Birthday, broncs, bluegrass, full moon & remembering
July 1, 2014

My own mother passed from this realm at the age of 47.  In my grief at losing her, I was completely self-centered, not being mature enough to have an adult perception of how short her life was.  Later, when I approached the age at which she died, that had changed enough that I finally “got” how relatively young she was.

I now have exactly 20 years more than she was given to savor this planet's immeasurable pleasures, and I am grateful, while missing her still.

My gratitude extends to the various maternal figures who have been in my life.  I am especially blessed to have my mother-in-law, who is nearing a lifetime that is twice what my biological mother attained.  Mom W. just celebrated her 90th birthday; we were happy to have the opportunity to celebrate with her.

A far cry from our most recent trips to the home of Chris’ parents in North Carolina when we arrived only after wandering aimlessly across the country in our travel trailer, this jaunt was a quick ride in jet planes, although pricier.  We have not traveled without Rowdy since we bought the trailer; leaving him behind was perhaps more traumatic for us than for him; however, his thoughts on the matter remain unknown to us. 

Concern for the boy was heightened because of his recent blindness, worry that was alleviated greatly when our friend Nancy agreed to bunk with him.

Me ‘n jets, TSA, Southwest . . .

I am mostly delivered from a fear of flying which was in times past pretty extreme.  Still, my preference is to keep both feet firmly planted on terra firma. 

This was only our second experience with flying since 9/11, so we were not sure what to expect from TSA, that paragon of air traffic safety.  The Phoenix departure was so little invasive that one wonders how effective it may be; however, presumably because of my nefarious nature, I was ordered to remove my shoes.  I could not stifle a laugh when the male agent issuing that directive offered to bring an agent of the opposite gender to be present whilst I slipped off my crocs.  Putting on my brave face, I stood before TSA and anyone else who cared to behold my bunions unshod and unashamed.

Leaving Greenville-Spartanburg on the homeward leg was another matter entirely.  We were treated to the experience of entering the mysterious x-ray booth and standing for the prescribed time with arms overhead.  This particular country bumpkin entered the machine before an agent’s summons; that misdeed resulted in a verbal chastisement and a short touchy-feely session in case I turned out to have just fallen off the turnip truck with a bomb secreted in my gray locks.

This trip required us to change planes in Houston both ways, so that added up to additional landings and takings-off that I would like not to have done.  All four flights were maxed out, but Southwest Airlines kept everything running smoothly, right down to our itty bitty snack packs. 

Happily for me, I managed to have a window seat on three of the legs.  I love to watch the countryside go by lo those thousands of feet below.  It is fascinating to try to figure out what is going on down there, what river, stream or mountain range is rapidly disappearing as we wing our way at a dizzying pace.  What city, town or village is beneath and what are those ant-people about . . . the bonus is that I can wander through my imagination occasionally even forgetting that I am up in the sky without a parachute.

A genealogical aside . . .

In yet another coincidental instance, as we were renting a car at the Greenville airport, a gentleman in line heard where we were from and came up to introduce himself.  A Prescott native, now long a resident of Sacramento, he informed us that his family came to our little town in 1905 and that his grandfather was a mortician here.  Of course I had to do a bit of research based on his tale and was able to find quite a bit about his family in olden-days Prescott.  Love those connections!

Reunion, green . . .

One sibling/spouse set from Wisconsin and another out of Colorado converged with us at Mom & Dad’s for a three-day reunion and celebration.  We six followed her into church on her Sunday birthday like an obedient line of ducklings anxious for a swim.

She was honored in the church bulletin with the bit we had submitted and even her picture, and she was honored by the congregation when the minister announced her birthday; even the flowers were given in her name.  The north country set provided all that was needed for a Wisconsin fish fry and we were joined by local kin to continue her celebration.  Dad had to skip the church service but was on hand for all the other festivities.

Two days of travel for three days of family festivities (and work), wishing it was a longer visit, but glad of the time together, a rarity.

Mom & Dad’s home snugs up into the lush Smoky Mountain foothills, a region so greenly and thickly vegetated that this desert rat never ceases to marvel.  An awesome country - a nice place to visit; however, Arizona has my heart.

Cowpunchers . . .

Many years have passed since I had attended a rodeo in Williams; we remedied that omission with a Friday jaunt up to that town, terminus of the Grand Canyon Railroad and a gathering place for ranch folk of the region.

The Cowpunchers Reunion Rodeo bears little resemblance to the contests on the professional rodeo circuit.  I am a fan of both, but ranch rodeo stirs something in my heart.  I revel in the family atmosphere, the friends taking time from their hard work to play hard, laugh, wax patriotic and pray in public.  It helps me to remember what is real and true.

Always, the rodeo begins with the grand entry, the national anthem, the honoring of the American flag, all of which brings me to a high-as-a-kite state of energy.  At the Cowpunchers, the announcer called off the names of ranchers who had died during the past year; we were happy to hear him honor among them a friend of ours: Mike Landis.  Landis was as unique and sincere and dryly hilarious as anyone I’ve ever known.  I’m proud that among the artwork on my walls is a wonderful pen-and-ink of him by K.T. Wells, a portrayal that well captures his essence.

The Williams rodeo was as much about socialization as it was concerned with riding and roping competition.  The uncovered grandstands were full but so were the areas around with folks catching up on each other’s news. 

Many of the events involved more than one family member or friend.  The wild horse riding requires teams of three to catch, saddle and ride an unbroken horse.

The preferred method is atop the cayuse, but this works, too.

In the ribbon event, a rider ropes a calf (if all goes well) and a teammate, usually a youngster, then runs into the arena to remove a ribbon that has been tied onto the calf’s tail and races to the finish line with it, attempting to do so in the shortest time.

That event had a number of side-splitting happenings.  Expecting a toddler to run out, grab a ribbon off the tail of a none-so-happy hog-tied bawling calf and then to run to the starting line is just plain ol’ dreaming.  Whenever a tiny tot was involved in the melee, an adult would assist.  The most memorable “help” involved a hell-bent-for-leather woman who cartoon-like raced with the youngster dragging out behind with its hand clamped tightly.  As it was dragged from the arena in a most unceremonious way, its drawers were ripped from its nether parts and snagged around its ankles.

The bronc riding is always exciting, if only for the few seconds it takes rider and horse to part ways.

Remembering John . . .

While we’re in cowhand mode, I will touch on a day of honoring a man of integrity and industry.  John Cooper succumbed to the effects of a stroke not too long ago; his family hosted friends at a most memorable memorial under the towering cottonwoods on the Cooper Ranch south of Prescott.

John’s family and my family have ties way back:  his mother, Nel (Sweeten) Cooper, has a kinship with descendants of my three greats grandmother, Karen Travis (Daniel) Owen McCaleb Fleming back in our respective ancestral homelands of Texas.

Nel’s folks and her husband’s (Roy Cooper) preceded my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, to the land down the mountain from Yarnell.  When Grandpa arrived without stock, he herded Roy Cooper’s angora goats for that first winter and was awarded the increase therefrom to start his own herd.

Roy died young in a ranch accident, after which Nel and her three sons, including John, kept the ranch intact by dint of the kind of hard work most of us know nothing about.  John and his wife Velma continued the family legacy with the help of their daughter and son-in-law, Mary & Tom Hamill.  Ranching is not known for its renumerativeness, so to keep the operation operating, John & Velma both went to work as teachers.  To my way of thinking, there are few folks traipsing around these days who have what it takes to labor so industriously for such a protracted length of time.

For an afternoon, we heard John honored by those who respected him as a teacher and those who knew him as a rancher.  We were moved by the story of how his horses gathered at the windows of the house looking in at the man even they respected while he lay dying.  Chris was so taken with the story that he wrote a song about it.

 

A bronze of John by his daughter, Mary Cooper Hamill

Mary created a memorial for her father as unique as herself and this family.  Sheltered in the grove at the edge of an open pasture, we heard about an honorable man, a hard-working man, a man with his own brand of humor, a man who could play as well as work, a man who embodied the values of his ancestors.

John's tractor and horse

John's fam

Foregoing offerings of flowers, we brought fencing equipment and stock feed, and we gathered for a communal meal as has been done so many times before.

Day is done.

Mooning around . . .

Tres amigos heading out to Watson Lake to kayak is not unheard of, but this outing had a different twist.  Last full moon was the catalyst for our mini-voyage; we arrived at water’s edge at 8 and had until the gates closed at 10 to enjoy the balmy evening.  I had never taken the boat out at night.  It was quite a treat to wind around the granite boulders with that soft illumination.

When facing toward the moon, the shore and mountains were in silhouette, and when putting one’s back to it, the opposite bank’s gigantic rocks were reflected beautifully in the still water. 

The excursion was pleasant enough that all concerned are ready to repeat it, with the possible addition of a short shore stay to imbibe a glass of vino.

Bluegrass and friends . . .

Trying to fit into the schedule all that Prescott has to offer is not a simple task, but I do my level best not to miss a thing.  The annual bluegrass concert on the Courthouse Square is a highlight for me.  Because of travels after Mid-horrid-land last year, we were not here to savor the experience; we made up for the omission this summer by immersing ourselves in the music all day Saturday and Sunday.

The main event on stage spawns various jam groups made up of talented enthusiastic musicians.

Joining in the not-very-intimate setting with hundred of other bluegrass lovers, shaded by the town center’s tall trees on the grassy lawn, we listened, visited with friends, munched and tapped our toes.  Such a deal - and all free.

What's a dog gotta do to get a drink of water???

Oh dog, this bluegrass business is boring!