The Timberlane Farm Museum, Loveland, Colorado

It's been a strange week, but I'm back at the keyboard now, and want to start with the outside photos I took at Timberlane Farm Museum in Loveland, Colorado. We decided to drive out there while Ellen was visiting last week. Actually, it was her choice, and since John and I had never been there, it was a great decision.

I'll admit my stupidity up front. I failed to charge my camera batteries the night before, so I got still-shots outside, and video inside the farmhouses, which is the more interesting portion of the tour. Unfortunately, I'm still having problems downloading video. When I get it downloaded (hopefully soon, as I have been working on a solution) I'll put the videos where they should go, and then do a blog with links to guide you back. Fair enough?

The Timberlane Farm dates back to 1861, and is currently a museum that is being painstakingly reconstructed. We were given a personal tour, and although there was no charge, we left donations. It wasn't that we felt obligated. It was a feeling of wanting to join in the beautiful work being done on the site. Having just come from Europe, where there history is overwhelming, it seems important that we hang on to our own history. This property is some of Loveland's history at its best, and the work they are doing is remarkable.

These photos are from the farm part of the property, and don't include the two farm houses that we toured. The Timberlane Farm Museum has restored and furnished the two Timberlane Farm homes to period correct condition. I'll add those vodeos soon (God willing and the creek don't rise).

Ellen and John and I wandered around for awhile before the owner's assistant, Maureen, not shown in any of my photos, came out and gave us a wonderful tour. These pictures are all of the outside buildings and animals.

This old building is one that's scheduled to be rebuilt. So much work has already been done, but there's much still slated to do. We were happy to add our donations at the end of the tour.

John, of course, loved the old farm machinery and equipment, the tools and tractors. It was pretty close to a perfect day. If I'd charged my batteries the night before, it would indeed have been perfect.

I loved the chicken coop. They sell eggs, and the chickens seem clean and happy. One of the laying hens is called an Ameraucana, and lays bluish green eggs. I didn't know that was possible for regular eggs.

This is the Ameraucana chicken. She was sure running around happy and healthy looking, but seemed disappointed once she realized that Maureen wasn't bringing her food.

They have lots of animals at the farm, including pigs...

Cattle...

And beautiful horses. I think Ellen wanted to ride off into the sunset, but it was only noontime.

For some reason, I found their tack room particularly inviting. Maybe it was because I had been out in the sun too long. I'm not a sun worshipper, and loved the cool depths and wonderful smells of hay and leather in the tack room.

From here we went into the two beautifully restored farm houses where I had to switch to the video camera. I guess you can call this a cliff hanger...

Time With My Sister

No, I haven't been keeping my blog up this week. I'm behind, and just having too much fun with my sister to worry about it too much. Her husband was kind enough (and busy enough with work) to send her here for her birthday week while he spent the time in Reno at the office. (He commutes from California.)

We've had a marvelous week, and I've taken photos to share—once the fun stops. She flies out tomorrow, so you can expect to see more of our European trip and the fun we had this week appearing shortly. For today, however, we're heading up to the mountains to see how much of the fall foliage has already changed colors.

A Weekend With Ellen and Johnny

This is why we came to California. I know. The trip was really for the missiles. It was to see Mom, Jean and Sherrie and touch base with friends. But after less than 24 hours here in Tapo Canyon, in my heart I know that this is why I came willingly. I don't just love my sister. I miss her all the way to my soul.

We can sit next to each other with books on our laps, reading and occasionally saying something to each other, and just feel contented. There's a spark that wasn't there as kids. We were too different then. I was too studious. She was just enough older than I was, that I was "the pest." I loved camping. She didn't. I loved playing the accordion--loudly. (Need I say more?) Now, I wonder if we've changed, or if the differences just don't matter anymore. Perhaps we're still just as different, but we've learned to celebrate the differences... or ignore them. Actually, I guess, we learned somewhere along the way to laugh at them, at ourselves and at each other.

We both turned into good cooks, so no matter whose house we wind up at, we eat very well indeed. Her taco feast last night was excellent, and livened up by the presence of four of her grandchildren. Today we'll cook together, and continue our rambling conversations. It's another visit in a long line of them that are spread too far apart.

Both of us married men named John. Last night my John came to bed really pleased because her John had suggested she come back to our place for another visit soon, since he's too busy to come himself right now. He lives in California, but commutes to Reno for work. Many times he's not even home on weekends lately. He's busy. He's brilliant. They love each other, and it makes me glad. We'll have to figure out when she can come. Luckily, his commuting gives them plenty of frequent flyer miles, so she can fly into Denver for free, and we can swoop down and collect her at the airport.

We'll leave in the morning for our final week of John working at the base. Then Saturday we'll head home. At least that's the plan now. Plans can change, I realize, but life is good. I'll be glad to walk in my own door, but I wouldn't have missed this weekend for the world.

Middle Child

Reading has always been one of my favorite pastimes, so I've gathered a lot of seemingly useless information. Many of them stick in my head and pop back out at odd moments. I was just sitting here remembering something I read years ago. People can often use nightly news programs to demonstrate the different tendencies children manifest due to their birth orders. That sounds absurd at first glance, but it made sense in the article. 

The anchor or interviewer was generally a middle child. They would ask the questions, get the facts. They would try to keep everything in order and make sure that fairness was observed. (Obviously they didn't work for today's NBC.) The person being interviewed was most often an oldest child, the leader of the pack. They blazed trails, made the news, set the limits. It was their position that rated the most coverage in any conversation. The weatherman was the baby of the family. Can you spell "comic relief?" I thought you could. 

I was the middle child. Worse than that, I was the second middle child. Or maybe I was the only middle child, and my sister Ellen was the second oldest child. I guess that would be more true, as she was the oldest daughter. She was also the first child Dad got to know as a baby, since he was off in World War II when Pat was born. So that's it. I was the only middle child, and Kenny was the baby. I can be forgiven for trying to flush him down the toilet. I didn't understand comic relief.

I understood fairness, and it didn't seem fair that everybody who used to run in and look at me suddenly went running in to look at him. He wasn't that cute. I really was in the middle. Ellen was seventeen months older than me. Kenny was seventeen months younger than me. Ellen was beautiful. Kenny was cute. I turned into a great student.

So if you're a middle child, I'll bet you've learned to do a lot of things. Maybe you play a couple of instruments, like the guitar and accordion. Those are fun. Perhaps you like to craft. Crochet and knitting are fun and handy. Leather tooling and bead work are also really cool. You could have been up there in the top of your class. Maybe not—I got a B once. (Stupid teacher.) But however you handled being in the middle, I'll bet you had some fun—probably more than the others.

The Snow Shovel

"If one of you kids leaves the snow shovel outside again, you're going to sleep with it! That's a promise."

So spoke my dad. He meant it. I was the idiot who left the shovel outside the next time. It wasn't soon, but it wasn't long enough for him to have forgotten the threat, either. Unfortunately, I shared a double bed with my sister Ellen. She was seventeen months older than me, and had no tolerance for the little sister who could pull dumb stunts at home and straight A's at school.

We learned that night that snow shovels take up more room than little kids, and they never warm up. I'm thinking that Ellen either forgot about the shovel incident, since we're friends now, or she eventually forgave me. She probably forgot about it, which means that writing about this in a blog is not really bright on my part. On the other hand, seeing the new slide shows of my granddaughters playing in the snow and curled together in the little one's crib as Ashley wakes Kate up in the morning made me think back, and "full disclosure" has been one of the trademarks of this space for me.

Ellen was fairly good at getting her revenge when necessary, but I don't think she ever did anything that made me as uncomfortable as that snow shovel made her. In case I never said it at the time, "I'm so very sorry, Ellen. I was careless. I'll never do it again."

Autumn Gold Festival

What a wonderful week we had. First Ellen and Johnny, my sister and brother-in-law, came for a fly-through visit on their way to the wine festival with our brother Pat on the other side of the Rockies. The trip was all too short, but wonderful nonetheless. We celebrated Ellen's birthday at the local steakhouse, then spent a day roaming around, driving through Rocky Mountain National Park, having a picnic at Benson statue park in Loveland, and seeing the local sites. I made my not yet famous Bison Chili for dinner. Crock pots are such a wonderful invention. I considered hiding their suitcases, but knew it wouldn't be fair. I didn't really want to be fair.

They no sooner left than we got the sheets changed and welcomed our friends Dick and Carol from Denver. Together we spent two days at the Autumn Gold festival at Estes Park, gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park. The festival is better known as "Beer, Brats and Bands," and we partook of the latter two. Free admission gives you two days of music. It's a beautiful spot for concerts in the park, and the festival welcomes in the autumn colors, although the leaves are just now beginning to turn. We'll go back in a couple of weeks and take photos when the aspens are in their glory.

At the end of two days, my fingers were itching for my own instrument, but I was so too tired to play by the time we returned Sunday night. Bed was too tempting to ignore, and I'm not sure I'm recovered yet. The old saying is that variety is the spice of life, but it's not true. It's friends who add the spice. This week was spiced perfectly.

Family Term for Severe Injury

My sister called a couple days ago. I love hearing from her, but from her first words, I knew I wasn't going to like what she had to say.

"Well, I pulled a Kathleen," she announced, and my stomach turned.

I knew she'd managed to hurt herself. The family always likes to point out that I'm the one with a three-page medical history. Single spaced. Eight point type face. I fall down frequently. I usually manage to inflict some kind of damage either on my way down or landing.

She had spent a good portion of the night in the emergency room. Thirteen staples in your head is impressive, Ellen. I can almost feel the pain. You could actually get good at this with a little effort. It's a promising start. You've been pretty accident free most of your life, so you'll have to practice. I've got a big head start. You'll need to go a long way to beat the eight broken ribs I got when I was blown down the cement stairs in a typhoon, but it was severe for an evening at home. I'm impressed.

It has often occurred to me that no one understands that pain is only part of the aftermath. I always end up feeling like there must have been something I could have done to prevent the accident, the injury, the drama. Well, Ellen, don't you believe it. I've spent a lifetime coming to the realization that these things just happen. No matter how careful you are, there will be times when you, well—pull a Kathleen.

Dirty Tricks

I'm a night owl who taught herself to be an early bird. That didn't stop me from staying up late, however, especially if I had a good book open. There were so many times that I'd have my light on, and I'd say to myself, "Just one more chapter, and then I'll shut off the light and leave the rest for tomorrow. I swear I will!"

Some chapters just don't let you close the book. You have to know what happens next, or you'll never get to sleep. Someone slips off a cliff, or there's a shot heard in the dark. Footsteps echo through a supposedly empty hallway, and a child awakes up in fear. The chapter ends there. How can you possibly close the book there? Obviously, the light would stay on, and I would continue reading.

Poor Ellen. She called me after reading the last two chapters of my book. 

"How could you do that to me?" 

She had turned the page, but it was the end of the last chapter I had emailed to her. She'd have to wait to see what happens next. I left her with a cliff hanger. Oops. Leaving the light on wouldn't help. She had no more pages to turn.

Hey, Ellen. Remember how mean you could be to me when we were little kids? I'm the one who's laughing now! 

By the way—my husband says you'll get even somehow, and I'm sure you will eventually. I can hardly wait to see how you pull it off. This is so much fun! I love you, kid! Remember when you used to be older than me? You forgot to tell me when to stop counting.

Still Squirming

When I think back on some of my childhood camping experiences, I understand why my sister shakes her head and rolls her eyes, wondering why I love those memories. I really enjoyed myself back then, but it's hard to explain it to other people. Most of those stories are outrageous, and I'm often the butt of the joke.

Daddy didn't think anybody needed an air mattress, even if the ground was covered with rocks. That's why God made little kids: to remove the rocks before the tent is pitched. If you miss any, you deserve to roll over on them. 

He had a good trick. Everybody had to scoop out a little hollow in the dirt where their hips would nestle. That way, while you're lying all cosy in your sleeping bag, your head and shoulders would be higher than your hips, making you much more comfortable. I'm not sure this works. I never seemed to get my hollow in the right place, but I tried.

There was one memorable night when we arrived somewhere, late and tired as usual. We picked rocks and dug our hollows, then erected the tent. Dragging our sleeping bags inside, we preserved our modesty by carefully undressing in shifts. We lay down like sardines in our bags, the night sounds all around us. I rolled around, trying to get my hips in the right place. Dad shut off the lantern. It was dark.

Wiggle, wiggle, squirm. Where is that hole? Swish went the zipper when I had to move it down to readjust myself. My flannel PJs had twisted inside the flannel sleeping bag. Zip. Wiggle. Come on, hole. I know you're there. Squirm. Wiggle. Squirm.

"Kathleen Louise! What are you doing over there?"

"Sorry, Daddy. I keep getting my shoulder caught in my rump hole!"

My mother is particularly fond of telling stories like that. The larger the group, the more likely this story is in making the rounds. Beware of marrying into our family. There are hundreds of stories like this, and you might consider avoiding Thanksgiving dinner until people think you've already heard all of the embarrassing tales from each of your new in-laws... 

Never mind. That will never happen. Besides, Ellen & Johnny host Thanksgiving each year. You really wouldn't want to miss that. And our family will never run out of stories, or care if you've already heard them.

By the time I entered the 10th Grade in high school, we had made seven cross country trips in a station wagon with four kids, two parents and all the camping gear a family could stuff in a small space and load on top of the car. My parents were either noble or nuts. I never did figure out which.

Here's a photo of the four of us at the Grand Canyon. My mother loves to remind us that we fought over comic books that entire trip. She swore she'd never again allow us to have comics in the car. Then she found out how much pain a kid could inflict with a hard back book. 

Trips would have been easier if Daddy had been more willing to stop occasionally. Once he put his foot down on the gas, he hated to lift it up again. Heaven help you if you didn't take care of all your business at the gas stop. We still love to tease Kenny, the youngest, about the time he said he didn't have to use the bathroom until about a half hour down the road. Dad pulled over by the side of the road. 

"Just go behind the bushes!" There might be an expletive deleted in there, but you don't need to know that, do you? 

"But I've got to go number two, Daddy." 

"Too bad, kid. Use the bush. We just left the gas station, and you said you didn't have to go. They had clean restrooms. Now you've got a bush."

He used the bush. Then he stepped in it before climbing back in the car.

Ellen, who always got car sick at the least provocation, proceeded to throw up not much further down the road.

Daddy stopped at the next gas station. It was a long stop. The car got cleaned and aired out. At least we weren't fighting over the comic books.

Every Writer Should Have One

I have a sister. I was born having mine. If you weren't born having one, and your parents never provided one, then you need to go find one, especially if you really want to be a good writer. This can't be just any sister. She has to be like the one I have.

First of all, she has to be voracious reader. It helps if she reads everything from Clive Cussler to Nora Roberts. It's imperative that she be willing to close a book after fifty or seventy five pages or more and say, "This isn't worth my time. There are just too many really great books in the world to spend time reading poorly written junk." If she can do that, you know she'll recognize talent—if you've got any.

The second requirement is patience. If you want your sister to be your first reader, then she has to realize that she's only going to be getting a couple of chapters at a time. Even at the pace I'm writing, that means she's only going to get a couple of chapters every other day. That's a very slow way to read a novel.

The third thing that I would consider a necessity is honesty. She can't love you so much that she can't tell you what she really thinks. Tonight for the first time Ellen called and asked me if I wanted constructive criticism.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, I don't have any. Write faster!"

The bottom line here is that what every writer needs isn't just a sister. It's my sister. She encourages me. She gives me confidence when I'm afraid the story will get stopped up in my brain. She lets me know that somebody besides me will see value in it.

She's my sister. You can't have her. She's mine. I need her. And I love her. Thank you, Ellen.

A Week With My Sister

Today we'll drive Ellen back to the airport and let her get on a plane and leave. It shouldn't be this hard. I wish we could keep her longer. What a wonderful week this has been, but you'll never make me believe it's already been five days since Monday.

Where did the time go? We ate. Oh, did we eat! And John, bless his heart, kept the dishes moving into the dishwasher, and all we had to do was keep it emptied for him. Here's an overview of our week.

The morning of Ellen's flight here, John and I ran into town for groceries and went to Papa John's for a pizza to bake that night. We got a pepperoni pizza with garlic sauce instead of marinara. That night, after picking Ellen up and reminiscing all the way home, we turned on the oven and proceeded to add ground beef, green olives, garlic, blue cheese, and pineapple to our pizza, then threw it in the oven. We ate in front of the TV while watching Dancing With the Stars. It was the final night of competition, and we knew who we wanted to win.

Tuesday morning was beautiful, and since there were thunderstorms predicted for later in the week, we decided to take a road trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming, about an hour North. We had blackberry pancakes for breakfast, and took off. The day was wonderful, with weather in the mid-80's. Ellen treated us to lunch in the old railroad depot and a trolley tour of Cheyenne. She didn't have to do that, but we all enjoyed it. It's a great tour, about two hours long, and the trolley driver really knew all the best history of the area. On our way home we stopped near the Wyoming border so I could replenish my stock of legal sparklers for our campfire nights. For dinner I made stuffed won ton and egg rolls, with fried rice.

After dinner we settled in front of the TV to watch the final competition of American Idol. We were conflicted about who we wanted to win until the judges pretty much said the younger guy was going to win. Then, for the first time all season, I grabbed the phone and voted — for the older singer. When that was finished, we switched over to watch the results show from Dancing with the Stars, and were thrilled when our favorite won. It was a good night, full of shared fun, and laughter, but we were both pretty tired and headed for bed when the show ended.

On Wednesday the weather was cloudy, but not rainy as originally predicted, so we thought it might be nice to take Ellen to see the Leanin' Tree and Celestial Seasonings museums in Boulder. That's just less than an hour away in the other direction from Cheyenne. I made my "American Dairy Tacos" for breakfast and we again headed out. We had a great time, but around one o'clock we started feeling hunger pangs. What to do? Well, I thought it might be nice to do things a little differently. How about heading to Culvert's for some real Frozen Custard, and then pick up our dinners "to go" from The Cracker Barrel. That way, we can eat whenever we want tonight without cooking. That's what we did, and it was a great plan. So many times I want to have dessert, but after a meal there's just no room. This way, although we didn't exactly get lunch, we did get dessert without ruining our dinner. Also, since we can't pick up dinner before four o'clock, we had time to stop at a book store before going to get our meals. Works for me.

We watched American Idol's results show that night, and were thrilled to find out that the older contestant had won. I'll forever believe that many people were disgusted with the judges for calling the race before the election, and had picked up their phones to call in the upset victory. We almost didn't get to see the very end, though because Idol's too big for their britches. They tend to run over, and we have that DVR recorder thing. So I don't watch commercials, and it looked like it was going to end before telling us who it was.

Thursday's excitement was almost more than we wanted, although we didn't realize it at the time. We started our day with homemade Raspberry/Blueberry Muffins and Bacon. Then Ellen and I settled in to watch a cooking show on TV while John napped. I looked out the windows and said to Ellen that we were going to have what I call an "event."

"Hurry!" It had been foggy all day, but I could hear from the sounds of the rain outside, and the low rumbling of thunder, that the storm was approaching. We rushed down the stairs and each grabbed a blanket. Going outside, we sat in chairs under the upper deck while the hail came down in front of us. We laughed and watched it bounce around as thunder rumbled. It was magnificent. We both like weather, as long as it isn't just the boring heat. John came looking for us, opened the door and pronounced us both nuts, then went back inside.

Later we found out that about 25 miles away in Windsor, where our insurance agent has her office, a tornado had touched down, doing massive damage. This wasn't your usual Colorado thin twister that just looks interesting in the sky above the flat lands. This was a mile wide and there was one death and millions in destruction. We made the national news and we later had phone calls from people I haven't heard from in a couple of years. We were safe, we kept repeating. Tornadoes don't set down in the foothills. They like the flat lands.

We watched the news, fielded calls, and put a tri-tip roast, carrots and potatoes into the oven, and after dinner we settled in to watch the season premier of So You Think You Can Dance. Actually, neither Ellen nor I think we can dance, but we had fun watching those who actually could, and those who simply thought they could.

So now, on this day of her departure, I am left with two questions. Why does she have to leave so soon, and when are you coming?

Lost in the Woods

While I'm remembering the trip Ellen and I took to Northern Michigan, I have to laugh about the differences between us. It's one of the great joys in my life, as well as a wonder, that we got to be such great friends. I often thought we'd end up killing each other before our teen years ended, but sibling rivalry can end, and maturity is possible before senility.

Mentally I've traveled back to that rental car we drove through the woods. Our reason for being in the area was a big family reunion. We had left our own families behind, and flown into the Twin Cities and rented a car, figuring we'd see a lot more and have more fun if we did some driving together. This was the scene of many childhood memories and we would capture all we could. We got lost.

We were looking for Kitchy-Ti-Kippy, a clear bottom lake we'd loved as children. We missed a turn, and if we could have turned around, we would have been fine but the road we tried to turn around on was too narrow. It appeared to loop around back to the main road, so we decided to follow it. It got more and more narrow as it wound around, with the trees closing in on the car until branches nearly scratched the paint.

Ellen, as driver, was hunched over the steering wheel, trying to make us smaller. She wasn't happy, but I won't go into details on that. Meanwhile, I was riding shotgun with my trusty Canon on my lap, window down and leaning out the window trying to take as many photos as I could while she crept along. Suddenly we came to a big enough clearing for me to ask her to let me get out for a minute for some better photos. There have been other times in my life when people have looked at me as though I had lost my mind. I tend to ignore those looks.

As I stepped from the car, I heard two distinct sounds. The power locks engaged and my power window quickly rolled up. That got my attention, and so I stayed in front of the car — not that I really thought she'd just leave me there. After I took my photos, I went back to the car and stood there. She looked around carefully, then unlocked my door. What was going on? "Obviously, if you're stupid enough to get eaten by a bear, I'm not going to join in!"

Did she think the locked doors would have stopped a bear? Well, I'll admit that any bear, having eaten me, would probably no longer have had much of an appetite.

We did eventually find that lake, and took photos, which proved to our mom that it was there. She had sworn we made it up. She had no memory of it. And we all survived our trip — even the rental car.

Driving Through the Woods for Pizza

Picking up my sister at the Denver airport, we started talking, and memories began to flow. Remember when we went to Michigan together, and ended up driving through the woods for pizza?

Oh, do I! Northern Michigan's roads through the woods are beautiful. At night they are very dark. There are two kinds of signs. One says, "Do not pass on hills or curves." Since there are really no places without hills or curves, one wonders why the signs don't just say, "Don't ever pass." The other signs, about every four miles, say "Deer crossing, next five miles." It would probably make more sense to have periodic signs saying, "This is the U.P. Deer are going to jump out at you. Deal with it." That probably wouldn't fit on the signs, though.

Cousin Susie promised us the best pizza in the Upper Peninsula (U.P.) and so she and our other cousin Suze were barreling down the highway through the dark. The road was two lanes, with signs flying past, and trees in wild profusion growing right up to the edge of the road with not much margin for error. I kept looking at Ellen, and her eyes were getting bigger and bigger, while her head kept sinking lower.

In case you've never been to the U.P., remember the accents from the movie Fargo. That would be close. Finally, I yelled up to Susie, trying to slow her down a bit. We wanted to live long enough to attend the family reunion two days later. "Hey, Susie, those deer signs are pretty funny. They come about every four miles, saying deer crossing next five miles. Are there many accidents?"

"Ya, you betcha," she said. I'll paraphrase the rest the best I can remember. "And they don't read those signs. They just jump out of them trees. I got hit by two at once about four months ago, and I was standing in front of the car, kicking at the stupid things, trying to move of them out of my way so I could get going when the cruiser comes up and wants to give me a ticket for killing them. I told him I didn't go into the woods with a gun. They tried to kill me, and he could just either shut up or help me get them out of the road so I could get going. I was pretty mad. They messed up my car, I can tell you."

"That must have been really scary," I said. "Not really," she said thoughtfully. "Scary was up around that next curve up here, when that big bear came out and I hit him. The car wouldn't drive, and he wasn't dead. That was pretty scary."

Luckily we made it to the pizza place without incident. It was in a tiny old railroad sidecar. After mounting the steps, we entered the place to find little tables for four with a miniscule aisle that the waitress had to move down nearly sideways with her pizza trays. She came to us then, smiling, and said, "Hey! Four? Smoking or non smoking?" Being in the lead at that point, I looked at the small place. There were about five tables on each side of the aisle. "What's the difference?" I asked. The waitress just smiled at me. It seems that smoking was on the right of the tiny aisle, and non-smoking was on the left.

The pizza was great. The memory was even better.