoy what we have.
A few weeks later, we spent some time on a friend’s ranch in Clark, Wyo. Have you ever been to Clark? It’s a mere dot on the map. I sat on the porch, enjoying the sunny flowers and watching the overflowing stream gurgle by. In the pond, my children spent hours on the paddleboats, trying to catch fish and having water fights. Another “plein air” experience.
I’m not an artist. I’ll never own a Remington, or do a chalk pastel, or have my own in-house studio. I do love good artwork, however, and I may consider myself a bit French now whenever I’m outside enjoying the Wyoming summer. We have views to inspire every artist, even the artist in each of us. And whether or not we capture it on a canvas, beauty is something we’ll never lack in this state — especially the “plein air” on the plains of Wyoming.

Garden Night

From the Farm:

GARDEN NIGHT

Published in the Casper Journal July 26, 2011

We hold a special “Garden Family Council” each spring. Sitting around a big table and with my daughter acting as scribe, all of us shout out everything we want to plant in our family garden that year. Tomatoes, beans, corn, carrots, lettuce and radishes are regulars. Some years we’re more daring, adding watermelon, big blue morning glories and Jack-Be-Little pumpkins to our garden wish list.
After the list of “crops” is made, each child chooses two or three vegetables he wants to be exclusively in charge of caring for. Our council ends with the family gathered around a large piece of white butcher paper, drawing a sketch of the future garden and assigning vegetables and caretaker children to specific rows.
I remember my own parents holding a “Garden Family Council” when I was a young girl. It was always very exciting. During the following week, my mom would come home with a new pair of garden gloves for each of us children. We tried them on and modeled them all over the house, dreaming about our future vegetables. Then the warm weather came.
At dinner one evening my parents announced cheerily, “Tonight is garden night!” The response was less than enthusiastic.
“I’m too busy ... Too much homework ... Something on my schedule tonight ...” The list of excuses always went on and on.
“No, tonight is garden night!” my parents would insist. So we grudgingly put away our books or toys, hung up the phone, changed our clothes and went outside.
Our reluctance never lasted for long. The minute we were in the garden the fun began. Talking and laughing together, we’d work on our individual rows — digging, furrowing and planting. We prided ourselves on a straight row and marked each one carefully with a stick and a seed package.
As we worked, we sang songs and talked about the happenings of the day. Outside, with no TV or radio blaring, conversation came easily and family ties grew more quickly than the seeds in the freshly turned earth. When the stars came out, Mom would bring a bucket of ice cream outside and we would lie on the grass, licking ice cream cones and admiring the evening’s work. Satisfied, relaxed and a little bit dirty, we reluctantly went back to homework and evening chores and then to bed.
It’s been several years now since I was a child in the garden with my family. I can hardly believe the passage of time as I gather my own children for a “garden night” one evening.
“I’m tired.” “I want to finish my book.” “We just weeded yesterday!” The initial excuses echo those from my childhood, but we head out into the cool evening anyway. Green peas and corn are poking up through the damp earth.
“Look how big the tomatoes are!” yells my daughter, and everyone runs to inspect. Working together we weed and furrow each row, while the toddlers run freely down the garden paths.
“What’s in the new patch of garden?” asks a friendly neighbor.
“Corn,” smiles my son. “Three thousand seeds!” The numbers make us sound more ambitious than we are, but the anticipation is worth it.
“Six more eggs from the chickens!” shouts my four-year-old. He runs to the kitchen, his hands full of treasure.
“Another robin’s nest!” calls my daughter, pointing to a tree and everyone gathers to welcome the newcomers. As the children talk and laugh together, a smile crosses my lips and a fresh breeze fills my heart.
When the stars come out, we sit on the swing and look down at the river.
“We’re rich,” breathes my daughter.
“Yes,” my husband replies. “We have everything.”
Garden night: a tradition passed down to another generation. A tradition I don’t want to forget.