May Madness!

May has been an unexpectedly wonderful month for my family. My son, who’s brilliant in my opinion, decided it was time for the family to have a small packing house/butcher shop. He did all of the work to bring his vision to fruition, and on May 25th MD Meats opened its door!

I am so proud of my son. He dealt with a lot of hardship, setbacks, and craziness, but the packing house looks wonderful, and we are excited to get to work.

May 21st the first book in my children’s book series published. Seeing it go live on Amazon was incredible. The name of the first book is, The Bristolon Chronicles Temler’s Quest. The second book is finished and in the editing process right now. Hopefully it will be out around the first of July.

It’s hard to express how grateful I am for all of the support my son and I have received from family and friends. There simply aren’t enough words!

Please check out MD Meats on Facebook and my website, and watch the trailer for book one.

Thank you!

Five long years…….

I’m so excited to announce after five years of writing, editing, re-writing, re- editing, etc. etc. etc. My book, The Bristolon Chronicles, Temler’s Quest, is in the final process for publication. I am so excited I can barely stand myself! I don’t have an exact date yet, but I am told it will be available by mid-spring.

I’m also told it will be available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and other outlets I can’t seem to remember at the moment. Yeesh I don’t even know how to express my excitement. My only regret is that OG, my muse, bestest buddy (often referred to by me as, Momster) isn’t here to see it. She encouraged me to keep going, even when it seemed like there was ZERO chance of this happening. I also have to thank my amazing husband and kids for their endless support throughout all of this. And thank you to everyone else out there who encourage me along the way.

I hope you will check out the synopsis below for a quick preview of the book.



For centuries, Bristolon have lived happily in the Great Basin wilderness of Nevada. Lovers of nature and protectors of animals, they avoid people, knowing most humans don’t share their philosophy on the value of all living creatures. Bristolons TEMLER, SOPHERA, CEDRUS, and JUBA, are enjoying an outing when they observe humans placing nets on the ground in a meadow. The humans leave and Temler convinces his friends to investigate. They’re horrified when they realize the nets are traps for Pygmy Rabbits, a nearly extinct breed. Enraged, Temler and his friends attempt to rescue the rabbits, but find themselves entangled in the netting too. The humans return and spring the nets, capturing all four Bristolon.

The humans, a notorious band of rogue scientists, are shocked but excited upon discovering the strange creatures in their nets. They take Temler and his friends to a cave in South-Central Idaho. They agree the “unknown species” they’ve captured are their key to admittance back into the scientific community. They plan to sell three of the Bristolons and dissect one for their own scientific study. Temler escapes, but realizes he’s too far from home to get help from fellow Bristolons. He also knows the humans have technology—such as padlocks, keys, etc. Temler decides his only choice is to get help from humans.

Temler finds three thirteen-year-olds he believes might help him. When one of the teens, HENRY—an avid rock climber—finds himself clinging by his fingertips from a rock ledge after the rock wall below him suddenly crumbles, Temler saves Henry’s life. Henry and his two friends, LILLIA and CHARLIE, don’t initially believe Temler’s a creature from Earth, but because Temler saved Henry from certain death they agree to help. Temler assumes he’s in command, but the teens quickly devise a plan to rescue the other three Bristolon.

The plan’s partially successful as the Bristolon are freed, but Charlie’s captured. One of the Bristolon, Sophera, is seriously injured. The group devises another plan to rescue Charlie, but everything goes horribly wrong. The Bristolon accidentally start a range fire when they explode a four-wheeler; Lillia and Henry aren’t able to complete their portion of the plan; and the cave-complex in which Charlie’s being held begins to collapse.

Temler realizes it’s up to him alone to save Charlie. Unfortunately, the range fire forces Lillia, Henry, and three of the rogue scientists back into the cave complex before he can get Charlie out. The scientists are shocked and terrified when they learn Temler isn’t only smart, but extremely strong. The scientists are quickly subdued by Temler, Charlie, and Henry. With police and firefighters fast approaching the cave complex, the teens help Temler escape the cave so the existence of Bristolons remains secret. The teens convince the police the range fire was started by the rogue scientists, who are wanted by the police on other charges, and the scientists are arrested. The teens rendezvous with the Bristolon, and realize the terrifying events they’ve endured have developed a lasting bond among them.

The leader of the Bristolon, PINEUS, and the leader of the Bristolon Elder Council, PRUMNOPITY, arrive. Pineus informs Temler, Sephora, Cedrus, and Juba they must return to their grove and face the rest of the Elder Council for breaking Bristolon law. Temler takes full responsibility and urges Pineus to leave Sophera in the care of the human teens, as she’s too seriously injured to make the trek home. Pineus reluctantly agrees, but demands the other three Bristolon return home. The Bristolon leave Sophera in Lillia’s care. Temler admits to Sophera his punishment for breaking Bristolon law is likely banishment from the grove. Temler agrees to go home, but vows to Sophera, banished or not, he’ll see her again.

Go Places! But make sure you’re in the know

I’m an experienced traveler. Or so I thought. Recently I went to Costa Rica for a nice, relaxing, week-long vacation, only to realize all of the experience I thought I had, was not nearly enough.

I did my due diligence on Covid requirements before my trip and thinking it was all I needed, I trotted off to Boise, Idaho to board my flight for the first leg of my journey to Houston, Texas. I arrived at the airport at 5 a.m., passed through TSA, bought a book to read during my five-hour flight, realized it wasn’t a very good book by the time we were wheels up over the Snake River, and decided to make my book more palatable by munching on a Tapas.

Except, I couldn’t buy a Tapas. Who knew? United Airlines requires you to download their app and have your credit card on file in their app, in order to purchase onboard. Well snap. ‘Contactless pay,’ they call it. Your centimeters away from your row-mates, a few inches away from the folks in the row in front and behind you, but handing a credit card to your stewardess is, ‘against Covid safety protocol.’

Okay, as an experienced traveler I know being flexible is a must. I went back to reading my book, which actually managed to bore me into a short nap, and before I knew it, we were wheels down in Houston. I got off the plane, tummy growling, and headed for the nearest eatery in hopes of scoring a hamburger and a few fries. I sat down at a small table and waited for a someone to take my order.

No such luck. In order to feed my tummy’s burger needs, I couldn’t talk to a human, instead I had to download their app, find their menu, and place my order on-line. It took about 30 minutes, but I finally overcame my lack of tech skills and placed my order. Thankfully, the burger was good.

With a full belly and an improved attitude, I boarded my flight for the second, and supposedly last, leg of my journey. Using my brand-new United Airlines app, I ordered a glass of red wine and enjoyed the view from 40,000 feet. This flight was supposed to take four hours and nine minutes. After five hours, our pilot informed us we would not be able to land in San Jose, Costa Rica because of weather concerns. Instead, we were heading to Panama.

Arrrggg! Okay, relax, let the flexibility vibe flow through you. All is well, all is well,,,

With another 40 minutes added to our flight, I decided I might as well graze through a Tapas and have another glass of wine. By the time we landed in Panama, I was once again in ‘be flexible’ mode and ready to add Panama to the list of countries I’ve had the good fortune to visit.

We were told we would be spending the night in a nice hotel near the airport and back on the plane by 9 a.m. the next morning, so our luggage would not be downloaded. No worries. I’m an experienced traveler, I know to always have a travel go-bag in my purse.

Off the plane we went, right into the belly of the airport, only to learn in order to pass through customs we had to fill out an online form using our personal phones. Breath in, breath out. Repeat.

Panama’s largest airport does not have great internet. In fact, it doesn’t even have fair internet. Being a non-techy, er… older gal, I was completely flummoxed. My ‘flexible’ spirit had clearly had enough and left me. I assume it marched right back on the plane. Flexibility deficient, I found myself in the middle of a foreign airport and at a complete loss. Some of the younger passengers tried to help me, but I quickly discovered about 99 percent of America’s younger folk have I Phones. Mine’s a Samsung. Of course.

Two hours, six tech savvy youngsters, a few tears, and a very impatient customs officer, later, I passed through customs and boarded a bus. Within a short time, I arrived at a truly lovely resort and felt my be-flexible spirit coming back. A few hours’ sleep and back on the bus we went to catch our 9 a.m. flight.

Or not. Apparently, the people of Panama were somewhat disgruntled over food shortages and showed their displeasure by rioting. Heavy sigh here. My bus made it to the airport fine, but the busses carrying nearly half of the other passengers, and our flight crew, were delayed for hours.

Long story short, I made it to San Jose, Costa Rica nearly two days late, BUT with some much-needed new travel experience. So, what did I learn? If you’re not fairly tech-savvy, take a crash course and get that way. Because in today’s travel world, apps, contactless payment, and online forms, will quickly make you wish a not-so-good book was the worst part of your trip.

Oh, and take an extra dose of flexibility. You’ll need it.

The Final Chapter. When you take out the trash, don’t go digging through the dumpster. With Love from the Book of O.G.

There are many chapters in the Book of O.G., but for me, this one is the final and most important. Every person in the world has, or eventually will, suffer a heart-tearing loss.

Yesterday it was my turn.

Yet, despite the loss of my hilariously goofy, completing loving, sometimes bossy and demanding, but almost always right, Mamma, I feel tremendous peace and joy.

A few weeks ago, Mamma and I were sitting in the kitchen visiting. I was sideways about something going on in my life, and Mamma said: “I know your feeling some hurt right now, but do yourself a favor and let it go.”

I grumbled a bit more and said to her: “You really do amaze me Mamma. I know you’ve went through many terrible times in your life, but somehow you never let the bitterness get to you.”

She laughed and replied: “I learned a long time ago, when you take out the trash, don’t go digging through the dumpster.”

We didn’t talk any more about what she said. I got busy with my morning routine and she snuggled up in her chair next to the fireplace and dozed.

This morning, her simple statement from a few weeks ago, hit me like a freight train at full throttle. I realized my Mamma had just given me the single most important piece of advice I will ever receive… and I almost missed it.

I spent some time in reflection and quickly realized there is a lot of trash in my life that I needed to take to the dumpster.

I am going to start my clean-up plan by scouring every shred of bitterness out of my life. I know that will take some serious elbow grease, but I can do it.

Then I plan to take a bucket of bleach and scrub my sharp and spiteful tongue. It always seemed like a pithy platitude when Mamma would tell me: “It’s just as easy to say something kind, as it is to say something hateful.”

It isn’t pithy anymore.

Once those two chores are done, I am going to find me a shovel and dig up all of my resentments, seal them in a tight drum, and toss them in the biggest dumpster I can find.

I know those three chores are going to take a herculean effort on my part, but I have no doubt I can achieve my goals.

And here is why…while my heart will ache every remaining day for my Mamma, I now realize I just spent 55 years as the student of a woman who was a well of wisdom, and a true fountain of love.

It’s time I put that excellent education of mine to good use.

Life is always interesting…surviving it should be too. From the Book of O.G.

My sweet 93 year-old Mamma has been in lock down for over a month now. She hates it. But in her typical pragmatic way, she’s discovered the best way to deal with her situation is through–what she calls–a healthy dose of “full of crappedness.”
I call her everyday, as do most of my family, not only because I love her and miss her, but also because I know my Mamma will put a perspective on this whole Covid-19 pandemic that will not only cheer me up, but actually make me laugh out loud.
A couple of nights ago, I was interviewing Mamma for the Book of O.G. I asked her how this tumultuous time compared to some of the other things she’s lived through.
Mamma didn’t miss a beat. If you know her, you can hear her belly-chuckle. If you don’t know her, imagine a woman barely 5 feet tall, sitting in a chair, her feet dangling an inch or two from the floor, giggling like a shy, high-school girl, who just got asked to the prom by the captain of the football team.
“Oh my,” she said. “Do you remember the Great Depression?”
“Really Mamma?” I answered. “It was over, 30 years before I was born.”
“I know that,” she replied, still giggling. “You don’t remember World War II, Korea, The Bay of Pigs, or most of the Vietnam war either.”
“Right…so, what’s your point?”
Mamma gulped down the rest of her chuckles, cleared her throat, and answered:
“When you’ve lived as long as me, you don’t think of terrible times as ‘Oh my gosh! What am I going to do?’ You think more like, ‘Hear we go again. Can’t wait until this is over, and I can hang out with my friends and have a smoke or two.'”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that one. Seriously, I do not condone smoking, but Mamma has smoked since she was 13 years-old, and when she can hang out on my porch with her best-friend, Arla, and have a smoke or two, she is in elderly-lady heaven.
“This is life,” she said, much more serious than she had been before. “you can throw a fit, have a melt-down, worry yourself into an early grave…or, you can accept the fact there are always good times in your life, and there are always bad times in your life. My advise is embrace the good, deal with the bad, and laugh at every opportunity.”
Her words actually choked me up for a minute, but I finally managed to ask: “So, during a time like this, I need to find a bit of humor huh?”
“Of course,” she said, giggling again. “Want to hear a good joke?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Mamma’s jokes are always horrible, and she giggles for at least 10 minutes before she gets to the punch line.
“So what’s your joke, Mamma?”
“Do you know how Idaho got it’s name?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. How did Idaho get it’s name?”
Through gales of laughter and uncontrollable giggling, Mamma finally got to the punch line.
“….So the Governor says: “What should we name this state? And the poor fellow with a heavy lisp says: ‘I don ho.’ Idaho it is!” replied the Governor in a booming voice.”
“Dang, Marget,” the fellow said. “I juth may hithory!”
I am still laughing.

Bliss is a diamond in the rough

It always makes my day when someone asks me to research a history question they have concerning Idaho. I have an insatiable appetite for history–which my husband says is a form of mental illness–but there it is. If I can find an excuse to do some research, I’m all for it.

Usually people ask questions about what I call, “big ticket stuff.” What was the Carey Land Act? What is the history of the Minidoka Internment Camp? Etc. I rarely get asked questions about my hometown, which is a teensy dot on the map where a few in and out-of-staters stop to fuel up and grab a quick bite before getting back on the I84 speedway.

This weekend a good friend asked me a question about a little shack and a foundation north of Bliss, and the search for answers was on. It didn’t take long to find the answer…It was one of several little school houses that dotted the area in the late 1880s and early 1900s. It was obsolete by 1920, because the Bliss School District was formed.

Might I add, Bliss High School will graduate its 100th senior class in May of 2020!

But, back to my story. Finding out the ruins were once a school house whetted my appetite to see if I could figure out why a school house was built in such a remote, and frankly odd, Upper Clover Creek location.

I’m still digging for information, but I will share what I’ve found so far.

The town of Bliss would probably not have existed in the 1880s, or today, if not for the Oregon Short Line. In 1883, a well was drilled in Bliss, a steam powered pump and water tank were erected, and a siding was built. This was done because east bound trains, after the long pull up from the valley floor at Glenns Ferry and over the King Hill grade, had just enough water to reach the little station.

Few in that day figured Bliss would ever become a major Idaho city…and it didn’t, but the consensus at the time was Bliss could be great for agriculture if water were delivered to it. And so it is.

But prior to the Carey Land Act, and the irrigation systems that grew out of the act, Bliss’s biggest draw was its quiet anonymity. Many of her early settlers built small farms or ranches, but some of them had more of a “hermit” attitude and simply wanted to be left alone. They were called hermit miners or hermit farmers by most, because they didn’t buy land or build homes but instead used existing geography to make their homes out of. One such family, who’s children attended the school was the Connaway family.

Little information is available about this family, but according to oral history, the family lived in dugout in the Hole-In-The-Wall area north of Bliss.
There were at least six children in the family, two of which died quite young, and are buried in Pioneer Cemetery, which is also north of Bliss. Lorna Bard, who often wrote of Bliss history, wrote that her parents spoke of the Connaway family and that some of the Connaway children, “attended the little school that was south and west of Blanch, which is now the ranch owned by the Huxhold family.”

Another family, who’s name is lost to history, sent at least three of their children to this school. This family lived in a small cave complex for at least one year, possibly two, near the school.

I’m still researching to find out what other families may have attended the school. My mamma recalls meeting a young person when she was in high school, who was a member of a hermit family in the late 1930s. This person was looking for a job, and claimed to have attended school, “near Bray Lake.”

One thing that I did get from the number of interviews I conducted this weekend, is Bliss pioneers considered education opportunities for their children to be of paramount importance. There were six of these little schools dotted around the Bliss area in 1893!

Lydia Bliss, who my grandmother knew and had great respect for, taught in at least two of these schools, and my great-grandmother Brewer taught for a short time in the Lower Clover Creek School.

The research continues! I am going out to the site next weekend to see what I can “dig” up. I will be taking one of my old–and I say that with the deepest respect–buddies with me.

Stay tuned!

The Art of Procrastination

According to Webster, procrastination means: To put off taking action until a future time.

Hmmm…I had to look the word up because I decided today, I would spend the day procrastinating and I wanted to make sure I did it correctly.

So far so good.

Earlier this morning I made a list of all of the things I should be doing and promptly put the list under my pillow, and went outside to drink my morning coffee.

I spent exactly 21 minutes procrastinating and it wasn’t near as easy as I thought it should be. Most of the time, I was thinking about all of the things I really, really needed to get done. And a fly landed in my coffee.

At that point, I decided it was time to contemplate a proper procrastinating procedure, before actually attempting to properly procrastinate. So… I washed my morning dishes and put a load of wash in the dryer.

I went back outside with a fresh cup of coffee and quickly realized flies do not understand, or apparently care, about my need for a full day of procrastination. And, clearly, they like coffee.

I came back in the house, got new fly strips for the porch, and changed out all of the old ones, poured myself another cup of coffee, and headed for the living room. I thought if perhaps I turned on a good movie, I would be able to get some serious procrastinating done.

There isn’t much worth watching on a weekend morning, so I put it on a DIY network and watched some woman tear down the inside of a huge house…and put it back together in one hour. I also folded and put away my laundry, vacuumed the floor, and dusted.

It was at this moment, I realized I suck at procrastinating and it’s not my fault. I’ve been taught since I was a little kid to get my chores done when they’re supposed to be done. “Don’t put off until tomorrow what needs doing today,” is one of my mama’s favorite sayings.

I retrieved my “to do” list from under my pillow, only to realize I had completed most of it.

Hmmm…I added 15 more things to the list and promptly went to work. Halfway through my second new chore, I came across a book I’ve been wanting to read for quite some time now.

That was at 9:30 this morning, it is now nearly midnight and I just finished reading my book.

I technically can’t say I spent the majority of the day procrastinating because by definition, I wanted to read that book and I didn’t put it off to a future time.

I’m going to attempt procrastinating again tomorrow. I’m sure it will prove just as difficult as it did today. But, lucky for me, the book I just finished is the first in a trilogy.

Idaho’s Bucktooth Bandits

I have a few family members, and several close friends, who volunteered to not only join our wonderful military, but—strange at it may be to some of us—volunteered to jump out of perfectly good airplanes with nothing but a hope, a prayer—and expectantly—a fully functioning parachute.

I deeply admire these people.

A few days ago, I was perusing some of my Idaho history books and came across an interesting story that, at first, I thought was tongue and cheek story meant to impart a moral message of some sort.


It was the story of America’s other “airborne” force. While the heroes of this airborne deployment likely didn’t volunteer, the success of their mission is indisputable.

Since they weren’t given a motto by the Idaho Department of Fish and Game—like the 82nd Airborne Division’s, Death from Above, or the 101st Airborne Division’s, Screaming Eagles—I have decided to call them Idaho’s Bucktooth Bandits. You read that right. And to make it even more clear, Idaho’s Bucktooth Bandits were Beavers!

I felt I my liberty in honoring this airborne force was acceptable, since no one else gave them a cool motto.

The story I came across was a 1950 Journal of Wildlife Management article, in which Elmo W. Heter explained how Idaho Fish and Game managers came up with an ingenious way to deploy beavers into Idaho’s wilderness.

Basically, the story explains, Idaho Fish and Game once parachuted beavers into the backcountry to boost populations there and lessen pressure elsewhere.

In his article, Heter explains prior to the “airborne” solution, the accepted method of transplanting beaver, was to truck them to a trailhead, and then transport them by mule trains to an unoccupied lush meadow.

“Beavers usually set up colonies, multiply, and establish important fur-bearing populations,” Heter stated. “In addition, they do much toward improving the habitats of game, fish, and waterfowl, and perform important service to watershed conservation.”

Unfortunately, beavers do not do well when exposed to the heat of summertime, unless they are in water.

“Beavers died in large number during transport,” Heter explained. “They weren’t suited for the heat of summertime travel.”

Heter explained not only did the beaver’s become “belligerent,” during this transport method, the mules hauling the beavers to their new homes also became, “quarrelsome” at the attitude of their beaver passengers.

Heter said Idaho Fish and Game Managers came up with a nifty solution to handling the beaver transplant problem: drop the furry little rodents into their new homes via parachute.

Fish and Game managers, according to Heter, tested several methods for accomplishing this grand idea. They tested, “dummy” weights, and a few other methods, before finally settling on using a real beaver, Geronimo he was aptly named, to test their airborne theory.

“Geronimo was dropped again and again,” Heter wrote. “Each time he scrambled out of the box someone was on hand to pick him up. Poor fellow! He finally became resigned, and as soon as we approached him, would crawl back into his box ready to go aloft again.”

Geronimo’s “volunteer” efforts gave Idaho Fish and Game the information they needed: dropping the beavers from 500 to 800 feet, was optimum for success.
As soon as this discovery was made, Idaho Fish and Game went to work building beaver parachute boxes. The boxes included suspension ropes that were attached to parachutes, and plenty of holes to ensure the beavers could breathe on their way down.

“The two ends of each of these sling ropes are joined in a square knot. Approximately 1 inch in from each sling rope, and crossing the bottom of the box but not fastened to it, is a heavy 2 inch rubber band. These elastic straps extend 3 inches up each side of the box, and are fastened there with fence staples. They are cross-sections of heavy-duty truck tubes so that they form double spring hinges. Each band exerts about 10 pounds of tension, which is sufficient to snap the box open and free the beavers as soon as the much greater tension of the shroud lines is removed when the box lands on the ground and the ‘chute collapses,” Heter wrote.

“Observations made late in 1949 showed all the airborne transplanting’s to be successful. Beavers had built dams, constructed houses, stored up food, and were well on their way to producing colonies.”

Heter said of the 76 beavers dropped into Idaho’s wilderness, only one beaver died in the process. Somehow the beaver managed to get out of his box and fell about 75 feet from the ground.

Geronimo was given special consideration. He was transplanted with three females, and by all accounts, “did right fine in establishing his colony.”

While Idaho’s Bucktooth Bandits didn’t do much in defense of my county, like the lauded 82nd Airborne and 101st Airborne, as an Idahoan, I have to say I’m very proud of Idaho’s furry airborne heroes.

Beavers were nearly eradicated in some parts of Idaho in the 19th century. These brave—sort of—volunteers brought these colonies back.

If nothing else it’s a pretty cool story, and in asking my airborne friends their thoughts on the subject, I received a resounding “AIRBORNE.”

Apparently anyone, or any animal, who has a successful parachute landing, is worthy of praise and adulation.

It’s Always Nice to say Goodbye to Winter

I am always happy to say goodbye to winter.

I suppose everyone has a favorite time of year. A couple of my close friends absolutely love winter. My husband and sons are fond of fall. My mama is partial to summer.

But for me, the best time of year is spring.

I’m especially enchanted with the awakening that happens in spring. The grass, almost overnight it seems, goes from brown to green, flower bulbs pop up all over the place; the trees begin the leafing process, which changes them from stark skeletons to lush, green, shade providers in seemingly no time at all.

Yup, in my humble opinion, spring is the proverbial cat’s meow.

But, (there’s always a but isn’t there?) Spring in south-central Idaho is always quite a hair raising challenge. I don’t say that tongue in cheek. If you live in south-central Idaho, there is a pretty good chance you are quite familiar with what I call Permanent Traumatic Wind Mayhem Illness. Or…. a bit tongue in cheek: PiTy World Me Illness! PityWeMe.

Yup, if you live in south-central Idaho, you know what I mean.

On the days you can actually stand up straight, you end up with a kink in your neck. The days you don’t spend picking up branches and birds nests are “lovely” days, and when the wind drops below thirty miles-per-hour, some people spontaneously start singing, “Oh what a beautiful morning, Oh what a beautiful day…”

Still, spring in my part of Idaho is awesome. No matter where you drive, you’re bound to see something newborn, whether it’s a calf, or a foal, or a kid…baby goat for those of you who didn’t already know…puppies, kittens, you name it, a short drive anywhere in south-central Idaho guarantees you will see one or more of the above.

I guess that’s why I love spring so much. The frozen, barren, landscape of winter fades, and life bursts forth with meaning. The old year is left behind, and a new year begins. The cycle of life continues, the good, the bad, the ugly, the pretty, all have a cycle don’t they?

Spring reminds me no matter how hard life can be, there is always an awakening, a beginning we can go to, a burst of life we can find in the grey, lifeless, terrain around us.

And, if you’re lucky, a bull calf to help you mow your yard.

moo 2.jpg