Pretending to Farm

Estes Park Wool Market

The Estes Park Wool Market is a whole different ball of yarn than the Taos Wool Festival, the main disparity being that in Estes, the animals are the star attraction and in Taos, the fiber products and tools fill that role.  Also, in Taos, the festival is set up in a park and the vendors/displays are lined up in easy-up two-sided tents and, in Estes, the market is at the fairgrounds and almost everything is under canvas or roof with the exception of the arena that holds agility trials and animal shows.

Although the highlighted animal was the Bluefaced Lecestershire sheep, their numbers were few in comparison to the plethora of llamas, alpaca, and goats.

If we ever make that pipe dream move to Colorado, I want Spartacus to wear one of these.  He can carry our equipment while we hike the Rockies together to our hearts content.

This guy is the flashiest llama I've ever seen.  I wanted him to come home with me.

These guys are welcome, too.  Colored angora goats, natural rosy to golden tan mohair.  Yum.  And no, we didn't bring so much as a rabbit with us.  We're a little overwhelmed at present.

David, who joined us during the final weekend of our trip, made lots of friends.

Should I be jealous?

Robert wanted to bring home this little Pygora kid and was going to love it and take care of it and we weren't going to have to do anything, please, please, please, please, please!  (Just like Albert Einstein, the Angora rabbit who now lives in our bathroom, necessitating the hurdle of a baby gate in order to take care of business.)  We didn't bring him home either, though he was very cute.

Cashmere, anyone?  You gotta wrestle this guy to get it, every day, with a wire brush on his belly.

Now, here's an alpaca of a different color.  He made me crave Oreo cookies and cream yummy ice cream.

With handsome guys like this to guide us through the market, a good time was had by all.  And I didn't spend a cent (this was mostly due to my husband by my side as we walked through the product tent).

Other than the photos from Stephen King's "The Shining"-inspiration, "The Stanley Hotel," which out-of-town David has on his computer, that is about it for Colorado.

For now, I'll keep hoping the high-altitude lung power used to blow on every one of these I could find did some good.

A Colorado Sampler

Just northeast of Estes Park, Colorado

lies the entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park.  A word does not exist in the English language to adequately describe its beauty, its enormity, or its inspiration.  In fact, with little exception, every Colorado landscape and town we encountered on our recent trip, if not sensational, was at worst pretty. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hiking at over 12,000 feet elevation and looking down over the Rockies that had towered over us for the majority of our trip inspired awe not often experienced in life. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bonus of shortly thereafter discovering a herd of bighorn sheep and more waterfalls than ever seen before still has me spellbound and longing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every place has its highs and lows.  The desert, with its oppressive summertime heat, is at a low right now and I imagine that Colorado is not as appealing in February, at least for the average person who still has to go to work and is not spending his time skiing, something this uncoordinated soul has never managed to do.  Yet, I long to go back just to see.  (Sorry, honey.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sampling of

Colorado

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(This was June 8 in Frisco, CO, elevation 9100 feet, 21 degrees and snowing.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This guy was hanging out (upon seeing this picture, Pint said, "He's nakey!") in the same town on the next day, sunny and in the high sixties.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now a few from Boulder:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the ceiling of "The Boulderado," favorite haunt of Teddy Roosevelt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow, I hope to have the photos from the Estes Park Wool Market edited and ready for post.  I apologize for my absence.  I've been writing my book for hours a day and moping ridiculously for the remainder of my time.

Friday Field Trip

An abrupt change in the weather (can you say 50 degree temperature difference?  I knew you could) and a forecast of snow in the high country inspired David, Jessica, The Pint-Sized Farmer, and I to head north, young people, and get a slice of winter mostly missing from last year's repertoire.  It did not disappoint.

First, the trains.  Pint has a love/fright relationship with noisy locomotives and, since one passes through old Flagstaff on average every 15 minutes, he had plenty of opportunity to test his mettle.

If not for a warm, loving, and understanding Aunt Jessica to hold on to for dear life, I don't know if the boy would have made it.

If he had a bejesus, it's gone now.

And you thought Cling-Ons were just fictional aliens from Star Trek.

Shortly after surviving the ordeal that was trainspotting, we headed to Collin's Irish Pub.  The timing was perfect as mysterious white flakes began falling from the sky, enforcing the rule that all young people and especially toddlers must stick their tongues out to partake in nature's gifts.

I got a gift as well.  The bartender, who I crowned the beeristra, made it special for me.  Shortly thereafter, his shift came to an end but I made the new bartender plant a clover on my next Guinness as well.  Unlike the one pictured, it was not photo-worthy (didn't hurt the cascading goodness, however).

A good time was had by all, even if Anthony's train infatuation has hit a speed bump.

Happy Memorial Day Weekend (in the snow)!

Mrs. Fool

Before you begin reading this dribble, stop what you are doing and make sure you have your black-eyed peas cooking on the stove (no, not the group, that would be silly plus they wouldn’t fit in the pot). You must cook them today, not tomorrow, nor a week from yesterday. This is a rule that must not be broken; our new year depends upon it.

That said, how was your Hogmanay? After writing yesterday’s post, I looked up Edinburgh’s Website touting their oh-my-could-this-be-more-fun raucousness, shared it with Hunky Husband, and we have collectively set a goal to celebrate the next new year there! Honestly, where else can one march through a river of fire, set a Viking longboat aflame, and burn a giant willow stag?
So 2008-2009 Hogmanay in Edinburgh it shall be where we will celebrate “A guid New Year to ane an' a'!” (Now to just come up with that pesky matter of funding the adventure but I’ll think about that tomorrow, Scarlett. It’s New Year’s Day!)

Dreams of Edinburgh notwithstanding, we had a wonderful evening two doors down (where they were laughing and drinking and having a party). Got that song in your head? Good. The food was wonderful as was the company. We actually behaved ourselves considering the occasion (I’m saving rampant misbehavior for next year) and I had just enough to drink to get to that point where, for some unfathomable reason, I think I can dance and also think I look damned good doing it. My dear friend Karen and I share this phenomenon.

Plus, “The Clash” was blasting “London Calling” on the stereo; it is a not-to-be-broken Lauren rule that I must shake my moneymaker to “The Clash” and/or the “B-52’s.” (As an aside, wouldn’t it be nice if the shaking of one’s middle-aged posterior would generate capital? It would definitely help with trip expenses.) Anyway, here I was in a room with about 20 people dancing all by myself (didn’t want to be but I was all by myself anyway, Eric Carmen) when, unaccustomed to wearing the heels that bedecked my feet, I unsuccessfully navigated the fringed border between the rug and the carpet and fell flat on my ass. Not only did I fall, mind you, I landed in such a manner that a pine side table cupboard smacked into my head with a deafening crack. Yup, there I lay, Mrs. No-Longer-Dancing Fool. Awesome.

You would have thought a bomb had gone off. The room went silent and all heads turned my way. Hunky Husband, Knight in Shining Armor that he can be, rushed to my side, sure I had given myself a concussion whilst our worried hostess filled a gianormous Ziploc bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and literally ran across the room to me. I, in my goose-egg-growing state, didn’t really think it was that big a deal. Hey, I made it through the eighties and fell down plenty of times during that decade. Why the concern now?

Today, though, I have to admit I am feeling the effects of my misadventure. Due to our recent viewing of the “Johnny Cash Show” on DVD, a show which ran from 1969-1971, I am experiencing an obsession with hot rollers. That female keyboardist must have put at least five rats in her hair to get it to puff up that high and damned if for some insane reason I am totally wanting that look right now. We have two functions to attend today, a casual corned beef and cabbage luncheon at favorite neighbors Tom and Michelle’s followed by a New Year’s Day Open House at the Candee’s (I’m secretly hoping for shoes) and, no matter how much the pine-damaged portion of my head hurt, I was damned if I wasn’t going to put those rollers in my hair and shove those medieval torture sticks around them to hold them there. Beauty, albeit totally-retro-bordering-B-52’s beauty, before pain, dang it.

I will now end this tale of humiliation and woe. I hope, by sharing it, the rest of you feel just a wee bit better about yourselves and know, that no matter what you do, I alone am the fool on the floor.

Tomorrow, the revolution begins.

Thankful

I’m home and warm, about which, despite my recent when-is-fall-coming whinging, I am very happy. Don’t get me wrong; we had a GREAT time. We laughed and supped and solved each other’s issues and the world’s problems at least a hundred and one times. We also FROZE.

Poor Pint didn’t seem to understand why all of a sudden we had morphed into a bunch of cackling vagabonds living rough, getting dirty, and huddling in front of scarily popping flames for warmth. He looked at me quizzically with teeth chattering, wondering if this was how we were going to live from now on and trying to decide if he should abdicate the Family Dillon and become a Tisdale or King or Allen, all of whom had either heated trailers, campers, or RVs, instead of the jumble of tents and vehicles that formed our negative star lodging. Touring our circle, he entered and sized up each and every shelter, including the other tents (some had awesome other-kids’ toys and pop tarts, and two had new puppies) but in the end he decided to stay with us if only out of pity.

Daytime thankfully brought sunshine and warmth, with temperatures in the high sixties and low seventies. We celebrated with games and conversation aplenty, cracking each other up every 2.3 seconds. We played Scrabble (note Jessica’s look of frustration; I was over-helping her).
Erin soon had the game mastered thanks to a little Pint-sized help.

We played Dominoes once Chrissy refreshed our memories on the rules. (Not only is she efficient, she has the rules of every camp game committed to memory.)

Some of our more erudite teens even broke out the chess set. Pint served as both referee and critic, urging them each to gain better control of their centers and use their queens wisely.

I knit… and knit and knit. I do believe a reference was made to my fondness of warm and soft balls (of yarn of course). I had no idea to what they were referring.

I also got a hair cut. Jennifer, who I met this camping trip for the very first time and I’m already in mad love with, is a professional hair stylist. She did a darned good job, especially considering the blustery day which constantly blew my fine hair around and the sewing scissors that she was forced to use as her only implements. Plus, it was free, always an awesome bonus.

On Turkey Day proper, Steve barbecued the turkey as always in his official turkey barbequing outfit complete with mandatory frilly apron.

Obviously, there is a science to properly cooking a bird en plein air and, for this, Scoutmaster Steve has his PhD. For this, I love him madly, that and a twenty plus year friendship that like the finest of fine wines, just gets better with age.

First, examine the cauldron of promised deliciousness. Use a shovel to rearrange its contents and scrape, but never completely clean, its grate.

Stuff the turkey cavity with oranges; this adds to the later juicy deliciousness. Point to raw bird. See bird; see bird get turkey pimples from the cold.

Hours later, with proper Steven Karl, BD (Barbecue Doctor) supervision, the main event is on. Yum.

Call in the troops (when did all of our children get so big?)

Richie managed to worm his way to the front of the line and celebrate this special day by expressing his inner maturity, or lack thereof. Nice going, my friend. If it wasn’t for that whole one-lung thing, I’d be up your arse for that one.

A very delicious meal was had by all almost forty of us.

Shortly after this, we cleaned up while the kids hit the pool and Jacuzzi. Darkness fell and so did we, sound asleep by 6:30. (I’ll blame it on our full tummies and not the fact that we had been drinking since 8 am, Steve’s it’s-okay-to-start-imbibing time.) The kids sans Anthony who went to bed with the rest of us, returned to a dark camp with no fire and thought we had all gone “to a disco or something” and left them all behind. Hmmm. First of all, I haven’t gone to a disco since the eighties and secondly, if I had a sudden while-camping hankering to go, I could not go un-showered, un-madeup, and in the clothes I had been wearing for two days.

Later, I might tell you about a few dicier moments, how Katie Scarlett expressed her inner hidden Jew by wandering barefoot in the desert at 3am in 40 degree temperatures searching for the bathroom and almost crying when she lost her way while being stalked by coyotes, how Hunky Husband became a superhero by saving Steve from falling in the fire and then lost that status in a I-so-have-blackmail-on-the-man way, or how even dirt became tear-jerkingly funny.

For now though, I will be thankful for the time we had, for having wonderful friends to share a meaningful holiday with, and for the impromptu visits of both the Amazing Matt and Brother Steve as well as the entire Sammons family, more long term good friends we were afraid we would not see and then thrilled that we were. I am doubly thankful we have a roof over our heads and shelter from the elements and am able to appreciate it all the more for living without it for a few days. Once again, Happy Thanksgiving.

On Our Way

As you read this, we're either on our way to or have arrived at Butterfield Ranch in the Anza Borrego Desert to spend a wonderful camping weekend with some of the funnest and dearest group of folks living in this world. They are also some of the wildest. I packed my camera; there will be blackmail.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers. We have much for which to be thankful so let's take this time to appreciate it all. In addition to my family and dear friends whom I love, I especially appreciate all of you. You've enriched my world, broadened my horizons, and made me feel more special than I probably deserve. For you, dear readers, I give many thanks.

Once again, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Time to Wash the Laundry

Do you remember that old Dunkin Donuts commercial featuring the weary baker who got up well before the crack of dawn to go to work? He’d robotically go through the motions day in and day out, saying over and over in the most monotonous of monotonous voices, “Got to make the donuts.”

Now why this was an effective advertising gimmick, I don’t know or remember. Come on in, our employees are unenthusiastic and exhausted at work. It gives our donuts (which personally I think should be spelled doughnuts again) that extra not-so-secret delicious flavor of apathy mixed with a soupcon of fatigue. Yum!

By now, you are probably wondering why I am going on and on about the doughnut guy and this is the reason. I am the doughnut guy and have been for the last few days, the only difference being that, instead of putting in long hours making big fat arse creating pastries, I am folding mountains, or at least foothills of laundry.

How it got so bad I don’t know; well, actually I do. A laundry monster lived in Jessica’s closet. Every time he heard wind of me asking Jessica to do her laundry, he gobbled it all up and hid it in her closet under a sheet, just like he had done when I stopped doing her laundry in the first place. The result of this was that Jessica and Pint’s room looked acceptable and, until recently, I was none the wiser. That is until the monster ate one too many still-damp towels that had been thrown on the floor and exploded like that guy in the Monty Python movie. Clothes, sheets and towels came tumbling out of his former hideout/ demise location and suddenly, I, already behind on the laundry in general, started seriously contemplating arson in order to avoid washing, fluffing, and folding ten tons of soiled linens and wearables.

Since Thursday, and this is no exaggeration even though I am good at that, I have put in at least 12, read it and weep because I am, 12 hours of laundry time each day. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t go through this marathon and instead procrastinate as usual but a very nice lady/ranch hand named Elaine is coming to house-sit for four days and three nights so that we can go tent imbibing with the Camping Crowd/Stinky Cheese Girls/Book and Wine Club for Thanksgiving. I might be a suck-arse housekeeper when it comes to just us but someone else living in my home? Someone who might get attacked by the offspring of Jessica’s closet monster? I have to get the place in shape beyond its typical Universal Studios persona (looks good when you walk in but don’t go on the other side of that wall).

I think tomorrow I will have the laundry done and then the cleaning begins. Scrubbing bloodhounds' slobber, it’s not just for the Meem’s visits anymore.

And now your Pint-related chuckle of the week… yesterday morning as I was scooping dog poo with garbage bag in one hand and plastic grocery bag covering the hand that grabs the feces, Pint wanted to “help.” He jumped up and down chanting, “Scoop poo, scoop poo!” Acquiescing, I grabbed him another plastic grocery bag and into the yard we went. Pint became very unhappy that I was getting all the good poo so I grabbed a few logs-that-don’t-go-on-the-fire and put them in his bag for him. His mood brightened and he chirped, “Thank you!” and we went about our merry way like this until our job was complete. Here we bought the kid choo-choos when what really makes him happy is sh*t in a bag. This is really going to save on our Christmas budget.

Cheers!

The Three Caballeros

Happily gilding the lily of our surrounded-by-good-people week of fun were two pop-in-pop-out visits from the Amazing Matt and Brother Steve. They and Hunky Husband had planned a Three Musketeer motorcycle journey through Monument Valley and the Four Corners area and, come Hell or Wildfire, they would be adventure riding together.

Land of the best John Huston movies and home to the Navajo Nation, the sights are breathtaking and I have only seen them through a camera’s eye and first-hand family accounts. It must be thrilling to actually be there and there they were soaking it all in together. (By the way, if you go, stock up on booze before you take off; the boys found out the hard way that not only the land is dry.)

I offer a few of the many photos taken whilst traveling on two wheels.

David and his father overlooking the Rio Grande Gorge.

Steve and David stepping it up a bit.

Three monuments, the last is aptly called Mexican Hat.

Needless to say, they had a wonderful time with each other as did I with them both before and during Tony and Ilene’s visit. As a family, both the challenging and fun times have brought us closer together and I feel privileged to be in the fold of their love.

Back to Taos

When last we met up with the arguably-dynamic duo of Robert and me, it was a beautiful Thursday morning in Taos, New Mexico. A good night’s sleep and an active chicken’s appearance had washed away the weariness associated with the road of unending construction and, showered and dressed, we ventured out of our room to see what a “hot entrée” entailed.

We were not disappointed. Whole wheat blueberry and banana pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, fresh orange juice, hot coffee, and an accompanying breakfast bar of fresh fruit, mild cheese, vanilla yogurt, and granola. Not only were we recovered after this, we were feeling better than when we had left home. Sufficiently sophonsified (sorry, I can’t remember how Margaret Atwood spelled it; see “Cat’s Eye”), it was time for our first workshop, “Spinning with Beads.”

I love workshops. In addition the scheduled curriculum, the classes are filled with at-the-least colorful and at-the-most interesting and informative people, fellow fiber fanatics who approach their craft in unique and, as I found out, far simpler ways than previously taught.

Most of us grasped beaded spinning quickly. It involves 30-pound test fishing line, the beads of course, and smooth roving (carded fiber lengths) to get the job done. String your beads onto the filament, break the roving you have begun making into yarn, and pop the beads on, holding them back whilst the wheel turns and then pushing them forward as the mood strikes. Gilding the lily is allowed and even encouraged.

One individual, however, had a challenging time. Marilyn, a cantankerous dynamo of a shepherdess from The Black Hills of South Dakota, Marilyn whose name tag identifying her name and home kept “Rocky Raccoon” playing in my head all day, could not get the beads to pop onto the bobbin of her wheel. Enter “Bead Boy.” Robert at his best as Marilyn’s assistant relished the attention he was receiving. He stood beside the increasingly grumbling spinner and manually moved the beads from the orifice (I know, it sounds filthy and way too anatomical) to the bobbin. He was her hero. He became everyone’s hero moving from spinner to spinner helping out as needed, stringing beads for the arm-length challenged, making decisions for the ambivalent, and more. As time passed, he graduated to “Bead Dude” and ideas as to his superhero costume were being thrown around. Robert was in his element and I joined in the revelry as his self-esteem blossomed and grew.

By mid-afternoon, we were about to begin another beaded project involving linen squares, crochet hooks, and fine beaded yarn, and I admittedly was beginning to feel the fatigue catch up to me once again. I was toying with calling it a day, heading back to our room, and taking a much-needed nap when a familiar scent wafted over me and a welcome voice whispered in my ear, “Now where is this “Eske’s” place?”

Fatigue, what fatigue? To the brewery!

Which one is more “gorge”ous? I know where my chad hangs.

Playing Dr. Doolittle

We take this break from the ongoing Tale of Taos to spotlight some of the cuter fiber animals on display at the Wool Festival itself. (Both the new “Vogue Knitting” and the latest “Hobby Farms Magazine” arrived in yesterday’s mail after all; I have my priorities.)

Behold the young alpaca. Nervously humming throughout the day, he and his pen mate gathered onlookers far and wide. We had to leave the poor guys. If I had to answer one more, “Why do they make that noise?” question, it was going to severely inhibit my enjoyment of the festival.

Quite a bit larger and, as we found out quickly, much more relaxed is this llama. He made a liar out of me as I had just told Robert that, like alpacas, llamas could be nervous (and spit further) and to approach carefully.

He was not nervous; he was ridiculously friendly and generous with his kisses. I want one.

Ah, pygora goats, resulting from a cross between pygmies (goats not tribesmen) and Angoras. They are about the size of a smallish to medium dog, probably around 40 pounds, if that, and need very little space. If you want to hang up your lawnmower and get some fiber as a bonus, these are the goats for you.

Finally, the Angora Rabbit, which actually produces angora unlike the Angora Goat which produces mohair. The Angora Rabbit is accompanied by a soundtrack of “please, please, please, please, please!”

My goodness, here he is again! Why do they always look so much larger when you get them home?

More to come...