Taking the good with the bad

I heard it once said that magic comes with a price.  I suppose that's true for everything. Everything comes with a price, the good and the bad.  Sometimes it's difficult to accept that truth.  Recently, after a long and difficult time of heartache in my life, I have found happiness and a measure of joy. But, I have recently discovered that even that joy, happiness, and I guess you would say, magic,  has a price. I worked very hard to build an honorable life in spite of many difficulties.  I had a lovely home, something that was very important to me and that I had often prayed for. Just a simple place of grace and beauty where I could have safety and security, and gather with friends, family, and fill with grandchildren.   I had friends, associates, a good professional reputation, and family nearby. Then one day out of the blue everything changed, like magic.  Not bad magic, good magic. But as I said earlier, this magic came with a price. My home that I have loved so dearly will soon no longer be mine. The resources that made ownership of this home possible have suddenly disappeared. I am now faced with an unknown road. Soon I will be forced to leave behind all that I have known. Friends, family, and associates who have been so close, will now be far away. I suppose when I started this new journey that I was naive to believe that I could live in both worlds, or at the very least keep the things that were so precious from my former life. I was naive in my belief that these things mattered to anyone as much as they did me. And so I suppose it's time for me to look forward to something new and to release from my heart those things that I have, until now, held so dear. Yes, I have found new love, new life, and new hope and these things are wonderful, but unfortunately I have learned everything comes with a price. Obviously, I am willing, although I haven't really been given a choice, to pay the price required. Someone once said that the real courage is not in continuing to fight but in knowing when to surrender. I suppose I have found that new courage that says, it's time to surrender and live to fight another day. I will miss my beautiful home with all my heart. It came to me like a phoenix from the ashes quite literally and has meant a great deal to me.  It was the representation of a victory, a place where I would always be safe.  But now I will move forward and follow my new life and find new joy and new happiness. I know that, good people, family, friends, and associates who have shared in my life up til now, no matter how far away, will still remain and those friendships and associations are the things that matter most. I wish good things didn't have to come at a price, but once again as my daddy always said, if wishes were nickels, I'd be a millionaire. And so I will rise and learn to take the good with the bad and do my best to find  joy and make the best life I possibly can.  

Welcome to Allred mountain.

After a wonderful morning at a grandson's baptism, Dave's son, Mike, wife, Susie and their kids, Genika, Daniella, Brenton (the baptism boy), and Kambria, loaded up their four wheelers and side by side, and took us up a wonderland called Waterholler.  Dave had talked frequently about an amazing piece of his father's land called Waterholler and he had promised to show it to me someday, so I guess this was the day.  We, being the old folks, were allowed to drive the side by side, as it was the easiest ride.  As we started up the winding, rocky trail my senses were assaulted by sights I could barely find words to describe.  I just kept thinking,  why didn't I bring my camera?

Bouncing along the mountain trail, a beautiful deer poked his head out of a grove of maple trees and then hopped and bounced along with us just outside the tree line before darting back inside the cover of the groves of trees.  We climbed higher and higher up the side of the mountain and came to pine springs where clear, cold water oozed from a pipe in the side of the mountain.  We filled our jugs and let the crystal liquid flow down our throats like sweet nectar.

From pine springs, we continued to climb up, and up the mountain.  We finally reached the top and peered over the edge of the summit.  Below us were the beautiful oak and maple trees cloaked in the colors of fall.  Green, gold, orange, and fiery red foliage flowed down the rolling mountains and into the many valleys below us.  Beautiful, green draped hills and groves of trees filled our view for thousands of acres as far as the eyes could see.  The air was so clean and crisp that when you breathed it in it tingled with effervescence inside your lungs.  Looking up, you feel so high you are just sure you can reach your arms up and scoop up handfuls of the blue of the sky.  All afternoon we drove the trails of this mountain.  Dave delightfully recalled stories from his childhood days in these groves of trees and beautiful, protected meadows.  I'm afraid had I been given the chance to spend my childhood here, I would have ridden my horse into the mountain the last day of school in the spring and not come back out until the day before school started in the fall, probably looking like the girl raised by wolves.

As we headed back down the mountain the moon was shining brilliantly above the Eastern rim.  Flat, layers of fluffy white clouds rested on top of the peaks.  The sun had just dropped below the Western peaks and the purple of dusk drifted down on the mountain like a leaf fluttering from the branches of a tall tree.  On the road ahead the caravan came to a stop and we turned off the engines of the atv's.  As we walked to the rim of the peak, legions of crickets were furiously chirping their night song.  Our little group walked silently through the clearing and watched several elk graze quietly on the face of the next mountain.  The night air grew cool as we bounced out down the rocky, dirt road.  I looked into the darkening night sky and took several deep breaths of the sweet, clean air and thought to myself.  When I die and hopefully go to Heaven, it will be this amazing place called Waterholler on Allred mountain in the ranges of San Pete county, Utah.

The Allreds, A Series of Unfortunate Events

"Do not go gentle into that good night

Old age should burn and rave at close of day

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light"

                   William Shakespeare

This is my motto for life.  I just turned 55, double nickels, as my sister said.  There was a time in my life when that would have sounded old, maybe when I was 20 and my body didn't ache and creak and I didn't need more sleep than a newborn baby.  Then, I thought of 55, and it seemed ancient.   Now, I realize that old is only in my head.  In spite of the fact that I creak when I get out of bed, and am falling asleep by 8 p.m., I am not old.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  I will not go gentle into that night, but I intend to ride a wild stallion into the golden years and not stop until that horse throws me off.  And so, with that said, we headed off on what could only be described as "The Allreds, A Series of Unfortunate Events".   However, I don't see these as unfortunate events,   but instead, just part of the screaming, silly, giggling adventure I call life.  Each "unfortunate" event nothing more than another chance to test our problem solving skills and over come the event.

Labor day.  Summer's one last hurrah, the last big weekend to run off to the wilderness and get your fill of fresh air, big open spaces, and dirt....lots of dirt.  We love to exist like pioneers.  No indoor plumbing, running water or heat.  Living in a big tent, cooking on a two burner propane camp stove and eating from the same pans we cook in, is exhilarating and makes life seem so large.  The whole process of planning, packing and loading the truck for this four day period of our lives is more complicated than the pilgrims sailing for the colonies.  Add to that the fact that we had to travel over two hours each way to Salt Lake for an essential appointment the morning before we left, and the task seems impossible.  But, in the spirit of determination (or stubbornness,  you choose your adjective),  I had everything pretty much ready to go and loaded in our old beast, a 1985 Ford F250 3/4 ton pickup I like to call General Patton.  At precisely 10:15 a.m. I picked Dave up in the parking lot of the Chamber of Commerce where he was attending a community development meeting and we were off to Salt Lake City.   Obstacle number one, overcome. 

We have come to the conclusion, since we seem to be driving so much, that even this time should not be wasted.  This is the time to listen to scriptures and have lively debates about the tower of Babel, the ferocity of the Jaradite people,  and what advanced skills may have been possessed by the Nephite people.  When we have exhausted ourselves with those topics, then we turn to books.  I read while he drives.  We have finished one book and started on another.  Taking in the wondrous beauty of the forests and mountains we pass through to reach our destination is always included in our discussions.  Before we know it, we have arrived.  Appointment,  lunch, and since we are in the big city, some minor shopping, and we are on our way back to Green River.  Obstacle #2, overcome with finesse.

Now, it's 6:30 p.m.  We have finished loading General Patton with the final equipment,  coolers, food, and anything else we must have to live "simply" in the Wyoming wilderness.  Dave queries, "should we wait and leave early in the morning so we aren't setting up camp in the dark?"  I just stare at him like he's speaking a foreign language.  General Patton is stuffed to the gills.  He looks like the Beverly Hillbillies moving out.  Ice is packed in coolers.  Adrenaline is flowing, is he crazy?  Of course I don't want to wait until morning.  Let's go!  Obstacle #3....check.

Now, it really gets interesting.  General Patton has a little boo boo.  His starter doesn't work so good.  Since he is a standard transmission,  as long as we park on a hill we can always pop start him, so the starter thing has never been a real issue......until we got to Rock Springs to buy gas.  Here comes obstacles #4 & 5.  Pull up to the pump, no hill,  but the starter has been working okay, so off went the ignition.  Card in the pump, error message, pay inside.  Dave walks inside, cashier explains there's something wrong with the card reader, leave your ID and he'll turn on the pump.  Okay, back to the pump.  Hose in the tank, squeeze the handle, get 24 cents of gas, pump stops.  Long conversation with cashier, who finally suggests moving to a different pump.  Turn key in ignition, starter grinds, sputters, and reluctantly turns the engine over.  At this point, with time wasting away, night coming on, I'm watching Dave and looking for signs of the steam of impatience and frustration to start oozing from his ears.  But, nope, he's as cool as a sliced cucumber on a summer salad.  Pump in tank, squeeze handle, 3 cents of gas, pump stops.  Conversation with cashier, several turns on the now grumbling and complaining starter, move to last set of pumps, pump in tank, squeeze handle....rinse and repeat.  Cashier finally concedes the pumps are broken and we will have to go across the street.  I'm watching Dave closely now.  Not even a flush in his cheeks or a grumble under his breath.  The biggest problem.....General Patton's starter has decided to throw a temper tantrum and stubbornly will not turn over, and we are not on a hill.  I looked at Dave, he looked at me, we looked at the attendant, the attendant peered back fearfully and with a quiver in his voice inquired,  "should I help you push?"  I guess we both gave him the , "ya think?" look because he quickly put his shoulder to the wheel and he and I managed to push General Patton fast enough, in reverse, for Dave to pop the clutch and start the engine.  At this point, a discussion ensues.  The engine is running, should we go back, get a starter tomorrow and install it, and try this again, or do we forge ahead and defy the odds of another unfortunate event.  Me:  "Can we park on a hill where we are going?"  Dave: "yes".  Me:  "are we going to need to shut General Patton off again before we get there?"  Dave:  "no."  Me:  "are you nervous?"  Dave (with complete calm): "nope."  Me:  "let's go."  Across the street we pump our gas, with the engine running, in spite of the dirty looks from other gas pump patrons, and with the sun well below the western horizon and miles left to go before we could sleep, we were on our way.  Obstacles 4 & 5, slam dunked.

You have to ask yourself, how many of you would have the intestinal fortitude to continue on at this point?  Well, I guess we both have guts, because we forged ahead with excitement.  Now, our destination of choice was not well known.  In fact, the last time we were here, we had been looking for this particular gold claim and drove around the Wyoming wilderness for hours trying to locate it by gps and maps, thinking we didn't find it, only to discover later that we had actually been on the claim.  So, with this information in our arsenal and our memory (old and short as they were) of visual landmarks we had seen.....in the daylight......and Dave's much researched and marked out gps trails, we bravely turned off the main road and began our venture into the wilds of giant sagebrush, muddy, deep rutted trails, and the deep purple of night.

Driving along, Dave glancing frequently at the glowing screen of his I phone, we come to a cattle guard and he pauses.  General Patton rumbles angrily in the cold night air.  Along with his ailing starter, he also suffers from an exhaust leak that causes his engine to spew load noises that often makes conversation inside his cab difficult at best.  After much scrutiny of our location, Dave decides of the many cattle guarded turn offs, this is the correct one and we bump and bounce off the more established dirt road onto the road less traveled.  Bouncing along, General Patton rumbling in the dark, we come to a fork in the trail.  Dave glances to his right and questions me, "is there a stone marker over there?"  I think to myself, "are you serious?  It's as black as tar out there.  I couldn't see the Washington Monument if it was there, let alone a stone marker."   But what I say out loud is, "I don't know."  I was pretty sure Dave could tell is was dark outside and I didn't need to state the obvious.  Using my valuable observation of  "I don't know",  he took the road to the right, a road we would later learn was the wrong way,  or actually, the long way.  Soon the moon has dropped below the horizon, the night grows later, and General Patton is roaring monotonously along.  Dave hands me the I phone with it's glowing screen and asks if we're going the right way.  I look at the screen and try desperately to decipher the dots, lines and terrain before me.  It's hopeless, I have no idea, but fearing that Dave will discover my complete incompetence as a navigator I confidently reply, "sure looks like it to me."   It wasn't a total lie, I didn't know which was the right way, so it did look right to me.  More driving, more pausing so Dave could examine his maps, more time passing, when finally, as we crested yet another hill, we both recognized the rocky draw ahead of us and realized we had at last reached our destination.   It was 2 a.m. and through perseverance and an undaunted sense of adventure, yet another obstacle had been defeated.  We parked General Patton facing downhill and finally turned off his engine to rest.  Quickly we unloaded our supplies, erected our luxury canvas tent, set up our cozy queen size airbed and draped it with warm bedding.  Since our lovely antique wood cook stove Dave's parents gave us was not quite ready for this trip, we set up our two burner cook stove inside the tent in it's place, added our big buddy heater and lit up our glowing coleman lanterns.  The sound of a burning coleman lantern is one of my favorite sounds.  It brings on waves of nostalgia and opens the floodgate of memories to my childhood and camping in our big green canvas tent,  Dad tucking us in to the sound of the coleman lantern.  Watching the dark flood the tent as the glowing lantern moved outside.  Outside my little sanctuary, Dave called for me to come look at the stars.  It was 3 a.m.  The sky was inky black and washed by clusters of glittering lights in the sky.  The milky way and the big dipper were enormous overhead.  It was truly magnificent,  but the cold night breeze drove me back inside and Frank, the gold sniffing wiener dog, under the queen sized cot.  Dave had more resistance to the cold than me, but by 3:30 a.m. we were snuggled up, cozy and warm, and drifting off to sleep at the end of a long and very eventful day.

 We woke up early in the morning, well, I guess we went to bed early in the morning,  so I should say we woke up later, to Frank shivering violently under the cot.  The poor little guy is not equipped for cold weather out door sleeping.  Dave took great pity on him and invited him inside our blankets.  This simple act made Frank Dave's best friend for life.  Later, when the sun had had time to warm the air, we finally got up and while Dave set up his equipment,  I practiced my gourmet outdoor cooking skills and made breakfast.    The new day was astonishingly beautiful.  Wide open spaces where green sage brush rises up to meet deep blue skies devoid of clouds.  The jack rabbits hopped wildly back and forth like an old video game.  On one horizon there is a herd of antelope while black cows moo softly across the plain.  Frank is wandering about finding passable trails for his short little legs through the sagebrush that towered over his head.  Breakfast is cleaned up, Dave is sampling the dirt, I'm going to take a nap, just a short one to make up for lost sleep from the night before.

Two hours later.....what a great nap.  The weather is chilly.  In my sleep I dreamed a solution to how to bake biscuits without an oven.   I quickly went to work and made my biscuits and designed my stove top oven from aluminum foil and stood back with pride at my personal ingenuity.   In a matter of minutes I had delicious hot biscuits with fresh peach jam.  We decided to do a little exploring, so Dave went to General Patton and cranked the wounded started.  After some grinding and complaining, the engine roared to life.  He walked to the tent to tell me he was ready to go, when I suddenly heard him shout, "oh, shoot" (or some variation of that expletive) and stuck my head out just in time to see him running after General Patton as he roared full speed and driver less down the road and into the side of the opposite mountain. Did I forget to mention his parking brake is inoperable as well?  Two things I am grateful for.  1:  General Patton is a beast  and 2:  The side of the mountain was soft.  The only casualty of the general's little jaunt was the tailgate carrying rack.  It suffered a wrenching boo boo that left it bent and twisted.  Dave looked at me and stated, "tomorrow we are going to Lander and getting a new starter.  I smiled and nodded in agreement.

   The sun went down, the night got cold.  Dave devised better sleeping arrangements for Frank with  a camp chair and a coat.  Frank burrowed himself into his new bed, we snuggled under our blankets and drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

With the rising sun and breakfast cooked, eaten, and cleaned up, he carefully coaxed the General's starter to life and without exiting the vehicle, informed me he was ready to go, and we headed out of the wilderness and into Lander.  On the trip out, the Wyoming wildlife was in fine form.  The antelope played, the jack rabbits hopped, sage grouse flew and we watched a beautiful family of wild horses lope across the hills.  I pulled out the camera and took several pictures of the magnificent stallion, his mare, and their foal.  Now, in the spirit of weirdness that seems to accompany us wherever we go, as I was viewing the pictures I noticed a strange object in one frame that I hadn't seen when I was taking the picture.  I expanded and enlarged the anomaly and after much scrutiny, I determined that it looked like a flying saucer.  Now, whether you believe in flying saucers or not, it was certainly something and I'll leave it to the reader to decide for themselves.  As for me, it was not something you would normally see in the sky, flying with the horses, deep in the Wyoming back country.   Other than the siting of an extraterrestrial object, the trip to Lander was uneventful.   We arrived at OReilly auto parts, purchased a new starter and a bolt to replace the one missing on the engine exhaust, and with ease that left me in awe, Dave quickly replaced, both and the general purred to life with the smoothness of soft butter and was minus his angry roar now that the exhaust leak was repaired.  He sounded happy again.  A trip to Ace hardware for repair parts for the sluice (since we were in town), then to the watering station to fill our 55 gallon water drum (since we were in town), to the grocery store for chicken gizzards and a steak (since we were in town), and we were headed back to the wilderness. 

About ten minutes on the road and I started to feel a familiar, and uncomfortable pain in my lower back right side.  It quickly increased in severity and radiated around to the front.  About now, my sister Sally, is reading this and nodding her head and saying, "oh no!  Not that!"  Yup, it didn't take long before I knew I was doing battle with a gallstone.  I twisted to the right and my face tightened into an uncomfortable frown.  Dave was talking animatedly next to me as I then twisted to the left trying, but knowing it was impossible,  to find relief from the increasing pain.  After about the third uncomfortable twist Dave inquired if I was ok, to which I could only reply, "no".   He looked at me, writhing and twisting, and deep worry creased his eyebrows and he asked what he could do.  Unfortunately,  there is nothing he or anyone can do.  I just have to endure it until the little beast makes it way through the tube inside me and passes.   My writhing and groaning increased, as did his concern.  "Should I go back to the hospital? "

"No, there's nothing they can do and they will charge us thousands for doing it." and with that, the pain came in a wave so severe, my face tightened into an ugly grimace, tears flowed without control from my eyes, and I groaned loudly without constraint.  With that, Dave couldn't take it any more and pulled to the side of the road.  "There has to be something I can do."  Between clenched teeth I told him that on occasion when this has happened before, and it has happened several times before, that thumping on the right side of my back has brought some relief.  So, he immediately started to pound on my right side back.  To his dismay, I burst into uncontrollable laughter.  As he stared in concerned disbelief,  I explained that first, I have a bad habit of laughing wildly when I'm in pain, and second,  "thumping" my back is very different than punching me in the kidneys like a world class prize fighter.  I understood he was afraid and disturbed by my discomfort,  but maybe he could try to stay calm and gently thump on my back.  I promised if he would relax, I would stop laughing like a maniac.  What a sight we must have been there on the side of the highway.   After about ten minutes the pain stopped coming in torrential waves and became bearable,  I'm sure that last horrible stab was probably the stone passing and now I would just have to deal with the dull, but bearable ache of recovery.  I assured Dave I would be fine and we headed back to camp.

By the time we arrived back "home", and with the help of a prescription pain killer, I was feeling much better.  Dave cooked up our little steak and  added some creamed corn and mashed potatoes,  and I enjoyed a delicious dinner before being gently tucked into our cozy bed.  And with that, we closed our eyes on yet another day filled with events.

 

Next day, the morning ensued nicely without any events of an unusual nature.  As the day went on, we decided to do some more exploring.  We hopped in the general, put Frank, the gold sniffing wiener dog, in the back seat and headed out through the unexplored wilderness.  After awhile, Frank started standing up and peering over the seat and whining.  Dave asked if he needed to go to the bathroom.  I thought he was just being whiny. (Frank, not Dave. )  Dave decided to stop and let him stretch his tiny, little legs.  I put some water in his bowl and he sniffed it and ran off.  Guess he wasn't thirsty.  I walked back to the truck, Dave looked around a bit, and then we were off again.  We drove about five miles down the road, passed our camp, and up a hill where we drove around in the sagebrush field for awhile.  It was a rough and bumpy ride, so when David stopped,  I inquired of Frank, "how ya doing,  buddy?"  Not even a whimper from the back seat.  I turned around and looked over the seat.  No Frank.  About that time Dave opened the truck door.  "Is Frank with you?"  I queried.  "No."  was his reply.  We looked at each other, both of us with the same look of awful realization,  we had left Frank behind.  The sun was starting to set as we quickly backtracked the way we had come.  I worriedly thought to myself, surely he would have chased us and we went past our camp so he would stay there.  As we approached our camp, there was no sign of Frank.  As we drove back down the road I looked frantically in the tall brush to the sides.  No sign of Frank.  It was getting darker and he is black.   What if he ran off through the brush?  What if a wild animal got him?  What if it got too dark to look for him?  With worry and fear we drove silently down the road.  Dave's voice broke through my cloud of concern,  "there was a puddle in the road where we stopped.  We should be able to find where we left him."  I nodded my head in silent,  concerned agreement.

As we crested the next hill, we looked ahead and saw the large puddle in the road where we had stopped.  There, like a statue next to the puddle, was Frank.  He was patiently waiting with a look in his sad little eyes that said, "You left me, but I knew you would come back for me if I waited here."   We scooped up our little baby and he buried his head in my lap.  With that, we returned to camp in relief and with dinner filling our stomachs, retired for our last night in the wild outdoors. (At this rate, probably a good thing.)

Another restful night, Dave gold panned himself into exhaustion, I broke camp, we loaded up and amazingly, we returned home without further incidence.

All unfortunate events aside, it was a fabulous time.  Life is adventure,  and we certainly intend to get our share of the ride.  If given a choice between the carousel and the roller coaster, I'll take the roller coaster every time.  And so, the series of unfortunate events is ended.......until next time.

Elder berry syrup

Today I made my first attempt at elder berry syrup.  I have never picked, or even seen, an elder berry for that matter.  I grew up picking chokecherries.   I would watch my parents carefully squeeze the precious juice from these plump little morsels and transform the bitter berry into a sweet, delicious concoction of chokecherry jelly and the highly coveted chokecherry syrup.  So, on my latest outing with Dave, he introduced me to elder berries and all their delicious possibilities.  These tender delicacies grow high in the mountains, usually on a steep incline.  This proved to be somewhat problematic in picking since elder berry picking had not been part of our travel agenda when we left, and the only shoes I had with me were some darling little sandals.  Not particularly conducive to hiking and picking berries in the mountains.  Silly me.  I really should know by now that when planning any outing with Dave, anywhere, I should just assume that mountain climbing, hiking, and sleeping on the ground under the stars will be on the agenda.  Next time.  So,  we trudged up and down the mountain side and filled several bags with juicy berries and brought them home.  They weren't all entirely ripe so we put them in the cool basement for a week to ripen, thus giving me some time to prepare for turning them into syrup.  Of course, like any good student of the 21st century, I first consulted Google to learn as many tricks and tips as I could to help with the process.  Then I began.  First, I stemmed the berries from their little vines until I had a large bowl full of ripe berries.  Then I combined what I learned on the internet with what I learned from watching Mom and Dad make chokecherry syrup and ground, mashed, boiled, and squeezed until all that remained was a pot full of bright, red juice and a bowl full of elder berry mash to feed to the chickens.  As I prepared to add the sugar to sweeten the juice before cooking it, I looked around my kitchen and was mortified!  Why, it looked like Dave had been cooking in there.  There was elder berry juice everywhere!  It was in places that elder berries had never been.  I closed my eyes to the mess, just for a minute, and sweetened the precious liquid and turned on the heat so it could boil.  Then I set to putting my poor kitchen back in order.  I scrubbed juice from the counters, the stove, the side of the fridge, the floor and off the back door.  It didn't take long before it was glistening white and without splashes of purple juice everywhere.  The juice boiled and thickened while I scrubbed my jars clean.  At last it was ready and I carefully poured it into the shiny new jars.  Then I sat back and listened as the canning lids each popped loudly to verify they were sealed.  Who knew that such a tiny little sound could bring such satisfaction.
     The jars are sealed, the kitchen is back in proper order, the chickens are pecking at the elder berry mash and, at the risk of having my family lynch me for this, I dare say my elder berry syrup is almost as delicious as Dad's chokecherry syrup.  The true test will be when I pour it on my sourdough pancakes for breakfast.  Mmmm, my mouth is already watering.

Small Town life, alive and well in Fountain Green, Utah

My favorite TV series, cancelled now for many years, was Gilmore Girls.  Most of the lessons I learned about living and life I learned from Gilmore Girls (that's a joke.....sort of).  One of the things I liked the most, besides the almost unhealthy, yet familiar, relationship between the main character and her daughter, was the relationship between everyone who lived in this small town.  Everyone knew everyone and were involved in one another's lives.  If there was any kind of a holiday or town event, the residents came out in force and participated with great enthusiasm.  It was idyllic,  I dreamed that such a place existed somewhere, but alas, I was sure it was just a dream.  But, no, enter Fountain Green, Utah and the Lamb Days celebration.  According to the souvenir T shirts we purchased, this celebration has been happening since 1932.  For two days, this normally quiet, sleepy town comes alive with hundreds of people all there to excitedly take part in the celebration commemorating their greatest industry....sheep ranching.  This beautiful little town is comfortably nestled in a green valley surrounded by soaring mountains covered in velvety green pastures.  Signs of the once prolific sheep ranching industry are seen everywhere. Well kept, if empty, barns and fenced pastures decorate almost every yard.  Sheep camp wagons can be seen parked, cherished, next to beautiful homes.  Friday night the main square was packed with people.  Some who lived there, but many who came there drawn by their roots in the community.  There were vendors selling their wares,  A long line formed for the meal of grilled mutton chops and corn on the cob,  The folks minding the food lines were generous with the mutton and it tasted delicious.  A few blocks away, the men of the community were digging pits and lining them with rocks to be heated to sizzling temperatures.  Once heated, they hung several lambs on racks in the two pits and covered them and buried them in the ground to slow cook over night,  We encountered people Dave hadn't seen for years.  They beamed their hellos and grabbed him in warm embraces, slapping him on the back.  After dinner we gathered at his family home where we sat in the cool evening air on the back patio and laughed and chatted with his parents, brother and sisters and his children.  All of his children traveled to attend this festival.  After a good night's sleep in the cool comfort of his childhood bedroom, we were up early for the community breakfast.  Pancakes, eggs, ham, bananas, oranges and once again, crowds of people all sharing fond memories and good food.  Breakfast was followed by a parade down the main street,  Chairs were set up early to save a place.  By 10 a.m. the streets were filled with people of all ages.  Music blared from the announcer's pavilion.  Flags flew from the houses and few businesses on the main street.  The sun was hot.  A man and his son walked by selling peas in the pod from a little wagon.  I bought two bags and relished them greedily as the anticipation for the parade heightened.  Before long Old Glory passed by and we all stood and placed our hands over our hearts.  Pride swelled for the great country that we live in.  Veterans of long forgotten wars passed by and the audience cheered them as the heroes they were. Following the veterans was the history of the sheep camp wagon.  Pulled by ancient tractors were the luxurious camps used by the sheep herders.  If you've never seen a sheep camp wagon, you are really missing out.  These wagons, historically pulled by horses to the high range, rival any modern day RV.  They had comfortable beds, stoves, ice boxes and storage everywhere.  They have big wheels to carry them over rough terrain.  Each wagon sported its manufacture date, manufacturer and most important, its owner's name displayed with pride.  There were beautiful girls on horses adorned with wings.  Each of the neighboring small towns had a float showcasing the beauties from their towns in the form of their town royalty.  The occupants of every display that passed by threw taffy and candy.  Children rushed into the streets to gather up the treats,  As the parade ended, the people dispersed back to the town square for the local talent show while we waited with watering mouths for the lamb sandwiches that would be the product of the lambs cooking in the pits. A watermelon eating contest ensued with Dave's son, Calvin, taking home the prize.  People started to form lines to buy the lamb sandwich delicacies in quantities from 1 to 25.  We bought four and I wish we had bought more.  They were stacked thick with the delectable meat and each bite was mouth watering and delicious.  After lunch the young, and some of the young at heart, formed teams for a baseball tournament.  It was a serious game for sure as Dave's son, Mike, took a hard ball to the head leaving an honorable bruise on his forehead.  Ball games over, stomachs full of delicious foods, laughter filled conversations with long lost friends and family, sun has set and the fireworks are on.  Those two days of the Lamb Days celebration in Fountain Green, Utah were the quin sentential representation of what people's dreams and Hollywood producers try to recreate.  Yes, small town America is definitely alive and well....at least in the secret places in Utah.  However, one word of warning.  If you ever get the chance to experience this fabulous event, don't drink the wheat beer!

Unsung Wonders of the World

 Almost everyone has heard of the seven wonders of the world.  These are places considered awe inspiring by, well, I'm not sure exactly who gets to pick the seven supposedly most amazing places in the world, but I have seen a few and they are indeed amazing.  The Grand Canyon took my breath away when I gazed over the rim.  The Parthenon left me filled with awe by it's magnitude and age.  But I dare say I have seen wonders untold that parallel, if not exceed those known to most of the world. There are not words adequate to describe the beauty and grandeur of these sights, but I will attempt with my limited vocabulary to share them with others.  I have dozens of photographs as a witness to my claims.  I can't share them all here, but I will include some as a testament to my words.

I spent the weekend gold panning in Wyoming.  Did I come back rich?  If you define rich using dollar signs, then the answer is no.  But, since I define rich as the things that will follow me through this life and into the next, then I came back with wealth beyond my wildest imagination.

To all those people who spend their days rushing back and forth on crowded freeways from busy city to busy city, I invite you to venture off the interstate and explore the wide open spaces of the West.  How many times have you heard the words to the song, America the Beautiful, "oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain", without ever really knowing what those words looked like in reality? Picture yourself standing in a field of thigh high prairie grass, washing around you like an amber yellow ocean, grassy waves flowing one behind the other.  All around you there is nothing but open air, above you wide, endless skies deep and vibrant blue.  Travel a few miles across the rolling hills of prairie grass and scrubby, pungent sagebrush and there are forests of soaring pine trees with luscious green needles.  Mixed among the pines are clustered groves of shimmering Quaken Asps with their fluttering leaves and knotted white bark trunks.  As we bounce over the rocky roads my senses are flooded by the sights and  scenes around me.  The green of the trees as they touch the blue skies, gathering clouds move above the tree line turning the sky purple and grey.  A sleek, brown doe appears and bounces gracefully across the road in front of us.  We stop the truck and walk down a path to the ghostly buildings of a once bustling town.

All around us the ground is covered with wild flowers, each competing with the others proudly showing off their colors of violet, red, yellow, copper, and white.  The beaver's have reclaimed this abandoned place as their own and moss covered ponds creep up to the entrances to decaying log buildings.  We walk the paths where long forgotten people struggled against the elements for daily survival.  At the top of the hill, sitting inside a  pole fence, sits a lonely cemetery.  Three lone markers sit behind an ornate iron fence, now leaning from years of silently watching over the three young people who lived and played here over a hundred years ago.

Rising against the skyline are magnificent cliffs of massive stones.  An eagle soars across the blue sky.  The sun glints between the trees.  Quietly and almost in reverence I listen to the breeze dance through the branches.  The air smells of flowers, sagebrush and dust.  I am in awe of those who carved out the trails that we walk.

There is no doubt in my mind that if the deciders of what is a wonder of the world were to travel here and walk these paths, they would most certainly call this Wyoming wilderness one of the greatest, most magnificent wonders of the world, and I am wealthy beyond my wildest dreams for having the privilege of spending some of my time in this place.