(Pi Day)
We had decided to take Dad's pickup instead of my Jeep, for a change. The main purpose for that being to fill the gas tank, as we do about every six weeks or so.
The vehicle doesn't get much mileage, since Dad only drives it to get his mail and stop by to check on me, and once in a while to visit a neighbor across the way. On the days that we take the truck to town, he drives the few blocks down to my house, and then I take the wheel.
We were going to have some time to kill between his physical therapy appointment and his regular doctor appointment, so I thought this might be a good time to pick up some insulation board at Bath Lumber, and maybe do some browsing around the garden department.
Since his appointment was at 10, we had decided to leave early.
When he wasn't down to my house by 8:30, I wondered if he had forgotten that we were going early, so I called. After six rings, the answering machine finally picked up, so I figured that maybe he had decided to put a can of gas in the tank, just in case, and he was probably outside. I can see his house from my front yard - well enough to know whether his vehicle is there.
Stepping outside, I spot Dad's truck coming out onto the main road, so I grab my jacket and bid the pups farewell: "Wait home. You don' getta go. Town day. Long time. Bye bye." (*Hope I have anything edible up out of reach.)
*My definition of "edible" is not exactly the same as theirs.
Despite the season, I'm leaving the kitchen door open so 'the troops' can go in and out as they please. Ruby will probably spend the day sleeping inside. Victor will be outside -barking- most of the time, and Grover will rotate between them. The cats will do whatever the cats want to do.Check before take-off:
- Prescriptions list
- Part D Medicare card
- Appointment card,
- Physical therapy prescription.
I love weather like we're getting today! It's warm outside, but the sky is filled with a profusion of cloud formations. I would like nothing more than to jump out and snap a few atmospheric photographs - but alas, we do not have time to dink around, today.
"Tillerson," I correct. "I know! And then he's moving Pompeo into Tillerson's position. And that woman he wants to put in Pompeo's old job as head of the CIA, is being investigated for war crimes. Under Bush."
He shifts in his seat and looks out across the golden brown desert. Dad does not like any display of temper, and he has inadvertently pushed one of my hot buttons.
 |
| Windshield shot, auto focus and blind. Not even close to doing the scene justice. |
The clouds are taunting me. Daring me to pull over and stop.
"Those clouds look like waves crashing ... " I motion toward the western horizon. I reach down and drag my camera out from under the seat. Set on Auto and AF ... set it up on the dash and click off a few shots, hoping for the best.
Dad grips the armrest and shoots me a disapproving look, but says nothing.
"Oh? What for?"
"He kept posting his Utopian crap on my page," I explain. "I told him to knock it off, and he said that he could go where he wants online, and say whatever he wants, and if I don't like it, I can unfriend him." I pop my fingers. "So I did."
"Oh." I can tell he's intrigued.
"He's just gotten so radical," I expound: "You know, he started out talking about how "everybody is just going to get along and help each other, and (I'm all mimicky now) everyone will enjoy a new freedom such as they have never known before; unshackled from governmental control' ... And then recently," I continue, "he posted something about a situation where, if certain people don't do what the group thinks they should do, then they will be 'shamed and ostracized'."
(Not that this would be especially effective, I think; given current communications and population conditions. Wouldn't the shunned people just all get together and form their own faction, and then you'd be right back to the divisiveness we have now.)"And THEN!" I go on "He posted an article on MY wall, that just went on and on, raving about how stupid the rest of us are, and that in this wonderful new Free Market system, the ethic will be "Produce value, or starve!"
"And I said, 'Oh sure. So, those of us who paid into Social Security for decades, and are finally reaping the benefits our contributions, can just ... starve?' Sure! Which one of us stupid idiots isn't just chomping at the bit to jump on that crazy train! .... And I guess that the blind, handicapped, and elderly can just crawl off and die, too." (I'm basically just glad the people pushing this agenda don't vote.)
"Well, it will never work," he assures me. On this point we definitely agree.
Coincidentally, Dad's latest audio book is about the evolution of western civilization. He fills me in:
"The United States and Canada came into existence at about the same time as some South American countries, like Venezuela.
"North American countries developed a lot faster, because people [there] could own property and develop their own ideas; whereas South American governments were more colonial, with a Spanish ruling class, and a few super wealthy people owned most of the land, and everyone else was poor.""Like we have now, then." I interject. "When 2% of the population owns 50% of the (nation's) assets."
"[A relative of ours] has been telling me about countries that are ranked by IQ," he goes on. "Some countries in Africa, the average is about 16. [I roll my eyes: a person with an IQ of 16 would be barely functional.] "And then, some other countries like India, they're both extremely high and extremely low.
"Because they have a caste system, where one class is extremely rich, and the lower class is extremely poor," I speculate - though I had thought the caste system had been pretty well demolished. Make a mental note to look into that.
"Some Jews have very high IQ's - especially for mathematics ... and finance."
"You can't really separate intelligence from economics," I insist. " I mean, if a country has been at war, and the people are starving, they're just not going to test well. It takes good nutrition and a certain amount of security for the mind to function .... " (and who doesn't realize that IQ tests are biased in favor western concepts?).
- The person he has referenced is a white supremacist searching for justification for his bigotry. A couple of years ago, I had been coerced into sitting through an entire dinner listening to the guy's right-wing theories about eugenics, "false flag events" (such as Sandy Hook and 911), and the "fake" moon landing. I was supposed to be gaining perspective and understanding in order to develop a more amiable relationship with him.
Fail! (See "Prime Directive" quote below)
"That's the third concentrate truck this morning," Dad observes (and I am not disappointed that the subject may be changing). "Last time we came, there were SEVEN of 'em"
- There's nothing wrong with the old man's memory. I suppose that, like many hyper-intelligent people, his mind simply filters out information it does not deem important while retaining more relevant factoids, such as ore values, and the price he paid for oranges, last week.
Just before getting to McGill we come up behind a bright blue pickup. This jogs my memory, and I tell Dad that some snowbirds have returned to their 'nest' in Cherry Creek. He wonders if the guy got his other knee fixed? I wouldn't know - I had merely seen them arrive back in their motor home, towing their bright blue pickup.
As I pull into the handicap access parking space by the clinic, Dad wants to know why I am parking there?
- Senior moment on my part; I had been thinking about his appointment at the clinic, rather than for physical therapy in the basement at the other end of the building. He gets such pleasure out of pointing out my mental failings, I suppose I ought to try and do it more often, just to make him grin.
Once it's resolved that I only know of one route, we proceed through the admissions lobby to the stairwell that I had been directed to the last time we were here, and we pick our way down the treacherous stairs to the physical therapy department.
- The concrete steps are out of kilter somehow - maybe the risers are a little shorter than standard stairs? They feel off balance, and I get concerned as I realize that the old man, with his wrapped-up feet in unfastened shoes, is vulnerable to a spill. I fight back the urge to grasp his arm - he surely would resent the insinuation of dependence. I put my keys away in my pocket to free up both hands in case I need to grab him, if he should start to tumble.
"This isn't a very big elevator," he observes.
"Plenty of room for a gurney." I counter.
At the admitting desk, the technician who had watched us descending the stairs and then emerging from the elevator sympathizes: "Oh, did you guys have to go all the way down the stairs and then come back up again?"
"We don't know what we're doing." I state confidentially.
The process of checking in goes quickly, and we're soon back in the cozy elevator. No more treacherous stairs for us!
The lady behind the glass tells us to have a seat, and that the PT would be with us very soon.
"An anarchist would hate this building." Dad resumes the discussion we were having half an hour ago..An anarchist would never be able to build this building."
"(In anarchy), this building would not exist. Medicine would not exist. No standards. There would be no doctors - no universities; no licensing requirements.... " I smirk.
"It's just another [idiosyncrasy]. I don't think he's stupid. His father was a very intelligent man -- but then, he thought just the same kind of way." The old man shakes his head, bemused.
"I don't get it. Do you think it's something genetic, then?" I speculate.
"I don't know. [anonymous] just watches and laughs."
"Utopian thinks I'm eccentric."
"I think so too," he smiles.
I chuckle and shrug. "I'm good with that." (What's so special about conformity, anyhow?) "And, you know, I'm pretty sure I know where some of it came from ... "
He cocks his head and grins at me.
"Sister Dearest calls it the 'Steen gene' - but from what I've been noticing the last several years, maybe a bunch of it might have come from the other side (of my family tree), too." (The Ruggles clan, while being extremely intelligent, also exhibit some quirks.)
"Well, that Steen gene would be where {the Utopian} got a lot of his. And then, the [paternal] side ... he got it on both sides," he chuckles.
"It's kind of funny," I say, "Of the three of them, the 'craziest' one turned out to be the most rational."
"Oh! I don't know about that!" We'll have to agree to disagree on that one, it seems.
"I chatted with her for quite a while, yesterday."
"Oh, what is she doing these days?"
"Well, she was asking me about stove pipes for wood stoves. - among other things." No point elaborating on our progressive conspiratorial political views, right now.
The receptionist signals that we can come into the inner recesses of the physical therapy department.
In the center of the large gymnasium-like area is a platform about the size of a king size bed, with legs about one foot high and made from 4x4's. I suppose it must be for a super-sized client. There's a lot of exercise equipment, several cubicles with massage tables, and another glassed-in section with half-drawn curtains, where a medical person appears to be conducting therapy.
The physical therapist on staff today, is the same guy that did the bandaging on Friday. He's an exceptionally cheery fellow with a very round belly and a tiny proboscis. He has Dad slide up his pant legs, revealing that he has, indeed, behaved himself, and both sets of fluorescent green bandages are still on.
First order of business is removal of the wrapping that has held the old man's legs in bondage for several days, now. The therapist takes out a pair of snub-nose scissors and proceeds to cut through both layers of bandages to reveal pale skin, just the right shade.
The healing has gone very nicely, and he has determined that only the left leg needs to be re-bandaged, and that one can come off on Sunday. No need to come back in for that. He repeatedly comments about how quickly the lesions are healing, while entering Dad's prescription information into his tablet.
"I'm just going to pick off those dead scabs so they can heal better, and then we'll wrap you up." He applies a bit of salve to each one, and then an attendant brings him a pair of forceps, which he uses to pull off half a dozen of the dead scaly patches. He's humming as he works, and at one point starts whistling a happy tune. This guy apparently really enjoys his work!
The new 'vet wrap' is bright red. Once that's on, Dad starts putting on his shoes.
"You didn't wear socks?" I hadn't noticed until now.
"Well, with the bandages on, they wouldn't go on."
"Maybe we'd better go buy you some socks." I suggest. "We have plenty of time!"
"I need the slick shiny kind."
"OK"
Therapist says to make an appointment for whenever we happen to be coming back into town. He's very understanding about our location .... I think we'll wait until after Dad's second appointment of the day, and try to coordinate with whatever Dr. Uddin has to say.
That was relatively quick and painless. "Do you want to go get some socks?"
"No. First, I want to go pay my landfill bill ... well, I don't really WANT to .... and I was thinking maybe we could go visit Rab and Debbie."
"Oh. OK."
Onward to City Hall, now located in the old Fire Station at the west end of Ely, next to the football field.
- My spacial perception seems off today. I've noticed that I parked crooked and off-center, at every stop so far. This is no different; I left barely enough room on the passenger side for him to get out without grazing the door of the car in the next space. Note to self: Be a little more mindful, next time.
"Do we go upstairs?"
"No. Right here." I know this from the last time I came in here, to pay my own landfill bill.
An attractive dark-haired woman greets us, "How can I help you, today?"
"I need to pay my bill" says Dad.
She asks his name and upon hearing it replies, "Oh. I think I have been talking to you on the phone, haven't I?"
He confirms it ... He had, indeed called to complain about suddenly being billed for a service he has never paid for, before. We got it set up to be paid automatically by credit card.
As we're leaving, I point to the notice on the desk, informing customers that, as of April 2, they will need to present a paid invoice and identification at the landfill, or be assessed a $5 fee. * Landfill Fees
I comment that I bet they'll be hearing from a lot of people about this one.
"Yes," she confirms, "We have already heard from quite a few."
So here we are, at about 11:00 with a couple of hours to kill. Dad wants to go and visit his friends up on the outskirts above Ely, so that's what we're going to do today. I had been there once some years back, and I wasn't driving at the time, so I didn't remember exactly how to get to their place.
I cross the tracks, turn left onto a steep dirt road, which splits almost immediately, with one track running northwest parallel to the paved street, and the other mostly north. "Left?"
"That's what I said. Double back."
"Okay, okay. Just checkin'."
As their house comes into view, I no longer need a navigator, but the navigator can't see the house as clearly as I do. He squints, "I think that's it, over there."
"Yes. It is."
The gate is a long metal bar on a swivel hinge. Dad starts to get out, but I tell him to never mind; I've got it (because I'm confident that I can be out and back, in less than the time it takes him to unbuckle his seat belt.)
The gate isn't hard to open, but the wind is blowing so hard that, by the time I get back into the truck, it has nearly blown shut behind me. I look for a hook of some sort, where I could secure it while I drive through. Finding nothing, I push it open again and hold it by sheer energy force. When I get back to the pickup again, it starts to swing. I pull on through, reaching out the window to give it a little shove to send it back until I can get the rest of the vehicle inside. Then I climb back out again and walk around to latch it.
Our hosts have spotted us in their front yard, and come to their front door, smiling and beckoning us to come forth. Mister offers a supporting hand to Dad, who draws back insisting that he can manage the steps just fine. It takes him a few minutes, but sure enough, he handles the task just fine. Missus motions me to come on up, which I will surely do, once the old man is on the landing.
They seem delighted to see my father, and our hostess immediately goes out into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of home-made chokecherry wine and a loaf of pumpkin bread from the freezer. She tells us that they have called Dad a couple of times, hoping to catch him home so they could bring their annual Christmas offering by, but that they guessed he hadn't heard the message.
Our friends are avid hunters, and their comfortable home is tastefully decorated with some rather spectacular elk racks, many fine quality wildlife prints, along with hand-rendered portraits of their beloved dogs and a horse or two. An enormous deer head dominates one side of the fireplace. On another wall, a mounted deer skull with antlers intact. Several frames display Native arrowheads.
Once they have been updated on Dad's physical malady, the conversation runs the gamut from mining to hunting and ATV's, to the disruption of 'horn-hunting season', which is a favorite outdoor pastime of these folks.
They seem delighted to see my father, and our hostess immediately goes out into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of home-made chokecherry wine and a loaf of pumpkin bread from the freezer. She tells us that they have called Dad a couple of times, hoping to catch him home so they could bring their annual Christmas offering by, but that they guessed he hadn't heard the message.
Our friends are avid hunters, and their comfortable home is tastefully decorated with some rather spectacular elk racks, many fine quality wildlife prints, along with hand-rendered portraits of their beloved dogs and a horse or two. An enormous deer head dominates one side of the fireplace. On another wall, a mounted deer skull with antlers intact. Several frames display Native arrowheads.
Once they have been updated on Dad's physical malady, the conversation runs the gamut from mining to hunting and ATV's, to the disruption of 'horn-hunting season', which is a favorite outdoor pastime of these folks.
- Since picking up 'shed horns' (naturally cast-off antlers) is now prohibited at this time of year (presumably to prevent disturbing wildlife during birthing season), they have found a new-fangled way around the ordinance: They note the location of antlers on their GPS tracker, and will return to pick them up when the season reopens ..... unless somebody else has beaten them to it. --- All of which renders moot, the ridiculous restriction on picking up shed horns, since that in itself, does not prevent people from going out searching.
Antlers rigged with GPS devices to catch early shed hunters
They ask me how many wild horses the BLM has gathered from our area this time?
- "Nearly fourteen hundred!" I scowl.
- Their eyes grow wide, jaws drop. "WOW! I didn't know there were even that many over there!" (Bear in mind that these people spend a lot of time out on the open range.)
- "There are a lot of horses. 'WERE' .... " I correct myself. "Now, you won't see many. And they're so spooked, you won't get within five miles of 'em before they take off."
It's a highly emotional topic for me, and the ensuing awkward silence is quickly switched to something less controversial.We accept our hosts' kind offer of coffee and lunch. As the guys are comparing notes on the mechanical advantages of different ATV's, I amble into the kitchen to offer my assistance - mostly because I know that the chef is likely to dish up more interesting conversation.
She had been one of my mother's closest friends, and the two of them used to go backroading and deer hunting together, before Mom got sick.
I guess it has never been conveyed to her, just how much I abhor hunting, and she proceeds to happily describe her grand achievement in bringing about the demise of the large mule deer buck whose magnificent dead head adorns the living room wall.
I have been around hunters nearly all of my life (except during those years when I was an urban dweller far from home). At certain times, I have even tried to overcome my disdain for the pursuit. We ate a lot of venison, growing up ... hunting for meat just doesn't make fiscal sense anymore, and the idea of killing something for the sheer enjoyment of watching it die is utterly incomprehensible.
The most puzzling thing for me has always been that these people are very often such otherwise kind and gentle souls, who love their dogs, their horses, and their children as deeply as anyone else does.I learned long ago that hunters have no interest in being enlightened by me. In order to function in this culture, I have devised an approach that works for me: I simply consider them an alien species that has not yet evolved beyond violent aggression.
We have stayed til after noon and it's time to get a move on toward Dad's get-acquainted session with his new doctor. By this time, I have forgotten whether his appointment is at 1:15 or 1:45 - either way, we'll be there in plenty of time. If it's the latter, we may have to wait a while.
A quick stop at the bank, where Jody supplies me with a new password so I can access my online account, and we're on our way.
Admissions processing doesn't take long. We're handed two sheets of paper and directed to 'go ahead' - but since Dad had never seen this doctor before, and neither of us have been treated at the clinic, I had to ask, "Where is it?"
"Go down that hallway and turn right just before the big glass doors, then the waiting room is on the right."
We got slightly lost on the way, but eventually found the waiting area next to a nurses' station. Dad bypasses the large blue sign: "No one beyond this point without an escort", as I call to his back in increasingly loud tones, "Dad!" .... "DAD!!" ... "DAD!!!"
Finally, I just go ahead and breach the invisible velvet rope, touching him on the shoulder from behind. "Dad, you can't go down there. It's a restricted area."
"Oh."
We trudge sheepishly back around the nurses' station, and the nurse who watched the infraction directs us back into the waiting area cubby.
.... and we wait ....
After a while, the nurse/hall monitor comes and stands against the wall, quietly pronouncing Dad's name. Since I can barely hear her, he definitely couldn't, so I stand up and motion him to go along. We stroll past the big blue sign and around the corner, to a front corner of the station, where the lady asks his height, ("About five-ten," he says) stands him on an upright digital scale (his weight is about eight pounds over what he thinks it normally is), runs a digital thermometer across his forehead, and sends us back to the waiting room with instructions to deposit the two papers into a plastic folder holder on the wall.
.... and we wait ....
Dr. Uddin is a dapper young Middle Eastern man - I'm guessing Indian - with a noticeable accent and clear dark eyes. He's in a hurry to gather Dad's medical history - most of which ought to already be in the system from previous visits.
He seems to have gotten a bit wrapped up in transcribing all of the prescription information and doesn't appear to be paying attention to the things Dad is trying to explain; about the weakness in his left leg, and the old bullet wound.
Dad tells him about the gall bladder attack that he experienced in 2009, and how scary it had been, as he was at home all alone, and unable to drive himself to the hospital. He had lain awake in pain all night, thinking he was surely going to die -- until the pain eventually subsided.
The doctor is ordering some cardiology tests, and explains that the cardiologist will call Dad to set up the appointment. (Later, we both agreed that this is an unnecessary procedure designed to generate funds for the hospital.)
Back in the clinic admissions lobby, I reschedule my appointment - that had been rescheduled for this Friday, then cancelled due to the nurse practitioner's illness. (Doctors aren't supposed to get sick, are they?) 1:15 next Wednesday. And one for Dad at physical therapy: 11 am. We're optimistic his will be the last one for the scab guy. He'll see Uddin again in two weeks, and the traveling cardiologist will call to set up an examination the next time he is in Ely.
"We deserve it!"
Once we're finally to the turn-off, I pull to a full stop in the middle of the deserted road and again reach for my camera. Since Schellbourne, my attention has been fixated on the ethereal appearance of the Cherry Creek Mountains, draped in a pale cloak of clouds.
"What are we doing?"
I click a couple of snaps and put the truck into gear. "That."
"Yep."
After a few minutes, he informs me, "It takes an elephant 21 months to produce a calf."
"Huh. It takes a mare eleven months." I think about the wild foals that were being born during the Triple B roundup, just a few weeks ago. In the final days of that horrific exercise, the newborns would not only be cold, but forced to run fast on their undeveloped wobbly legs trying to keep up with their mothers. What a hostile world to be born into! Heavily pregnant mares shared the same fate. The mental images are so deeply disturbing to me, I don't want to talk any more.
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Dr. Uddin is a dapper young Middle Eastern man - I'm guessing Indian - with a noticeable accent and clear dark eyes. He's in a hurry to gather Dad's medical history - most of which ought to already be in the system from previous visits.
He seems to have gotten a bit wrapped up in transcribing all of the prescription information and doesn't appear to be paying attention to the things Dad is trying to explain; about the weakness in his left leg, and the old bullet wound.
Dad tells him about the gall bladder attack that he experienced in 2009, and how scary it had been, as he was at home all alone, and unable to drive himself to the hospital. He had lain awake in pain all night, thinking he was surely going to die -- until the pain eventually subsided.
He doesn't remember what year that was, but I do. Vividly. Because I was in New Mexico when it happened, and he called me after the pain had passed, describing what he then believed to be an episode of food poisoning. It all sounded a lot like a heart attack to me, and though I had been asked to stay in Pueblo for another month, I felt compelled to get home and make sure things were alright. (My return trip was an adventure to be extrapolated on another day.) It was that incident which convinced me that I am going to have to remain in Cherry Creek --- so it behooves me to make it work.Uddin is concerned about Dad's slightly elevated blood pressure - even after we have BOTH explained that it has always been higher than the average person's, and that he has never had any kind of heart problems.
The doctor is ordering some cardiology tests, and explains that the cardiologist will call Dad to set up the appointment. (Later, we both agreed that this is an unnecessary procedure designed to generate funds for the hospital.)
Back in the clinic admissions lobby, I reschedule my appointment - that had been rescheduled for this Friday, then cancelled due to the nurse practitioner's illness. (Doctors aren't supposed to get sick, are they?) 1:15 next Wednesday. And one for Dad at physical therapy: 11 am. We're optimistic his will be the last one for the scab guy. He'll see Uddin again in two weeks, and the traveling cardiologist will call to set up an examination the next time he is in Ely.
On the way back to Ridley's we talk about the cardiology appointment, and the high likelihood that it's an unnecessary 'CYOA' procedure, and merely a means of generating more revenue for the hospital.
At Ridley's pharmacy, it's a mercifully quick process to enter his Medicare Part D number into the system, and without much ado the lady behind the glass counts out forty-one dollars and change. Dad looks like he's just won the jackpot, and thanks her with great gusto.
It's going on three PM and we have had a day ... we decide that we can get whatever we need at Bradley's Market in McGill. I've been craving a milkshake all afternoon - maybe we can nip into Marie's Cafe and get one to savor most of the way home. They make the best shakes in the county!
The truck's gas gauge isn't quite to 'E' when we hit the Texaco.
"Fifty dollars!"
"Fifty dollars!"
"How much?!"
"Fifty."
"Fifty."
"Whshoo!"
"Bath?"
"Nah."
- We've sure been racking up the savings by passing on our usual stop at Bath Lumber! With so much going on, by the time we have worked our way back to the northeast end of Ely, we're both tired and ready to be on our way home.
The long eleven mile drive back to McGill is pretty quiet.
Marie's Cafe appears to be closed, so no milkshake, today. Oh well, I really didn't need the extra fat.
Bradley's isn't very busy, and we're able to make our rounds relatively quickly.
They're out of his fruity sangria, so we move along to the rest of his (mental) list, which doesn't vary much from one week to the next: cube steak from the meat case, browse through the 'quick sale items' at the end of the case, oranges, San Francisco style sourdough bread.
Then we browse through the frozen dinners, with me reading the labels of each kind, and he chooses Salisbury steak and fried chicken (same as always).
Against my better judgment, I pick up a box of six ice cream bars and add them to my basket.
He opens the big chest type freezer that contains frozen vegetables and burritos. I read: "beef and bean, bean and cheese, green chili .... HOT green chili". He opts for a few of each.
"In New Mexico they told us that green was gonna be hot, and red would be cool." he remarks.
I remember the first time I ordered fast food in New Mexico - that would have been Albuquerque, around 1976 - I didn't know what they meant when they asked, "Red or green?"Back in the car, I wait for the old man to buckle up, and hand him an ice cream bar "Oh! Thank you!"
"We deserve it!"
Once we're finally to the turn-off, I pull to a full stop in the middle of the deserted road and again reach for my camera. Since Schellbourne, my attention has been fixated on the ethereal appearance of the Cherry Creek Mountains, draped in a pale cloak of clouds."What are we doing?"
I click a couple of snaps and put the truck into gear. "That."
Down in the bottom of the valley, where cattle will soon be roaming again, Dad observes, "Poor little calves will be out there in that snow ..."
"Yep."
After a few minutes, he informs me, "It takes an elephant 21 months to produce a calf."
"Huh. It takes a mare eleven months." I think about the wild foals that were being born during the Triple B roundup, just a few weeks ago. In the final days of that horrific exercise, the newborns would not only be cold, but forced to run fast on their undeveloped wobbly legs trying to keep up with their mothers. What a hostile world to be born into! Heavily pregnant mares shared the same fate. The mental images are so deeply disturbing to me, I don't want to talk any more.
I pull in by my front gate and take my few bags of groceries from the back seat. He'll have no trouble getting the rest of the way home - ( We sometimes remark that his truck knows the way by itself).
Home, at last! My heart is lifted by the sight of three wicked dogs scratching on the beat-up old front door, so frantically joyous to see me, you'd think I'd been gone a month. It sort of feels to me like it has been that long.
I don't know how many more trips we're going to take on the circuitous route we've worn into a rut. I guess we'll just keep doing it for as long as Dad will let me drive.
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