Dumpster Diving: 101

I bought a new purse.

Don’t get excited – no Coach, Prada, Chanel, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Kate Spade, Gucci or Dolce Gabana for me. It’s just a functional, it’s-okay-if-it-gets-rained-on, $15.00 cheapo purse. Nothing fancy, by any means.

So in my rush, angst, and excitement to discard the old, cheap purse, which was quite literally falling apart at the seams, I transferred everything from one purse to the other, marvelling at the wonder of intact stitching. Out with the old, in with the new; the old one found its way, hanging threads and all, into the garbage can under the sink.

Great. Whoopee. I felt like a new woman.

A full 24 hours went by with me strutting around with my new purse, intact seams and all, feeling like the Queen of the World, when I realized….

When I cleaned out my old purse, I forgot about one tiny side pocket.

Which had my flash drive in it. Which contained some of my writing.

I lost all feeling in my body, except for my stomach which was suddenly in dire need of antacids. I ran out to the dumpster where the garbage bag under the sink had eventually made its way – the garbage bag containing my old purse, containing my flash drive. Three garbage bags of the exact same colour were at the very bottom of the dumpster.

The very deep dumpster.

The very deep dumpster that was near impossible for me to climb into, unassisted.

Plus, it was broad daylight and the neighbours were watching.

My strapping young boys were willing to take on the task, but like I said - the neighbours were watching. Not that I felt that my neighbourly reputation out-ranked the need for my flash drive, but….

I alerted the husband of my dilemma, requesting dire assistance upon his arrival home from work – much later, after dark.

Pacing the house did not make the day go any faster, or the sun set any sooner. The novelty of the new, albeit cheap, purse wore off pretty quick. I knew I had most of my writing saved on my laptop…but…what if? What if there was something on the flash drive not on the laptop? I could visualize the purse in the garbage bag, covered in carrot peelings and egg shells, my flash drive safely tucked inside.

Much later, by the glow of the car headlights, in dove the husband. I offered kind support and guidance while standing outside the dumpster, holding the flashlight, with my trusty flannel pyjamas fluttering in the breeze. It was dark, so what did it matter? The neighbours were asleep by then, surely.

He opened each bag while I fought not to gag. The process would be quick, I figured, as I would be able to tell from the topmost contents, which bag was ours. Pizza boxes from way-too-expensive pizza joint – not ours. Organic milk containers – not ours. Baby food jars – not ours. Old, holey, runners – not ours. Bag by bag, my hope sunk faster that the bile rising in my throat.

Ew, ick, ew…..is that a…? Never mind. I didn’t mention to the husband what I observed. I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Three bags checked, and none of them ours. And then three bags double-checked, and still none of them ours.

Damn.

I replayed the last twenty for hours in my mind. The garbage bag containing the old purse, WITH my flash drive inside, must have made it to the dumpster shortly before the garbage truck came.

Shoulders slumped, and after helping the husband clamber his way out of the scary dumpster (it was touch and go there for a second – I didn’t think he was gonna make it), I made my way inside the house.

At least it wasn’t raining, so my pyjamas were dry, AND garbage- filth free.

“It’s gone.” I announced to the offspring inside, who knew how distraught I was.

Resigned to the fact, and knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I put away the flashlight and realized I learned a few things:

1. Some of us need to re-evaluate our household waste practices, including me.
2. You can learn a lot about folks from their garbage; be careful what you throw out.
3. Support for what I do comes in the most unexpected ways.
4. If I had purchased a better quality purse in the first place, something that would last longer, none of this would have likely ever happened.

And why was the flash drive in my purse in the first place?

For safekeeping, of course.

Shakespeare, Starbucks and Chanel

Ahhh…books, bookmarks, and coffee. And chocolate. What more could a girl ask for.

I walked into Chapters bookstore in Victoria, BC, and as always, the smell enveloped me. After a lengthy absence from the store – summer vacations and all that - the smell of books, paper, and coffee from the Starbucks© coffee shop upstairs was like walking into a familiar home. Everyone’s home has its own scent.

I stopped the manager, Vanessa, and with my usual disclaimer of ‘I know this is a weird question, but I am not really weird,’ I asked her if anyone has ever mentioned the smell to her – but in a good way. She said customers mention it all the time, many saying they find it comforting. Every bookstore has its own scent, she says; whether be stores with new books or used.

Basking in the glory of the books, I browsed, grabbed a bookmark because I am addicted to them, and then made my way towards the door. But a wall, floor to ceiling, heralding e-readers and fancy leather cases, loomed before me.

That wasn’t there a few weeks ago. I stumbled around, disoriented with my routine thrown off. Ah, I reminded myself, times are a changin'.

Bookstores are closing, and more often than not, new books by favoured authors can only be found online, for purchase and download to your e-reader.

But if all bookstores close, what will I smell? And if all bookstores go, books will become passé – although I doubt that in my lifetime all books will not become passé – and what will I frolick in?

I THEN realized, horrified, as I made my way out the door to the busy street - What will become of bookmarks?!

I love bookmarks, collecting them from bookstores and authors – the signed ones don’t get used. In a pinch I have used a sticky note or BC Ferry receipt. I treat my books, new or used, like gold, refusing to crack the spine or dog-ear the pages. And of course, savouring the smell of the pages.

As car and bus exhaust replaced the intoxicating smell of the bookstore, I realized – book marks will become passé, eventually, as well. Extinct will be the tassels, the clips, the old receipts – even those crocheted worm bookmarks big in the 70’s (I know how to make them if you want one). I know e-readers have their own ‘bookmark’ feature, but like many avid readers who love the concept of paper in hand, many also love a good bookmark.

Saddened by the state of what was potentially yet to come, my world as I knew it was slowly unravelling like a crocheted bookmark right before my eyes. As I was on lunch, I made my way to a bench, to calm down and read, before heading back to work.

I dug my book out of my purse and flicked to the spot my bookmark was holding for me. In all my worry about eventually only having the memory of the smell of a bookstore to get me by, never mind paper books becoming a rarity and their bookmarks becoming artifacts in a museum, I realized….

Oh.

The bookmark du jour was a perfume card sample from the department store - this one, Chanel©.

Because I liked the smell.

Go figure.

Random Act of Reading - Obsessed Beyond Reason

I couldn’t let it go.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

My obsession took control of my senses. Piles of laundry, filthy bathrooms, and a starving cat – never mind my starving family – were testament to my neurotic obsessing.

I simply HAD to call the lost and found at Victoria International Airport.

Going back a bit….

If you recall, IF you had been keeping up with my last two tales about the ‘Random Act of….Reading,’ dated August 26 and September 2, 2011, respectively, I recounted my find of a book being left like a message in a bottle by ‘Ann’ of Georgetown, ON. My then my subsequent obsessive attempt to pass on the love of a good book had me (neurotically) heading out the airport, leaving it in the washroom hoping someone travelling afar would take it, only to find it later removed by (possibly) a cleaning attendant. Which I realized, with much shame, was not a bad thing, after all.

Worrying that the book likely ended up in the garbage (I hoped the cleaning attendant at least took it home to read – that WAS the whole point of the experiment – to share a book), my imagination ran amuck, having me subsequently obsessing that the book was sitting in the lost and found department of the airport.

Unable to get it out of my mind, and with my cat nearing starvation, I had to put an end to my racing thoughts.

I called the lost and found department – at least I THOUGHT it was the lost and found.

Dialling the number and mentally readying myself to head back out there and get the book, the line connected. A voice of authority answered - “Security Office.”

Oh God.

What had I done?

“Um, I am looking for the lost and found department?” I was already wondering if I should have registered with Homeland Security before calling the airport.

“Yes, that is part of this office.”

I could practically hear security officers getting in their cars and tracking me down - they can trace calls, you know.

“Um, I am wondering if you have a book I lost?” Great. Now I am lying to the security department, and I KNOW they know I am lying because I am sure the phone is connected to a lie detector machine, and as we all know, I didn’t really LOSE the book….oh what have I done?

“When did you lose it?” Suspicion crept in her voice. I swear I could hear the security officers buckling up their riot gear.

“Um….sometime last week?” Great….any NORMAL person visiting the airport would know WHEN they were there, as they would have a NORMAL reason for being there, like picking up someone, or leaving to somewhere exotic. Because that is what NORMAL people actually DO at the airport. I couldn’t very well explain the REAL reason of why I was there, and why the book was ‘lost,’ now could I?

I would just look silly.

“Well, what day last week – end of August, beginning of September?” I could hear her flipping through pages of a book. Was I on a list somewhere?

Luckily for me, being the bright, quick one that I am, I was on my computer at the time, and while I rambled aimlessly about dates, I looked on my blog, noted the entry of ‘Random Act of ….Reading; The Saga Continues (September 2nd, if you have been following along!), and counted the days backwards to approximately when I was there.

“Um….around August 30th or 31st?” I say ‘um’ a lot.

“Okay,” I could hear more pages flipping, “let me see here.” I was holding my breath, waiting for security to come bursting through my front door, guns drawn, as she looked through some ‘list.’

“Ah, August 30th. What was the name of the book?” I could feel her impatience through the line. I hope she couldn’t see me flapping my arms in panic.

“’Rescue’ by Anita Shreve.”

“Okay…(flip, flip, flip)….laptop, book – oh wait…book? Harry Potter? No, that’s not it.” Harry Potter? Didn’t I just say the name of the book?

She continued. “Cell phone….sunglasses…" (pause) "Now to August 31st. Laptop - no. Wallet - no.” Yes, yes! I wanted to scream! The wallet is mine, especially if there is a million dollars in it!

But I would never do that….

She continued going through each date. The pages she flipped through was not a list of suspicious ‘persons,’ but a book of items found at the airport. She kindly went through each date, and each item found and registered. I wonder if someone would call from Cairo looking for their Starbucks card they dropped….

But no book of mine was to be found.

“Sorry, nothing here.”

“But did you check the whole week….um, from August 29th to September 2nd?” I was panicking, but elation was slowly creeping in.

“Yes, I went through the whole week. Nothing here.”

“Okay, well thank you very much for checking. I really apprec…..” And the line went dead.

Um.

So that ends that. The book did not end up in the lost and found, and I can only hope that a/ the cleaning attendant took it, read it, and has passed it on, or b/maybe the book ended up in Cairo or Dublin, or.....

My obsession has been quieted, for now. I hope the book ends up SOMEWHERE, with SOMEONE reading it and passing it on.

I hope someone emails me…..

Uh oh.

A new obsession has been started - checking my email every five minutes.

Stay tuned….sort of.

Random Act of...Reading: The Saga Continues

(Please visit my previous story 'Random Act of...Reading' dated August 26, 2011 for understanding of this saga...)
I watched the short haul airliner load with passengers and luggage on the tarmac. Once loaded and checked, the doors of the 80-seat aircraft were sealed shut; the turboprops firing up at the pilot’s command. As the pilot continued his pre-flight check, the ailerons flicked up and down as if saying ‘bye bye,’ the rudder moving left and right like a fish tail.

Sure, Victoria International Airport (Airport Designator: YYJ) isn’t known for massive wide body airliners like 747s heading to Pakistan or Iceland. But many flights do depart to the United States, stopping at Vancouver International Airport (Airport Designator: YVR), connecting passengers to other flights travelling afar.

My French Fries were disappearing fast as I watched the flight departure in fascination, my imagination of destinations unknown in overdrive.

Because I knew it had to be in there.

The book.

I dipped a French Fry in (more) salt and ketchup as another aircraft taxied out to the runway. This adventure was well worth the dollar in parking (for two whole hours, no less), and the 2.99 I spent on fries; just to see my experiment take-off to who-knows-where.

If you read my last adventure, ‘Random Act of….Reading’ (Friday, August 26), finding a book being passed from one reader to another like a message in a bottle had me a little obsessive, to say the least.

So in order to get the book out of my hands, quieting my obsession, and have a proper second send-off, I plotted, planned, and contrived the best place to leave the book.

The airport.

As it was summer, travellers were bustling to and fro. But where to leave it, exactly? Because the book was women’s fiction, I figured the best place was the women’s washroom. Not that leaving it in the washroom was testament to the quality of the book, but leaving it in the waiting area at the arrivals was too risky. I could just see some kind person running after me, waving the book in the air “Oh, miss! Oh miss! You forgot your book!” And I would have to kindly accept it back, smile and say thank you. I couldn’t very well explain my whole planned experiment, could I? No.

I would just look silly.

So into the washroom I went, looking left and right for any observers/mind readers, and found the perfect stall. I placed the book, standing up as if on display, on top of the toilet paper dispenser. Satisfied with my mission, I left and made to wash my hands, just in case anyone was watching. I had to authenticate my need to visit the washroom, after all. Smug and quite proud of my accomplishment, I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror. Had I changed since accomplishing this ground-breaking feat? Despite the bags under my eyes, the dry, frizzy hair and the pimple on my chin, those Bond Girls have nothin’ on me.

So I celebrated with sodium-enriched French Fries, and eyed each person who came out of the washroom, making their way through security to the departure gate. Who had the book, and where was it headed to? And would they pass it on as I had inscribed in the book? I saw no one carrying the book, but was SURE at least ONE person had the great find stashed in her bag.

French Fries gone, the few planes on the tarmac now departed, the vortices curling and snapping in their wake, it was time to go. Besides, security was eyeing me, and I hadn’t brought my toothbrush for my usual overnight prison stay.

Curiosity got the better of me, though, and I simply had to go back to see if it was gone.

Entering the washroom, I noticed it smelled....fresher. Cleaner. Ah well, I shrugged the observation aside, this is a very clean airport. I likely didn’t notice the cleanliness during my initial visit, so focused I was on my mission.

I went to the stall.

The book was gone!

But before elation could get the better of me, I realized one thing.

The toilet seat was up, blue cleaner was still in the bowl, and the tiny scrap of paper earlier seen on the ground, was gone.

NO!

I went from stall to stall. All were the same. Lids up, cleaner within; clean as a whistle.

The cleaning attendants must have gone in while I was inhaling – sorry, DELICATELY dining on – my fries, and did their job.

Although I am not opposed to clean washrooms, and I commend the staff for doing their job, the book was supposed to be going on a plane to somewhere exotic. I could only hope the attendant didn’t throw it out, or leave it in the lost and found where it would sit forever. Mission failed, I made my way to the car, slumped over and disappointed.

As I drove away, the planes taking off without my book, shame washed over me like jet engine exhaust. This experiment wasn’t about me. The whole point of this mission was to get a book into the hands of another reader; to share the love of a good book, as the original book-inscriber had likely intended. Someone WOULD read it. It didn’t matter if they lived right across the street from me, or on the other side of the world. Even though my intent was to see a book travel the world, hoping readers would inscribe in the book, and possibly email me (again, see previous tale as mentioned above), I had forgotten the whole point - to share the joy of reading. So really....mission accomplished.

The planes continued leaving, I still kept wondering, and the French Fries were giving me indigestion. BUT, I decided to head back in a day or so and check-out the airport's lost and found, anyways – just in case.

If not, at least, for another $2.99 medium-sized French Fries.

(for more information about stuff going on at the airport visit/click Victoria International Airport)

Random Act of.....Reading

Somewhere far, far away – far from where I live, at least – in Georgetown, Ontario, Canada, is someone who loves a good book.

And had a need to share.

I had six glorious minutes of peace, quiet and tranquility before my bus was to arrive. In my busy life, as for many, six minutes of peace is nirvana, and where better to find it than along loud, bustling, smoggy, tourist-laden Douglas Street in Victoria, BC.

Along a row of benches I found THE perfect bench to savour the moment. As I approached THE perfect bench, I spotted the object of my many desires and affections.

A book.

I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. The authors’ name along the spine, Anita Shreve, had me whipping my ponytail in double-take. What a perfect find - an author whose books I enjoy, no less.

Do I pick it up? Should I pick it up?

What if the book was just lost, the owner frantically searching all over town for this treasure? What if it was being used as bait, kidnappers luring me in and waiting around the corner so they can throw me in the back of a truck?

Seeing that no one was running back for the lost book, no kidnappers were in sight, and that four of my six minutes had flown by during all this turmoil, I decided if it was covered in mud and goobers, in the trash it would go. And if I get kidnapped….well…..

With a quick glance around and looking unassuming and not-so-famous, with the stealth of a panther, the sly approach of a fox, and a nonchalant flick of my hair, I grabbed the book and made for the bus stop. With a quick flip through – it was goober free – I stuffed it in my bag before anyone could see. I wasn’t stealing, I found it, but I felt the adrenaline rush of a spy for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

On the bus, and eager to peruse my prize, I flipped it open, and written just inside the front cover was:

*Ann Smith
Georgetown, ON
Canada
Enjoy a good read!

*(I changed the name for her protection. Even though she took it upon herself to write her own name, I just felt that for things like freedom of information and privacy, identity-theft (for her sake), stalkers and the like, it might be a good idea.)

It took me a second to realize it wasn’t an inscription, as in gifting a book from one to another. But it WAS a gift to whoever picked it up. She was passing it on, sharing a book, and making her mark.

Who was she? What kind of person is she? Does she always do things like this? Did she like the book?

Where did she buy the book? How far had the book travelled? By plane or by car? Did she drive across Canada this summer, and purchase the book in Eyebrow, Saskatchewan?

What made her want to inscribe the book in such a way, and hope that someone picked it up? Has she done this before?


Intrigued and exhausted (from all that thinking, wondering and spying), I had deep thoughts while the bus jostled me to and fro. I HAD to write my own inscription for the next person – whoever that might be – and do as ‘Ann’ did, and pass it on. Hopefully the next finder of the book will write an inscription, and leave it for someone to find.

Here’s what I wrote:

Found this book in Victoria, BC Canada, by someone who wanted to share a good read. I am passing it on to you, hoping you will read, enjoy, inscribe, and pass it on. Write me and tell me where the book has been. (then my name and email)

As I finally spilled from the now jam-packed bus at the stop by my house, I was giddy with the wonder of the whole concept; the point of a ‘free book’ now forgotten. Kind of like a message in a bottle/chain letter kind of thing, I wondered if ‘Ann’ was on to something here. If she only knew what she set off in my imagination. What started for her as a simple random act of kindness, turned into, hopefully, something much more.

Now I just have to figure out the best place to leave it...do I drive to the airport? Go to the washroom in the Empress Hotel? a restaurant? a bus? What to do, what to do....

Will keep you posted if anyone writes me….

(oh…right…forgot one bit. ‘Rescue’ by Anita Shreve was fantastic. Read it in one day – go get it.)

Finding History at Whippletree Junction

(A shorter version of this appeared in the April 2011 edition of Nanaimo Magazine - here it is in long play)

10 minutes south of Duncan, BC, or, 45 minutes north of Victoria, BC, (depending on which way you are travelling, mind you), sits a little ‘town’ – Whippletree Junction. Just off the Trans Canada Highway on Vancouver Island, 14 restored buildings from the early 1900’s house coffee shops, speciality shops, and restaurants. Antiques and artifacts nestled in the gardens between the shops further enhance the ‘old time’ ambiance.

But most importantly, to me at least, is the presence of a washroom. Nothing beats modern plumbing and electricity - thank you very much.

On the day I made the journey from Victoria to Nanaimo for a writing-related function, my halfway-mark pit stop at Whippletree Junction found me dodging puddles as I raced to the door bearing the ‘Ladies’ sign. The rain was awful – there is no flowery, fancy, or literary way to put it. Going 50 km/h on the typically 90 – 120km/h highway, I white-knuckled it as I fought each hydroplane-inducing puddle. The usual pit stop at the ‘town’ was much welcomed; not only for my bladder, but also for my nerves.

But as I made my way back to the car, already dreading the rest of the drive home, something caught my eye. In the alcove of a building sat a forgotten piece of history, rusting in the elements of Mother Nature. At first glance it looked like something out of Star Wars, circa 1977. But I soon realized Darth Vader’s throne, it was not.

Fighting the wind with my umbrella, my feet soaking in a puddle, I poked around this contraption, and figured out it was some sort of printing press.

Okay, I’ll admit it – the very large keyboard bearing still-intact letters was my hint.

As my research would later tell me, this particular ‘line casting’ machine, a printing machine able to print whole lines of type at once, was produced around the 1920’s by Intertype Corp., in Brooklyn, NY. With its 90-character keyboard (half upper case, half lower case, and the rest special characters – no qwerty anywhere), along with its countless levers, handles and gizmos, a hot metal ‘slug’ would be produced bearing words and sentences (I am giving you the extremely condensed version, here). Line those up, and you have yourself a whole paragraph, article or story! And Extra! EXTRA! You got yourself a newspaper.

Fun fact: The first line-casting machine was purchased for newspaper publishing by the New York Tribune in 1886.

How fitting I should notice this piece of history when my mind was abuzz of writerly thoughts, post meeting. I picked away a few stray pieces of grass, and juggling my umbrella, my purse and the rain drops, I snapped a few photos. How contrary this was, to be standing in front of this piece of rusted history, when only an hour or so before I was discussing e-publishing, e-books, e-readers – basically ‘e-everything.’

And I wondered – will our children, their children, and THEIR children line up to take pictures of our long discarded cellphones, laptops, Blackberries, iPads, Notebooks and god-knows-what-else has yet to come along? And in the typhoon-force rains like I was in, no less?

And what about those long past masters of their craft, able to multi-task all the levers, keys, and switches to produce copy for distribution. Have they been forgotten? Only their memory remains in this piece of history that sat before me, covered in old paint splatters, rust, grass and twigs.

What a long way we have come. Yet, now all we do is sit on our butts, type on a 104-key computer keyboard, 26 of which are actual letters, and moan that the printer is too far away from our arm to reach.

The One-Armed Rancher

In Princeton, British Columbia, just east on highway 5A, is a gently paved road.

I say gently as I am sure somewhere deep under the potholes and rocks, time and logging trucks have compressed the gravel and dirt into something resembling smooth driving terrain.

The gently paved Summers Creek Road, 32 kilometres long, leads to a subdivision of 120 cottages surrounding Missezula Lake, a once highly renowned trophy fishing lake. To the normal driver, 32 kilometres doesn’t sound long, and would take maybe 15 – 20 minutes to drive if paved (if you drive like me, that is). But when you’re navigating your way around potholes, gravel the size of boulders, ground squirrels and chipmunks making a mad dash to and fro, never mind inching along sections wide enough for only one vehicle to slink around a blind corner, it takes a good hour to get to the other end. The cattle guards rattle your teeth, the twists and turns somersault your stomach, and the dust clogs your pores.



But as you reach for the anti-nausea pills, be mindful of the cows.

Yes, the cows. Forget about great fishing – give me the cows, any day.

Ranches flank the winding road, and except for the horses, the cows run amuck. The teeth-rattling, ankle-twisting cattle guards keep them where they should be – sort of.

I mean really, the ranchers can’t be everywhere, all the time, can they?

But I can.

With the hour-long bumpy ride behind me, and after the nausea cleared and I steam-cleaned my pores – in the wilderness, no less - three days into our stay at the lake, I found my calling.

While everyone slept off their s’mores, I maintained my daily walking regime. My early-morning treks to the lake were refreshing, albeit invigorating, to say the least. At nearly 4,000 feet above sea level, the walk around the subdivision has one who is accustomed to living well below sea level working up a good sweat.

One particular morning I set out, and just as was I pondering the whereabouts of cougars and bears, I could hear the cows mooing their little (or big) lungs out. Just outside the confines of our haven protected with a cattle guard and barbed wire, the cows ran and mooed their way down the road – towards our subdivision. Despite wondering if they were being chased by a bear or a cougar, I kept walking. That’s what cattle guards are for, to keep everything out - right?

With the cows still on my mind, I hiked the gravel roads twisting between the cottages, and watched the mist from the lake rise and disappear into the surrounding hills. But not even the entertainment of a mother loon and her babies fluttering between the docks could dispel my growing concern for the cows. I figured I better get back and check on the wild bovine; bears or cougars, aside.

I made my way to the entrance-gate where I suspected they would be, and there they were. The only thing between me and them were the mosquitoes, fresh mountain air, and the cattle guard. But I HAD to get closer. I side-stepped and slowly inched my way over the dusty pipes, out of the subdivision. I already had my arm in a sling; I didn’t need any more catastrophes (more on the arm, below).

I have been up close and personal with horses; riding them, grooming them, and getting bucked off them (the wrecked arm not a result of). But having nothing between me and ‘wild’ cows was a tad – intimidating.

They looked at me.

I looked at them.

I don’t know if the bull was there, but I suspect if he were, he wouldn’t be too thrilled with me traipsing around his harem.

They were on one side of the road, but I much preferred them on the other side, in the meadow - where they belong.

The rancher I am raised my ‘good’ arm in a ‘herding’ sorta way, and while making some cattle-call noises I was SURE ranchers EVERYWHERE use, I got them running. Across the road, through a break in the fence, and out to the meadow – where they belong.

Except for the big-horned one who engaged in a staring competition.

Uh oh. How fast could I run over the cattle guard with my arm in a sling?

But then he (I think ‘he’ - I didn’t ask if I could ‘check’), ambled his way through the fence, and carried on being a cow.

And I stood in awe of one of my greatest feats, ever.

I had become The One-Armed Rancher.

(As for the arm - I tripped and fell the week before the great ranching expedition and did ‘something’ to my arm. BUT, I can finally apply mascara with the wrecked arm if I tilt my head ‘just so.’ Aside from my sling that needs a good washing from all that dust, the cows survived, as will I. I am invincible.)