Open Spaces

(9:33 PM) Okay, I know the cowcasting meme is pretty much dead, but it's my turn to post, and this is the only thing that I've got done--and honestly, I'm rather tired and would like to go to bed, so enjoy.

Open Spaces

Grass as far as the eye can see.
Blue shimmer of a lake in the distance.
Brown cattle softly grazing.
Feel of a horse beneath you.

The cattle drive is another one of those things that Hollywood and Westerns have idealized. They always show the cattle walking across grassy pastures up in British Columbia, everyone ending the day looking about as clean as they started (though they don't always start out too clean,) and there being no fences to get in the way of the herd.

They don't get it quite right. At least in my part of the west, we don't have large grassy plains, unbroken by roads or desert. We've got patches. The winter pastures, they're beautiful--an oasis after long days of travel. Our summer pasture is high in the mountains, rugged and beautiful, and you can see why the cows don't want to leave in the fall. That paradise of cool mountain air, shade under scrubby cedars, and ice cold streams? Why give it up for a few days of walking along hot asphalt, the dusty dusty desert, slickrock where the mirage shimmers in the distance, water that is muddy and lukewarm at the best? It's for that winter pasture. Rolling green hills, fewer rocks than the rest of it, and a big blue lake full of clear water. Not to mention getting fed all winter, guaranteed food and bedding when the snow gets high. That's why they do it.

Why do we do it? I can tell you from experience that it isn't for the fun of it. Yeah, I'll admit, riding point or swing (front and side of the herd, respectively) is okay, but if you get stuck riding drag? You'll be blowing dirt out of your nose for a week. See, drag's the back of the herd. You follow along, keep everything moving. Unfortunately, in the high desert, you're riding on sand most of the time. The slightest breeze is enough to send it into your face once the cattle get it stirred up. It's enough to make you want rain, if only because it'd keep the dust down somewhat. Course, there are other things rain also does. It runs down the back of your neck, into the gap between the collar of your slicker and skin. While you're riding, mud somehow manages to find its way into all manner of places, from your ears to your boots. And if you're riding in a canyon, rain can spell disaster. Out in the high desert, flash floods are something you're always away of, even if they probably won't happen--wouldn't want to be caught unprepared.

But at the same time, there is something intensely romantic about the experience. While you're riding, you're doing what's been done for a long time--moving stock form one place to another. For a kid like me who grew up reading Louis L'Amour novels and watching Lonesome Dove, I was living the dream. Fort hose two days in the fall, I wasn't a scientist or a student. I was a cowgirl. Not just playing cowgirl at the pasture down home. I was living it. Even down to having to buck my horse out the entire first day because he got it into his head that he was a youngun and should act like an idiot around cows. The words that came out of my mouth weren't the most ah... polite, but they made the experience real.  I know it wouldn't have been quite so memorable without that.

I'll be honest with you. It's a bloody amazing thing to do. There are ups and downs and stuff that kinda sucks, but it's amazing. The cows aren't the only ones that long for the green pasture. For us, it means air conditioned trucks and cold drinks and dinner. It means you have a story to tell when you go back to real life on Monday, one that very few people could ever hope to top.

I'm a lucky kid.

There will be watching of Casablanca

It's Valentines day again, and (at least when I wrote this,) I'm coming to you from a beat up red notebook with the word "love" written somewhat ironically in the back cover with a purple sharpie. Weapon of choice is a twistables pencil in a rather lovely shade of red-pink-maroon.

I'm not the type of person who holds a party just for me, a sad reminder of singledom on this day. No, I'm the one that sits home, curled up with my dog and a good movie.

This year, the movie of choice is Casablanca. I've loved the movie since I first saw it on public television one lonely night. Bogart struck me immediately--here was a man. Dark, enigmatic, and handsome, his is a character I have yet to be able to write.

And then, there is Ilsa. Loved by 2 men and in love with them both, she... On second thought, I'll save my script analysis for March and the run up to Script Frenzy.

There is one thing I love about Valentines Day. That's the cards. I'm not really talking the goofy Hallmark ones. The simple ones, written on all purpose white stationary and decorated this year with crayon, it's the message inside that stands out. It's that message I love. It's what Valentines Day is all about. Forget the cookies and candy and presents. Let's use this day to write to the ones we love and let them know exactly how we feel.

Curtain.

Love Letters

I love Valentine's Day and to all you haters out there...get over it.  And before you make any accusations, let me say that I have never once had a significant other on V-Day to celebrate with.  Maybe that's sad...but it's never bothered me.  There are far too many other love slots and the people that fill them to worry about one sometimes empty space.  Besides, boy love letters are besides my point and a post for another day. 
This morning when I got up there were emails waiting for me.  Short ones mostly.  From Mom, Dad, siblings, grandparents, cousins, and friends.  I have stacks of letters these people have written to me over the years.  When I feel low, I pull them out and read until I cry.  One favorite was decorated with sprinkles, yes sprinkles, and they're steadily falling off.  Another is written in halting first grade letters.  Some misspell my name but are still entirely sincere.  Others are falling apart and have tape scars from being hung where I can see them every day.  Still others come in the form of memories or objects and enveloping feelings.  There are looney tunes and mickey mouse and barbie Valentines and few homemade ones.  There are the secret Valentines from Junior High.  Birthday cards and thank you cards and congratulations and letters just because I love you.  All occasions.  All times.  All of these wondeful people.
So today, look through your love letters, in whatever form they may take.  Look through them and get over your romance driven angst and leave me to my Valentine's loving in peace.  Until there is not a single person who loves me, I will not agree that it's a worthless holiday.  And I highly doubt that that will ever happen.

More Linkage!

Just to make it a week of posting (especially as I haven't written mine for tomorrow yet...)

More from Matador

Pencast 1. This is why I transcribe.

(written yesterday)

Today, my mind is in much the same place as it was yesterday. I sit in the golden light of a setting western sun and wonder where exactly that place is. I'd like to visit someday, to see just where it is that my brain hides away when it chooses to run.

The pen I use is one of the most balanced I own, a vintage Sheaffer Touchdown I found in my grandpa's desk when he died. For years, it had sat, forgotten, in a bottom drawer, until I remembered it as I started to indulge my love of retrotech. I'd found it as a kid, written a few words until it stopped working, then lost interest. Finding it again, I began the slow process of discovery.

It had been filled with bright blue ink last, though how many years ago that was was anyone's guess. The Touchdown mechanism was new to me, so I went online, and one night, ventured forth into the shady world of pen dissection to figure out what was wrong.

Turns out the inc sac was gone. Not gone, physically, but rock hard, shattering at my first touch. That rocked me, as did the discovery of the price of replacing it. So, with my usual crazy ingenuity, I came up with my solution.

You know those balloons they sell for the making of balloon animals? Well, it turns out they have a myriad of other uses. They can become a colorful leash for you chinchilla, and emergency pressure bandage, or in my case, the replacement in sac for a vintage pen.

It isn't a perfect solution (it leaks a bit when the pen is stored), but it works for me. And besides, what would writing with a fountain pen be without an inky finger or two?

Writing with it, I wonder about the story there. At times, I have difficulty imagining my grandpa as the fountain pen type, but at the same time, I like to think he used it to write love letters to my grandma or to keep the books for his barber shop. Truth is, we'll never know for sure, but I like to think that the pen has a history worth telling.


Here is the original cast, if you care to try to read once I get the enlarge code figured out. Course, I rewrote bits of it, as is my way.

Letdown

I've a whole list of ideas that I'd love to write, but none of them seem to want to come tonight.

I sat in a gelato shop earlier, pen in hand, and wondered exactly where my brain was.

I went thrifting today and saw the following:

A Sears Continental with wide carriage for $65

A SM-3, listed as a German Typewriter with the mytypewriter.com page printed out in the case... they wanted $265 for it, but I think it was slightly overpriced.

A Smith-Corona Coronet 12 Electric for $50. I thought it was a galaxie at first. I did look, but couldn't see the cord.

This will post in the morning, but right now, it's nearly 6:30, and I wish that I was home with my dog.

I realized today that it's been nearly a week since I've written a happy list (similar to M's Happy Book, but I do it daily and add the things that I'm thankful for (yes, I know it is cliched.) )

So a list...

1. Gelato. 2. Rock climbing and feeling pumped and alive. 3. Discovering quirky new shops. 4. Nearly being done with midterms. 4. Looking at my hands and seeing the beauty in disaster. 6. Being unable to count. 7. Dings in my pink steel water bottle that is still covered in climbing chalk. 8. Getting to go home to sleep and my dog. 9. The thought of a day off. 10. Being able to help a complete stranger.

I talked to M yesterday, and she and I agree. We have gotten slightly off the original purpose of this blog, but neither of us mind. In fact, we rather love the the direction things are going. We hope you don't mind.

Awesomeness

Okay, just found this on one of my favorite sites. :) The number one spot makes me happy.

Amazing Libraries from Around the World

Fawn

(in keeping with our theme of late here's a personal essay based not very loosely on real life, love M)

Six girls in six years is crazy, it really is. I can tell sometimes from the way Uncle Chuck laughs and shakes his head, or when he asks Pop whether he’s a cattleman or in the business of little girls. Never mind all the little brothers that came along later. But two sets of twins do help hurry things along. First is Abigail Ann, twelve and tall with dusty feet. Not far behind is brown, boyish EJ at ten and we two of straw hair and forget-me-not golden eyes: Jerusalem and Bird. Bird is me and we are nine. Last are redhead Fran and round Mary May Amelia. Despite their seven years all they share are blue-as-anything eyes that trade gleams of thought in our house on the side of a hill.

In a stair step line we sit on the edge of the stair less porch and watch Uncle Chuck mutter and chug: John Deereing the tall alfalfa fields. They stretch to each of the humble hills that surround this empty little valley, green as green, our best playground. Uncle Chuck passes our only real tree—as tall as this valley is wide—and stops. We six exchange looks in an assembly line of authority until we are all looking to Abigail Ann. We heard the hitch in the mowing sounds and we know. Uncle Chuck sits in the harvester a moment; his brows undoubtedly knit, then continues on. We know that this is the bride price to keep us in rubber sandals and Sunday suppers. We know of chicken dinners that were strutting a few hours ago and where the steers are taken every fall. Farm girls have leather feet and practical hearts. But this is not quite the same: small brown bundles of spindle legs hiding in our almost-hay that will never grow up to have their doe eyes or six graceful prongs; spotted backs obeying their mistaken mothers’ worried commands: never, never move, baby mine; not a muscle, not a nose; I’ll come back for you.

Anywhere but our tempting fields these instructions would be wise, but their mothers never seem to learn this bit of anti-wisdom. As the light dims and we pretend we haven’t been summoned for supper we can see a slim gray figure slip from the hill into the field. We see her daintily, fearfully step toward our tree. She is unnerved by the way the shield of green has been laid flat in watermelon stripes. We can see her tremble in the emptiness from way up here. What she seeks is no longer there. We kick our dangling legs and gulp against the dry heat.  Redhead Fran tries not to cry.

I met a mother once, face to face. I was walking the dirt road, leather footed and alone. She looked at me, standing on her stubborn spindle legs and I saw her peaceful eyes in a world of fast, fat, fierce coyotes. So in the morning we will run down that dirt road, kicking off our rubber sandals and leap fawn-like back and forth over those watermelon stripes and smell the sweet alfalfa musk. We will run and bound wild rare in the stubble and say I’m sorry and thank you and I won’t forget. Then we will climb our only tree and somehow unknowing know that we are fawn girls, farm girls and someday, someway we will be chewed up and spit out too. But something, like this thing, a good thing will come of it. And we will have peaceful doe eyes in a howling coyote world. And these fawns will not have been a waste.

Wrong Number! Who could it be?

Ever picked up the phone and got something completely different than you expected on the other end of the line? Well, below is what I heard a few days ago...

Clack clack ding!
D E A R S I R
Zing!
We write to celebrate a month. Ding!
Zing!
A month we have all been waiting for.
Thunk ding zing.
International Typewriter AppreciatioTHUNK
Scratch scratch fiddle fiddle
CORRECT!
Appreciation Month.
Zing!
We request the honor of your participation. Ding.
Zing thunk pause zing.
Damn dog.
We cannot wait for your reply full stop.
Yours pause comma sincerely
The typewriting monkeys

Any thought on who "sir" could be?

Wild Eyed Creatures

You'd think they're wild things, untouched by human hands.

In a way, they are. We feed them in the winter, but don't get out of the truck. In the spring, when they are young, we traumatize them with branding. As they get older, they spend their summers getting roped and chased by men on horses, so maybe they are wild creatures.

They scatter like butterflies at the slightest disturbance at times, yet if you have something as simple as hay with you, they gravitate to you, eyes searching, tongues licking. They stand in front of the truck, staring at you, daring you to pull forward and hit them. And when you do, they still stare at you, and shake their horns if they've got them (yes, female cows can have horns in certain breeds,) and call to their babies to come and get the oh so delicious moldy hay that is coming down from the back of the truck--their favorite food.

As the snow starts to melt, the calves start to come. They're all legs and angles, wobbly knees and wide eyes. In the words of my father, "They're so damn cute when they're little." Course, then they grow up. By the time they're yearlings, they look like the rest of the herd, even if they still act like kids. They push at the fence and somehow manage to escape through holes that don't look near big enough for their heads. When that happens, they like to lead us on a merry romp: up and down the road, into the corridor by the freeway, and onto the abandoned railroad tracks backing the pasture. It's what we look forward to in the spring, when the snow melts and we discover just how far they've pushed the fence trying to get at the young grass.

Summers are colored by dust and noise and the smell of sweat and leather, not just for me, but for the steers as well. When they're old enough, we take them for our sport. They spend the summer running from people on horses who are hell-bent on catching them head and foot, and as fast as possible. It's fun to do, too. There is an adrenaline as you stand in the box, horse and rider quivering with anticipation as you nod and wait for the clash of the gate opening. Power beneath you as the horse collects himself to chase that critter that is heading out in front of him. Power releases as you catch up to your prey, nose to tail as you prepare for the throw. Course, I don't rope, myself. I just chase em down the arena for the fun of it.

Fall comes, and with it, the threat of winter. You'll go out to ride, and your horse has become the wild eyed creature, spouting twin jets of steam from his nose he watches you coming. The days are just right, though, for the pursuit of joy. Everything comes to life in the fall as the leaves change. The cooler air and colder nights quickly steal the laziness of summer heat, and things become more intense, more urgent, because we know that the time is drawing near for the end of a wonderful season. Once winter comes, the horn wraps are hung up for a while, and the cows go out to pasture again, becoming the wild creatures of yesteryear.

And us? We feed the cattle out of the truck in the winter, but they're free of us until the spring. The firey horse creatures that greet us in the morning ache to be ridden, but the cold, it is discouraging at times. So we, like them, wait for the spring, wait for the calves to be born again, and for the cycle to start anew.



Note: No animals are harmed in our pursuit of entertainment. Precautions are taken to ensure that the animals are unhurt during sport. The cows are athletes, just like the horses and riders. If they are injured or don't feel well, they don't perform, which means that we won't have as much fun. So, it's in our best interest to keep them healthy and happy. It's just like rodeo. If it was cruel, then the animals wouldn't look as good as they do, and they wouldn't do what they love to do.

On the Lighter Side

Well, I tend to be the serious one, at least in my writing. To a point. But, here, I've been mostly serious, therefore now, I want to try my hand at something lighthearted. This could be a disaster.

See, this is the problem! I get thinking about something, and it seems like a good idea at the time, but when I actually sit down to pound it out, to make it more than a bulbous idea in my head, all inspiration leaves me. Same with the pen. Same with the typewriter.

It's like the time that I had this idea for an awesome pirate action adventure (not denture) novel. I wrote and rewrote the opening fight scene in my head until I thought it was perfect. But, then tragedy struck. I sat down to write it down, and it deserted me. I managed to get the bare bones of the thing down, but it lacked the life, the vigor, and the clash of steel against wood as the Pirate Queen's sword got caught in the mast as she fought against the Evil Overlord who thought he could take her ship away. Course, she managed to dodge his fearsome right and swing around the mast and boot him off the spar with one elegantly shod foot, but it didn't matter anymore. The brilliance of the idea wasn't there, the sparkle that I had in my head as I was watching it all play out... it was gone.

See, I said this was going to be a disaster. Even my usual remedy for lack of inspiration isn't helping too much... maybe the little white box isn't magic?

Okay, next step.

Pirates.

Pity

So A and I had a conversation the other day.  It went something like this.

A: Love the blog!
M:  Me too!
A:  I don't have enough time!
M:  Me too!
A:  Maybe we should set up a schedule?
M:  Yes, please!
A:  How'd you like my cowcast?
M:  What the heck is a cowcast?
A:  A post about cows, more or less.  You like cows.  You should try it.
M:  I think I will.
And then there was something about cow appreciation month.

It is true.  I like cows.  But unlike A, I have, sadly, never closely worked with them except in three distinct instances. 

Numero uno involves the aforementioned cousin Salem and her family farm.  We would (and still do) herd their two dozen or so beef and breeding animals from place to place on foot...with sticks...and yelling...and sinking in marshes...and avoiding the token Brahman cow (the Brahma momma, we called her).  Even the toddlers pitched in.  It was great fun and a big mess.

Numero dos involves my family's experience in raising three Holstein calves for beef in a neighbor's deserted pasture.  We named them Sir Loin, Big Mac, and Norman.  Dad took great pride in his new status as a cattleman and fondly referred to them as "the herd."  I went and picked them out as adorable baby faces and never saw them again until Dad brought them home in white paper packages, largely due to my head being stuck in my textbooks. 

But it is numero tres that provides every reason I have for liking cows.  As far back as my family tree goes, that is how many generations I am a farmer's daughter.  It's in my blood and every one of my limited opportunities shows my natural affinity for it.  My dad would ditch his office job in a second and farm if he thought we wouldn't starve.  Salem's parents try every summer to come up with ways for us to join them on the Nevada farm.  We daydream about buying the property behind us and having a bigger garden (mom), a tractor (dad), a dog (the little boys), an orchard (little sister), and a burro (me).  We have chickens (Ruby and Evangeline and Melba and Joyce and Marge) and the neighborhood’s biggest garden.  My grandpa was not only a farmer, but a professor of agronomy (which is the fancy way of saying dirt and weeds).  When other kids had lemonade stands, I sold vegetables.  I could live on fresh raspberries and peapods.  I know about backhoe rides, dirt clod wars, and climbing stacks of hay bales.  I also know about the tragedy of putting a valuable animal down, rabid dogs, and the loss of being  too old to work.  I know about hoeing and kneading and prickly weed picking; watering and feeding and lifting with my knees; about milking and plucking and fencing.  I know about blisters and sunburns and farmers tans and outworking grown men. And I definitely know about having fits because I don’t weigh enough to budge something that badly needs budging, necessitating help from said grown men.  I sleep best on a screened porch where I can hear the rain and trains and my chickens.  I run barefoot over alfalfa stubble and gravel roads. 

And every summer I go home to place where shepherds and cattleman graze their animals and halloo across some of the highest valleys in the state.  They tip their hats and say that their pretty girl is back.  My first memory of them is being plucked up by Sam and plopped in front on the back of his white cob, Comer.  Comer is older than I am.  So is Sam, by four.  They carried me across a swollen stream.  I was five and wandering:  at home, alone, and utterly safe.  We talk grass and coming winter and then we give the backwoods salute, part the cows like Moses did the Red Sea, and go on our way.  I lean out the window looking for familiar cow faces:  the pretty brindled one; the one with white spots like four leaf clovers.  They look at us as if to say, “We pity you.  You come and go, but we always stay.”

I like cows.  I pity me too.

A Typegorical Dilemma

Am I a traitor?

I transcribe my typecasts and post the transcription before the actual typecast.

Does that make me a traitor?

I admit--I'm not the most dedicated luddite, but is there I line one can cross, where it goes from being a typecast to just a picture of some typewritten page?

Pause and Discuss.

Now, I've got my reasons, honestly. Mostly, it's because I have a hell of a time producing clean copy. I'm one of those kids who grew up with spellchecker, so if I miss a letter here or there, it isn't much of a problem--normally. But with a typecast, it makes things look like crap. Between my QDL not liking to print descenders, the Smith-Corona that burns out after a page, and the Remington that skips letters when I get too excited and start burning away, my posts look like a rough draft at best. Even once I've edited it and tried to retype, I run into the same problem. I lack the focus needed to make a clean copy.

And I won't even start on my handwriting. Now, at times, it is nice and legible, but that is if I'm taking the time. But when I get into the groove and things are flowing and sounding good, it spirals quickly downhill. And when I actually try to make it all look pretty, the inspiration dries up. It leaves me in a pickle.

That's because I seem to write better within the little posting window of Blogger. My favorite entries have been written here, just me and the white box...

Where does that leave me in the scheme of things? Am I really part of the typosphere?

Happy Book

There's a small blue book in my life titled:  "Book of Things Pertaining to Happiness," but it goes by Happy Book for short.  In it I make a list (post on the joys of lists at a later date) of all the things-strange and insignificant-that make me happy.  It's the world's greatest exercise in optimism and remembering and distracting myself from my studies.  Please enjoy the first edition.

1. bugging my evil cat
2. hugs so tight I can't breathe
3. "Frying pans...who knew? Right?"
4. people telling me I bounce when I walk
5. running to my car on Friday afternoons and singing at the top of my lungs the whole. way. home.
6. talking more to one person in one hour than I had all the rest of the week put together
7. my personal space heater
8. "I'm as corny as Kansas in August...High as a flag on the Fourth of July..."
9. planning entries for art/essay competitions
10. cabin fever

Book Hunting (Promise I'll get to letters soon!)

Image courtesy of Salt Lake Daily Photo

Rare Books. Prints Posters. Paper Ephemera. Vintage Photographs. Old Postcards. Antique Maps.

Looking up above the door of the shop, I always smile. It was the first place I saw the word ephemera, and I've been in love ever since.

Walking in, it is like coming home. I grew up reading books I'd find in my parent's storage boxes, old books smelling wonderfully of glue and paper and words. That's the smell of Ken Sanders.

Inside, it is a reader's paradise. Shelves from floor to ceiling, stacked and double stacked with all manner of books. Old books, new books, even comic books. There are bins full of old photographs, stacks of handbills and posters, and maps.

I've got a pattern down. I head straight back to the mystery section, then hit fiction, science fiction, and then Ed Abbey. After that, the rest of the shop is free game. Today, it was the beat writers (I want a copy of Dharma Bums), and then the art books. After that, I headed to the children's section... I still have an incredible fondness for children's literature. The people who write children's books are the true artists among us. They tell the same story it takes some of us 100,000 words to tell in less than half the length, and it is so much more powerful for that.

The Haul

I didn't find everything I wanted at Ken Sanders, so I had to make the long and arduous journey to Barnes and Noble. Amazing the contrast. Where Ken Sanders is running out of space for books (like me), BN seems like they don't have enough books to fill the space they had, yet I couldn't find what I wanted. It took talking to three different people to discover that the book I was looking for actually wasn't out on the shelf, even though it was in stock. So unlike the store where chance is the name of the game. Today, I found a copy of The English Patient for $5.00... and last time, I walked out of there empty handed. But that's the charm of the thing, why I like the used bookstore over BN. I can't guarantee that I'm going to find exactly what I'm looking for on a given day, but I almost always find something awesome.


So, to tie it back in to the bigger picture.

Shops like Ken Sanders are like the letter. They are amazing things, but things that are being threatened by our electronic society. By shopping there, I feel like I'm doing my part to save the written word, to keep the proud tradition alive. And truthfully, it's fun. I love shops where the owner is the one who helps you find what you are looking for, and they know who you are when you walk in the door, and greet you like an old friend. You realize you're part of something so much bigger and older than yourself.
A

The Shop


BW photo courtesy of:
Main Page
Salt Lake Daily Photo

I AM NOT a city kid (inflection noted)--a cowcast of sorts

Growing up as a farm kid, seems like cows were just a part of life. It wasn't until probably fifth or sixth grade when I realized that most of the other kids around me had no clue what I meant when I talked about branding and what the smell of burning flesh and hair was like. All they knew of the cowboy way of life was what they saw in the movies, if they'd even seen a cowboy movie.

Me, I've lived the life every kid wanted. Been riding since I was five, got my first horse at seven, and spent my childhood summers running wild round the neighborhood, kids causing mayhem on their horses.

I'd spend Saturdays in the spring with my dad down at the pasture, feeding and sorting, chasing down mothers who had gone off to calf, and, when I was really lucky, I got to be the one doing shots when it came time to brand and castrate.

Don't let the movies fool you about what branding is like. If we're really lucky, we get a day where the corral is somewhat dry, but usually, we're slogging through the mud and the muck, trying to get the brand to take on wet hide. There is the sound of pain that sizzles on the hot iron, the bellow of the calf is it realizes just what is happening.

It's my job to dart in between the men, syringe full of penicillin in hand, to inject to requisite amount intramuscularly. This isn't like giving a shot to a human or even a horse. You've got two men holding the calf down, one cutting, one branding, all while the calf is doing its best to get free, to escape the pain they are inflicting. Into that mass of confusion you run, hoping to hit muscle on the first try, praying to not feel the jarring shock of bone and the exclamations from the men as the calf tries to escape once again.

Even as the adrenaline pumps through your body, thanks to nearly injecting your dad, rather than the calf, there is something that further permeates the situation. And that is the smell.

I don't know if I'll ever find words to describe it. It's one of those things that burns itself into your memory the same way the brand burns into flesh. By thinking of that smell, I can go back to the pasture, the sounds, the feel of the mud on my feet, my hands, the cows and everything else. I can still hear the heifers bellowing as they are separated from their calves, the horses stamping at the rail, wanting to get in on the action, and the curt voices of the men at work, coming together in an incredibly vivid memory.


Thank you to Mike for starting the cowcasting trend. It's been fun.

Spotlight: The Book Garden

I LOVE this place.  I am not allowed in during the school year thanks to the amount of distraction and the propensity for draining my bank account.  The Book Garden is a used bookstore in Bountiful, UT that has just enough disorganization and shabbiness to satisfy the wishes of my heart.  I seriously have the longest, most wistful daydreams ever of running this place.  Old books, new books, somewhere in between books, buy or sell, narrow aisles, and a cramped basement:  it is charm embodied.  Check them out at http://www.bookgarden2.com/ or at 2 North Main Street, Bountiful UT 84010

One year, a typeandpen cast

I wrote this last night, because today is a most auspicious day.

7 January 2011

Tomorrow marks a year.

It was one of the hardest days of my life, but at the same time, it was one of the best. I ended a relationship that I thought meant something to me, and I took the first steps onto the path that I am now walking--the path I am meant to be on.

Talking to my friend the other day, I started to think about something. What would I say to the me of two years ago, as I was starting down the path that would lead me to that cold January day last year? If I wrote that letter, would I tell myself to not do the things I did? Probably not. Without those things, I don't think I'd be where I am today--finally headed in the right direction. I probably'd still be at my old job, hoping for something that it turns out I was never going to get. I wouldn't have had the guts to stand up to my boss and quit in order to take advantage of a most amazing opportunity.

But, there are a few things that I think I'd tell myself at the start of 2009. I'd tell me to stay strong. As usual, things get worse before they ever get better. But you can do it. You'll make it through and come out even better than before. And remember--there are people around you that you should keep close to you always, but there are those around you that hold nothing good--watch out for them. They'll only lead you into trouble.

Looking through the unsent letters and old journal entries, I can see the changes, changes you can see in my writing as well. I'm a little more careworn, a little more wise, and a whole lot more in love with life.

So, I want to put the question out to all of you--what would you tell yourself if you could send a letter back in time?

Yours,
A

Courtesy of the QDL and Fischer Space Pen

Salem

Once upon a time there was a little blonde girl who looks a bit like me, who ran the whole way home from her first day in 1st grade.  All because it was her birthday and they were going to Aunt Karen's the minute she got home.  Mom met her at the corner, every bit as excited as this little girl.  Mom and Dad and Little Sister and Little Brother and Blondie all loaded up and headed south.  They drove for seven hours straight into the Nevada desert.  That little girl got to sit up front and stayed awake and stared at the stars and waited.  She thought she even saw a mustang.  The family five arrived at half past midnight and let themselves into a quiet little farmhouse, set on the side of a dusty hill.  There was a minature cake waiting for Blondie and squashy couch on the front porch for her to sleep on.  She drifted off smiling. 
But things only got better when she woke up to another little blonde girl who'd begged to help make the cake because it was her birthday too:  Salem.  The two were inseparable for the rest of that week and from then on as all long lost twins should be.  Blondie cried herself to sleep on the drive home and once they got there Mom suggested that Blondie write Salem a letter.  And so she painstakinly did.  Month after month, year after year, infrequent visit after visit, they stayed inseparable through crayons and butcher paper; through scented markers and elementary school cursive paper; through gel pens and notebook paper; through birthday cards and lady-like stationery they filched from their mothers; gave up writing to live together their freshman year at college; started again and went straight on through to wedding announcements. 
Salem's married now and expecting her second baby.  She turned out to be one of those rare ones who's actually meant to be married before twenty.  We tend to emails now thanks to the stress of our individual lives a state apart, but we will always be letter writers.  I read them sometimes still and laugh at the inane things we came up with as little girls and gasp at the forgotten loves we chronicled for each other.  I read them because I stop missing her and it's almost as good as talking to her.  I read them because I hope we have kids who can be cousins and friends and writers like we are.  Emails give information, but those letters, we give ourselves.

That time of year!

We want to wish everyone a very Happy and Merry Christmas! Here's to hoping it's a wonderful day and very much full of joy!

~The Ladies of Ars de Carta

Long Day

Well, this week seems to be turning into a sort of tangential week, somewhat like my life. I had three or post ideas sitting there, waiting to be written, but none of them worked out. The clay and typewriters post was benched by equipment malfunctions, the thank you note post just sounded pompous and dry, and the post about clay and typewriters and hands? It fizzled before I even wrote the first sentence. I'm stuck slightly high and dry, but I still want to post something...
I think this is what they call a post-finals slump. Everything just starts to shut down, leaving you in a rut. So, I think I may well leave this post at that, and let the lovely M share some more with all of you, and try and come up with something brilliant and witty for my next post--the slump should wear off in a few days.
I'll see you all then.

Bookbinding, but not exactly what I meant...

I know I promised this post several days ago and that I've been desperately slow about getting to it.  Forgive, forgive!  It's finals week and I've been up to my ears in a crazy bookbinding project for class.  I thought I'd be talking about paper and technique and the value of such a skill but I have something better to talk about instead.  Tonight was my bookbinding final, which in the world of art classes, consists of a pizza party and impromptu showcase.  I got to display my entire semesters worth of work for my professor, along with my fellow students.  There were some amazing things. 
But the highlight of the night was the look on my professor, Mark's, face.  He was flabbergasted.  Literally speechless.  And I was thrilled.  And though I know I sound like I'm bragging, it's not pride I'm feeling.  If I could pick a mentor, I'd pick Mark.  He gets me.  He didn't tell me like everyone else that I was crazy for spending upwards of sixty hours handwriting, illuminating, and gold leafing a manuscript style poetry anthology.  In fact he understood completely why I'd undertaken such a huge task. And he was pleased.  He knows the satisfaction of working with your hands.  He felt the resonance of a job undertaken and well done.  So, while my back is killing me, I think I have carpal tunnel, and I am mentally exhausted and emotionally drained, it was entirely worth it.  I poured everything I had into something good and I did it well.  There is no better feeling than that.  Not one.  In fact, I think I may do it again.  Later.  After I've slept for...who knows, just wake me in time for Christmas.  Real post on bookbinding to come at a later date.

My turn.

*Waves*
I'm A. This whole thing was my crazy idea, though M didn't put up much of a struggle at the dragging along part of it.

And about me? Well I'm an artist, as the name applies (specifically a potter), a writer, a photographer, and a lot of things in between. And I'm a scientist. It's an awesome combination. My plan in life is to end up a small town doctor, living in the mountains and just enjoying life.

I'm another one of the barefoot types, even in the winter and at the barn, and like M, I have a tendency to sleep on the floor. I think it's the random little things like that that make it possible for M and I to be friends... just random enough that things get entertaining...

Just a warning--I'm a terrible speller. If it weren't for spell check and the red lines, some of my work would be unreadable. I love the smell of campfires and raku firings, and of sweat and leather and sweet horseflesh. I'm from a rural farming area, and some of that seems to always carry over into the rest of life.

I tend to ramble on when I write, so please, bear with me on that. But I love talking, ad it's a running joke that give me twenty minutes with someone and I can find something we can talk about.

I think I've said what I need to now... M and I, while good friends, are dramatically different as well--but like I said, that's what makes this so fun.

I think we missed a step...

Whoops...Perhaps A and I ought to introduce ourselves before we get too carried away.  My apologies.  Hi, how are you?  My name is M.  I'm a fourth year English student at Brigham Young University.  No, I have never waited for a missionary.  No, we do not pray at the beginning of every class.  No, I do not have horns.  Yes, I do think BYU lives up to most of its cliches.  And yes, as A is a student at the rival university, we are a little amazed that we're friends.  I want to be a librarian and a book conservationist when I grow up, or una bibliotecaria as I finally learned to say in Spanish the other day.  Maybe my language classes are good for something after all.  Who knew?  Anyway, I like frozen yogurt, reading picture books instead of my assigned texts, hiking, playing devil's advocate, and sleeping on the floor.  I do not like wearing shoes, eating my vegetables (except carrots, LOVE carrots), making phone calls, or being asked about my love life.  I hate Twilight.  I want a pet burro and three pygmy goats. (named Potpie, Pim, Bugger, and Nina respectively) I need to hike across Europe.  I hope to survive my finals.  And I love that now you kind of know who I am without literally knowing who I am.  Muahahaha!

Disclaimer:  Please don't hold me to my English major status, there are more important things in life than perfect grammar and punctuation.  Post on that topic at a later date.
Next Time:  BOOKBINDING!

Typecast I

I am an anachronism. I am an artisan. And frankly, I am a little embarrassed to post following what M put up yesterday. She far outclasses me when it comes to words.

Yet, thinking about what M wrote, I came up with a word. Maybe not my favorite word--that would be an impossible task--but a word that is part of why we are embarking on this journey. Ephemera. Loosely defined as something of no lasting significance that somehow manages to hold on. In a way, I think that it describes the Art of the Letter. A letter itself isn't meant to last forever. They tend to be created of organic materials that may not stand the test of time. But even then, the words on the paper live on within us. They can haunt us, like the waters haunted Maclean. Those words have been a reason for change, for war, and for so many glorious things--love and peace and celebration. Who among us doesn't remember the rush of getting something like that college acceptance letter in the mail, a welcome relief after the months of angusihed waiting. Or at Christmastime, when Grandma and Grandpa would send their annual card, and you just knew that there would be a surprise inside. That is the legacy of the letter.

While the legacy of the letter lives on, we fear that the art behind it is becoming lost. Children today have little concept of what it is to sit down at a desk or a typewriter, crisp sheet of paper before them, and pour out your soul for someone else. We want to revive that. Bring the joy of hearing words from a friend far away back into our lives. Tell another we love them in more than 3 words, in a way more lasting than fleeting breath. it is why we do what we do, why our pens and typewriters work overtime.

I hope my ramblings here today inspire you. We love our art, and want to share that love.

A.



Written on my 1955 Smith Corona Silent-Super.