All in a Blog’s Time, My Pretty

Spring Morning:  Lucky Dog Ranch

Spring Morning: Lucky Dog Ranch

4/9/2013

In the excitement and diversion of launching Through the Lens of We, I paused for a moment and thought about the beginning of my musings as Winsomebella.

I started scribbling here just about two years ago, during a visit back to the cabin at the Lucky Dog Ranch. I had moved to the Denver area but I returned for a weekend to care for the place, to scrub and paint and open it for summer. But when an uncommon steady rain interrupted planned outdoor chores, I got diverted and started writing.

I was still quite tender about the Ranch when I started this blog.

You probably could tell that then. I wrote about life in a log cabin at an altitude of 8000 feet on 40 acres in the midst of acres and acres of national forest. I wrote about the Ranch tempting me with its wild hand of new adventure and how my hand was weary and slapped silly by the poor results of a long marriage. I wrote about moving there when my marriage had gone under for the last, ugly time and how it felt to live alone for the first time in my life, at the overripe age of a few years past 50.

You can see its place in the vastness in this picture.

You can see its place in the vastness in this picture.

I wrote about plowing snow with an ATV; about shoveling earth to divert run-off water to irrigate the meadow properly; about wielding a chain saw and rather handily cutting brush for fire mitigation; and how I eventually took the time to cook a meal-for-one that did not involve Cheerios. I recalled that aha! moment when I first realized that the clutter and mess I had blamed on a husband and two sons for nearly 30 years was actually my mess and mine alone.

Saturday night at Lucky Dog Ranch

This view is one of the reasons it’s called The Lucky Dog Ranch.

My body ached at the end of long days of hard work. But my heart may have pumped its greatest clarity there, at night, in my bed, as I stared at the stars.

My what-next plan hatched during a very long night about four years into my Ranch adventure.

I was thinking: What might happen if I traded my plow for a bicycle?

Surely, I’d breathe easier by giving up 3000 feet in elevation. Without a couple hundred inches of snow to plow, I’d have time instead to dig more deeply into me. Maybe without the burden of a sixty-mile round-trip to the grocery, I’d find a way to feed my soul. Instead of spending my remaining years and energy trying to figure how to irrigate the far meadow, I could work on that never-quenched thirst in me.

I’ll give you some hands-down big advantages of the old life: solitude, space, view, quiet. All that, plus the smell of sage after the rain, the sight of elk grazing in a greening meadow in spring and the satisfying chill of making the first and only tracks on a bluebird powder day.

But, I was tired. Tired, I thought, of small town living–fearful of a life filled with repeating fundraisers, dinner parties, service clubs, card groups, book groups and people. I was overwhelmed and under-energized by the work it took just to keep the “ranch” afloat–though afloat is not the right word to associate with a property in high desert.

What played most in my decision to leave the ranch, however, was the gradual realization that a place built for shared retirement and visits from grandchildren was not as appealing as a place for me to live alone, as me alone.

Dogging at The Lucky Dog

Dogging at The Lucky Dog

I miss the Ranch some days.

Besides the view from the deck, I miss people who made me feel very much a part of community, even if I was living in solitary. I miss the ones who popped up in the aisles between produce and bakery and along the meat counter or in line at check-out. I miss the conversations I had with them about when it might rain, I miss their persistent pitch to buy cookie dough to support 4-H and I miss the various versions of buzz about the ornery lady with the ugly metal barn who lived down the road.

I miss the very kind neighbor who kept track of my whereabouts and made sure I made it home and had not ended up in a snow-filled ditch without cell signal when the wind blew in two feet of snow in the span of a work day. She knew there was no one at home waiting for me and that no one would notice if I did not return when I should.

But she took the time to check on me.

That kind of neighborliness can be hard to find in the city.

I still visit the Ranch now, carefully planning my visits to avoid big snow storms. I have lost the urge to irrigate the meadow to an out-of-place and unnatural green. The plow waits alone in the garage. And now more than one chair waits on the deck for visitors.

In my new life, I am not over-committed to dinner parties and service organizations and book clubs and card groups. I have the perks of convenience, amenities, urban vitality, lower gasoline costs and two granddaughters five minutes away.

Here, I don’t have a view of the stars from my bed.

But if I walk just around the corner, I see the peaks of Evans and Pikes and Longs and in only a short drive, I am in that outer crop of Rocky Mountains that hints of better things to come.

And now there is a new tent and sturdy four wheels to explore more of those mountains and see a whole new vision of stars.

The tent which will take we Lucky Dogs to new adventures.

The tent which will take we Lucky Dogs to new adventures.

Which should be interesting since it will be the first time I have camped since I was in my 20s.

This may bring new adventure for me and new fodder for Winsomebella.

All in a blog’s time……..my dear :-).

One of the nicest things that came from giving up my plow for a bicycle is the time to dig deeper and muse with words and pictures that quench and feed me.

And to share with you and you with me, in a new version of neighborliness.

Thank you for coming along—I’m really glad you do.

 

 

(P.S. I hope you’ll enjoy my occasional alerts for new postings at Through the Lens of We, like this one from yesterday: Into the Mystic.)

28 thoughts on “All in a Blog’s Time, My Pretty

  1. Notwithstanding the sad emotions involved, this was a beautiful accounting of a difficult time, sweetly remembered. How nice that you can still go back to enjoy its calming affection.

    I was just thinking the other day, what could be better than a winsomebella blog? Two winsomebella blogs! I’m loving John’s pictures.

  2. I enjoyed your look back at the changes you’ve gone through in the light of a few years passing. I really love the look of your tent. Ihave one to, and use it occasionally, and many of my friends are amused that I would do such a thing at my age, and being able to afford a hotel whenever I wanted to get out. But there is something terribly romantic about a tent… and it also increases the mobility, and allows at times for instant decisions. I like it. The best of luck on all your ventures, winesomebella.

  3. How I love to read your posts and all about your adventures.You have made a really wise decision Winsomebella, to exchange that immensity of solitude for a bike and a tent and life with amenities and grandchildren. New adventures are just beginning.

  4. That kind of neighborliness can be hard to find in the city.

    It sure can. We moved from a small, friendly town to the suburbs in the big city– and I, too, some days long for the interconnectedness that I left behind. I’ve come to enjoy the independence that my current life affords me, but there is something lost living this way. You’ve captured that inevitable loss so clearly here. Beautifully written.

  5. Well, as you know, I’m a city girl through and through. But, I love your stories and photos of a place I can’t even conjure. I have to add that I find more neighborliness in the city than I did in the suburbs. Surburbia invites detachment, I think. We get in our cars in our attached garages, perhaps wave if a neighbor is outside. Then we drive home, into our garage, close the door and enter our home without any interaction at all. In the city I run into my neighbors everywhere. Perhaps because I walk more and drive less.
    Different strokes for different folks! Your visuals, and now the new blog which I love, along with your gorgeous writing create a romantic life I can fantasize about, but I know I could never live it.
    b

    • I agree that suburbs can be isolating, especially if your children are launched and you do not go to a job every day. I enjoyed my time in the middle of nowhere, but there came a time when I realized it was not for me, either. Thanks B!

  6. I don’t know that I can find the right words to say how much I enjoy your posts (and photos!). I do know that I’m very glad to have found your blog and that I now have two to savor.

  7. I think you may have met yourself at the Lucky Dog Ranch, and now you can find your happiness anywhere because you are taking it with you. I’m so happy for you. One word comes to mind – bliss.

  8. I remember posts about those early days. I’m so glad you had them, that you found yourself to where you are today. You’ve done it all so beautifully, elegantly.

  9. Renee said what I was thinking, only she said it better! It sounds like the four years was a good time for healing, and now you do have the best of both worlds. I don’t know about a tent for me, but I hope you enjoy yours. I do look forward to your thoughts and the things you see.

  10. The places in which we find ourselves change throughout life, sometimes quite suddenly or unexpectedly and sometimes more gradually–but it seems to me that we tend to *find ourselves* as a result of being in every one of those places, eventually. Another lovely post from you.

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