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 ''What the word 'Service' really means''

 

I became confused when I heard  these terms which reference the word "service".

Internal Revenue "Service"

U.S. Postal "Service"

Telephone "Service"

 T.V. "Service"

 Civil "Service"

 City & County Public "Service"

 Customer "Service"

 and "Service" Stations

This is not what I thought "service" meant.   

But today, I  overheard two farmers talking, and one of them said he had hired a bull to "service" a few cows.  

BAM!

It all came into perspective.

I now understand what all those  "service" agencies  
are doing to us.

(this came to me in an e mail this morning and I just had to share it!)...smiles...

King Kong 1 point, little ole lady 0.

 

So far this summer I'm winning the never ending weed war in my extensive veggies, flowers and yard work department but it's sure hard on my nerves!

As the menfolk leave for work everyday at 6 am and I'm outside working by 6: 05 am and there I stay until good ole Mr. Sun runs me back indoors to the air conditioning about noon for a break.

This mornings project was to be tearing out my 2nd year strawberry beds in preperation of re-planting and turning over the soil.

Simple enough.

Unless you absolutely hate snakes, poisonous or not.

And I do.

Allot.

So, being the ''I know their in there'' snake pessimist I am, I always approach any areas in the yard that I can't see thru...around...or under... with great caution...and ok I admit it...fear.

'Cause I always JUST KNOW that there's one in there somewhere, waiting like a vulture to scare me half to death and that one day I'll simply drop over dead when I run into one.

And yep, today there he was.

After my initial reaction which is always the same...I jump 2 feet in the air and land sideways at a dead run, I spout off rapid fire jibberish language that sounds like a dialogue from Robin Williams MORK FROM ORK character, and I swear a blue streak that would make any sailor blush.

Which none of phased this fella one dang bit.

He never even flinched.

When I finally calmed down enough to function again and worked up my bravery levels and combat strategy, which takes awhile, I tried scooping him up with my long handled shovel to relocate him to another area in the yard to live.

Which he was having none of.

Not even as broad across as a pencil and no longer than a writing pen, this fearless little turd bird coiled himself up tight, raised his head high in the air, looked me right dead in the eyes... and stuck his tongue out at me.

Now that's balls.

And ya just flat gotta admire undaunted courage and that ''I'm not going down without a fight'' attitude when you're the littlest guy on the ole flood chain.

I highly admire that trait in man or beast!

So now I sit here, thinking of something indoors to do.

Go figure.

And him?

He's still out there,

under a rock I placed in that strawberry bed for him to live under,

and I'm calling him King Kong.

''Home sweet home''
 
 
Welcome to my mountain.
Elevation 4500 feet,
hidden away far up in Gods country.
 
Where the clear, crisp, and sometimes thin mountain air
is sweet smelling both day and night,
and sometimes the Northern Lights dance in the cold winter skies.
 
Big Sky country,
where the night skies boast millions of brightly twinkling stars as far as the eye can see,
so big and close you think you can just reach out and touch them,
and I've tried.
 
A land where there are no endless rush hour traffic freeways,
or acres and acres of concrete parking lots.
 
Where there's no over-populated masses of people in your face and your space,
and not a single, solitary shopping mall within 100 miles.
Welcome to catalog ordering country.
 
My neighborhood is place where there's just you,
your husband,
your land,
your animals,
and your God.
My idea of neighbors.
 
It's also a very remote place to live,
in an extremely vast, primitive, wilderness area.
Where you sure find out quick what you are made of,
as life and living up here is far from easy.
 
As every single day when you haven't been into town for months is called ''self entertainment'', or you'd plumb go stir crazy.
Those that can't adjust to a long list of hard work that need to be done daily,
year round almost, plus the extreme isolation, weather and wildlife,
soon go off the mental deep end and quickly boogie back to civilazation.
 
As seldom up here anything or anyone disturbs a persons personal space and harmony.
Other than a bothersome bear or hungry raccoon,
sometimes a Mama cougar and cubs that eye ball my chickens,
and every once in awhile the local herd of wild horses stampeding thru,
but other than that and our famous lightening and thunder storms,
life is pretty darned quiet.
 
For our personal entertainment and excitement though,
yearly comes along, bear, cougar, elk, deer, and turkey season.
So there's always a wandering trespassing hunter or two to run off,
and every once in awhile, a family of tourists from some big city trying to camp or picnic in my front pasture by the creek.
But other than that you are pretty much on your own for shits and giggles.
 
We've all become quite ''feral'' up here over the years being such a tiny,
so spread out community so far from town.
Our men are hard working, self sufficient mountain men,
heavily muscled, farmer tanned and yep, mostly bearded and long haired.
 
We women are pig tailed down to our waist,
with no make up or high heels to put on,
just mountain rough and tough,
barefoot or cowboy boots kinda girls.
 
As such things as hair cuts, shaving beards or a need for new shoes or a dress just seldom exsist.
There's never enough hours in the day, nor desire to drive 70 miles or so to shop, and no one cares about such vanities anyway.
 
And without society or the local news or radio reminding you,
its sure is easy to forget what day it is or what day tomorrow might be.
And after a few weeks of being up here,
you could give a crap anyway.
 
There's 34 of us that live widely scattered thru out these hills.
From original homesteading ole hippy folks, 
to hiding out bad *** bikers from California and a few outlaws on the run.
And also folks like us, country born and bred drop outs from society.
 
So a persons privacy is the key to happiness up here and we all do our own thing.
And what you may or may not do,
is well hidden behind big ole old growth timber on pot holed dirt roads.
No one cares who does what, when, or how, on their own land.
As in the hills, no one has a past, only a future.
 
Needless to say you're glad to see someone when they do come a callin' though, as odds were you hadn't seen a single soul for many weeks.
So getting a visitor and stopping work to visit and entertain, is pretty big stuff.
 
As company means you sit a spell, chat awhile, and all work comes to a halt.
 
Everyone always has new news and updates to share with visits being so far apart,
who's building what this spring/summer,
who's planting/harvesting/canning what fruit or veggie,
who saw grizzly, cougar or wolf tracks where,
or maybe where exactly the creeks were damned that year by beavers,
And you find yourself loving every minute of the conversation.
 
You learn quick to keep track of everything around you up here,
so the news exchange is always greatly appreciated and noted.
As any trouble with bothersome wildlife, means you too may soon be on the food chain.
Troubles with poachers, hunters, campers, and hikers is usually a fire threat,
in turn a threat to our pastures, trees and grass, all of our livestock, and our home.
 
As any trouble can mean big trouble for the whole mountain community, 
'Cause up here, disasters are usually major and we're a long ways from town.
 So being on guard for anything and everything is almost as good as being ready.
 
You can always count on all of your neighbors for what help you might or do need though, and you know you can always count on them too.
Always.
 
Wildlife is another sure bet up here too.
As almost daily I see right up close and personal,
grizzly bears lumbering thru my pastures,
a bob cat running down a rabbit,
deer eating my veggies and flowers,
soaring eagles have taught their young to fly from their huge nests in my trees,
wild turkeys chase my chihuahuas thru the raised garden beds,
and coyotes sing me to sleep each night from our year round creek just 100 feet from my bedroom window.

What food we eat I grow, cann, cellar or dry.
I save seeds from year to year and that’s how I end each day in the summer months.
My baskets in hand I wander the gardens collecting seeds,
my long skirt tied up on one side to my waist and my feet bare.

Our pantries are always full and when we do have to go grocery shopping,
at least once a year, my only purchases are what I can't make myself.
Coffee, sugar, salt, pepper, oil, toilet paper...you get the picture.
 
What wood we use for heating the house and shop we cut ourselves each morning on our own lands before breakfast, at least one cord a day,
starting as soon as our 8 1/2 feet of snow melts each spring and we don't quit until 40 cord is cut and stacked.
No electric heating bills or gas bills to pay, just dang hard work.
 
It sure does feel good to sit down come winter though.
As life doesn't get much better than when the spring/summer endless chores are done, a gal can put her feet up by the roaring fireplaces with a good book on her lap and let the snows rip.
 
Though walking down to the ole mailbox come cold weather is sure good for a laugh.
It takes me 15 minutes to go outside and I'm a vision only a mother could love.
With long johns under my levis and flannel shirt,
my carhart bib overalls, carhart vest,
sorrell boots, good for 50 below zero,
my oversized Navy pea coat,
a coyote fur trimmed bomber hat,
two pairs of gloves,
and a brightly colored, home made knitted scarf around my neck.
I start out at 115 pounds and end up at 150.
I look like a Cabela's survival gear advertisement and walk like a pregnant duck.
And all just to walk 2000 feet down to get the mail.
 
Such is my life, such is my mountain, such is my own little piece of heaven here on earth.
 
We call it hog heaven.

'When appliances rebel''

''If the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off''

 

Ok, to ease my own heavy guilt for my current actions and attitudes, I confess.

Sometimes I rant and rave.

But in my own defense, sometimes too, I just can't seem to help it.

As it seems to me, the older I get the more passionately opinionated I get.

So, in my book of life these days there seems only to be, right or wrong, good or bad, black or white, stupid or smart. And not any gray areas at all in between.

Which leaves no room for debate these days when I inform my husband, my brother and my 5 dogs that if I go crazy, I'm taking all of them with me.

Why?

I'm currently experiencing the since time began, age old cross of womanhood to bear, female natured curse upon my shoulders, commonly referred to and best known as ''THE CHANGE OF LIFE''.

As I plunge towards my Golden Years feet and mouth first, riding a physically, mentally, emotionally charged roller coaster that I neither chose or enjoy one dang bit, I've discovered that I've had fun before, and this menopausal thing ain't it.

First there's the legendary hot flashes. One minute your a-ok normal, but the very next minute you are quite sure that you'll be the next victim of human combustion as your body temperature reaches 110 degrees.

Suddenly you are soaking wet from head to toe looking like contestant number 3 in a wet tee shirt contest at Bubba's Honky Tonk and Grill come Saturday night.

Attractive and appealing maybe at 20-25 years old, but ''debateable viewing enjoyment''  at my current 56 years old.

And call me vain or simply fickle, but the ole sweat hog feeling/appearence does nothing to improve my current hormonal swings. I sure don't feel like just breaking out into a song or dance thank you, nope, more like snarling and nipping at heels.

It sucks.

Then along comes the dreaded night sweats.

For those unfamiliar with the term, that's where you wake up soaking wet in the wee hours of the night from a deep sleep and your first conscious thought is that you have wet the bed.

Because not only are you soaking wet, but so are the sheets, the top blanket, both of your pillows, and the 2 Chihuahua's that sleep with me.

Not the best way to wake up either, having to change the sheets in the middle of the night, husband blurry eyed , half asleep and waiting for me to finish, chihuahua's giving me the stink eye as they think I'm not properly paper trained and another stack of laundry to do to start my morning.

It's ruining my normally sweet and loving disposition!

Let alone my sleep pattern.

It too, sucks.

Emotionally I find myself reduced to hanging onto all logic and sanity as I know it by one, fine, time worn thin nerve.

And if I slip just a little on that hold on reality, I find myself flipping from sweet little Shirley Temple into dog skinning Cruella DeVille in the span of a solitary heart beat.

Yep, on a bad hormone day I can send husband and little brother beating feet to the work shop and all dogs running for the safety of their blankets, and all by simply turning to look at them with one thin red eyebrow arched high.

They are all quickly learning the self surviving tips of how to handle a hormonal woman.

I call it ''Feet don't fail me now''.

When they run in fear, I feel better....Sick, but true.

''It will pass'' my mother often tells me. ''Look at me, I've gotten over it'' she'll say time and time again.

Thats where really deep depression comes in and floors me.

'Cause Great...They call her ''Mean Jean the Buzzard Queen'' for a reason...she has a mouth the size of, or maybe even greater than the entire state of Texas, a hot blooded Irish temper held second to only Satan himself and she's usually grumpy.

Geez...Something to look forward too it's not.

So tonight I'm trying really hard to adjust my faltering good natured ways and positive attitude back to normal.

I'm striving hourly and quite wholeheartedly to remain upbeat, happy go lucky and calm, but just don't cross me and we'll all be fine!

Hormone therapy?...Been there, done that...Cancer and heart threats loom.

Herbs?....Didn't work for this ole doll and some things I just won't put in my mouth twice.

Solution?....Recognize it, face it, deal with it.

The bottom line?

I'm a 56 year old, red headed Irish woman, who's trying to cut sugar out of her diet, is kicking Joe Camel to the curb as I've supported his life style long enough and all the while going thru this CHANGE OF LIFE.

Life sucks sometimes.

But then... if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off.

 

''Pry it from my cold, dead hands"

 

I've had my own rifle and worn 6 guns since I was a kid.

Doing so was a way of life in Montana let alone a means of self survival in a country where rattlesnakes, grizzly bears, timber wolves and cougars far out numbered those of us on horseback bringing the horses or cattle down from the high country. 

Guns were necessary, useful and had a purpose.

Protection.

So if you are all for gun control this blog won't tickle you pink.

First let me say that I deeply sympathize and mourn for all those killed by violent means with guns, especially the innocent children at the schools here lately. I'm not sure how the problem can be solved for the schools but I do know that taking guns away from the general population isn't the answer.

Because a hard core fact of life?

There's always going to be crazy people with guns, there always has been and there always will be.  And they kill others with guns for whatever reasons. 

Yet each time one of these school shootings occur the gun control activist come out of the woodwork screaming take all of our guns away. I guess they haven't yet realized that the bad guys can buy them off the streets for $ 50.00 and that underground market will never, ever, dry up and fade away no matter what.

As it may sound like a good idea but it just simply isn't the answer to the problem.

Just ask Australia what happened to their crime rate in one year when their guns were pulled by their government. The bad guys now have the upper hand, their still armed and crime rate in one year went thru the roof.

Guns are a way of life, especially I feel here in the West, a source of not only protection but also of entertainment and enjoyment for many people and has been since the Winchester and Colt were first invented.

Some of us still like to hunt, to target shoot and don't kill people with them. We're the ones who fight the hardest for our right to keep and bear firearms.

So to each their own and I respect that.

But it's been a way of life and survival for as long as I can remember and most importantly, my Daddy bought me that Winchester rifle when I was 6 years old and if they want it they will have to pry it from my cold dead hands.

What Inspires Me....... The graceful soaring of an eagle in blue skies... a meadow a-bloom with colorful spring wildflowers... the power and speed of a good horse between my legs... these things inspire me.... A full moon and endless twinkling stars... hot summer sun and warm breezes on my bare skin... solo dancing with the ghosts of the Northern Lights... these things inspire me.... Coyotes at the creek singing me to sleep at night... birds in harmony outside my window come dawn... holding tight to my country roots and being proud of it... these things inspire me.

My poor cocker spaniel, Scooter has just been 'fixed' at the vets 2 days ago.

Currently he's running around the house still in the ''slight pain and very itchy stage'' and not quite sure at all where he lost his poor nuts.

And it's my full time job to make sure he doesn't lick, scratch or run.

Yea right.

Try it sometimes when you have 5 other dogs who are taking full advantage of torturing him with their running endless hot laps around the front room and jumping over him, knowing full well he won't /can't chase them now...well, 2 out of 3 times anyway.

The whole scenrio reminds me of the movie where 'Cheech'  is in the sraight jacket in lockup, screaming, crying and scooting his butt across the floor pleading ''somebody please come and scratch my balls...please''.

A funny image in my mind but not so funny to my last nerve who's currently threatening to jump from the roof after 2 days of this.

 But it got me to thinking.

We cut male dogs and horses to make them more manageable,

so their temperment is calmer,

so they don't bite as much since their testosterone levels are lower,

so their moods are more stable and their attitude more laid back,

so they don't fight among each other,

or sniff and hump pant legs.

And we don't cut our husbands.

Go figure

''The ice cream man''......I went into town to help a girlfriend weed her gardens... Hot, sweaty and sunburnt I was about ready to call it quits for the day when I heard the familiar catchy little tune floating faintly on the wind... it was a-ways off in the distance and the melody sure rang a bell in my minds memory banks.... I straightened up from my weeding listening intently and yep, that's what I thought it was.... The ice cream song!... The ice cream truck was coming our way!... Images of rainbow popsickles of my youth ran thru my head as she and I ran to the curb...digging deep in our levis for change and already drooling... When he finally rounded the corner 10 minutes later and came down her street... I had to laugh right out loud... As huffin' and puffin... this craggy lookin' Ole Timer in a beat to heck straw cowboy hat and bright red sneakers with yellow laces was pedaling along towards us on a vintage three wheeled bicycle...with a cooler on the back of it... Painted every single color of the rainbow and then some... Pulling over, stopping in front of us and eyeballin' us both up and down without saying a word... he flipped back the coolers top and there lay 2 choices of ice cream.... Chocolate and vanilla bars... $ 3.50 a piece... Not even close to my image of a rainbow popsickle... Now I love antiques, unusual relics and nostalgia... But I hate inflation and rudeness... But I just couldn't help myself on this hot day... I bought the chocolate one... So I'm weak. Smiles..

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