Exciting News and other Rainy Day Projects

So I finally did it.

You guys know I've been making stuff, and growing stuff, and preserving stuff, and knitting stuff, and baking stuff, for like (counts on fingers) A LOT OF YEARS, and of course everyone's always all, "you should totally sell things", but I've always shied away from doing a farmer's market because they have to get up at like 3 a.m. to pick herbs and veggies and then package everything and put them in the car and drive across town and set up a booth and load and unload and sell and explain and count change and all that, and I'm just too lazy for all of that.

But...

In the back of my mind has always been the thought that, yeah, the whole 'homestead' thing is kind of a big deal right now, and since I've been living the homesteady life since as long as I can remember, I'm fairly qualified to profit from my experience, right? Right.  I feel like I've been living this way since way before it was a cool new Movement or a trend or a YouTube lifestyle.  I've even milked goats!  I mean, I don't feel like I want to start filming my whole life and doing a YouTube channel, (although I could and it would probably be awesome, but again--lazy), but I do have the time to set up an online shop at Etsy, and that seems to be a good outlet for All The Things, and since I have such a wide variety of things I could market, I never wanted to be limited to a single stream.  Like, how confusing would it be to go to a farmer's market booth that sells honey and wax, candles, soap, knit hats and socks, possibly sweaters, garden seeds, dried herbs, infused oils, elixirs, body lotion and wound salve, AND jam and jellies?

So- what I DID do was go and open a shop on Etsy, which is still very much not filled out yet because when I sat down to jot down a few things that we grow here that I could sell, (like dried herbs), I ended up with a three-page list of products, just off the top of my head.  And since we're doing bees and honey now, we can add that to the list, so anyway yeah-- I'm on Etsy now.

Bear with me if you want to order things there, and I promise I'm not going to change this blog and suddenly be all-- BUY MY STUFF GUYS-- because I like this blog as it is, and I hate when blogs change and become all sales-y, so don't worry, this is probably the only post I'm going to yak about Etsy, unless I run into funny or weird things there to wisecrack about.  could happen

Excuse me now, while I spend the rest of the week trying to get decent photos and information up at the online store, because I've been on there all day and it's a lot more time-consuming that I thought it would be.  At least it's raining out today and I have some time to fool around with it, so - wish me luck.

Oh, PS, I'm on Etsy at  https://www.etsy.com/shop/NorthIdahoHomestead

...and on instagram @northidahohomestead

...and on Twitter @nihomestead

(not doing Facebook, and you can see why here)

See you there,

toodles-

The herb garden this spring--TOO MANY THINGS for two people

Beautiful chamomile picked yesterday

Chamomile, arnica and sage.  Again--too much, so why not sell it?

Our Newest Get-Rich Quick Idea

Shane loves candle light and lanterns, so last night he lit our little propane Coleman camp lamp, because we just got a new base for it, so it won't tip over and burn down the ...tent...when we're camping, or possibly start a forest fire and/or leave broken glass everywhere for me to clean up, because that is SO not relaxing.

Anyway--he turned on the lamp and was trying to put it next to my chair.

Our conversation went like this:

Me:  Turn that off, it's too noisy, and it reminds me of my childhood.  All we HAD was a stupid gas light in the whole downstairs.  Turn it off.

Him:  No, it's awesome.  Turn out the other lights, and we can sit around it...

Me:  No.  I'm trying to cross stitch and I can't see, plus the noise is driving me crazy.  Take it somewhere else.

Him:  Come on...  See?  *turns on Crosby, Stills and Nash from my 70's Spotify playlist and sits by the glow of the Coleman lamp*  We ARE hippies now.

Me:  Ummm.

Him:  Well, or we're...working hippies.  Because we work.  A lot.

Me:  Uh, yeah, that wouldn't fly.  We're like...workaholic hippies.

both laughing our heads off

Him:  Yeah.  We should write a book.  Everyone would buy it because they'd be like what is THIS? I need to read it.

Me:  The Workaholic Hippie.  That could totally be a book.  We're gonna be so rich.


That's how our evenings usually go.

And, I suppose if we write it and get rich, we'll have defeated the purpose, because aren't hippies supposed to be ...not rich?

Food for thought, anyway.  Peace out, man.

Time Traveler--Midnight Sledding Parties

If you've been following my Time Traveler posts about growing up in north Idaho in the 70s with no power or water, you know they're really just me telling some stories from my childhood, which usually wasn't normal at all.  They're mostly for my kids, but since not many people had a childhood like this, you're welcome to come along.

Stay with the class, though, OK?

One thing I remember very fondly is midnight sledding parties.  Where I grew up, we all lived in the hills, usually down long, steep driveways that were inaccessible in winter except on foot or by sled, so we took advantage of the snow and the hills and the large community of other hippie-ish folk in our area, and we'd all get together at one or another's property and go sledding at night or to celebrate New Year's Eve.  I have random memories of these nights.

Us with Mom around Christmas one year, c. 1978-9

It was magic.  A lot of stuff I did growing up wasn't "normal", but those nights were pure, unadulterated, brittle-cold, sparkling magic.  Like frozen crystals in time--I have memories of the sound of laughter with friends on clear dark winter nights.

Breath showing like puffs of smoke.  No noise but our voices in the air.

No electric lights, no car headlights, no flashlights.  Just moonlight glinting on the snow, casting the blackest shadows in a silent forest that stretched for miles around us in every direction.  Glittering frozen air, tiny sparkles floating.

The sound of our snow suits going zhip-zhip-zhip as we dragged our runner sleds and toboggans up the hill for another long run down, to land with an "umph" at the bottom.

Struggling with that crazy Flying Carpet blue plastic toboggan that we always got for Christmas.  It came rolled in a tight tube, and never wanted to assume any other shape but a tube.

'member these??

Trying to get up the nerve to take the hill on a saucer sled--that death-defying, sometimes-backwards, sometimes-forward, out-of-control daredevil ride.  Only the serious sledders did that.

Flopping down backwards, full-force with a whoosh, into a snow bank with a friend, to gaze up smiling into an inky sky filled with a million tiny hard-edged stars that seemed to go on forever.  Catching snowflakes on our tongues.

Wondering out loud those age-old childhood questions:

Do you think there's anyone else out there?  

Naaahhh.  Well, maybe somewhere...

If I was Han Solo, I'd take Chewbacca and go visit that bright star, right....there.  I bet there could be someone there.  See it?  

Yeah.  

Cool.  

Wanna go again? 

In a minute.

Whoever's house we were at, there would be hot chocolate when we were done and a fire to warm our hands.  It usually wasn't long before we'd get that dreaded frozen crack of doom between the end of our coat sleeves and the cuff of our mittens.  No matter how careful we were at getting dressed, we always  had that frozen red gap of wrist showing, and the snow always got in there.  If you layered your socks, long-johns, pants, boots, and snowpants right, you could avoid the snow getting to your ankles, but I never did get the mitten/shirt/coat thing mastered.

So we'd warm up and go some more.  Say good-night to everyone, wish them Happy New Year, and head back to our various homes, warm from the cocoa and the joy of friendship and shared life.

I don't have any pictures, mainly because probably no one was taking any (because hello--it was NIGHT), but I *did* find this lovely picture that for some reason someone took, of our sledding hill on the property we bought next to ours, called The Meadow.

Imagine this with snow, by moonlight, and full of people...

Good times, you guys.  Good times.

Time Traveler--1974ish: Year of the Angry Angel

Oh my gosh, I nearly missed my costumes-of-Halloweens-past post.  I don't celebrate Halloween, and I haven't in forever.  Because I just don't like it.  And the whole thing about it getting gorier and scarier every consecutive year since like 1978 is just a whole other post, so, yeah.  

Instead, October 31st is my "pre-Christmas day".  This year, I spent the day making dipped taper candles for Christmas gifts, planning a holiday party, and drinking hot chocolate, with the porch light OFF.  Not that we have much risk of trick-or-treaters here.  We have no neighbors for like 20 acres in any direction, the house next door is vacant, and we've had a total of ONE knock on our door in 14 years.  And THAT time, it was after 10 p.m., and they were taller than me and dressed as chickens.  Uh…?

When I was a kid in California in the 70s, we did the usual stuff, I guess.  I remember carving pumpkins and dressing up for Halloween, usually in a homemade/recycled costume.  It was before Pinterest and Walmart, so, yes--I remember the sheet with the holes in it.  I vaguely remember a witch idea one year--either actually being one, or wishing I could be one.  And the hobo idea.  Or maybe that was the time I planned to run away on my horse...

I don't remember actually going trick-or-treating, since we lived behind an abandoned quicksilver mine and only had two neighbors…but maybe we went with friends?  I remember the candy, so we must have gone somewhere, and I remember, even back in 1976, hearing that scary story about apples with razor blades in them.  Who the HECK puts razors in apples?  I was just freaked out by that.  

I don't really remember any Halloween costumes after we moved to Idaho in 1977, but then I'd have been also wearing boots, a coat, a hat, mittens, and/or possibly a snow suit over the costume, depending on the year, so WHY AM I EVEN DRESSED UP RIGHT NOW?  I also spent a lot of my childhood forgetting to wear pants wearing the wrong clothes, anyway, so a costume *may* have been an improvement.

We also didn't trick-or-treat in Idaho, mostly since the nearest sidewalk was about 25 miles away.  Instead I remember parties with people from our 'neck of the woods' (if you live in the country, you know what that term means).  We'd get together at our local community hall, and there would be apple dunking and pinatas, and games like that one where you try and eat a donut dangling from a string without using your hands.  Unfortunately, we don't have pictures of those parties, but I remember them being just really good, simple fun.

Last year I stumbled across photographic proof of actual costumes, and I have been telling myself FOR LIKE A YEAR to use them in a post, and I almost missed it.

For some reason, the only costume photos we have, are two years when I hated my costumes, and I still remember BOTH with a frown.

*jots down note to self for future therapist questions*

So.  Here are two pictures of me, back in the day:

Pure, unadulterated, 4-year-old, clenched-fist, flared-nostril, pouting…fury     

 I remember my mom made this whole angel costume (possibly using a recycled ghost/sheet from a prior year), including the tin-foil/coat-hanger halo and cardboard/tinfoil WINGS YOU GUYS.  Wings.  In this day and age, this would totally belong on Pinterest, but at the time I LOATHED it, as you can see.  Maybe that was the year I wanted to be a witch, which would totally explain my expression, because, hello, this is not.even.close, when you're four and hoping for a black hat and a broom.  I absolutely remember how mad I was about being forced to put this outfit on.  Like the "burning with the heat of a thousand suns" kind of mad.

More hidden angst.  That kimono was mine.     MINE!

THIS is another one I totally remember.  Oh sure, we look like friends.  But what you don't know is that my friend Leah's costume (at left) was mine.  It was an ACTUAL satin kimono thing that I recall having been sent to me AS A GIFT by my aunt, who used to travel a lot.  I remember thinking it was possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever owned.  I hadn't been allowed to wear it yet, because it was too long for me or something, so of course it should have been fine with me that my best friend got to wear my new beautiful special gift, before me, ON HALLOWEEN.  Again, fury.  And probably also why we're not standing even remotely close to each other.  Or smiling.

I posed with my head at a jaunty angle, defiantly refusing to acknowledge her...but on the inside, I was having a total hissy-fit MELTDOWN.

I don't even know what I'm dressed as, on the right, but it looks like someone handed me a clear umbrella parasol, my mom's floppy hat, gloves, and some button-up boots and said, "Voila!  You're…a woman from 1905."  And Leah's brother Jubel, in the background is wearing what looks like tights and a cape, a crown, and--are those...cotton balls on blue slippers??  Is he an elf king? So many questions.

I remember being just furiously, hysterically angry about that whole situation.  I was pretty sure I would hate Leah forever afterwards, and possibly everyone else, for letting her wear that kimono.

Why is it we always remember the costumes we hated?  I'm sure I must have had some princess outfit somewhere that I refused to take off for days on end, at least one year.  Right?  Why don't we have pictures of that?

Ahh…childhood. 

Wait!  I found some Bonus Photos:  

This is me, wearing a football uniform for possibly no apparent reason other than I was a super-tough tomboy and I felt like it?  I can't even understand this picture at all.  I have no recollection of this moment whatsoever, why I'm the only one dressed up, or what my friend Mary is doing.  Probably writing to Santa, asking for a new best friend.

No idea what, or why.  I did NOT play football.

 And lastly, finally,...a smile!

 Me, about age 5-6.  See? No costume = Happy.

Time Traveler--Summer 1977, Year of the Tent

Ready for more hippie child family history?  Good.

If you've been following the Time Traveler posts, you know we moved to Idaho from California in July 1977 in a van with a goat.  We arrived safely at our heretofore-unseen new property in Idaho, which was basically just 20 acres of forest, 25 miles from nowhere, where any phone and electric lines had yet to exist.  Which was kind of the whole point.

This is from 2012.  If you look closely, you can see a dark gap in the trees. That was our driveway in 1977.  It's grown over now and you have to walk in, but I used to stand out in that turn-out IN THE DARK at 6:40 a.m. and watch for the bus to come down that road.  At age 7.  No, that wasn't scary, but thanks for asking.

We pitched a tent to live in while we started building our house--a pole structure that my dad had carefully designed on the backs of various napkins late at night.  Dad set poles to soak in 55-gallon drums of creosote about halfway up the driveway, and got started.

There were five of us at the time, because we had my parents, 7-year-old me, my 2-year-old brother, and Patrick, who was one of the nomadic 70s friends who lived with us on and off through those years.  He had come along for the move from California, and he doubled as a big brother/babysitter for us, a carpentry/building assistant for the house, and a drinking partner for my dad.

We camped out in a square 4-man tent, all five of us, until like October, and then we moved into the one semi-finished room of the house, which would later become the kitchen.

I remember keeping our food cold by packing it around blocks of ice in a big Coleman cooler, and I remember packing gallon jugs for water, which Mom tells me we did for 7 years.  SEVEN YEARS? YOU GUYS.  OMG.  It makes me want to go and stand in our shower right now, just thinking about that many years of no running water.  So, that's why I recall taking baths at other people's houses...because we did it for. SEVEN. YEARS.

Oh sure, we were able to bathe at home.  In a metal tub.  With water we heated on the wood stove.  We weren't entirely heathens.

This is probably 1979, two years later, and yes, there I am, packing water.  So, yeah.

I also use the term "semi-finished room of the house" loosely.  It was "finished" in the sense that it had a wooden floor and ceiling. The walls, however, were clear plastic, I guess because LIGHT, (besides, who'd use black plastic for walls? There'd be no windows.  Everyone knows this).  Dad had nailed a blanket in the doorway, so, other than not sleeping on the actual frozen ground and having wood heat (and even more smoke) from a temperamental potbelly stove, plus a little more square footage to put all our sleeping bags on the (not earth) floor, it wasn't a huge improvement.  Still, at the time, it felt like we were pretty Uptown Now, with the added bonus that the chickens and goats couldn't get in as easily any more, mostly because they had to come up two steps to get through the blanket, and that's just a nuisance if you have four legs, or those little chicken legs.  Ever see a chicken go up stairs?  

I also remember having to duck outside the blanket when brushing our teeth, to spit, so obviously we didn't have anything inside during that first winter that would qualify as a sink or a drain.  Mom had been doing dishes outside on the ground, sometimes with chickens supervising, (not even kidding, check out the one next to her right elbow), but of course now I can't remember HOW Mom did dishes in the plastic-walled room that winter..Buckets?      Mom? How the heck, woman?  

Dad had definitely improved on THIS situation, by October.  I think.  I'm also really sure he never did dishes, ever.

This also should make it self-explanatory that my mom and I both severely dislike camping , unless it involves a microwave, running water, and a door that locks.  It may have been an adventure for me, and probably definitely was one for my dad, who spent a lot of time drinking and scribbling on napkins, but I can't imagine being the "mom" in that situation.  sorry, mom!!   Someone needs to build a statue in her honor, I'm pretty sure.  Or a fountain, with actual running water.

So, to wrap it up--by the end of that first year, 1977, we were definitely up off the ground and safely behind the locked blanket/door, and the goats were outside where they belonged.

Which reminds me, I also distinctly recall having problems with mountain lions being attracted by the sound of those stupid loud screaming Nubian goats, because Nubian goats have two volumes: loud screaming goat sounds, and WE JUST GOT OUT AND ARE RUNNING DOWN THE ROAD INTO THE WOODS AND YOU'LL HAVE TO CHASE US THROUGH 20 ACRES OF UNDERBRUSH ALL THE WAY TO THE RIVER HAHAHAHAHA.

More to come, but right now I'm inspired to go do dishes, laundry, AND take a shower.  Don't forget to appreciate the simple fact that you can turn on water INSIDE your house...

More Awkward Encounters--My Earliest Awkward Memory

If you've read much here, you may know I have a dorky tendency to always blurt out the wrong thing either in the wrong way or to the wrong person, so it got me thinking...when did this start?

I immediately knew.

I will try to make it brief.  (I said try.  Not promise).

When I was about 8, there were a boy and girl (siblings) who I equally adored (her) and loathed (him).  She had saved my life once, for real, when I managed to slip and fall down in the fastest current of our local river swimming hole, and found myself suddenly sputtering and tumbling along in a part of the river that was strong enough to CARRY ME ALL THE WAY DOWN THE WHOLE RIVER AND POSSIBLY THROUGH THE DAM WHERE I WOULD SURELY DIE.  aieeeeeeeee

She saved me by simply stepping into the water and grabbing my scrawny self, and saying, "Put your feet down".  It was like 6" deep.  But I was reallyreallyreally sure I almost died, right there; and Diane saved me, for real, so I adored her.

Her brother, Dale...I loathed.  I don't even remember *why*.  I just remember despising him.  I remember that he was bigger than us, and he was hateful and greasy and mean, and us younger kids all hated him, especially me.  I hated him with the fire of a thousand suns, with all the hate an 8-year-old could muster.

Still waters, guys.

One day, Dale was teasing someone--my brother, me, or one of the other kids, and it must have been just the last straw with this boy, because I remember I just--snapped.  He was giggling and tormenting one of us over who knows what, and I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth and glared at him.  I summoned up the worst thing I could think of, feeling like I wished I could rip him apart with my bare teeth and he would exist no longer (I still remember how angry I was).  And I screamed at him:

"You're BACON!    AND I LOVE BACON!!!!"

Wait.  What?

I meant that to sound like..."You are the one thing I want to rip with my teeth and just...destroy."  Instead, there was this shocked silence from the other kids.  Then:

Them:  AaaaahhhhhahahahahahahaHAHAHAHA.  You LOVE DALE!!  She loves Daaa-aaale!

Me:  NO!! Aughh!  I hate him! I want to BITE him.  (I actually had a bit of a reputation for literally biting people at that age, but that's a different story)

Them:  Stef and DAy-le, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!!!

They would not be dissuaded.  Hysterical childish laughter still echoes in my head.

*shrivel*  *hiss*

I've been saying dumb stuff like that, pretty much ever since.



What's your earliest awkward foot-in-mouth memory?  Didn't we all have that one kid we wished would just disappear?

Time Traveler--Yes, That's a GOAT In Our Van...Why?

If you've read any of the Time Traveler posts, you have heard about our 1977 move from California to Idaho, with a goat in a playpen in the back of our van.  I don't have a picture of the playpen, but I DID find a picture of the van.  This was our family car for...um...a lot of years.  There was also a whole period of time where my mom has told me that neither door worked, so she had to crawl in and out THROUGH THE WINDOW YOU GUYS.  With a 2-year-old.  On main street.  I can't even--

Sweet ride, huh?

It never looked any different than exactly this, and it was in fact three different colors.  It was a stick shift with a big Naugahyde bench seat in the front, and no seat belts.  I imagine it had a second bench seat, but I never used it because--hello, back then, if you were 6, you rode standing up behind the front seat, remember?  No wonder I have pretty good "sea legs"...

Dad also had a CB radio in it, in case we broke down a million miles from anywhere, because of course everyone had CB's back then. ( Dad was "Papa Bear").  Unfortunately, no one answered on that one time when we DID actually run out of gas, 10 miles up a river road.  Yeah.  Because that's what happens when you move to somewhere where they haven't even invented radio antennas yet, Dad.

Mom drove that van from Sonoma County, CA to northern Idaho in July of 1977, with me and my 2 year-old brother in the back.  I distinctly remember there being just a mattress on the floor in the back for the move, and we had all our stuff lining the sidewalls.  It was just like an awesome, moving fort. (Remember forts?) To us kids, it was super cool.  I don't remember if Mom was having as much fun.  Possibly not.

For the trip, they had put an old wooden playpen just inside the back tailgate, so the goat could ride along for the move.  I'm not even kidding.  We always had Nubian goats, (and even had a 3-legged goat once - pictured below), and I guess this was better than putting her in the back of the pickup truck (also below).  

We stopped at a KOA for the night on the way, because it's like a 24-hour drive, which is a long drive anytime, but an especially long drive in an antique van with a 7- and a 2-year-old and a goat in the back, I don't care who you are.

At the KOA, there was a bus-load of kids from Back East staying that night, probably on their way to California, because, hello--1970s California was pretty much everyone's dream at the time, riiight?  (Except for the Californians, who were migrating to Idaho to get even MORE back to the earth--like us).  Yeah.  We need to be further away from everyone...!  Let's go build a cabin in the middle of nowhere in Idaho!  Ok.  As long as we can take the goat, though.

Anyhoo-

On the overnight at the KOA, we had opened the back tailgate and tied the goat to the back of the van, so she could eat grass or not sleep inside the van with us or whatever.  Of course, we were soon discovered by the Back East city kids, who had apparently never seen a goat or read a farm book, (ever?).  They somehow couldn't grasp that anyone would travel with anything that wasn't a dog, so of course they kept asking us "What kind of dog is that??"  Dad came back from the showers in the morning and said that we were the talk of the whole campground.  Apparently everyone was asking everyone, did you see that van? I've never seen a dog like that before... What IS that?

Seriously?  A dog that screams 'BAAAAAAHHHH' All morning?  Where'd these kids come from?

We thought it was hilarious, like, "Ohhh, those CITY kids" but of course...now, I can't even fathom the idea of a goat in a playpen in the back of a vehicle, for two days.  

I have such a strong memory of it that OMG I ALSO DREW YOU GUYS A PICTURE... (you can click on it to see it better).

Exactly like this.  

I remember stopping along the way at Mt. Shasta and getting out because SNOW, but not much else.

We made it to Idaho, where we set up a tent in the middle of the woods, which the 5 of us lived in until October, using an outside homemade shower with water piped across 20 acres from a nearby creek, cooking in an outdoor kitchen, and trying to keep the goats and the chickens OUT of the tent.  Mom also spent a summer washing dishes ON THE GROUND outside the building site, with random chickens supervising:

You can't make this stuff up, guys.  See?

We eventually built an awesome house, with help from a revolving door of itinerant hippies who would stay with us over the years, trading carpentry skills for room and board.  The house was finished over the next decade, though it burned to the ground in 1986, and our lives turned upside down, but that's another story.

Some more pictures from my limited collection (because pictures don't survive house fires...)

Our OTHER family car, a black-and-primer 1950ish Chevy truck.  I rode everywhere in the back, because WHY NOT?
That's me, my mom and Duncan the dog.  

Me in front of the California house, c. 1975-6

Dad with proof that, yes, there was a three-legged goat.  Awesome, huh?

THE goat in front of the half-finished house, with my monkey bar at right.  I lived on that bar.

That is the ONLY picture I have found of the goat who rode in the van. She's in front of her little homemade 'goat/dog house'.  Actually, she used to stand ON TOP of it a lot, too.  Also--note that there's no fence, so, she's either tied to the goat house or she's loose...  

P.S.  We also learned in those years that the best way to attact mountain lions is to live in the middle of nowhere with loud Nubian goats.  

P.P.S. The sleds leaning up next to the door were the way we GOT DOWN THE DRIVEWAY all winter. It was so steep that we'd park at the top, mom would sit on the back of the runner sled with my brother between her legs; and I'd sit on the other one, with a 5-gallon-bucket of water between my legs, and we'd ride all the way down to the house like that.  We packed water for quite awhile, as I recall.  Good times.

But, more about all that some other time... 

Time Traveler--Nice to Meet You...Your Friends Call You- WHAT?

As you may know, I had a back-to-the-earth, we-don't-need-money, 70's kind of childhood. The 70s were the best decade to have that kind of childhood, because MOTHER EARTH you guys.  That's all you need, man.

This.

I loved it at the time, but I didn't realize entirely that not everyone lived that way.  Hence, I get lots of strange looks when I talk about my experiences growing up.

Today I was recalling some of the people I met along the way.  Pretty much everyone we knew then was living "at one with nature", and I guess the first part of being at one with the universe was that you have to have a way more nature-ish name than *whatever your parents named you*.  Like, Ed.  Ed is not a nature name.  Sorry, Ed, nothing personal...

Anyhoo--I ended up meeting a LOT of people with these awesome hippie/granola names, like The Artist Formerly Known as John But Now I'm Just MORNING STAR.  Seriously, when I was 6, we lived in California, and my favorite relatives lived on a hippie commune, where I met the following people:

Ocho:  This giant black man with a 70s afro, who owned the two gorgeous palomino mares in the pasture (named Mahara and Okeemo).  I never really saw him, but I thought someone who owned and rode horses that big and that beautiful...pretty much had to be awesome.

Keeja-Ho:  A toddler who wandered around, apparently without parents, wearing nothing but a diaper, and for some reason, she also always had a quarter taped over her belly button.  Just...what?  At the time, I supposed it was to make her giant "outy" belly button somehow be less "outy", but...what shaman prescribed that, I wonder.  Maybe it was...

Rainbow:  A faceless man who I only remember because of his name.  Because, who wouldn't remember a man named Rainbow?  He was also present in the room, if memory serves, when my mom gave birth, in her bedroom at our house, to my brother.  There was a circle of chairs in the room for that event, and Rainbow and I had front-row seats.  I was 5.  (I never wanted to have kids, after that experience.  But by the time I was 26, after much reassurance by my OB/GYN that ANESTHETICS ARE GOOD, I talked myself into it, and it's been great.)

Eurydice:  A girl who was slightly older than 6-year-old me, who I idolized.  She rode horses and jumped them.  She knew how to ride in an English saddle, and had the cool English riding outfit, complete with the jaunty hard-hat thing that they used to wear before everything required helmets, because now of course nothing is safe unless you wear a helmet for the love of God what are you doing bareheaded right now??!! You should probably put on a helmet because you could fall off that office chair and get a concussion and then I'd be on the hook because I didn't warn you to wear a helmet.  I pretty much wanted to BE Eurydice, with her cool name and her English style...

The only picture I have of the commune/house.  It was my happy place in 1975. That's me at age 5ish, behind my aunt, on the horse I learned to ride on and had a bad horse wreck with.

THEN in 1977, we moved to Idaho, where the names got even more interesting.

We lived 25 miles from a really small town, and there was another hippie commune a mile or so away, where I was somehow allowed to go, by horse, by myself, at age 8, and spend as much time as I wanted.  (Because back then, we didn't have cell phones, we just turned up whenever, and it was OK).  I also met one of my BEST FRIENDS EVER up there, who I still adore.  So I remember warmly those tepee-dwelling, schoolbus-living hippies who changed their names to:

Morning Star (and Carrie):  HE was Morning Star.  She was just...Carrie.  Apparently she didn't change her name.  Or maybe she did.  I just remember that they lived in a tepee, and he liked to garden...naked...and I remember the evenings up there, where everyone would stand in a circle holding hands around the fire at dusk, singing these songs in what I think was possibly a native American Indian language.  That acapella song still haunts me sometimes, and I wish I knew what it meant.  Or...maybe it's best if I don't.  We could have been calling on the spirit of the earth to bring us more weed or whatever for the season, and I wouldn't have known the difference.  But still.

Rock:  This was a couple.  They BOTH went by "Rock".  I grew up with their kids, and we eventually all went to the same 80s pentecostal church, after outgrowing the hippie phase, and they changed their names back to their original (unmatching) names.  But at the time, my 8-year-old self couldn't get over, "How can they BOTH be 'ROCK'?  How do I call one instead of the other?  Is your mom Mrs. Rock?"  Also, it just occurred to me (like, 35 years LATER) that their two kids were named after stones.  I won't use the real names, but basically pick two precious stone names, and you have it.  A family of rocks...cool.  I get it!

Earth:  I'm not sure, but I think this was a short heavyset lady named Constance who was very odd to talk to and used a lot of big hand gestures, but I may be mixing her up with...

Wind:  Not sure if this was a name, but I figured I'd throw it in here.  It was a long time ago, guys.

Fire:  My friend's parents, (I think).  Again-- BOTH were just..."Fire".  SO difficult.  They lived in a tepee, too, which means I HAVE TOTALLY SLEPT IN A TEPEE FOR REAL you guys.  Not camping out.  Living.  If you're 8, that's awesome.  I'm not sure how it translated for the grownups at the time, but I'm pretty sure the moms were not all feeling the coolness factor.  Like, "Seriously, Fire.  If you step in my cooking-fire and get into our bedroll with those dirty bare feet ONE MORE TIME I will hang you from the lodge pole and put hot rocks down your loin cloth.  Savvy?"

Red Fox:  Another big guy with an afro.  All I remember about him is that his name inspired me to ask if the name "Yellow Snow" was taken... (I was 8, so cut me a break here.  I thought it was hilarious at the time).

Laleña and Blake:  The two next-older kids that I recall living up there.  I didn't know him, but I played with Laleña a lot.  She taught me to ride horses bareback, barefoot, and with just a halter for control.  Us kids also all made *cough* brownies *cough* one time with a "special ingredient" that the grownups didn't know about and watched from behind a blanket/wall to see if they'd notice, giggling our heads off.  (HOW did we know to do that?? Wth, parents???).  I spent overnight sleepovers with her in a converted school bus, counting the stars through those weird school-bus windows, and I thought she was awesome, but I don't know where she ended up, or whether she had another name.  I also just realized that her name could mean "the firewood" in Spanish.  So there's that...

Kyrat:  The huge bay quarter horse that I used to dream of being big enough to ride.  I did get to ride him eventually, and it was one of the highlights of my pony-riding childhood.  He was so huge to me that it felt like saddling up an oil tanker.  I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!!!  Ahmigash! Do NOT trot!!!

Magic:  Actually a guy named Jerry.  I think his last name may have been something like Majk or Magyck or something, hence..."Magic", or "Maj", as we inner-circle friends called him.  He was a carpenter who helped us build our house and then disappeared into that vague mist of unrecalled memories.

He worked with a really good carpenter named, (not kidding) Jumping Mouse, who also helped with building our house.  Yes.  He answered to that.  Or sometimes just "Mouse" for short.  You can't even make these names up, I swear...

I'm sure there were others, but these are the ones I remember. They probably all went back to their real lives in the 80s, and now they're just Ed or John again.  I still remember those years fondly, but seriously...what a truly ODD decade that was.

 Not that you needed to hear any of this...but I'd love to hear about any oddball 70s names or people that you remember.

Time Traveler--Pants Are NOT Optional, and Other Awkward Encounters

I was talking to someone the other day about "most embarrassing moments".  While I have a few that happened while I was a teen or adult (and some that can't even be told--yes, they're THAT bad), the one that stands out as my first "most embarrassing moment" will always be there for me.  Like so many other awkward childhood memories…and a couple of examples of WHY I could have forgotten to wear pants.

Me, Christmas 1979, in long johns, which apparently qualified as "pants", even when visiting my aunt

Here I am, Christmas 1978 at home, with my matching 'mini me'.  Did we EVER wear pants?

Anyhoo...

To fully appreciate this particular story, here is some background:  You should know that I grew up in the hippied-out 70s and early 80s, and we lived all back to nature, Mother-Earth-News style, for most of my childhood, so I didn’t have a lot of stuff that regular (or as I called them--"city") kids had.  Like running water or indoor plumbing.  Or electricity.  Or a car with any working gauges or seat belts.  Speak n' Spell.  Sidewalks.  TV.  Kraft mac n' cheese…*sigh*   Oh, sure…we were way more uptown than, say, my friends who lived in teepees and school buses (yes, really…), but still way, way beneath the other neighbors, who had TV, a real bathtub, skateboards (with cement to ride them on), a waterbed (be still, my heart), and 3-wheelers!  It was like lifestyles of the rich and famous over there.

They had things that looked like this
and ...

THIS.  Seriously.  I was in awe.

Those particular neighbors also had two sons slightly older than me.  We all went to the same church and, since they lived in our neck of the woods (yes, we called it that), we did a lot of social stuff together, like truly magical midnight sledding parties on New Years' Eve, Bible studies, and fireworks picnics on the 4th, (with actual explosives provided by another neighbor, a crazy Viet Nam vet who was a demolitions expert.)  Yeah… good times.

Anyway, we seemed to be at their house a lot, and their youngest son was my first official grade-school crush (and also my first real kiss, later on), which meant there was all that related angst going on for me, whenever we were there.

Their two boys and I weren't close enough to actually be friends, and I always felt painfully shy and awkward around them, because they just seemed like super-lucky rich kids to me.  I mean…skateboards?  TV?  Paved parking area?  I felt like a wild aborigine hairball from the back woods, whenever I was at their house.

Judging from the photos above, I wasn't really that far off, was I?

Of course our parents must have just figured, we're all kids, right?--so we must automatically be all fine hanging out together.  So we'd get there, and the moms would be all "OK..You kids go play…" and I'd be standing there like, "What? I don't even know these boys.  Why am I even HERE?" 

Their kitchen had THESE doors, so I couldn't even hide behind them

Also, dear readers, bear in mind than when I use the term "neighbors"…for that neighborhood, a "neighbor" was anyone within 2 miles.  This family was one mile away, so it wasn't like I could just walk home in a huff.

This particular family also were kind (or condescending?...or imposed-on?) enough to also allow us to use their bathtub every so often.  Yes…their bathtub.  And no, we didn't really know them well enough for this situation to be comfortable (for me, anyway).  But, you know, little hippie kids who live in houses without walls or water or lights tend to get pretty dirty, I imagine--so every week or so, I'd find my 9-year-old self sitting in this clean, beautiful, modern bathroom  (door securely locked), with the bathtub full of hot water right out of the faucet, wondering how I could possibly be casual about coming out of their bathroom with a towel on my head.  Like I could somehow manage to NOT look like I just used their tub. 

This kind of thing seemed SO fancy at the time

It was sort of surreal…like, wonderful to have that whole beautiful white bathtub to myself (instead of an outdoor shower), but at the same time, it was also super embarrassing to be 9 and still know that somehow you're being treated like some kind of charity case.  Or at least, that's how it felt to me…

All this to say that, you can imagine how much I struggled to maintain any dignity around those boys.  I didn't like them knowing I had used their bathtub.  I hated them for having TV to watch after school, and white bread for lunch.  I didn't know how to ride a skateboard, but I fooled them with that old childhood standby:  "Oh, I know how to ride a skateboard.  I just don't feel like it, right now."

Is is time to go home yet?

Which brings me to my First Most Embarrassing Moment. 

It was winter, and I don't know what the occasion was, but it was a gathering of a bunch of people at their house, so I'm thinking it was the Christmas or New Year's sledding party or something.   Mom was hurrying us to get ready, and everyone who lives where it's winter as a kid knows that you dress in layers if you're going to be outside sledding at night.  So, we dressed and piled in the van and went over there, with me already feeling anxious about going.  Any group of strangers (even neighbors), always made me feel like a shy, homely, little out-of-place freak (which I totally was).  Plus, I felt like they were all "There's that girl who uses our bathtub."

We walked in, and I took off my coat, and it must have seemed colder than I expected or something, because I remember looking down at my legs and seeing…JUST TIGHTS.  OH MY GOSH, WHERE ARE MY PANTS???  

I forgot... my... pants.  What the actual heck? What kind of hurry were we IN?

So, there I was, standing  in front of a whole holiday party of grownups and assorted kids who were all (I was sure) socially superior to me, wearing a shirt, my winter boots, and just…tights?!?  I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me, or the power to go out.  Anything.  I can't remember if anyone laughed, but I was sure they were. 

Guys.  Maybe I was just AHEAD OF MY TIME, right?

Yeah.  Well, back in my day day, that outfit was unheard of.

What I do remember is my mom and the hostess saying, "Oh, this is no big deal at all, honey.  You're about the same age as Daniel (their younger son).  We'll just get some of HIS pants for you to wear."  Yes.  Do that.  That will definitely make me feel better about this situation.  I can't remember what was worse, the idea of being there without pants (which felt only slightly less embarrassing  than standing there in front of everyone in just my flowery little-girl underwear), or the thought of borrowing this boy's jeans.  

They overruled my mortified and strenuous objections and got me a pair of this kid's jeans.  I remember having it made clear to me that of course a mile was too far to drive me back home to get my own pants. Why??  I don't even know, but I remember wondering what the heck, guys?? Just take me home, for the love of God.  You can just leave me there…But, no…I didn't get to go home.  Maybe it was a short party? Maybe I didn't make it clear how traumatic it was.  Maybe they seriously thought it wasn't that big of a deal…but it got worse.

The pants they brought me were huge on me.  I was built like a twig back then, so this boy's jeans seemed about one thousand sizes too big.  The grownups solved that problem by having someone handily fashion me a "belt", probably out of baling twine.  Seriously.  I reallyreallyreally remember it being rope of some kind, cinched up in a BIG, ATTRACTIVE KNOT.

So, there I was, with my best Christmas shirt and winter tights on, wearing what looked like Huck Finn's blue jeans, cinched up with a rope belt…all bunchy and baggy…ready to part-ay.

Like this, only not smiling.  And without the fun props.  Also, a GIRL

I was so embarrassed that I fled to their (fortunately somehow empty) TV room for the entire evening and hid myself by curling up on the corner of the couch in there for the whole evening, hoping no one would come in that room.  I don't think I moved from that spot all night. 

I survived it, of course, and now it seems funny, but this still stands out as my first public feeling of total humiliation, with the added embarrassment of being forced to wear my crush's pants.  I don't even remember the rest of the evening, what the party was about, or whether I wore his pants home--I bet I did.

Who knows if he ever got them back...

Something just occurred to me while writing this, which is that I have spent pretty much the rest of my life living in leggings and big t-shirts.  So, maybe I started a trend or something...(but please, learn how to wear them).

Isn't it strange how a couple of hours on one evening of one winter when you're 9 can stay with you forever? Ever show up somewhere TOTALLY dressed wrong?

Holy Cow. Is That What I Think It Is??

If you read my last post about my childhood horse accident and subsequent lack of an eyebrow, you may have seen this picture...

The "after" picture, with my left eyebrow, cheek and forehead still showing marks from the accident.

Being mostly observant after the fact, and loving to look at the background details of old photos, I was looking closer at this picture on my screen after posting it.  Mostly in awe, like...WHAT IS WITH THE OPEN SHELVES?  What is all that stuff?  Then, OK...I see we're drinking RC and eating pizza (so, it's a special treat, or it's before our vegetarian year).  Then, check out those curtains, and what looks like cheap laminate board over what must have been a bad wall behind us.  I remember most of that.

Then the fridge.  Wait--What is hanging over the fridge?  Is that-- ?   Oh my actual gosh.  Yes.  It is.  A snake skin.  Or, rather, a shedded snake skin, or whatever it's called when they leave that behind.  I remember it now.  Why on earth Dad chose to hang it up, right there by itself, in the dining room...escapes me.  

I totally remember that rattle snakes were a problem there, but what the heck? 

Just--Oh. my. gosh.  Now I can't "un-see" it.... Too funny!

Time Traveler--A Horse Wreck, and why I Have Bangs Now

Time for another stroll down memory lane.

Oh my gosh, you guys.  I found more cool pictures, so of course, here's a story to go with them.

We lived in California (coastal Sonoma County, aka "heaven", if you've ever been there) from 1973 to 1977.  We had migrated there from New Jersey after my dad possibly was overcome by a fit of I DON'T WANT TO GO TO YALE AND BE A DOCTOR, THANK YOU, and decided that we needed more of that hippie/natural thang going on in our lives.  Because, you know, money is overrated (but I digress).  

Plus, why would anyone want to look like this:

Dad, around 1966

 ...when you could look like this?

Dad, at left; my favorite aunt, Mom, uncle, and me at my birthday.  Yeah.  Much better.

Fortunately for me (and my mom), my favorite aunt (her sister Dobi) and uncle also lived there. She was absolutely my favorite person on the planet, aside from Mr. Rogers and Big Bird.  She was the most fun grown-up I knew, silly and wonderful and young at heart--even more fun than our 20-something nomads.  She and my uncle lived on what I assume was a 70s-type commune, and I used to spend weekends there with them, listening to sitar music, eating bulgar out of wooden bowls, and (best of ALL), riding horses!  I was obsessed with horses.  I read about horses, dreamed about horses, and constantly wished for horses.  I used to fantasize that I'd go outside and find...a horse, with a tag around its neck, saying, "please keep me", and then we'd be best friends forever and ride off into the sunset.

When I wasn't with her, riding horses, I would pull our long phone cord (remember those?) around to the living room, straddled the back of our couch, and bounce along, pretending I was riding, to a sound track of James Taylor and Crosby, Stills, and Nash (and sometimes Young).  Yeah...good times.

I spent all my artistic time, drawing horses.  Nothing else.

Here I am...practicing--horses.  Left-handed.  My teachers despaired of me.  "WHY can't you use your RIGHT hand??"

The commune where I got to stay with my aunt was on a huge piece of land with a big house, called Mountain Wolf (uh, no...I don't recall wolves there), and it was inhabited by people who came and went often and were probably generally fascinating, in a 70s kind of way, but I don't really remember any of them.  There was a guy named Rainbow (it was the 70s, remember?) and an older girl who I looked up to (who rode English, for those of you who understand how cool that would be to a western kid), whose name was Eurydice. For some reason, I also remember a little girl, maybe 2 years old, named (I kid you not:) Keja-Ho, who ran around in nothing but a diaper, with a quarter taped over her oddly BIG "outie" bellybutton, I suppose, to help it... *not*...be an outie?  I have no idea why I remember that.

There was also this terrific, super OLD barn, which was in probably scary-dangerous shape, in the sense that the whole building leaned hard to one side.  Like, 45 degrees.  I loved it.

Exactly like this.  Seriously.

We had to yodel (yes, "yodel-LAY-hee HOOOOO") to call the farm's herd of 6-8 horses to come in from their huge grazing pastures, and if you did it loud enough and they heard it, the whole bunch would come thundering up the hill for some oats.  It was exhilarating and scary.

I still remember their names:  Okemo and Mahara were a mother-and-daughter mare and filly, a pair of the most fantasy-inducing palominos you could wish for as a little girl, but too unbroken (and too big) for novices to ride.  Toni was a sleek dark bay who I seem to recall was highly trained and/or high-spirited and temperamental and not to be touched by a small child.  Or maybe she kicked people...I can't remember.  Four Paws was about 400 years old and barely got around...a swaybacked and tired old gelding with white socks. No one rode him that I recall, or maybe I started on him and I don't remember?  Apple Jack was our favorite--well-broke and gentle, not too tall, and super easy to handle.  I have no idea why Festus the donkey was there, but he was fuzzy and white and friendly, so I loved him too.

Dobi would catch Apple Jack, and we'd saddle him, I would scramble up behind her (somehow we both fit inside the saddle!), and we'd take this long, wonderful ride together-- down a hill, across a little stream, up and around through trees and fields, through pasture gates, down old forgotten quiet roads, and back to the property.  I loved those rides as much as you can ever imagine a 5-year-old loving anything on earth.

My Happy Place, c. 1975-6

One day I learned to canter on Apple Jack.  By myself.  HUGE deal.  I was very excited about this, and so, as our ride was coming to an end one day and we were at the upper pasture, heading back for the house, we met my uncle, coming through the gate.  The pasture was wide, and I was so excited to show him my new skill by loping across the top road along the upper fence line.  Unfortunately, 6-year-old me didn't realize that Apple Jack was only thinking of the path we always took, halfway across the pasture, that cut a beeline straight down the hill, through the trees, down a little hairpin turn that took you down the bank to the main gravel road back to the house (and...obviously...the barn.  Where the oats were.)

So.  I was all "Hey, uncle Jerry! Watch me gallop!!"  And Apple Jack was like, "Heck YEAH, time to gallop TO THE BARN."  Wires majorly crossed.  I kicked him to get up to a lope across the pasture, and he immediately wrenched the reins out of my hands and took off at what felt like Seabiscuit speed, straight down the hill towards the house.

I remember hanging on to just the saddle horn, the up and down motion of his neck, and his mane blurring my vision.  I remember seeing, out of the corner of my eye, like a cartoon stick figure, my aunt, running, screaming, behind us.  I remember thinking, "DO NOT LET GO or you will die or at least break your arm in a gopher hole."  For some reason, I was very concerned about breaking my arm in a gopher hole.  It never occurred to me that HE might step in a gopher hole; thank God he didn't.  

I stuck to the saddle like a crazy burr all the way down the field at warp speed, through the trees, right down to the high bank above the gravel road, where I can only assume he made a steeplechase-like leap down onto the gravel road.  It was at this point that my little self could just not hold on any more--the rush of an animal that big jumping off what seemed like a cliff to me, must have loosened my grip.  I tumbled off over his front shoulder as he jumped, breaking my fall nicely on the gravel road with my face.  (Like, "look, no hands").  He managed to jump over me, somehow, without actually stepping on me or falling on me.  

I also found some pictures that show the very field where this happened.  It's a side story, but here it is.  It was known as The Cabin.  As far as I recall, a woman actually lived in this, back then.  Or..well...it was her shelter while clearing her head or whatever.  

This would have been the view over my right shoulder as we hurtled past, heading for the barn. ("Wait.  Was that a house?")...

Dad, outside The Cabin.  Yes--I think it WAS homemade...why do you ask?

Want to see the inside?  

Mom--inside.  The field behind her is where I went by, from left to right....aieeeee

The end of the story is that I had indeed landed on my face, cutting my chin, leaving me with a cheek-ful of gravel, and gashing my eyebrow open in several directions, down to the bone.  My aunt swooped me up, put me on the front seat of her car, where I remember vaguely being sorry I was getting blood everywhere, and raced me to the hospital, where my parents met us.  I woke up hours later with 87 stitches in what was left of my left eyebrow and a scab where my left cheek should have been.  I remember walking through my parents' bedroom and turning my head away from the mirror on their wall, because I was afraid to look at myself.  And that scab.  Oh Lord.  I'm so glad I never peeked...  ew

I do remember, right after the accident, saying, "Well.  I guess I'll have to ride Four Paws now," but I don't know if I did, or even if we rode at all any more.  I imagine so, because my life continued to absolutely revolve around horses, right through my 20s and 30s.

Mom was a huge proponent of natural remedies, so she spent a lot of time after the accident, rubbing vitamin E oil on my scars, after pulling the last of my stitches (I remember exactly how that felt, to this day).  Everything healed very well, only I had a pretty scary and somewhat missing eyebrow until I was about 12, and I can't tell you how old it got, explaining what happened, every time I'd meet someone new.  Like a fun conversation starter, only exactly the same...every time.

Them:  Wow! What happened to your eye?

Me:  It's a long story.  I used to go riding with my aunt.  One day I learned to gallop, and I was going across this hill, and blah blah -- (*see the start of this story...which I told word-for-word, each time) 

Eventually I got so tired of telling the whole story every time, that it boiled down to this:

Them:  Wow! What happened to your eye?

Me:  I fell off a horse.

The last time someone noticed it was years later, after it had healed and I had more or less forgotten about it.  I was sitting in speech class in my junior or senior year of high school, with a teacher who scared me to death because he reminded me a giant bird of prey.  I spent that whole semester silently praying, "Don't call on me, don't call on me, please don't call on me!" He was lecturing along or whatever, and I was totally not listening, because hello--gag me with a spoon, speech class?  And suddenly, in mid-sentence, he ended with "....and WHAT HAPPENED TO STEF'S FACE?" The whole class stared at me.  I freaked out for a minute, because I couldn't imagine what he was talking about, and I guessed that possibly a giant zit had emerged, just in time for the weekend, or I had spinach on my chin or something.  But he just said that the light had caught my face just right, and he'd never noticed all those scars.  Well, yeah.  Thanks for pointing that out, Mr. H.  So I got to tell the story.  Again.  

That may have been the last time I told the whole story, come to think of it.

Anyhoo.  I do have an eyebrow now, but it helps that I have bangs, because if you look, you can see the scar that cuts my brow in half and jags down into my eyelid, and several pieced together scars above my brow.  There also *may* or *may not* be some really freaky brow hairs that grow waaaay outside the line of where they belong and are on Tweezer Watch, 24-7.  The way it happened, I guess I'm lucky the surgeon got all the eyebrow hairs to even grow in the same general direction, though, so--for what it's worth--thanks for that, 1976 surgeon dude.

Ready for more pictures? 

Me with Festus.  This may have been afterwards...my left eyebrow appears to have a scar line through it, as well as my cheek and forehead showing some redness.

Probably the only one of my actual face for sure, afterwards, according to my mom's note on the back.  I remember those OshKosh too, with those funny metal clasps, like it was yesterday.  

So.  Long story short:  I have bangs because--I fell off a horse.  

The End