The Flying Cow

Ah, rodeo. That timeless experience where grown men in tight jeans show us what they are made of. Leaping off horses at full speed, they wrestle steers to the ground. They ride bucking horses and bulls, risking their lives, their limbs, their ability to father children . . . But nothing can capture the imagination of the multitudes like the age-old sport of cow milking.

My understanding of the history of rodeo is that it evolved from the days when ranchers would get together in the spring, breaking young horses, branding cattle, moving cattle from one feeding ground to another. So theoretically, most of the sports one watches during a rodeo have a relatively strong tie to those cowboying days of yore.

For the life of me, however, I can not grasp the purpose of cow milking. For those unfamiliar with the sport, a cow runs out of a chute, at which point a cowboy on a horse chases her down and ropes her around the neck from horseback and forces the cow to stop running. Now a large guy resembling a football linebacker runs out to the roped cow and pounces on her head, presumably to hold her still. The cowboy on horseback then leaps off of his horse, runs up to the cow, and grabbing an available teet, squirts some milk into a bottle. The clock doesn't stop until the cow is free from the rope and the cowboy has run to the judges to present his bottle of milk.

I will confess I know nothing about cows. Perhaps dairy acquisition is a hurried event. However, I always thought that a rushed cow was a kicking cow.

To illustrate my point, just today a cow in the cow milking event had other plans. Surely her head was filled with pastoral visions of lazily munching hay while her milk is being squirted into a bucket, sans rope around her neck and football linebacker holding onto her head.

She ran from the chute. The cowboy chased her down on his horse. He threw his rope. The loop sailed around her head and shoulders as she jumped through its opening like a circus performer. Feeling the rope tighten around her middle, she conjured every image she ever had of being a peaceful dairy cow, solidifying her dream in her head. The gate loomed close . . . And she leaped. Clearing the five and a half foot gate, she trotted smugly toward her heard. No speed milking today boys, she chuckled to herself. Quietly she started munching hay.

Bugging You

Just tonight I was walking Lewis amidst groups of bats flitting two and fro through the dusky night sky. Coming upon the "swimming hole" (euphemism for a slow part in the river, dammed and filled with mosquito larvae), many bats skimmed the surface. Repeatedly they skimmed and circled, skimmed and circled, presumably consuming some kind of gnat hovering just about the still water.

While Lewis fearlessly plunged into the water, bats barely missing him as they swooped by, I kept my distance, covering my mouth and hoping my hair was sufficiently plastered to my head in a such a way as not to snare a bat if one were to swish by my head.

In spite of my half-hearted attempts to protect myself from a bat entering an orifice or getting stuck in my hair, I would not have been surprised had one ran into me. After all, I'm decent sized in comparison to a bat. And there were lots of bats. And though they have their little sonar thing going, they have been known to run into things. This diatribe is leading somewhere, so please only remember this: it would have been understandable if a bat had run into me.

There are other times when I can be walking along on a warm summer evening, and I see a rather large swarm of gnat-like things hovering around in a group. Logic would serve that if I walk into that group of gnats, I may get a gnat on me. I may inhale a gnat. A gnat may go up my nose.

I Walla Walla, when school starts in early fall, these curious bugs with blue fuzz on their butts start to fly all over the place. As a friend of mine once learned during blue-butted bug season: ride your bike in a swarm of blue-butted bugs, spend 20 minutes picking blue-butted bugs off your sweatshirt.

And . . . this is the grand finale. If there is a large group of something and you walk into it, you may physically encounter at least one element of that group. But this is my question of the night. Why, when I am out mowing the lawn, does one single, solitary gnat or little fly or something fly around in front of my face the entire time? Out of the infinity of atmosphere this one bug could inhabit, it chooses to inhabit the two inches in front of my face. For an extended period of time. No matter how much I try to wave it away. Forever will I be confused by this phenomenon.

Beware the Cervidae

My small town, located precisely in the middle of nowhere, is quite the sanctuary for roving deer. (I also think the deer are aware that one cannot discharge a firearm within city limits, so they take sanctuary. Plus there are an abundance of gardens for them to graze on. Bright little Cervidea). On any given day while walking down the sidewalk, I may either be joined or gawked at by large groups of deer. By large, I mean up to 7-ish. Maybe.

While this is not a number to rival herds of wild horses or the often raved about groups of shaggy buffalo who used to rove across the Montana plains like swarms of locusts, you must remember that I am only one person. Seven deer. One person. Bad odds.

I bring this up because deer on the outside are serene. They munch on grass. They spring around on cute little cloven hooves. They stare at you with doe eyes. . .

Lest anyone be whiled by their charms, please do not forget When Wild Animals Attack. Those pointy little antlers and hooves, once dainty while seen springy across a field, take on a whole new meaning when stuck in your eye.

Don't get me wrong, I do not live in fear of our deer. I like seeing the doe with her babies walk down the sidewalk in front of my house every morning. I just like seeing them from the other side of a locked door.

It's my understanding that male deer, otherwise known as bucks, will attack without provocation, particularly during October-December, their months of rut. 

I do remember walking on a cold fall day around dusk a couple of years ago. There was a small buck in a field, at least a hundred feet away. Stopping to admire his beauty, my mind told me, ah, what a beautiful deer. Look at him standing proudly in that field.

Just then the deer stomped his foot. I got a nervous look in my eye. The deer snorted. I tensed. The deer took a step in my direction. . . . Thinking only of imminent puncture wounds, I fled the scene, and I now have a healthy respect for our deer.

Sagebrush Roads

Above, you will see my most recent acquisition. Having ridden dirt bikes in the past, I had some nostalgic recollection of the activity. But as seems to be the way with most things of late, experiencing this activity in my thirties has opened my eyes to a new and better understanding of the joys of dirt biking.

First off, there is quite a sense of freedom going out, firing up my own bike (that I can actually get kick-started with minimal effort), and riding off into the sagebrush.

After purchasing this bike, I was a little timid on my first ride, trying to force the bike to do what I wanted. Recently, however, I have been trusting it more. Instead of fighting where to bike wants to go, I go with it, trusting in the off-road tires to manage to terrain. And after that . . . I started having fun.

Riding this bike out on the open plains, wind whipping by, surrounded by nothing but nothing. . . I highly recommend it.

The Gift of Adversity

We've all heard it before, something about a piece of sand, an oyster, and a pearl. Or there are those perseverance motivational posters, which of course make me NOT want to persevere just because the posters are so darn upbeat.

But there is something about being a little older and wiser than I once was that is causing me to understand that many of these vague tidbits of philosophy are actually true.

I remember being in junior high, and there was some class where the teacher was talking about the difference between eustress and distress. Eustress being the type of stress that causes a positive response. In our sand and oyster scenario, I suppose this would be the bit of sand that turns into a pearl as opposed to distress, which would be like the oyster getting sandblasted. Probably no pearls there.

What I'm getting at here though, is that I'm starting to experience this concept and actually be able to cognitively reflect on it. Not that my life is particularly adversarial or anything. I'm just saying that I see a more diligent side to me when I am faced with some kind of stressor.

Busy day at work: more gets accomplished in a more diligent and efficient manor. Slow day at work: eh, I can do that later . . .

Perhaps everyone else is ahead of me on this one, so I apologize if I am stating the obvious. It's just that I've been a lot more aware of my pieces of sand that have become pearls.

Just a Thought

Back when I was a kid, I remember my mom buying a handful of fireworks for me and my brother for the 4th of July. Longingly, we gazed at the packaged fireworks for days, anticipating the long-awaited night when we would be able to light them off. Occasionally, we would get to light one off on the 3rd, or we may be able to wave a sparkler around as a special treat leading up to the big event.

At our house, "the big event" usually lasted 10-15 minutes max, at which time we would light a couple little fireworks and grin giddily as they spun around and squealed some high-pitched noise. Fifteen minutes later, the whole show would be over, and we would head back into the house, satiated for another year.

I don't know if it's my increasing lack of tolerance for noise, my ownership of a particularly skittish dog, or if the private firework shows are actually getting longer, louder, and higher, but I would like to cast my vote for a quieter 4th of July.

Having never been engaged in active battle, I can't speak from experience, but it's my understanding that the 4th of July is to commemorate our freedom. And while I understand freedom is often gained through wars and battles, is it really necessary to commemorate our freedom by bringing back memories of rocket blasts? Can't we just celebrate with the family bbq? I can tell you, Lewis would have a much happier time celebrating his freedom with people dropping hot dogs in his mouth instead of trying to hide under the couch while the world outside goes crazy for several hours.

So maybe we could step back a little. For the sake of all skittish dogs and middle-aged women gaining an increasing lack of tolerance for noise, is there any way we could scale back to sparklers and a couple of fireworks that spin around on the ground and squeal, then call that good for the year? If you want the big show, there is always Fort Vancouver on TV. It was just a thought. . .

Botany By Amanda

I am not a knowledgeable horticulturist. When I come across a new discovery in my yard, of which there are many, I do not suddenly spout technical wisdom about the plant's genus and species. I simply say what it looks like to me.

A recent case and point has to do with a large tulip blooming in my yard. Here is the dry, boring, scientific description of a tulip: the tulip is a perennial, bulbous plant with showy flowers in the genus Tulipa, of which up to 109 species have been described and belongs to the family Liliaceae . . . Yawn.

In contrast to that dose of jargon, here is my description: large, bold and beautiful, multicolors of red, yellow and orange, and with brushy edges I referred to as "bugs' feet".

These are them, and as I'm sure you would agree, something this awesome defies scientific description



And on a side note, a centipede, being the bug in question, has feet very similar to the edges of my tulips


See. . . the same!