Jaci Dawn

I had a few resolutions I didn’t keep last year, but the one I can blog about (because it was a tangible resolution) was this: I wanted to be able to hike all the way up the Pike Creek Trail. Basically, I wanted to go from our campsite and make it three thousand feet above the Alvord desert. I wanted to go to the end of the trail, where the terrain levels out and the really big cliffs wall you in; above the narrow canyon and up to the headwaters of Pike Creek.

I have never been there. I get to this one point where a series of ancient junipers shade the trail and droop dangerously over the rocks to stare down at Pike Creek some fifty feet below, where the creek burbles over solid rock.

I have been in that canyon along the water. Once. Don, Arwen, Levi & I hiked there when our English Pointer was young and we climbed down through the sagebrush to the water’s edge where Sadie barked at all the butterflies. It was a magical moment for Sadie, I’m sure. The rest of us were merely irritated by all her barking.

The idea is to get up before the sun turns the sky grey so you can make it up the trail and into the shadows of the canyon to watch the sun rise through the cave’s eyes.

We didn’t make it before sunrise. I took this photo on the way down – you can see the cave in the upper left of the photo.

I thought I was ready for the hike. I did have to keep Harvey on a leash because we only had one shock collar and Don wanted that on Murphy just in case we got into some chukars and Murphy decided to fly off the narrow trail to chase them down the cliffside. And to keep Murphy on the trail where he wouldn’t be chasing rattlesnakes. I also had a walking stick (read: rattlesnake stick – very handy in rattler country) and my camera and a backpack with food and lots of water.

We dress in long pants and heavy boots when we hike trails like this but I have seen people brave it in shorts and sneakers. I’d rather not take the chance that there’s a snake out there – or ticks. Yeah, gotta love ticks.

The trail winds along the canyon’s edge, peering down at Pike Creek more often than not. Wilderness designation begins where the old mine (likely a uranium mine). The trail then crosses the creek and the steep stuff begins: a zig-zag of dusty trail works up the side of the southern slope. The trail levels off a bit then. At around a thousand feet or 1500′ above the campsite, I am done.

I thought having Harvey pull me would help. NOT. He isn’t a very good service dog in that regard. 1) He wanted to keep up with Murphy and Murphy runs ahead of Don and Don walks twice as fast as I do on a bad day (for him). 2) When we got to the bitterbrush that covers portions of the trail, Harvey decided that he didn’t want to walk through the brush: he’d rather jump over it. I had to walk through it. 3) Harvey never wanted to stop and rest when my lungs and legs declared “Break Time!”

I made it to the usual junipers where we had lunch and drank lots of water. I contemplated going further, but I knew I would make it about fifty feet out. Besides, it was heating up and we were in the full sun – and would be in the full sun most of the way back down the canyon.

And hiking downhill is very often harder than hiking uphill. Especially if you have a strong dog on a leash and he wants to jog down the steep gravelly sections where you seriously need to consider putting your boot down lest the gravel rolls under said boot like oh-so-many-marbles.

I was disappointed that I did not have the stamina to make it beyond the same old spot on the map that I have always made it to, but I was pleased that I made it there in slightly better health than I have ever made it before (I wasn’t crying! and I didn’t have to use my prednisone inhaler!). And I had plenty of time to reflect on Psalm 23.

See, I had this walking stick. And Harvey. And Harvey wanted to run too fast, stop at every bitterbrush blockade, follow rabbit trails off to the side of the trail, and take shortcuts. I used my walking stick to nudge him, to redirect him back onto the trail, and to bonk him on the head to get his attention when I needed to stop. Not so much the latter, but it sounds good. I wonder if that is how God feels about using his staff on us? “Thy rod & thy staff, they comfort me.” In other words: they keep me out of rattlesnake dens and point me back to the path.

So much for deep thinking: mostly I was trying to keep up with my three male counterparts in speed & stamina – and still make time to get some photos of the area.

Excuse for a break: take a photo.

That’s a long way down to water.

The view from as high as I can go – but I intend to make it further NEXT time!!

So this resolution goes back on the list: Be physically able to climb to the end of the trail on Pike Creek (or: be able to climb seven flights of stairs without pausing).

I am sitting in my studio, working on several little projects. One – the most pressing – is framing and matting the baby photos my daughter-in-law sent me of Justin and Micah. Tomorrow, I will hang the baby photos my daughter brought me of her three. My house is quickly becoming a shrine to grandbabies, but I don’t mind. It’s rather fun to be able to turn and see the little blessings every where.

It seems like it was just yesterday that we turned over the leaf from 2009 to 2010. Is this what age does to you? Speeds up time? What happened to being 10 years old?

I’m not going to take up a lot of space reflecting on the entire year – I figure that reflecting on the past couple weeks is enough.

For one thing, there was Tripod’s accident.

I guess he is Biped now. I’ll deal with it when the weather warms up and I can wrap my brain around recreating the original missing limb. Then I will have to solder the front legs on and put him on a sturdier base. Poor Tripod – er, Biped.

My bird bath had an accident when we had our first good freeze. I’ll use the remnants in my garden somehow come Spring 2011.

My Beloved bought me a new one-piece bird bath out of sturdier material. This was my Christmas present. The birds will be quite pleased when we finally haul it off the steps and onto the lawn, don’t you think?

Speaking of Christmas gifts, this is what my youngest gave me for Christmas. I’ve been home sick so much that I haven’t even had a chance to wear it!

2010 brought me two new grandsons and an adoptee. I never was much of a dog person but I am quickly discovering what it is to be loved by a dog. He’s pretending to be an escapee in the photo, but he was paying a lot of attention to where I was and what I was doing. Every day brings me that much closer to being a true dog person as Harvey unleashes his unconditional love (pun intended).

Tomorrow, I will start posting about Resolutions: those I made and kept and those I made but did not achieve. Yes, I make Resolutions nearly every year. And I keep about half of them. 2010 proved to be a lot different as I kept – or achieved – nearly all of the ones I made.

In closing, I leave you with one of my favorite Christmas decorations, a gift from my father long, long ago. It’s my Tuna-Fish Can Tree (or cat food can).

No one can tell if the year will be a blessing or a cursing – but you hold the key in how you handle the challenges. May 2011 be a blessing, then, and the challenges few. Happy New Year!

I’ve been checking the inside of my eyelids for the past two days. Yep: s-i-c-k.

It started with a sore throat at work on Monday and morphed into something more by Tuesday morning. I finally crawled out of bed feeling halfway normal during the lunch hour today. I will return to work tomorrow for the last day of the year.

Other wondrous events have been a very noisy Christmas afternoon sharing gifts and eating; a very quiet day after watching birds in the bird feeder; an inch of snow on the ground this morning; and thinking a lot about New Year’s Resolutions. I also thought about where my novel needs to go (besides in the round can at the foot of my desk) and how to finish off my Faerie House in the next few weeks.

One thing about being sick: you have a lot of time to be creative when you aren’t out-right sleeping.

My throat no longer hurts but my voice is fading fast. This is typical of how a cold/sore throat moves through my body. I bet I never mentioned that when I met Don 31 years ago, I had a full-blown case of laryngitis? Yep: Don didn’t know how much I love to talk until I got my voice back. Boy, was he sorry.

I once had a physician tell me that I don’t get strep-throat like other people do: I get laryngitis. I’ll take laryngitis over strep-throat any day. At least I now have a legitimate reason to not talk on the telephone: I can’t.

I want to post pics of my grandsons on Christmas but I missed out on two of them: Justin & Micah. Hopefully, 2011 will bring more visits with those boys and I will get to be as close to them as I am to the pasty-white babies. Still…

This is a photo worth a thousand words! Tante Chrystal (that’s “aunt” in German) with Chubby Wubby (that’s Eli in other words). That boy is half Chrystal’s weight!

Booger-face was hyped up all day Christmas, which was good. He didn’t care about toys, he just cared about climbing all over everyone and running from one end of the house to the next.

It was great that Javan was not possessive and materialistic on Christmas because that is exactly what Zephan was. He hoarded all the toys and sat in one place the entire afternoon, barely pausing to eat food. Toy overload.

We had a great time, but now it is time to think about next year and all the things I want to accomplish in 365 short days. If I can find some visual aids, I will be posting about my goals over the next few days so you can all hold me accountable to completing them.

For tonight, however, I am going to kick back with another round of Nyquil™ in hopes of beating this cold way back before I return to the land of the living and the calculator that sits by my computer at work. I’ve missed my calculator.

OK, that’s not entirely true, but it is one thing to miss work because you’re on vacation or have a holiday (in which case I thoroughly enjoy missing work) and another to miss work because you’re prone and coughing/wheezing/sleeping (in which case I miss work terribly because than I am at least among the living).

But before I go…

Harvey had his gift opened in a nano-second. He had no problem figuring out how this game was played.

Murphy immediately stole all the toys and cached them on the stairs.

Ah, even the dogs were materialistic!

Christmas was so busy once everyone got here. I spent so much time playing with Javan and packing Chubby Wubby around that I almost forgot Zephaniah.

Javan begging to be tickled.

Chubby Wubby.

I didn’t mean to ignore my oldest grandson, it’s just he was so quiet.

Early in the afternoon he picked out that spot in front of the chair and Christmas tree and that is where he stayed.

He quietly amassed all the Duplos ™ that were gifted to him and his brother, Javan. He collected the talking tools that Santa gave him. And the candy canes full of candy plus the little gift boxes with the bubble bath and body paints.

He parked himself right there and barely moved a foot from all those wonder-filled gifts.

He paused long enough to eat some applesauce but he totally ignored anything else being served as Christmas Dinner (Brunswick Stew, Macaroni & Cheese). Zephan was Body Guard of the toys.

While Javan ran from one end of the house to the other and Baby Eli got hauled around by everyone, Zephan parked.

I think he said three words to me. Pweeze. Tank Oo. And “No! Mine!”

I think he was overwhelmed by gifts.

I think he is a little bit OCD.

That’s OK: his Gamma is a little bit OCD and so is his Uncle Levi.

So what  if Javan ran around and got tickled and laughed and pointed and told us stories. So what if Eli has usurped the position of the Cutest Weisser boy Ever? Zephan has possession of every toy and he was busy organizing them. For hours on end.

We don’t know yet who Chubby Wubby will be. Right now he is just too cuddly to set down. Even Tante Chrystal was in love with him.

And that is the Truth. Phllllbbbbbttttt.

(Zephan cried when he had to leave…)

This is a tale about two great big men (who looked like thugs) who invaded our home one Christmas many years ago. I will probably get some of the facts wrong and my brother will correct them in the comments. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is also a tale on my mother whom I miss dearly. Because what happened was entirely my mom’s fault. I take no responsibility at all for the words that were spoken…

It must have been Christmas 1973. Terry was living in Reno and going to school and I was still living at home.

In fact, we were waiting for Terry to show up. He was driving solo across Highway 5o from Reno to Ely and the weather conditions were dicey. Roads were dicier. My parents were hiding a lot of anxiety over the travels of my brother and the fact that he was hours late.

Three things:

1) My family did not yet know that “hours late” was normal for Terry. In subsequent years, no one got excited when he was hours late. We’d just shrug and say, “It’s Terry. He’ll be here when he gets here. He got tied up leaving town probably or stopped on the road to help someone.”

2) There were no cell phones in 1973. True. There were these things called “pay phones” that cost ten cents to use or you could use a telephone that attached to a wire that came through the wall. Ma Bell was a monopoly and there were no other choices for telephone service. Telephones were analog so you had to dial.

3) There’s a whole lot of “empty” and long stretches of very lonely highway between Reno and Ely over several mountain passes. The only pay phones would have been available in Austin or Eureka but if a person got stranded in between… that person would be dependent on someone else coming along and offering a ride to town.

Night settled down on us and still there was no Terry. Denise went to bed. I stayed up with Mom and Dad and worried. The clocks ticked and chimed as time drew us into the darkness of another cold, treacherous winter night. And no Terry.

When he did show up – I’m thinking it was well after 10:00PM but that’s where my memory gets fuzzy – he was not alone. He had two great big Norwegian-looking giants with him. And their Siberian Husky. These guys seemed to tower over Terry, even: broad shouldered and long-haired and really, really tired-looking.

They were enroute to California somewhere when they lost something in their drive line between Austin and Eureka. Or maybe it was just out of Eureka. Another fuzzy detail. Maybe they lost their entire drive line. It was cold, there was a lot of snow on the ground and they just wanted to get home for Christmas. And no one stopped. At least, no one stopped until the kid in the Willys Jeep did. And that kid not only offered these guys a place to stay for the night (“Don’t worry, it will be perfectly fine with my folks”) but he assured them that their dog would be allowed in the house, too. And that he could get them the part on the following day, install it and send them down the road in time for Christmas.

What my brother didn’t tell them was that he couldn’t call anyone and forewarn them (this being a time before cell phones) and that my mother’s dog would strenuously object to the Husky. Or that my mother had a psychotic Standard Schnauzer that would probably object to the two men as well.

They arrived having already eaten dinner somewhere (as I recall. I don’t remember my mom making them dinner but I do remember her offering).

We put them up in my brother’s basement bedroom where there was a separate entrance so the Husky could be let into the house without the Schnauzer knowing. I don’t know where Terry went to sleep – probably in the basement in my mom’s sewing room. It wasn’t in the living room because that was where my mom & I sat up with a bottle of wine, drinking.

My dad went to bed.

It was just my mom and I and our own set of concerns.

“We know nothing about those men.”

“They could be axe murderers.”

“We could wake up bludgeoned to death.” My mom poured more wine.

“We could wake up bludgeoned to death,” I repeated. We toasted our eminent demise. “At least we will be asleep when it happens.”

“They’ll get Terry first.” She was optimistic.

We woke up the following morning. We were not bludgeoned to death. We were quite alive and unscathed. Terry and the big guys were already pulling it together to hunt down a part in remote Ely, Nevada. Even then, Terry knew people and pulled strings.

Then he drove the pair (and their dog) back to their stranded vehicle. He climbed under it and put it back together for them. He followed them into Ely to make sure everything worked right, then he saw them leave town on their long journey home.

When he came home that night, we told him about our fear that we would wake up bludgeoned to death.

He assured us that he knew self-defense and we had been perfectly safe while those strangers were in the house with their very large dog.

I think Terry kept in touch with them for a while.

I’m pretty sure that when they got to their respective homes in California, their parents were thankful that they did not spend the night in the icy Nevada wilderness and that they were sheltered in a nice house where they were in no danger of waking up bludgeoned to death.

My brother has always had a keen sense of the Christmas Spirit.

Merry Christmas!

Unless something happens, tomorrow I promise to post about Terry and the Christmas Thugs. I was going to post that tonight but something came up.

My coworker & the woman I go on walks with was in a really grumpy mood today. She complained about everything. Why were checks printed after the mail went out in the morning? (Um: they’re always printed after the mail goes out? Would be my first guess, anyway.) Why was it so cold out? (Um, it was 50 degrees Farenheit today. Not particularly cold as cold goes. So not sure what the question was there?) Why couldn’t we close early? (Um. We get 12/24 off. We don’t always get Christmas Eve off but this year we do. I’m not complaining since it means a 3-day weekend…)

I love this woman but today I wanted to just scream. She just could not be happy about anything.

At 3:00 when it was time to take the mail, she was in really fine form. I wanted to say (and I did say) that I would take the mail myself, no problem. It wasn’t all that cold & I needed the walk. But she played the martyr and walked with me.

And that was when I learned what the root of her problem was. Are you ready?

We were not closing early today. She couldn’t go shopping for groceries early tonight. She can’t go grocery shopping on Saturday morning. Stores are closed on Saturday morning.

Nevermind that we have tomorrow off (Christmas Eve). That isn’t the point. Stores are closed on Christmas Day. And worse – we didn’t get off early today so my co-worker could go grocery shopping today instead of on Christmas Eve with the crowds.

I was shopping yesterday afternoon because I had the afternoon off. Believe me, the crowds were as thick as Black Friday yesterday and there’s no reason to think they wouldn’t be that thick on the 23rd. So how would getting off early on the 23rd improve your grocery shopping experience over shopping on the 24th? It wouldn’t. No matter how early (or late) we got off work today, it would still be insane in any store and any parking lot anywhere. No more insane than going shopping on the 24th during peak hours.

Now, if you got up early on the 24th and got your grocery shopping done before 10AM, then – piece of cake.  (Which I plan to do)

But my coworker didn’t see it that way. It was either go shopping this afternoon before 5PM or go shopping on Christmas morning. Period. And she was flat-out ticked that she couldn’t do either one.

I related this tale to Don and he stated the most obvious question: “Why not go shopping on Sunday, the day after Christmas?” because NO ONE WILL BE SHOPPING THEN.

I am still shaking my head. I know my coworker is an atheist. I don’t have a problem with that. Whatever she wants to believe. She even pointed out that her son & dil work on Christmas (because they choose to). I don’t care.

I don’t care because I have worked retail. I have worked on holidays. I have suffered through pre-Christmas, pre-Thanksgiving, and Easter shopping. All I can say is PLAN AHEAD STUPID. And be nice to the people who have to work.

They have families. They have plans.

And really, what is the difference between us getting a couple hours’ head start on a 3-day weekend vs. making someone work on Christmas morning just so we can buy our groceries without the hassle of a crowd? Really? I mean, REALLY? I don’t care what you believe in: you get 3+ days off to celebrate a holiday you don’t believe in but you want someone else to work on that holiday (who possibly has family & small children & who believes in Santa) just so YOU can avoid crowds?

How mature.

Shop on Sunday if you want to avoid crowds.

We haven’t closed early in at least 3 years. So why would we close early this year? I am just boggled by the mindset…

Isn’t that every horse-crazy kid’s dream? I was well into my teens before I finally gave up on hoping to hear a nicker from the garage where I was certain my folks would hide that beautiful roan colt. I just could not let go of the fact that my dad was not going to give in and let me have a horse.

Fast forward to married with two small children and homeless. Well, sort of homeless: we were in the throes of buying a single-wide trailer to put on a friend’s property. We’d already lost everything it seemed and we were facing a second Christmas in an apartment in Portland where we had to hide our dog in the garage: moving into an old single-wide in a rural trailer park actually sounded like Heaven.

I had a friend at the time who prayed for a free horse and got a 30-year old Thoroughbred rescue horse that was no longer rideable. I remember saying aloud that if I were to pray for a free horse, she wouldn’t be 30 years old. After all, if you are going to ask God for something free, shouldn’t you just shoot for the moon? If He is big enough to provide something free, surely He is big enough to come through with what you really want.

Mind you, I do not believe in manipulating God. We have to accept His “NO!” just like we had to accept that Dad was not going to give in and hide a pony in the garage. Some things are just not going to happen.

But having opened my mouth, I unleashed something. I didn’t just say I wanted a younger horse. I told my little circle of acquaintances that I wanted a roan Arabian mare that was younger than 15 and right around 15 hands tall. Gentle. Like I said, if you’re going to ask GOD for something, shoot for the moon. Don’t be bashful. Tell Him what it is you really, really, really want.

Had I confessed this desire to friends, they would have dead-panned with a simple reply, “Jaci, that’s exactly what you ask God for every year. You have asked God for that exact horse since you were 8 years old and could discern between a roan and a sorrel.” And an Arabian and a Thoroughbred.

But I told my acquaintances and they believed me.

And apparently, God decided to change His mind.

Because one of those acquaintances brought me a little yellow slip of paper from one of those grocery store bulletin boards. FREE horse. 2 years old, Arabian, Green-broke.

Green-broke means: mostly wild. I knew that. But my heart was beating at 210 bpm and I was hyper-ventilating and Don said,. “We’ll just call and drive over to look at her, OK?”

I could NOT believe that the man of my dreams was actually offering to drive over to look at a horse. I fainted. Well, not literally, but I wanted to.

We made the call and the man who owned the horse told us where he lived. When we arrived there, he just pointed in the general direction of his barn and said, “You can go look at her.”

Just like that. She was a skinny little snow-flake Arab-cross mare standing in a stall. She nickered when we came around the corner. I left Don and the kids in the pasture and entered the stall by myself.

She was so sweet and gentle and adorable. I was head over heels in love with her in under ten seconds.

Her background was sad: someone had a registered Arabian mare they sold to the owner of a well-known Appaloosa stallion. The mare evidently never “took” and the Appaloosa stallion’s owner was disgusted with the little Arabian mare. He sold the mare at a very low price. The man who purchased her soon realized the mare had, indeed, “taken” and was with foal. She birthed a healthy filly on March 13, 1988. The owner of the Appaloosa stallion refused to acknowledge that the filly was his stallion’s offspring and would not provide papers.

She belonged to the kids of the family, but they were in their teens suddenly and kept forgetting to take care of her. The man (their father) told them that if they didn’t take care of the horse, he was going to give her away. And I was the lucky recipient.

She had papers going back the Arabian side to Hallany Mistanny. But there was noting on the Appaloosa side and she looked all Appy: little snowflake coat with a broad white blanket across her back and rump. They called her “Hallany’s Whisper” after her dam, “Shandar’s Hallany”.

I found a friend who had a horse trailer. He rolled his eyes and said he’d help me haul her out to the trailer park and pasture where she would live with his five horses. After he saw her, he apologized: she loaded into the trailer like a pro and he admitted she was not a bad horse to look at.

It was the week after Christmas 1989 that we brought her home. My horse for Christmas. My perfect horse: a 2-year old green broke Arab/Appy cross that loved kids, tolerated dogs, adopted cats, and put up with almost everything we did to her. With a little help from friends, I trained her.

We owned her until she was 13. I still miss her. And I can’t help but remember how God put a horse “under the Christmas tree” for me one year.

Of course, no horse is “free” after you pay for the vet, the farrier and feed. But in the long run, what horse-crazy kid cares about the expense? We just want the horse.

It was the most impulsive prayer I have ever uttered (and in public!) but it is the one answer I have treasured in my heart because somehow that horse meant that God really did love ME. I know – that’s kind of selfish and crazy, but you know what? I don’t even care.

And someday I hope to own another horse as sweet as that horse.

I read somewhere that if I really wanted a husband I should write out a list of what kind of man I was looking for. It’s a prayer in writing and probably an exercise in reality: what do you really want in a soul-mate? The idea is to bare your soul in writing to God, like a letter to Santa.

Only God probably reads and we all know Santa hires other people to read his mail.

I still have the list somewhere inside a journal inside a box, but I am not even going to try to look for it. I remember that I wanted a soul-mate who was a good teacher: someone who would challenge me and help me learn about things I had never before considered. He had to have a good sense of humor. He had to love the outdoors. He had to be open to living with a free spirit. He had to be patient.

I wrote the list in early November, if I recall correctly. It was a long time ago: 1979. Almost Christmas.

We have different versions of our story, but I like mine better than I like his. He tells everyone we met in a check-out line at the grocery store. I tell everyone that I picked him up in a bar.

It was another Thursday and I was stuck in the check-out line at the local grocery store, putting in my hours. Smile at the customer, ring up the groceries, watch the clock.

I looked up and he was standing in line. Not my line. He was in line at the only other open check stand, holding his paycheck. It was another Thursday and I was debating on going out dancing again. But he was in the wrong check-out line.

So I picked up the intercom phone and called the other grocery clerk up. “See that guy in your line?”

“Don?”

“I don’t know his name. Moustache. Wants to cash his check.”

“Yes, Donald. I know him.”

“Tell him you don’t have enough money to cash his check but I do.”

She was married. I knew she’d do it.

So he came over to my line and presented his check to cash. I no longer remember which one of us brought up Ladies’ Night. I do remember we both said we’d see the other person there.

On my way to Ladies’ Night, however, I stopped by my friend’s house to visit. And they got busy trying to set me up with a mutual friend who was a very newly divorced father. A really nice guy who needed a friend to go dancing with, they urged. I couldn’t lie: I was going out. But I couldn’t say, “Well, I plan on picking up this other guy there…” because I didn’t even know if he would actually show up. And the newly divorced dad was sitting in the same room at my friend’s house. I felt fenced in.

Once we were alone, I explained to the newly divorced dad that I was looking only to be his friend and that I was hoping to meet someone downtown. Someone specific, I said.

He didn’t seem to get the hint. I know: he was hurting, lost, and lonely. But I was not The One to fix him. So there I sat on Ladies’ Night, hoping to pick up this certain OTHER man while sharing a booth with a lonely divorcé.

And that guy, Donald, was downtown. He was with his friends. Across the bar, across the dance floor, could have been across town.

I guess he had enough to drink because after awhile he came across the floor and asked me to dance despite the fact I was sitting at a table with another man. Keith – that was the other man’s name. I hope Keith finally found the right woman. He was a very nice guy and gracious when I ditched him to go dancing with Don. He never held it against me.

Two weeks later, it was Christmas and I found myself invited to Christmas with the Presley’s. It was not unlike Christmas with the Griswold’s (but without the lights). Boisterous comes to mind. We drove down to Huntington where Don’s dad and grandmother lived. His sisters came and his brother and the assorted in-laws and all the cousins. The whole fan-damily on the Presley side. And then some.

Sonny cooked the turkey. We played stupid games sober and then we played the same stupid games not-so-sober. We had a wonderful crazy Christmas and everyone brought gifts for “the woman Don was bringing home to meet the family.” Apparently, Don had never brought anyone home to meet the whole family before. I was definitely special…

I really hit it off with Don’s youngest sister. I think I ditched Don to sit and drink with his little sister. We laughed so hard. And while I love Julie to pieces, I will never, ever touch rum and coke again. Never. (Julie: write that down. No Rum. You know why.)

By New Year’s Day Don and I were talking marriage. Six months later, we made good on all that talk. I don’t believe in long engagements.

Don is a lot of things (including a very good teacher) but what he really has is a good sense of humor. He has to have one to live with me.

Just tonight as I was putting the dogs out, he said, “I need to take a photo of you.”

I said “why?” before it dawned on me what I was wearing: a green sweatshirt, green camo pants tucked into my pink rubber boots with the brown horses stamped all over them. If he would have taken a photo, I would have posted it.

Thank God he did not. It would have rated up there with the best of People of Walmart.

His discretion has kept us married.

Happy Christmas – but wait for my next installment when I get a horse for Christmas. Yes: every little horse-crazy kid’s dream come true.