The Best Adventure Ever was a Gift

   Fourteen and a half years ago, our family of three drove north of Denver to pick out a puppy at a rescue place. Our daughter was a teenager at the time. As we walked among the cages, there was one full of rambunctious pups, mostly black, but one with more brown that just played with his toys and ignored the siblings who were determined to be noticed by the potential owners. The one just didn't seem to care about the commotion. Our daughter knelt down, picked him up, and we took him to the play area. She fell in love with how he now played and acted silly. This one had personality!  She insisted he be ours.

   And there began our many blessed years with Gus.

   Being the one that spent the most time with him, he soon became my buddy. Followed me everywhere, was always underfoot, cried when I left for the store, yet he had an independent streak in him that annoyed the daylights out of me.

  That dog loved adventures. He was part of our family, so he went hiking, camping, four-wheeling, fishing, and loved every minute of it. Gus was such a people person and he needed to be with his people.

   The signs of his intelligence showed up quickly. Truly the smartest dog we’d ever had. He seemed to understand any and everything we said and responded in the necessary way. His personality was beyond enjoyable. If you talked to him, he would talk back with his “rouw, rouw, rouw” like Scooby Doo.

   He so enjoyed our adventures of four-wheeling in the Colorado mountains. He had a special stance to hold himself in position with his head out the window on the rough roads. He figured out how to hold on quickly.

   We went fishing one particular time with a good friend. Gus came along and sat patiently (most of the time) in the center of the boat. We had caught about four trout and had them in a wire basket over the side of the boat and continued fishing. It drove Gus nuts to see those fish hanging on the side of the boat. He was fascinated and wanted them bad. Not really paying him much attention, we continued to fish. Soon, there’s a scraping and flopping noise inside the boat, Gus barking and the basket hopping around. Gus found a way to lean over the side, grab the container with his teeth and brought those fish on board. He had more fun that day.

   Gus had a playful, happy heart. Content to just be with his family. He loved long trips and traveled very well. Once in the car, if the back window wasn't open for him to stick his head out, he would sit behind Ron knowing the control button was right there next to him. He would bump his nose into Ron’s shoulder then look like the RCA dog at the buttons. His subtle way of saying, “Come on. Open the window now.”

Gus with his buddy Chris

   His favorite people (other than me of course) were his girl (our daughter), her (at the time) boyfriend and future husband and his brother Chris. Chris has a way with animals. And when he pulled up for a visit, Gus barked and carried on like Santa Claus had arrived. I’d let him out and he’d run to the gate waiting and wiggling until Chris got in the yard. There they sat just inside the gate with Gus whining his love and Chris talking to him and petting him. Gus loved to lick our s-i-l's knees just because it drove him crazy.

   Our daughter married and moved away. You could tell Gus missed her and never forgot about her. When we’d go visit, we’d ask Gus if

"My girl came home!" They'd fall
on the floor in greeting. 

he wanted to go see his girl. He would get so excited and run for the door. He knew we’d go for a car ride to see her. And our son-in-law’s name would cause equal excitement. When they came to visit, it was a happy reunion for Gus.

   Then they got two Pomeranians. Gus had a great degree of tolerance for small, energetic dogs. They would try to get him to play and he’d just turn his head, do an Elvis lip and walk away.

   Around the house, when it was time to go do yard work or feed the birds, all I had to do was start putting in a ponytail and his ears went up and he ran for the door barking. He loved being outside. He loved when we were going with him out in the yard. Not that he would play or fetch or anything like that, he just wanted to be outside with his family.

   When he was younger, he would play fetch for a little while, until he got bored. Which happened after about four throws. Then he’d take his position on the top step of the porch and watch “his” neighborhood. If another dog came down our street, Gus ran to the fence and the race time began. There is a permanent path wore into the ground from our porch to the fence, around the lilac bush down to the spruce at the other end. As the other dog walked by with their master, Gus raced back and forth almost like a personal challenge of how many times he could make the laps before they made it past our property. Neighborhood kids ran with him encouraging him to race them. He was a character.

   He hated thunder and flashes of light, he loved to lick out the tuna cans, yogurt containers, fruit smoothies, chasing snakes, being with people and cool weather. He loved doggie play days in our yard when the neighborhood dogs would come hang out.

   He insisted on being right in the midst of everything we did, regardless of the task. It didn't work out too well for him the day we had to change the magenta toner cartridge for the printer. Have you ever tried to vacuum a dog?

   We never had to worry about him leaving the yard until one particular winter when we received 72 inches of snow (yes, really. SIX FEET of snow) in a couple days time. Once it finally finished snowing, he figured out that if he walked carefully on the crusted top of that six feet of white stuff that he managed to get on top of from the shoveled path we made for him, his gentle steps led him right over the top of the fence. Off he’d go to find us. As the snow melted, it trained him to jump higher until he could do it from bare ground. We’re talking a chain link fence here. From that point on, he had to stay in the house while we were gone.

   Our dog could tell time too. I’m not kidding. He got a treat in the morning, one at noon, one at 3:00 and one at bedtime. As the years went on, he began to sense when treat time was near. At first we’d just find him sitting in front of the stove by the fridge. The treats sat on top. He would start pacing and “talking” to me telling me it was time. In the last couple of years, his patience waned and the pacing started half an hour to the appointed treat time. His talking turned to constant barking, ordering me to get the treat now. Not. (Okay, so I did give in a lot.) At bedtime, he would get two jerky treats. The first a freebie, but then he had to work for the next one. We taught him hand signals rather than verbal commands. He picked up on those easily. He’d sit, shake, lay down and the best was a high five. If he really wanted that jerky right away, he’d do them all at once without any prompting.

   Ron taught him how to sing along with the Happy Birthday song. The dog would not “sing” to any other song, only Happy Birthday. Ron could sing that, the dog sang along, then Ron would start singing Amazing Grace or something, and Gus would just look at him. And of course we delighted family every year for their birthdays with a chorus over the phone with Gus.

   Gus loved to open his presents at Christmas and his birthday. Yes, I spoiled him with presents. He was my buddy. We had two cats at the same time as Gus. They’d all get something under the tree. One particular year, Gus had gained in the intelligence department and knew that under that tree were presents for HIM. There had been a lot of packages that year, so the pet presents were furthest to the

middle of the highly decorated tree. We’d gone to bed, and apparently Gus could not tolerate the suspense any longer. During the night, he pulled every present out from under the tree. He found his, I guess he learned to read as well, and opened ONLY his. The cat gifts lay to the side and all of our gifts were in disarray, but no paper torn. So we woke to his wrapping paper and the stuffing from his toys all over the living room, and a smiling happy dog lying in the midst of it all. That was the last time his presents were put under the tree. They were kept up high till Christmas morning.

   Gus had his favorite dog sitters too when we took trips and he couldn't come. Our neighbor with her dog Dudley, who I wrote about a while ago on this blog, were his favorite friends for a long time. Then it became our pastor and his wife. Gus would just stay home alone and they’d come let him out and play with him. He loved seeing them. Even when we were home and they pulled up, he would get SO excited.

   We got a camper a couple years ago. He seemed to agree, that is the only way to camp. We both had

arthritis setting in, so sleeping on the ground, no, not so much. He’d get so excited as we packed up the camper knowing he’d get to go. And it always included four-wheeling after the camp was set up. He loved the mountains as much as we do. He loved to romp through the forest, try to catch chipmunks, he’d put in miles on hikes to our half a mile walk. He could scramble up rocks like a mountain goat with no fear of the edge. In the car, his head stuck out the window, tongue hanging, he watched everything and even knew when to brace if a big hole was ahead in the dirt road.

   He struggled with his arthritis in recent years. At 14, in people years that was like 99, so it stands to reason he’d have difficulties. It broke our heart to see him struggle to stand, and laying down took extra long to position his legs to drop. He really didn't have any other health issues. Even his teeth were good.

   Thursday morning, June 27, I knew something had changed. Something was going wrong with his legs and it was happening rapidly. His mind was fine, he still wanted to do things, he saw a puppy in the next yard and literally dragged his back leg all the way down the steps and across the yard to go nose to nose with the little one. He kept trying. He fought to get around. He didn't want to be in the house, so I sat next to him on the cold flagstone all morning. I talked to him, I hugged him, I cried. I told him how great a dog he’d been. The best ever. He laid his head on the hard surface and just rested. I laid beside him and pet him.

   Ron came home early and we proceeded to do the hardest thing we’d ever done. The most heartbreaking time of our lives. We said goodbye to our best buddy. Our traveling companion. My eyes and ears, since mine don’t work very well. My friend. The friend who never judged me, never held a grudge, even if I got mad at him, he would be so sad that he’d disappointed me and immediately try to make up. He protected me, he loved me unconditionally, he stood by me through everything. He was my gift from God. I was blessed to have had this amazing dog for nearly 15 years and not one day will go by that I won’t miss him completely and totally. There is a little hole in my heart now where he took up residence. But his memory will eventually heal that hole and I’ll smile as I remember the best friend I ever had.

Bearly Adventurous

   We've lived in Colorado for around twenty-five years. I've seen a bear twice. Now three. The first time was while having dinner at the home of dear friend's near Idaho Springs. I had the vantage point at the dining table looking out the patio doors over the hills and the road below. Lovely view. I was gazing out at the pine covered steep hillsides of the canyon, the gorgeous blue sky (there's just something better about a blue sky in Colorado), when something black on the road below caught my eye. There he was. A big ol' black bear walking across the road below the house. He headed up the hill on our side of the canyon. We enjoyed watching him until he finally found the seclusion they treasure.
   That was many years ago. This spring, many folks around our little town here in the foothills have posted on Facebook or talk at the grocery store about seeing a bear in the creek, cubs in town, momma bear with her cubs. Lots of stories.
   I figured I wouldn't get to see one. But I hoped.
   We left for Texas a couple weeks ago, and I left the hummingbird feeders up since our little visitors had returned for the summer. I wanted to encourage them to be around when I got home. My friend was watching the house and dog, but reported to me via email, that something had gotten my feeders and broke them. Hmmm...could it be?
   Well obviously it was a bear that had been in our yard while we were gone. There was bear scat, a metal shepherds hook pole bent at ground level severely, and yes the broken feeders. Not to mention signs that our dog had been - shall we say - quite startled in the house, no doubt after seeing this creature right outside the window he likes to look out of.
   At night, I started to bring the feeders in so as to not encourage the animal that this was a good restaurant to continue patronizing. But I still hoped to see him.
   One day while talking to my sister on the phone, I was wandering around the yard while we talked. Around back under the kitchen window, I spotted rather disturbing prints on the siding just under the where the feeders hang during the day.

There was no doubt what that was.

Something was peeking in the window?

   Hmmm.... Me thinks we had a bear.

 

   He remembered the good eats. I knew he'd be back.
   Now here in Colorado, there are news stories all the time about bears breaking into homes, homeowners hearing a noise and rushing to the kitchen to find a bear sitting on their kitchen counter eating out of the cupboards, windows completely broken into by a bear. Yogi and Boo Boo get the snacks they want. We've had trash cans spilled over and trash dragged across the street in years past. Our neighbor relayed the tale several years ago that when she came home late one night, our trash was strewn across the street and as she pulled into her drive, the big bear was settled into her front yard snacking on our leftovers not fit for human consumption. She had to wait him out to go into her house that night since not much scares them off. We never saw him.
   Another night, we had been out enjoying our hot tub, gazing at the stars, soaking away the aches of the day. Gus, our dog, had been out with us, but he usually takes his place on the steps to watch over the neighborhood. Unbeknownst to us, a visitor was on the other side of our house. The dog didn't even know.
   We finished our soak, went in and settled in to watch the news before bed. Ron heard a noise, jumped up, ran for the side window (opposite from the side the hot tub is on). Thinking it was probably another raccoon getting into trouble, we were surprised to look out at the extremely large furry back end of our nocturnal visitor. Between us and the neighbor, huge flashlights scared him off. The yelling and pounding on the window, not so much.
   There is a metal trash can out there. We found large dents in each side of the can. The bear must have figured it was another special "pick-i-nick" basket and had learned a special way to open them by slamming his paws into the sides. He had to have been surprised by the face full of woodstove ash that no doubt covered him.
   So back to the original part of this story.
   Ron had gone to bed the other night, I stayed up to do some work on the computer. *BANG* Something slammed against the kitchen window. Uh oh...
   I ran to the kitchen, opened the blinds, but it was way too dark to see. I figured the light coming out would startle it away. So I ran to the dining room window and in the faint porch light, I saw him! Lumbering across the yard like it was his.
   My heart began a whole new beat.
   He checked out the empty feeder, walked over to the three person swing and rubbed his side against it. I gathered up my courage, which was waning fast, stepped out onto the porch and yelled at it hoping to scare it off. Funny thing about a 150 pound (or so) bear, they don't scare easy.
   He turned to come toward me. I rapidly ducked back into the house. When he turned away again, I stepped out, grabbed my dog's tennis ball and pitched it over at him. I missed.
   He proceeded into the darkness of the corner of the yard. I could hear the chain link fencing wiggle and clank against the poles, knowing he was working on climbing over it. That's when it struck me....why don't I have my camera? Okay, okay, so the excitement sort of made my brain take a break, what can I say. By the time I got it and returned to the scene, he was marching across the neighbors porch, while I prayed she wouldn't open the door about that moment.
   I finally got to see a bear. With my heart rate at that moment and the annoying shaking of my limbs, I remembered that saying, "Be careful what you wish for". But I was glad I got to see the culprit. Needless to say, Ron got woken up by his anxiety filled wife with a tale to tell.
   Ron and I stayed up the next night, waiting. I was sure he'd be back. It had already become a habit.
   No bear.
   He hasn't been back to our knowledge, but I will continue to bring in my feeders at night which I'm doing too early judging by the diving attacks by hummingbirds as we take them in. I just really prefer taking on the kamikaze birds over a large bruin with long claws.
  

Yep, that would leave a mark.

Closest picture I could find of what I saw. He was about
this size.

The Adventure to Getting Published

     It's been a long road.
     I've been writing for as long as I can remember. It runs in my veins. Grandma wrote a lot. My mom writes so much, having self-published many books of her poetry; she also writes the many stories of her childhood and compiles it for us kids.
     In high school, I had written a lot of stories that my teacher had for grading. The day I was to pick them up from the teacher, I was home sick. A friend went to get them for me, but the teacher had already thrown them away. My mom is still sick about that. (And it was a long time ago...) I don't remember what they were about. So chalk that up to an "oh well" moment.
     When my daughter was three, which was 1983, I took a home study course on writing from The Institute of Children's Literature. You've probably seen the ads in magazines. Since I was now a mom, staying home to raise her, I thought learning more about the craft of writing might help in getting published.

     That class led to my first magazine article getting published. Sunshine Magazine printed my story, "What's the Best Pet". Wow, that was a long time ago. but the taste was put in me and I got bit bad for more. I even received FAN MAIL after that article came out. A few letters came, including an inmate at a prison that kept writing to me for a while.



My first published article! *ahem* 1985...

     Time passed, life with a daughter and husband kept me busy with little time to write. I dabbled, but nothing substantial. We made a huge move from Minnesota to Colorado. I'm not even sure when I got back to it seriously. It slowly built as life and time allowed.
     I finished a book, which I had prayed hard to do. But nothing ever came of it. I made a decision then to pray to get published and not just finishing a book. I had found some interest in it at writer's conferences. One of my writing heroes, Tracie Peterson, was an acquisitions editor at one conference. She was so encouraging and delightful to meet with. When she asked to take my manuscript with her, I was ecstatic. She had encouraged me to join a writer's group called the American Christian Romance Writers, which I foolishly didn't follow through with.    
     It didn't sell.
     So I kept rewriting, learning, studying publishers guidelines, anything I could find.
     I was prodded by a couple of close friends to start writing a community news column for our local newspaper. I summoned up the courage to go meet with the editor. It went really well and she signed me on as a columnist. She warned me that I was about to become "famous" in a sense. I laughed. Little did I know that my byline with a photo in my well recognized cowgirl hat would indeed become well known in our mountain community. I had folks recognize me uptown, at the store, out walking... I wrote about many things: town events, church events, dog bites, student accomplishments. One time I even got to interview one of the producers of a Perry Mason episode being shot in our little mountain town at the old, then empty hotel. "The Lady in the Lake" had one scene here. That was quite an experience.
     I tried to get an interview with Gary Hart, a local resident, when he was running for president (this was proir to his surrounding scandal). I didn't get that one. But I did write about the onslaught of media in our community. Helicopters circled overhead. National media outlets were interviewing six-year olds on the street about what they thought. Really? Desperation I guess.
     I also experienced the down side of being a community columnist. When I wrote about upcoming new county rules about a non-running vehicle on your property getting ticketed, I took the blame. Yep. Got chewed out by one resident. Trying to explain how to not blame the messenger was a challenge I did not succeed in.
     Ah, those were the days. Twelve years I did that column.
     When that ended (not by my choice), I got back to my books. And conferences. And networking. And studying. But most importantly, writing.
     I had a few articles published in Country magazines, but that was about it. One of those articles was read by an old friend I had lost contact with. She found me again.
     I had attended the Colorado Christian Writer's Conference (CCWC) for several years learning through workshops offered. One year it even led to being on a radio interview with two of my favorite radio personalities around here. (Thanks Roy and Joy) That was fun!
     I rediscovered the writing group that Tracie had told me about, but now it was called the American Christian Fiction Writers or ACFW. Smartest thing I've ever done. I quickly joined. Great organization where on line writing courses are free with membership. Networking and just finding people of like-mind (you know...kind of crazy and wild thinking processes...) helped me so much. I began to learn more about the business of writing as well as the craft.
     I attended my first ACFW conference in Denver. What a blessing that was. I met many of my favorite authors which was a real treat. Made new friends that I still cherish. Made connections that help a writer move along the path.
     During all of this, I had written another book titled Red Gold. I had the worst time coming up with a title. While pondering the whole thing with my hubby, he actually came up with the name. It was perfect. (Hope the editors will agree.)
     You know that old saying, Write what you know. Well, I know four-wheeling, I know Colorado, and loving both, I devised a story about a couple owning a guest ranch that caters to jeeping, wildlife, ghost town tours, fishing, hiking and since I love mysteries, I threw some of that in too. Guests check in and find adventures they never would have expected. I had a bunch of fun writing it.
     Then you try to sell it. Or find an agent to sell it. Neither of which is an easy thing to do.
     I'll skip most of that struggle, and just cut to the chase. After twelve rejections, I found another publisher that I didn't have to have an agent to submit to. I sent it off with an accompanying prayer.
     Rejected.
     However, the editor sent along two pages of advice to fix it. What my problem areas were and what I should do about it. I held in my hand pure gold. I rewrote applying what she had said. I knew I wasn't getting it totally right, but I worked hard at it. I emailed her if I could resubmit which she welcomed.
     Rejected.
     I thanked her profusely, but then said it was time to put it aside. She agreed. Truly the nicest rejections I had ever received, and I've got a file FULL of rejections.
     I worked on other projects. Got involved with three other gals and we are working on selling a set of four books under the same theme.
     But Red Gold kept calling me back. So I returned. I rewrote it AGAIN. Then I attended the ACFW conference in Dallas. I met with an editor from Pelican Book Group and told her all I had done and the rejections from the other editor. She looked over my One Sheet (a single sheet that basically tries to sell your book with a short blurb about it and my bio), and invited me to send it in again. Pelican has the imprint of White Rose (for Romances) and Harbourlight (for other genres).
     So off it went again on December 10, 2012. Then the waiting begins. But I just kept working on my other story. I spent more time in God's word and praying. I meet once a week with a writer friend and we mull over what we learn.
     I saw in my email inbox one day the editors name. I sat back into my chair staring. I couldn't click on it to open. I sat there steeling myself for the rejection. I prayed, I took a deep breath and clicked.
     It started out with much about areas still lacking. My shoulders dropped and I continued to read wondering if I'd ever "get it". But then...she said if I'm willing to work with them on some heavy edits, she'd like to offer me a contract. I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing for a few moments. And again, I stared. I reread it and reread it. She mentioned that she could see the work I had put into it after her other two rejections. She saw merit in that.
     For so many years I dreamt about how I would react. I didn't live up to those expectations. It seemed so unreal. I had so much to process. Instead of reacting, I took until the next day praying, seeking, wondering. And I told my closest family and friends. And...I did a little Snoopy Happy Dancing. Oh, and crying. Then I emailed her back that I was more than willing to do the work to make this story the best it can be. This opportunity is my gold. My treasure. My total blessing from God. I know it's from Him. There's no doubt.
     So on March 27, 2013 I signed my first book contract. I have a lot of work ahead of me as the edits start coming, but I can't wait. I love this story. I love my characters and now I feel like they will come to life even more.
     Stay tuned. You will definitely hear when it is due to be published. I so look forward to holding that baby in my hands. Whoo hoooooooo! Thank you Jesus!



Dustbunny Dudley



     We are pretty sad in the neighborhood this week. We lost a long time buddy to everyone around here. Dudley was 11. Pretty good to reach that age for a Golden Retriever, but when you have a terrific owner that takes really good care of you, you can reach that age.
     Dudley was just the best. He loved everyone, he loved the daycare kids for years, loved hiking, loved life. He was a great dog. I'm missing him and just wanted to share one of the funnier stories about him. It still falls under the category of an adventure. Just didn't have to leave home for this one.
    

    Ron and I were dog sitting one time years ago. Ron was recovering from hernia surgery at the time. We were sleeping peacefully early Friday morning, 4:30 a.m. to be exact, when I started being stirred awake by the bed jiggling.  In my fuzzy, not awake state of mind, I figured that Gus, our dog, was leaning against the bed scratching or something so I whispered, "Stop it!"  Not wanting to wake up fully, but the bed kept jiggling.  So I whispered again, a little louder, "What are you doing?" so as not to wake up Ron.   

     Then I heard claw marks on the wood floor kind of doing this spinning, sliding, clawing for dear life noise.  Now I am fully awake realizing that there is a dog under the bed.  So I reach over the side of the bed and snap my fingers and say, "Come out here whoever you are!"  Suddenly, a large Dudley face is stretching for all he's worth his way out from under the frame of the bed.  Only his face. So I say again, "Come on Dudley, what are you doing??"  Now he's clawing madly with his feet well away from each side of his head and spreading wider as he tries to pull himself out, doing his best to mind my command. He was doing the butterfly stroke like in swimming. So I say to myself, the - what 80 pound? - dog is stuck under the bed!  Thinking I better get off the bed because my weight must be hindering his process, so I try to pull on him, no that won't work.  He's wedged!  So I try to swing his leg under to get him on his side, much like a breach baby trying to be born, that's not working either.  Hmmmmm....Dudley now is just sort of looking up at me with those big, sad, Golden Retriever eyes while I call him a dummy.  Now Ron is awake and rolls over and says, "What's going on?"  I say, "Dudley is stuck under the bed!"  Ron -in his helpful way -starts cracking up!!  Meanwhile, I'm on my bad knees trying to pull a huge dog out from under a king size bed, then I figure I have to lift the bed to get him out, so I lift my side, and through a straining voice say, "Come on Dudley, come on!"  Ron is still laughing holding his belly.  Dudley is dragging, sliding, clawing, pulling his way out between the bed and my dresser while I'm holding the side of the bed up in the air. There is a serious lack of space for this long, big body. Ron is now laughing totally out of control ON THE BED.  Was I laughing, no, not so much. Remember, it's 4:30 in the morning.  Finally, Dudley is free!  He had a plastic newspaper dog toy in his mouth from under the bed (his mission accomplished) so then he starts making his Chewy Chewbacka noise with this toy in his mouth, happy as a clam.  Finally I get to crawl back under the covers, Ron is still laughing out of control and holding his gut.  He says, "I'm gonna blow another hernia cuz I can't quit laughing!"  I say, "Yea, explain this to the emergency room surgeon." It took us another hour I bet to stop the giggling.  Ron kept picturing in his mind what Dudley must have looked like under the bed then he'd crack up again just as I was nodding off.  We finally settled down realizing there would be no more dustbunnies under the bed for a very long time. Dudley took care of them all.

    We slept in that morning! 



We will miss you Dudders.



Gold Fever with Heart

   I’ve always looked at Labor Day as a time to celebrate hard work and American ingenuity. There were times in our nation that the worker was taken advantage of or even used and abused. This modern day holiday is a time to acknowledge that folks spend their lives in this country working hard to improve their lifestyle and provide for their families. Sometimes just to survive.

   In our nation, there are many ways to make a living. Options are unending if you’re willing to work at it.

   I met a couple of men over the holiday weekend that are really living up to that American Dream. But beyond that, their kindness, generosity and giving spirits struck me to write about them.

   My sister was here visiting for a couple of days from Minnesota. We were driving her around the mountains near us sightseeing and also looking for a specific spot in a mountain stream. A spot with black sand.

   My adult nephew is back in Minnesota with his own struggle to survive kidney disease. His life is full of health issues and days upon days of dialysis. He has a lot of down time and developed an interest in learning about gold panning and mining. He watches a lot of shows about it now that the Discovery Channel has numerous programs about this challenging occupation. His request of his mom on her trip was to bring him some black sand to practice panning with. So we were on a mission.

   In one particular canyon over the last hundred years, a lot of gold had been found in the cold mountain creek. We drove along looking down at the water hoping to find a calmer spot where sand could have collected. And maybe even some gold. We forgot to bring a bucket, but I did have a plastic potato chip container. I emptied the contents into a bag, wiped it out and had it all ready to fill with gold laden sand.

   We spotted a couple of pickup trucks parked on the pull-off next to the creek. The back ends loaded up with what we guessed was gold extracting equipment. They had just made their way up the rather steep bank as the sun was setting behind the hills. I parked behind them, walked up to one and asked if this was a public area for gold panning. I’m sure they got a good chuckle thinking this crazy woman didn’t even have grubby clothes on and she wants to pan?

   They said it was for anyone with questioning glances at me. Undaunted, I pressed on to explain briefly about my nephew and that he can’t really travel to do this sort of thing and we hoped to just send some creek bed back with his mom so he could try panning.

   The one man got a spark of a look on his face, held up a finger and said, “Hold on a minute. I have something you can take to him.”

   This was getting odder.

   He went to the passenger side of his white pick-up that was plastered with bumper stickers about America and God. That’s a good sign. He dug around tossing stuff up out of his way muttering, “Where did I put that?” I stood next to the truck wondering what this was all about and have I met a nutcase?

   My sister walked up and with a look that asked if I was crazy she said quietly, “What are you doing?”

   I shrugged. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was waiting for.

   His head popped back out of the cab with the exclamation of, “Here it is.” He held a small plastic zip locked bag out to me and said, “This was given to me and guaranteed to have gold in it. Give this to your nephew.”

   It looked like a bunch of sand to me. Somewhere within and out of sight could hold flecks of gold and this man was handing it over.

   What??!! Why would this man give this to us? He went on to explain that he was given it and he wanted to pass it on. I was dumbstruck by the generous gift. Obviously no nuggets were within the bag, but who knows how much gold dust there could be.

   The other man had joined us by this point along with my husband who had been walking up behind my sister. We chatted about their learning curve several years ago when they began the adventure of searching for gold. They didn’t share how much money they make doing this ingenious and undependable method of income, but by the looks of their equipment, they must be making some. They showed us their sluicing method that separates the first stage of the process and the fine sand that was left over. One of their buckets held that product along with some strange magnetic something or ‘nother.

   The next shocking bit of generosity was when the second man said, “Open up your container.” He began to scoop out the processed sand out of their bucket and transferred it into ours. Then he said, “Give this to your nephew and tell him it’s been through the first sifting. He should pan it and he’ll find gold.”

   This was so surprising that they’d turn over their processed dirt. That took some work. Granted the best stuff was still in that magnetic thing, but still. They didn’t have to do that. We were willing to go down to the bank and just scoop up some sand and see what he could get out of it.

   This happenstance visit in a Colorado canyon as twilight approached really reaffirmed in me that there are still some really good people out there. Hard working, generous people.  

   Gold fever over the centuries has turned a lot of good folks into greedy people, but we happened upon a couple of really kind hearted men that work hard to add a little extra into their pockets. Men that wanted to share the prospect of gold with a young man they’ll never meet, but a man that shares their interest. One that isn’t able to get out there working the sand. They are providing just a little bit of blessing. I hope they know it.

   We were all pretty speechless but so enjoyed talking with them and hearing what they went through to learn the work, to succeed in the work. Isn’t that the American Dream after all? Work, learn the job and do it well.

   I came across this verse in 1 Timothy starting in verse 17 and it made me think of these two modern day gold prospectors, “Instruct those who are rich (not that they’re rich, but they are after riches) in this present world not to be conceited or to fix their hope on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly supplies us with all things to enjoy.

 Instruct them to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is life indeed.”

   I believe God set that meeting up, I believe that he put it on their hearts to share what God had provided for them in that creek, and I believe that their hearts are good and generous. They just stored something up that can’t be found here on earth.

   Matthew 6:20 “But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal.”

Rescue in the Caribbean

     I’m straying a thousand miles from my usual Colorado adventures. Being a writer at heart, when things happen, events take place, or something just plain touches me deeply, I must write about it. The latter happened on a recent dream vacation.

     We were blessed to take a Disney Cruise with our daughter and her husband a couple weeks ago. We planned this dream for a couple years and it finally came true. You know the Disney saying, “Dreams really do come true!” The biggest blessing was being able to spend a week with our kids just having fun. Going on adventures together as family.

     We looked forward to our planned excursions of swimming with dolphins, seeing Mayan Ruins for the first time ever, and a dune buggy ride on an island leading to a snorkel adventure.

Blue as blue can be.

     The ship was beautiful. We loved exploring it at every opportunity on the first full day out to sea. The sky was clear and blue as we headed through the Straits of Florida heading southwest toward the western edge of Cuba. Grand Cayman being our first destination. The water far below us was a blue like you’ve never seen. One can’t even describe the beauty of the water as you head for the Caribbean Sea. It just gets better as you go. The color alone can instill such peace in your heart, let alone being on vacation and no worries that you could do anything about.

     We had gone to a delightful church service that Sunday morning up in one of the funnels with thirteen other people. Afterward, we played the shipboard game of detective work seeking an animated framed painting that came to life with your special card giving you the needed clues. When we succeeded in “rescuing the Dalmatian puppies” in the game, we decided to head to lunch. Something felt odd as we walked down the hallway, and stepping out on deck we realized the ship was turning a wide circle. We made our way to the upper deck where people were gathering at the rail on the port side. Everyone was sharing news that some people were waving from a boat needing help.

     The Captain’s voice came over the loud speaker stating that they had indeed spotted someone in distress and were turning back to help.

     This particular cruise ship is almost four football fields in length, so seeing it turn a circle is quite something. We were all watching, searching the calm sea for sign of this boat. Everyone had their cameras on zoom scanning the vast horizon for this boat. Speculation of the situation rolled through the crowd of voices.

     Just a speck was spotted forward from the boat at about eleven o’clock. My husband Ron zoomed in as far as our camera would allow seeing people sitting on something. All those around us, wanted to see what his camera picked up.

     The ship drew nearer moving at a snail’s pace. The excitement of this rescue at sea built stronger among the crowd gathered at the rail.

     Our cabins were on the port side of the ship and we shared a balcony. Since it was difficult to see over so many heads, well…except for Ron who stands six-four, we went below to watch the rescue. We now had some great “seats” to watch this unfold.

     From our balcony, we saw through our telephoto lens, four men positioned on a crude raft made from inner tubes likely tied together and covered with an old brown canvas. Towed behind, was another uncovered tube that held a make-shift sail and homemade paddles, all lying down; the sail being unnecessary since there were only light, soft ripples from a slight breeze on the sea around them.

     The men didn’t look overly distressed, but the whole scene appeared to us – on our luxurious ship – to be one of desperation. There was no more room on that raft than holding those four men and a smattering of supplies. There would be no stretching their legs on that craft.

     They had three hats on board, the kind that is woven out of wide blade grass. One of the men wore a long sleeve white shirt, the others had short sleeves. All wore shorts. I imagined myself with my beyond white Scandinavian skin color being stranded out to sea like that under a hot Caribbean sun, and how it wouldn’t take long to turn the color of an overly ripe tomato until I was sick from the heat. I could not imagine how these men felt before spotting our ship.

     The ship was now at full stop. The water no longer stirred next to the stern where the engines added air to the water turning it a pale blue. We looked down when voices were heard and saw some crew members two decks lower as they readied the speed boat to go investigate the raft. 

     It was almost an eerie feeling being on this huge ship at a total standstill, nothing around us but the deep blue sea. So surreal it was looking at the situation of these men obviously desperate to flee a country that oppressed them so deeply that they could choose this current situation in the hope that they might find something better wherever the sea and the wind would allow them to go. And with the present state of the weather, only the water would steer their raft.

     I tend to research things like this when it is a direct experience. I have a need to know more. In my attempt at understanding, I came upon an article that talked a lot about why so many thousands of people attempt this type of change in their lives. I learned that many die trying to cross the Florida Straits or they are killed by Cuban gunboats as they attempt to leave the island. The Cuban government touts their criminal records, not mentioning that many of the “crimes” are those practicing Christianity, or refusing to serve in a military of an oppressive regime, or if they had been deemed political dissidents, their “crime” was getting food from the black market in order for their family to survive.

     And here we were on a luxury ship sailing away from our cares.

     It was sobering.

     Of course, this as with most things can become and has become a very political topic. I guess I gained a new perspective. It boils down to the fact that these are human beings out there subject to the ocean’s whims and ways. They are searching for something better. Something safer, even if it is at great risk to their lives.

     Our crew went out on the speed boat and circled the raft checking out what they had on board and their demeanor, I imagine. They were close enough to communicate with them. When they determined there was no threat, they brought two of the men on board their boat. We watched the other two load up a large black bag with their meager belongings. When their turn came to be rescued off this crude raft, the bag had to be left behind. The cruise line cannot risk illness, parasites, or danger to the paid passengers. The raft floated away and the coast guard was notified of its last location. They probably sink it. 

     We found out that the refuges would be taken to Grand Cayman, our first port of call. Disney takes very good care of them, getting medical help and then taken to a destination other than Cuba where they would most likely lose their lives.

     I’ve learned this is a more common experience than one might imagine. With millions of refuges over the years trying to escape to a better life, cruise ships in the Florida Straits have picked up a fair share of them. But so many have lost their lives. Men, women and even children.

     Later in the week, the ship turned again. We watched from our balcony as another raft was circled. This one empty. Were they saved? Did they perish?

     The sea was calm this day of rescue. But what of the days when the storms rage, when nothing about their escape seems to go right, when a leak occurs on the raft, when the waves are steep and slam into their poorly made raft, bouncing them into the air, desperately trying to hang on, food and water run out, when the sharks circle…

     Then I thought of my own life. The lives of my friends and loved ones. What do we hang onto when the storms rage? How do we hang on?

     We’ve faced some raging storms over the last year. Certainly not hanging onto a raft for dear life out in the middle of the ocean, but it did tend to feel like that at times. Sometimes life just slams into us. The fact is, disease and aging problems sooner or later affect us all, either personally or in our loved ones. Trials of every kind, financial, emotional, Spiritual come and go often. When I look back over the previous eighteen months and list the inventory of what we went through, I get overwhelmed. Then I realize I got through it. The currents carried me. I made it to shore. I survived. Again.

     But how?

     The only way I know how. I leaned on the Captain of my life. The only One that can get me through these challenging times. The One that can steer me to the answers and provide the comfort and peace that I so desperately need. When at my lowest, I know that I can reach out to my Lord and tell Him that I can’t hold on any longer, that my grip isn’t strong enough to keep me from sinking into the abyss. Then I hear Him say in that still small voice, “I’ve got you. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to let go!”

Casting Call

   I love to fish. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to find the time. But in April? At 9,000 feet elevation it could be rain, cold, mud season or even a snow storm. The secret to Colorado and adventures like this is to dress in layers. Donning seven layers, we headed for a mountain lake with six of our friends early one Tuesday morning.

   Arriving at Tarryall Reservoir, the sun was shining, the skies were a crystalline blue, and there wasn’t a bit of wind to cause even a ripple on the surface of the water.

   Everyone grabbed a camp chair and their fishing gear to find their position along the shoreline in the hopes of landing the largest trout on record. Okay, so just land a trout or two for dinner.

   There isn’t a better way to spend a day than with great friends and a fishing pole.

   I watched down the bank as Bill pulled in fish after fish. This is not unusual for him. I firmly believe that fish know when Bill has arrived at a lake and they clamor to jump onto his line. Odds are if he walked out into that water with a net, they’d just jump right in for the privilege to go home with him. Their demise being totally worth it if Bill is involved.

   A few others were pulling in a trout now and then. I sat there, holding my new fishing pole, waiting. And waiting. Turns out I waited a lot that day.

   I really didn’t mind. I was quite warm and comfortable waiting. Sitting in a chair. Watching. Observing. Sea Gulls flew overhead, geese took off from the water honking an incredible noise as they went as if that would help them gain altitude, wisps of clouds occasionally floated overhead. Waiting was good.

   The past year and a half or so has really thrown us for a loop. Lots of surgeries, from shoulders to back procedures and a couple other physical ailments. Then our home was robbed to top it all off. Frustration built, a horrible feeling of being overwhelmed ruled the days, worries piled up, even a good dose of fear reigned.

   I sat there staring out over the lake as another goose honked its departure from the water. A sea gull screeched overhead hoping someone would clean their fish. A couple of ducks swam across the way. The reflection of the mountains on the far side of the lake shimmered on the surface. Calmness. Peace. Nature. Beauty.

   God.

   I reeled in to check my bait. None left. So the fish were snacking not attacking.     Harumph. Pull the line back with my finger, lay the pick up over, cast the line back out as far as I could, sit down and wait.

   Hmmm….

   Cast.

   Casting.

   Worries.

   Fear.

   Cast.

   Cast all your anxieties…

   Hmmm….

   I couldn’t resist. I had to reel it in again. Pull line, reach back with the pole, fling it forward while releasing that line. Cast. Release. As that line swooshed through the air, I imagined or maybe I really heard, “Cast all your anxieties on Me, for I care for you.” My husband’s favorite life verse has now become mine.

   I looked up. Blue sky, sparse clouds. Cast.

   All the issues we’ve been facing seemed to fly away from me on that line. At least for the moment. When you have a year like this, every moment of peace counts far more than you’d think. I couldn't help but imagine each care strung onto that line flying farther and farther away. 

   Cast.

   I never did catch a fish that day. But that’s okay. I had caught some peace. I had reeled in some misplaced joy. I hooked a release. I hurled a bunch of problems into the depths where I could no longer see them. For such a time…

   I’m pretty sure I had the best catch of the day.

   Oh, and Bill got another one on the line!