Once in a Blue Moon

I was out on the back deck early this morning, trying to get a picture of the Blue Moon. It was cold, only about 16 degrees, and dark except for that bright white light in the western sky. Tonka was barking at the sounds of a scary stranger in the front yard. The funny thing is that the scary stranger was my husband Dave, scraping ice off his windshield as he was getting ready to leave for work!

New Year’s Eve will be another uneventful night for us. Dave and I have only been out on New Year’s Eve twice in the past decade. The first year we were together, I splurged on a package deal that included Colorado Symphony tickets. It was 2000, turning over to 2001, and the symphony program was the “Top Ten” classical pieces of all time. We got all dolled up, went to the symphony, then spent the night at a hotel across from the Boettcher Concert Hall in downtown Denver.

That was the first year Denver held its fireworks program in the heart of the city. It had originally been planned for the turn of the century from 1999 to 2000, but all the imagined threats from Y2K put the kibosh on that year’s festivities. Many purists argued that 2000 to 2001 was actually the more accurate time to celebrate the turn of the century. So we decided that celebrating a new century twice in two years was certainly okay with us. Hey, it's a big deal, why not go for two years in a row?

The hotel we stayed at had a big common balcony overlooking Arapahoe Street. After the symphony we returned to our room, changed into warmer clothes and trekked out to the balcony to wait for the fireworks. The streets below were teeming with people. The main fireworks show was set to go off at the Daniels & Fisher Tower and we had ringside seats!

Our second night out was in 2005. We went to the late showing of “Brokeback Mountain” and then stopped at a nearby restaurant/brewery for a drink and a sandwich. We were so surprised that there was hardly anyone around, either at the movies or at the restaurant. The bartender told us that it had been busy earlier but then everyone left around 10 PM and headed for downtown Denver. The annual fireworks show had become quite popular.

Growing up my family always had the same New Year’s Eve tradition. First, mom would prepare homemade pizzas. Her pizzas were made on rectangular cookie sheets with only one topping: cheese. Mom thought all the extra toppings took away from the experience. After all, she reasoned, how could you possibly compete with melted cheese and delicious red sauce dripping over the sides of crispy, yummy dough?

After we polished off what we called The Square Pizzas, dad would break out the record albums and treat us to his own unique rendition of songs. Quite often dad forgot the words to many of his favorite songs (especially after a few beers) and then he started to make up words. Mom would admonish him with a statement along the lines of: “If you can’t remember the words, then you shouldn’t be singing that song!” Dad promptly switched over to whistling along with the music.

As it drew closer to midnight, mom would let us have one drink, a sloe gin fizz, one tiny capful of sloe gin mixed with a 7-UP. Boy, we just thought it was the cat’s meow! I’m sure some folks would be horrified now at the thought of giving your young children a mixed drink but it was mostly soda in a large glass with a slight hint of sloe gin. I’m sure mom reasoned that it would knock us out right after midnight. And she was right!

At midnight we stepped outside to commence with the noisemaking. My brother Ted and I fought over who got to sit in the driver’s seat of the car and honk the horn. By then dad had usually crashed on the sofa with the TV glowing in front of him and would only briefly wake up and mumble, “Is it time?” Mom had a big old cowbell and she stood on the front stoop clanging it like crazy. And that was it.

On Tuesday my nephew joined us for dinner after work. Normally I stick with my mom’s tradition of making a square pizza on New Year's Eve. Mine, however, do include toppings beyond cheese. Since Clark was coming over so close to New Year’s Eve, I made the pizza on Tuesday instead and shared stories of his grandma and grampa with him. He did remember the square pizzas and he even remembered the big plastic glasses that we used for our sloe gin fizzes.

Since the square pizza has already been consumed, tonight Dave and I are going out for dinner. We plan to be home early and I’m quite sure Dave and Tonka will be fast asleep long before midnight. I will stay awake, as usual, and open the front door at midnight to listen to what the other neighbors have going on. Only once in a Blue Moon has there been another creature awake in my house to share the dawn of a new year. So maybe, just maybe tonight I’ll be able to wish a “Happy New Year!” to someone other than myself.

Have a grand evening, no matter what your traditions!

Peaks and Valleys

2009 was marked by a series of peaks and valleys, both in our travels and in our personal lives.

We began the year learning that our sweet dog Raven had developed canine lymphoma with at best a few months to live. The vet recommended a treatment that put her cancer in remission for a little while. When it stopped working, we took her off the medication and let the cancer run its course.

In the spring we added a second four-legged member to our little family. Tonka is a “prison dog” we found through the Colorado Correctional Industries K-9 Companion program. A Border Collie and Blue Heeler mix (aka, a “mutt”), Tonka was a stray rescued by a ditch rider on the eastern plains of Colorado. He is smart, cuddly, and chock full of energy. At first Raven was none too thrilled about sharing her home but she soon warmed up to him. And Tonka seemed to give Raven a new lease on life.

It turns out that Tonka is also a good mountain dog. He joined us on road trips and hiking adventures in our beautiful Colorado mountains. We took him to the summit of Mount Evans, a peak towering more than 14,000 feet above sea level, and on our annual sojourn to Salida and the central Rockies.

Raven was a strong girl. She lasted nearly 10 months and enjoyed mixing it up with her new buddy until the last few days. We finally had to say goodbye to her in late September. Raven has journeyed ahead to the Rainbow Bridge, where we hope to meet up with her again one day.

In October, we took a much needed but rain-soaked vacation in Washington, DC and the surrounding area. We divided our time between the city and the country, traveling along the Blue Ridge Parkway south toward West Virginia. Part of our vacation was dedicated to searching for Dave’s ancestors, especially his great-great-great-grandfather, Napoleon Bonaparte French. This branch of Dave’s family traveled from the Shenandoah Valley to southern Virginia, settling in the New River Valley in the mid-1700s.

As the holidays approached, we were faced with the loss of another beloved member of our family. Dave’s mother has been in poor health for the past few years, but she too was strong and resilient. Marge bounced back from one illness after another, always returning to us in good spirits and ready to go out for her favorite lunch, a beef enchilada and flan. This time there would be no returning. The angels came for her at the end of November. The last of our living parents, Marge left us for what will surely be a blissful eternity. We will miss her so.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)

My Kingdom for a Horse

I ran away from home once. Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I tried to run away from home once. This was in the early 60s; I was not yet five years old. Not sure exactly what precipitated my silly little misadventure but I’m fairly certain my parents must have made me really mad. My destination: The Horse Farm.

Back in those days, the Denver suburb where I grew up was surrounded by farmland. Just a few miles from our house, close to the Valley Highway, was a little farm that I had dubbed “The Horse Farm.” Such a pretty little place, with an old white farmhouse and outbuildings, a remnant of the area’s rural past now closed in by busy roads and a bustling highway. I remember peering out the window of our car each time we headed out to the highway. You could see that lovely little farm right down the hill, great big elm trees and horses wandering all around. It was my idea of heaven.

I never really fit in with the other kids in our neighborhood. Shy, overly emotional and sensitive, easily intimidated and regularly picked on by bullies and bigger kids, I learned to keep my distance from other children and spent most of my time playing alone. I developed a healthy imagination and found it easier to open my heart and share my secrets with animals. And I was crazy about horses.

The only ride at the amusement park that interested me was the carousel, where I would pick the tallest, proudest steed and imagine myself galloping headlong down a long dirt trail cut deep into the forest. I begged my mother to take me horseback riding at a local place that rented horses by the hour. In the mountains, while the rest of my family could be found relaxing by a stream or setting up rods, reels and tackle boxes for a day spent fishing, I was patrolling nearby fence lines in a quest for horses. Once found, I would lure the horses to me using soft, pleasing words coupled with a carrot or an apple or a handful of green grass plucked from beneath my feet.

Each year at Christmas, when my parents asked what I wanted they heard the same plea: “A horse!” And each Christmas morning, I would unwrap a gift box bearing a brand new plastic horse from Woolworth’s. Amazingly, the new horse was always exactly what I wanted. I never realized that mom had been watching me and knew which one to buy, having seen the delight in my eyes as I selected my newest favorite on the store’s shelf. Somewhere deep down inside, I knew I would never have a horse of my own. Yet in time I owned a large herd of plastic horses. I created my own little horse world in the basement, displacing my dollhouse dolls in favor of horses in the miniature living room, adding plenty of Easter grass to the dollhouse yard so the horses would have something to eat, and eventually setting up my own imaginary home on the range using Johnny West, Circle X Ranch action figures and related paraphernalia.

Occasionally my parents indulged me with a rented horseback ride while on vacation in the Rockies. My dad even built a wooden horse made out of thick tree logs, just like one he had seen in a playground. Then one day, real live horses were finally within easy reach. My aunt and uncle bought a 10-acre piece of land on the outskirts of Castle Rock, a small town south of Denver. They built a house, bought a few head of cattle, and always kept at least one horse or pony on the property. Soon I began to pester my parents regularly, thinking of creative reasons why we simply must venture some 40 miles south to visit the new homestead. I spent many school breaks and part of my summers in Castle Rock, riding horses with my youngest cousin. One time we rode the horses into town and tied them up on Main Street. It was a blast!

In my later teens I spent less time in Castle Rock. I was a bit less shy than before and had started to get involved in high school activities. Plus I also had a driver’s license now, which opened up a brand new world for me. My aunt and uncle’s marriage was on the rocks; they sold the animals and the property sometime after their divorce. I bequeathed my plastic horse collection to my young cousin, all but a few of my favorites. Today there are only three left.

The year I lost my brother and mother, Christmas was so difficult. Normally I spent Christmas Eve with my parents, opening a handful of presents on Christmas morning then visiting with family and friends all day. But that year my father was inconsolable and wanted to be alone. I left work early on Christmas Eve and decided to visit the cemetery. What should I bring? Flowers didn’t seem enough on this particular day. Digging through my Christmas boxes, I stumbled upon one of the plastic horses, a brown and white painted pony with a broken tail. I grabbed the horse, drove to Fort Logan National Cemetery, and placed that horse right on top of my mother’s grave. Now it has become an annual tradition. I prepare a lovely Christmas wreath for my parents and bring along that old plastic horse to decorate their grave at Christmas.

So what happened to the little runaway? When I told mom I was leaving, she helped me pack my stuffed animals in a small metal suitcase that once held roller skates. She asked where I would be, in case they needed to get in touch. I told her, The Horse Farm. She said goodbye and told me to have fun but be careful. I couldn’t believe it, she didn't even try to stop me! Just as I suspected, they must not love me at all. I walked to the top of the street, dropped the suitcase on the corner and sat down to ponder my situation. You see, at that point I realized something my mother already knew: I was not allowed to cross the street by myself.