Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

near miss & a new friend

Yesterday midmorning I was driving north on Harrah road, toward the park for a run. I was in the right hand lane, slowing gradually nearer the school zone, far away from all other cars. Just as I passed the gas station on the west side of the road, a gray pickup with a camper shell exploded out of the intersection and raced right up alongside my car, definitely aimed for it. I hit my brakes and fishtailed just a little bit, and very much against my nature I also laid the palm of my hand on the horn, simultaneously. It was all instinct, not anger, though within seconds of narrowly avoiding a crash all that adrenaline did turn to anger. The pickup swerved just a breath away from hitting me, and the driver blended slowly into the right hand lane, just in front of me.

My hands were ten and two and shaking. I took several deep breaths and continued driving, even more slowly now, and eased a greater than necessary distance from the gray truck in front of me. I was nearing the park to stop for a run and saw that he, too, was headed there. He used his blinker, drove slowly, yielding to pedestrians the entire time, and parked in the shade.

I briefly considered driving somewhere else to run, I am so averse to confrontation. But I talked myself into staying because I had done nothing wrong. I just felt weird and conspicuous for having honked. I also didn’t know if the other driver felt he had done anything to warrant being honked at, and maybe he would think I almost hit him, you know, and try to fist fight me and I don’t know how to fight, not even in a video game.

My inner life in complicated.

Anyway I stayed.

I also pulled into the parking lot slowly, also yielded to pedestrians, and parked as far from his truck as I could. I did my weird little warm up, started my podcast about an unsolved murder, and started jogging. I was plenty nervous, and I don’t know exactly why. I just hate conflict so much.

The park has a smallish oval loop sidewalk for walking and jogging. I was going counterclockwise and the other driver was walking clockwise. We passed each other head on a few times before we both looked up and acknowledged each other. I pressed a thin smile at him and raised a hand for a low commitment wave, and he nodded softly and also smiled, but he looked sad. He was elderly but not frail, clean cut, polite, focused, and walking alone.

Around mile six I paused at my car for a drink of water, and I saw his truck pull up behind me, perpendicular to my bumper. I paused my stupid murder story and waited as he reluctantly put his truck in park and stepped out into the now blazing sun.

I took a deep breath and assured myself everything was fine. His posture was steady and gentlemanly. Polite. Cautious. He removed his ball cap and opened both hands and said, “I nearly hit you there, I pulled out and scared you, and I am so sorry.” His voice broke my stupid heart. Any defensiveness still in my body dissolved into either shame for honking at him or compassion or maybe amazement at his quiet nobility.

“No I am sorry, I never honk, I am so sorry I honked at you!” My chin started trembling. I was sweaty from running but also cold.

He shook his head and cut me off (haha) saying, “No, I didn’t mean to, but I did almost hit you.” He spoke more firmly this time. He went on to explain that the woman driving behind him had been speeding in that school zone, and she scared him. He felt she was about to slam into him from behind when he saw the opportunity or necessity to race out of the intersection, but all of it was so jarring, so sudden.

I tried a second time to apologize, and I extended both of my hands, not metaphorically. We shook hands normally at first then held hands, and I started weeping a tiny bit behind my scratched up cheap sunglasses. Had I not been sweaty I might have forced a totally inappropriate and unnecessary hug on this stranger (bad hugs are my hobby). It turns out, the verbal exchange was infinitely sweeter.

He said several more times and in a few different ways that he was sorry, and I said I was sorry. I thanked him for coming over to talk to me, told him I had been worried about it (the murder story barely kept my mind occupied), and told him his generosity made me feel so much better. I told him I was so glad that woman didn’t hit him. We agreed we all got lucky and wished each other a good rest of the day then shook hands again (I resisted the urge to invite him for Thanksgiving, because are we friends now?).

As he left the parking lot I started my murder story again, continued my run, and exploded into confusing tears. And the crying was only partially because I am in pre-ovulation. The tenderness and nobility he showed by approaching me and starting that awkward conversation was just so stunning. What an example he sets by this.

Since presumably we live at least somewhat near each other in a fairly cozy community, it is likely we will see each other again. I know now that if we do, it will be comfortable. But even if not, he made an impression on me and reminded me it’s ok to make the effort to keep neighborly bonds intact. We don’t have to go through the days ignoring strangers and neighbors, pretending we are islands or neglecting the effect we have on each other. He did not hit me. He was neither rude nor reckless. No harm was done aside from the momentary panic. He had no obligation whatsoever to ever mention it, but he did.

I swear my intention of honking my car horn was strictly to alert the oncoming vehicle to my presence there, not to express anger. But since I felt the anger immediately afterwards, all of it made me so nauseous. His boldness to resolve the conflict not only allowed me to let it go; it also inspired me to be bolder with neighborliness and more humble about my mistakes.

I am a nervous hugger, too, so there’s that problem. All of this also reminded me sometimes excessive handshakes are enough.

THE END.

BW part 2: the people who loved him into being

Thank you for checking in for part two of my interview with Handsome, aka BW, my amazing husband and the Lazy W artist in residence! If you haven’t seen part one yet, click over and enjoy.

Fred Rogers provided us all the notion of calling upon and thanking all the people from your life who “loved you into being.” I asked Brandy about his, and he surprised me with mentions of not only family mentors but also friends, people whose influence shaped important parts of his personality.

Brandy named childhood friends Larry, Rob, and Erin, who all showed him how to be comfortable, how to get “out of the house and out of the rut,” so much so that Brandy says they all three ruined him for adult friendships, ha! Now he gauges bonds based on how easy and natural they feel and by the absence of drama or competition, as he enjoyed with these guys.

Mrs. Boren was a next door neighbor all throughout Brandy’s life, a woman just slightly older than his parents who nestled herself into his young heart in myriad ways. Family legend includes a particular time in Brandy’s grade school years when she assured him that, “Sometimes a boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do,” referring to the rare but righteous necessity of a fistfight when standing up to a bully. She offered this wisdom quite against what his Mom had already said, but she never backed down from it. As often as this sweet story has been told over the years, Brandy insists it represents the tip of the iceberg of Mrs. Boren’s influence. He said she was always available on her front porch when he got home from school, even in his high school and college years, ready to listen. She would offer him a cup of coffee and gently press stories and good values into his willing ears. She provided a safe and unchanging place for him, his whole life. She grew apples and roses. He describes her as being, “Soft with her flowers but hardcore in fighting for what was right.” My goodness this became a pillar of his character.

Anyone who knows Brandy also either knew his Mom, Judy, or has heard enough stories about her to feel like they were friends. Deeply influential to her youngest child, she was the person who bestowed on him his “tilting at windmills” tendency. She was often up in arms, impassioned for one cause or another, always ardently defending the defenseless, throwing all of her worldly resources (as well as what spiritual resources she could access by prayer) at whatever crisis had presented itself that day, for friends and family and even strangers. Like Brandy, Judy never knew when to say, “That’s not my problem.” It was both a blessing and a curse for her, as it is now for her baby boy. Judy was a joyful welcomer to everyone at holidays, as Brandy strives to be. She was also a music lover, a sometime street racer, and a fearless conservative happy to mobilize for any local candidate she deemed worthy. Brandy continues living with so much of her influence. He also has her laugh, which since her passing in 2013 has often caught me quite off guard.

Brandy described his Dad, Harvey, as a willing worker, a man who would be out there in the trenches with his guys, wearing an owner-manager’s shirt and tie, shunning the comfortable office chair to instead help mount a bumper or spray a car with paint. He said his dad worked so hard that he was constantly in trouble for ruining his clothes. Harvey taught his son by example to never ask your employees to do anything you aren’t willing to do. As a result, Harvey’s employees always cared about him.

Brandy meandered around these memories a bit, laughing to recall how often he had witnessed his Dad arguing with dishonest customers to defend his employees. Hindsight gives Brandy this appreciation: “Dad ran every business he was in the same way, whether it was owning the body shop, running the police department, the Sherriff’s Department, dealerships, he made sure the employees knew he was working with them.”

I would say the same about Harvey’s son. He proves year after year, crisis after crisis, and in every imaginable kind of work environment that he is more than willing to be right there in the thick of it all, never assigning anyone to do what he is unwilling to do. As with Harvey and his shop, Brandy’s team cares about him greatly. Both men have always been protective of their people, maybe to a fault, unafraid of conflicts with the public or with outside forces. I think their industries are much better for these passed down traits, even if the appearance sometimes makes them unpopular.

Brandy’s upbringing had an especially vivid religious coloration (matched only by his spiritual evolution as an adult, which we address in part 3). I asked him about the formation of this part of his personality. He thought for a moment and said, “I was born into it, more than anything. It was the central theme, with only a close second of politics in my life. It was probably formed as much with Grandma’s (influence) as it was Mom’s.” He reflected and explored some memories aloud for a few minutes then shared something beautiful about his Grandma Goldie, who was the Pastor and preacher of his childhood church congregation: “Just everything Grandma did was spiritually motivated, and she wasn’t preachy about it. She just lived that way. She exuded spirituality, it was beautiful.”

Goldie Goddard was a formative role model for him in many ways, including but certainly not limited to the church house. I only knew her for a few years, but she made a deep and beautiful impression on me, too. Her legacy is vibrant. Which of Grandma Goldie’s qualities do you think you inherited? He thought quietly for several moments, offering a few warm hums while he thought about her. “Boy that’s hard to say,” he finally broke the silence, “To think that you’ve picked anything up from someone like her is hard to imagine, because she was just so cool.” Another long pause, then, “The way she loved to have fun, she really did, she was someone who loved to have a good time and loved to be silly. She loved dress up. She loved making costumes, I think I got that from her.” He remembers sitting and playing in his Grandma’s sewing room, “just making something out of nothing, you know she loved that.” Goldie also loved video games, which Brandy certainly still does. She taught him to play, to play with kids, to enjoy and embrace the fun luxuries of modern life, despite what people might assume about her being a conservative female preacher. “She enjoyed TV more than she let on. Driving! You know, she loved cars.”

Goldie was a stellar home cook who established many of Brandy’s present day food obsessions. “Yeah, the food. The sugar. God she loved sugar. I got my sugar tooth from her probably!” Dear reader, to this day, if I make his Mom’s famous lemon ice box pie recipe, I hand the empty but still thickly coated cans of sweetened condensed milk to my husband, and he almost always tells a story about Grandma Goldie. I love it. Eagle Brand Time Machine.

He had still more to say about this woman, specifically about her marriage to his Grandpa Eddie: “I noticed their relationship before I noticed Mom and Dad. You know, as a kid you don’t really appreciate your parents’ love relationship, but I noticed Grandma and Grandpa were different. They were just always so loving, and so lovey-dovey, you know smooching and holding hands, all the time. It was okay to be good to each other. They were one of the few couples like that, who really loved to do for each other, not just one doing for the other… They did for each other constantly. And loved to, you can tell.”

What qualities do you admire in other people? BW was hesitant to answer this at first. He claims to often have trouble seeing the good in people out in society, but taking the question less abstractly helped. As he explored his heart for the people in his own life, the words and affection flowed.

Brandy gushed about our friend Meredith’s passionate love, the way she “lives the gospel of support and love, beyond just words.” He included Mer’s parents, Tom and Raylene, citing how much they love each and how they demonstrate their church’s motto, “Love All the People.” BW described this couple as “passionate in their spirituality,” and I could not agree more.

He talked about his friend and employee Geoff’s innocent, well meaning drive to help, not for any gain but just truly to be a help. Another colleague, Mark, possesses calm and reserve which Brandy admires. Those traits are a great cooling balm to Brandy’s constantly hot spirit at work. Maribeth taught him that you can be the smartest person in the room but not act like it. She showed him how to “help people in ways that doesn’t make them feel stupid.”

More friends filled his mind, David and Keri. This is a couple with longevity and endurance. They have been through hell and are still grieving so much. “They are open about their pain. They show their pain, they are still strong and strong together and love each other and love their community. They set very high standards from other people and are not ashamed of that.” He admires how David and Keri have managed to set up a force field of well being around their home. He thinks it’s admirable to value your peace and center so much that you can speak up for your needs and stand up for your values.

Now he was unstoppable. He sat up a little straighter as he listed people in his life and their good qualities.

He talked about Brandon and his “undying desire to be the first to passionately give.” Also Dennis, who has seen and done so much in his life yet is passive about his knowledge and experience. “Sometimes we forget what he is capable of, because Dennis doesn’t have to be at the center of anyone’s attention. He’s happy to let others take the reins yet always stay nearby to catch his friends. Dennis is a fount of knowledge, but he doesn’t have to pour it on everyone.”

My husband got misty when he named Jessica (our youngest daughter) and her way of, “clinging to the possible, especially because it takes a lot of effort from her, plus her desire to care for others. Jess shares that caretaking urge with Alex (her husband).” We guess that their mutual love for helping others might have been part of how the Universe drew them together.

Brandy admires selflessness in his wife and her ability to “care about strangers in a nanosecond.” He admires that drive to care for others’ physical spiritual, mental, emotional health. He said, “I think it’s a pretty cool ability to take on or absorb others’ pain, but I don’t want it as a trait for myself because it looks exhausting,” ha!

Maybe you would see someone as accomplished and widely talented as he is and assume he mostly values similar achievements and capacities. But those rarely catch his attention. In general, he just loves people who are genuinely kind. Our neighbors Rex and Cathy, also our new neighbor Tucker, are all truly kind and happy people, “just enjoying life and the people they love.” He affirmed, “It’s not cliché to say that’s where the riches are.”

What would you say to Jocelyn, if you could reach her? “It’s okay. We understand. We love you. We just want you home.”  He elaborated gently that he would not tell her we expect her to live here, just that we want her back in our life. She is greatly missed.

Which of your ancestors would you like to sit down and interview?  “Probably knowing what I know now… Victor.” Victor Goddard was Brandy’s maternal great-grandfather, a small town Oklahoma entrepreneur during the civil rights movement who famously passed away on Halloween. Victor was known for never showing leniency to children learning to play checkers, a tradition his great-grandson keeps to this day. “Well, he just had such a colorful although not good history that as a kid who didn’t understand, I’d love to ask him why on some things and see if you can separate fiction from fact or family story. From that I just mean he was at some pretty pivotal historic moments of mankind. He wasn’t just the old man playing checkers I knew.”

Friends, I cannot wait to get part three ready. It’s my favorite. He’s my favorite. Thank you for reading!

“Sometimes a boy’s gotta do
What a boy’s gotta do,”
~Naomi Boren
XOXOXO

BW, part 1: if looks could kill he would be an uzi

(Part One of Three, continuing with The People Who Loved Him Into Being and Paradigm Shifts & Looking Forward)

Brandy Loyd Wreath, 46 years old, Choctaw, OK:

Handsome behind the wheel on a country drive…xoxo

Born and bred Oklahoman, youngest son in the blended family of a Pastor-Police Chief and Juvenile Officer, also church preacher and organist, descendant of Land Run farmer and ranchers, small town entrepreneurs, church founders and conservative local politicians and campaign workers, Brandy is a fascinating and ever evolving portrait of both deeply rooted heritage and modern cowboy self determination. It’s a rare and beautiful, very Oklahoman combination of qualities. He loves fiercely, works himself to the bone, and never stops dreaming for the future. Please enjoy a distilled version of our long and meandering conversation!

What kind of potato chip would you be? “Cool Ranch Doritos, because, “I am cool and live on a ranch.”

Does 46 years old feel anything like how you thought it would? “Sometimes, but no, it’s much better. I thought it would be boring and we would eat at Applebee’s every day at four. While I have nothing against a 4 pm dinnertime, life is not boring.”

What are your love languages? “Things and gifts, as much as I hate to admit it, especially toys. Also food and a specific love language not fit for public sharing.” (The not-fit for-public-sharing asterisk occurred several times in our Q&A.) Brandy also appreciates words of appreciation, more than he likes to admit. He just likes to know his efforts are not in vain, and I don’t blame him. It is in his nature to want to make a difference.

In 46 years you have already witnessed a stunning array of history being made in real time (as he sat for this interview in our living room, every headline was about Russia invading Ukraine.) What comes to mind, what made deep impressions on you? He quickly rattled off memories about the Capitol riots last year, the space shuttle Challenger explosion (one of his grade school teachers had been named as an alternate to Christa McAuliffe), Desert Storm, the Murrah Building bombing (this was particularly pivotal in his life, as both of his parents served as first responders and continued serving for weeks after April 19, 1995), September 11, and more. He said solemnly, “All these bad things kind of stick out as chapter markers, they say our innocence has changed.” Then he added, “But the Berlin Wall coming down, The European Union, those were good.” I love to watch his countenance shift as he carefully guides his own perspective.

Brandy breezed through his public school education in Moore, Oklahoma, where he enjoyed myriad sports as well as band instruction in junior high. By high school he chose to pursue more business and professional classes instead of music, but he continued playing trumpet for church and still today has an easy time picking through new songs on our piano. He just has an ear for melody. He can actually play all the brass instruments, plus drums, but he does regret not taking his mom’s offer to learn piano more seriously, as well as his grandpa’s offer to learn guitar. When he remembers them both, his voice drips with affection.

Brandy’s present career is in government with the utilities industry. He serves as Director of Public Utilities at the Oklahoma Corporation Commission, but he provides more support to the agency and the people there than his title can possibly convey (those are my words, not his). He cares deeply about the agency and industry as an interconnected organism, and he has a talent for developing talent. This and more shine through in his long-cultivated professional relationships as well as in his team’s results year after year, crisis after crisis (again, my words, not his).

Does your career reflect what you thought you would be doing at this point in life? Is this what you wanted to be when you grew up? He laughed, “Not at all. Not in any way, shape or form.” As a little boy, Brandy wanted to be a race car driver and a banker. He got to be a banker already, which he said was horrible. So far he has not been a race car driver… legally.

This Commish job is nothing like what little red headed Brandy from Moore, OK, dreamed of doing. And yet here he is, excelling and building his division in ways that only surprise people who don’t know him. His knack for managing people as full spectrum human beings, not just resumes, makes him effective, not to mention his deep concern for fairness and transparency. (These are my words again. He will groan when he sees this.)

How did your education prepare you for what you do now? “My education? I don’t really think it did. I think that what prepared me for what I do was the way I was raised.” He spoke so gently of his upbringing, it conjured in my mind dozens of little boy photos and stories I have heard so many times over the years.

He became animated, almost defensive, definitely proud: “Being born into service and politics and respecting government. You know, I wasn’t raised in a house that complained about government all the time. I was raised in a house that appreciated the sacrifice. I was raised in a house that acknowledged people were doing the same for less money, or for no appreciation. I was raised in a house that, someone ran for public office and I saw what people did, even back then, how they were treated just for trying to serve. I was raised understanding that people are just really ungrateful, but that someone’s got to do it. So I think that it’s helped me in my role, to be able to endure that. Because I was raised with people treating government that way. Even 30, 40 years ago, people treated government this way. It may not have been on social media, but people said it everywhere you went. I remember hearing comments when Dad was Mayor. As a little kid. I remember comments at coffee shops.” 

Brandy illustrated his Dad’s triple-threat career of being Councilman and Mayor of Moore, running an auto body shop in Moore, and also maintaining law enforcement hours as Chief of Police in Hallpark, all with a bonus side of helping to found a church. Brandy’s admiration for Harvey is always palpable. But he describes it all as service. “It angered me as a kid, long before I was in government. I know that gave me an appreciation that we’re there for more than money.”

Brandy also believes that government work is a privilege. “It may not get you rich, but it takes a calling.” He likes to include in the concept of public heroes those people who “sacrifice their amazing skill sets to try to make the world better.” He selects his employees based on a willingness to make meaningful contributions, rather than people obviously seeking an ego-boosting job or immense wealth. He seeks after people seeking to make a difference. He offered this about his management experience over the years: “I’ve had hundreds of employees (with a) background (not) great for this job. I think the way I was raised made me appreciate (this job) more.”

To be clear, his college education did weigh heavily in math, science, business, and ethics; and his years in banking gave him experience and licensure in the stock market. He certainly acknowledges that practical foundation. But what drives him and keeps his momentum strong is how his values were formed, by his upbringing.

I asked him what might be next in his career. His answer was so honest, so calming and satisfying, that it made me hope everyone can find a path in life where they can work so steadily, and with such satisfaction: “I honestly don’t want to do anything different; I just want to do this better. I like what I do. I want to appreciate it more. I want to find ways to get more people to appreciate it. That’s when I will feel successful. When there aren’t people complaining about things they should be saying thank you for. You know, that would be a great day. So there’s still plenty to do now before I worry about what’s next frankly. ”

I had already planned to ask him about how he might advice young adults just starting their careers, or high school and college students planning a brand new path. His answers about his own path were deeper than I expected. He provided more than a scholastic guidance counselor might, and I was equally delighted when I finally asked: What advice would you give to high school or college students, or to any young adult planning their career path? He broke down a bit, seemingly lost again in some nostalgia. “Take more time learning from the people that are around you. The classroom is great. I would not detract from the great teachers or professors I had. I mean they were incredible, and they taught me a lot. But the real education I got was from the people right there, all day, every day. The amazing things that I saw my parents doing and involved in that I took for granted as a kid. Maybe I was lucky.”

He gathered his emotions and continued, “Find people in your life. See the amazing people around you. Start having some wonder about the people who are right there. Look to those people and learn from them. College is great, but that is not what’s gonna make you different.”

Describe your ideal day off in winter: “Comfy clothes, whatever food I want on tap, TV, a cuddle, pet my dog. It’s a little gray outside instead of fake sunshine that tricks my mind into wanting to do something productive or be out and about.” We talked about how he wants nothing to be broken or in need of repair or construction, how he wants the office to leave him alone, and how he hopes nobody needs him for that day. His body relaxed into the leather couch as he affirmed these requirements.

Describe your ideal day off in summer: “Sunshine, swimming pool, bikini (he quickly clarified that the bikini is for me, not him), a steak, and then air conditioning to come inside to at night. And again work not needing me, no one else needing me, also definitely nothing broken.”

What recharges you, what restores you to feeling like yourself when you are depleted? “Easy answer? Laughter. True recharge is just to enjoy, be happy.”

For all his math-mindedness, Brandy has one of the richest artistic streaks I have ever seen, and he creates and solves problems prolifically, with bendiness and inventiveness. I asked him to distinguish between art and creativity: “Creativity to me is something that just feels good to do. Like I feel I’m creative, but to me art is something other people can enjoy, which does not feel like my bag,” he laughed that off. He asserted that art “is done for other people to enjoy,” whether it’s music, the spoken word, paintings. “That’s how I see it anyway.”

I asked him about favorite styles of art, and his answer was quick: “Probably most powerful is music.” He comes by this honestly. His mom, Judy Wreath, was a talented musician who raised him on all things piano and organ, Elvis and Beethoven, and she encouraged him to practice his own music, in church and beyond. “But I love almost all of it. Can’t think of any art I don’t enjoy.” His favorite music? “It’s impossible. I love all music. Just depends on the mood. Classical, country, rock, rap. Honestly there are days that it’s all the favorite, depending on the mood, the activity.”

What are some of your favorite personal creative projects? He quickly nominated the newly constructed Batmobile as his favorite. “It’s not traditional but a lot of heart and art got put into it.” He also loves his simple welded green Dino, something he had always wanted but couldn’t afford from Sinclair, and he is still planning to add more to it. He mentioned the colorful skull mural on our big barn. Brandy also greatly enjoyed designing and building all of our wooden easels for Outreach painting nights. He said that project was maybe more fun than the painting event itself. “Doing things to prepare for fun ends up being a big part of the fun.” Probably still in its infancy of usefulness is the yurt, another favored Pandemic build.  One day we added huge lettering to the canvas roof, words like “healing” and “you are loved.” They are big enough that maybe Mediflight helicopters flying over could see them. Knowing the words are there for strangers is a precious feeling.  

Which was your favorite Star Trek Series? (We have over the past few years worked our way through each of the spinoffs in storyline order, as opposed to production order.)  He said, “Probably Enterprise, because it was innocent, and while they had technology, they weren’t fully dependent on it yet. They had to be problem solvers. And I really liked the captain, Archer. Kinda cowboy, kinda just get it done attitude. Not a womanizer like Kirk, not pretentious like Picard, he just wanted to get things done. He took care of his people.”

Ok but why do you always root for the villain in a movie or television show? His answer was shockingly thorough and worthy of an entire college class on either obvious psychology or anarchy; it’s often hard for me to know the difference. He listed as his irrefutable criteria for favoring the Bad Guy, four common traits of the best characters: 1) Villains tend to live more genuinely, being unapologetic about what they want. 2) Villains do not behave in polite, inefficient ways. 3) Villains usually dress cooler, specifically wearing lots more black. And, 4) Villains have better cars.

My husband went on to provide a litany of supporting stories as evidence. “Skeletor was always laughing and having fun, and I mean Jedis were wearing bathrobes, so…” His shrug and unblinking expression dared me to pull apart his answer. I chose to let it sit but circled back to it later, when we discussed The Walking Dead. We also circled back to cars.

What would you think if someone saw you as the villain in a story? He shrugged again and smirked, “Oh well! I must be being very efficient!” We both laughed, him confidently and me a bit nervously. I shuffled my papers before moving on.

“The Law of Attraction’s Not Real, Babe.
Mitt Romney Wanted to be President Real Bad.”
XOXOXOXO
~Brandy Wreath, innocent dreamer
and shameless pragmatist

Check back throughout the coming days for parts 2 and 3.

a close call with Dusty and a story about the leaf blower guy

The other day we had a scare with one of our horses, Dusty, the squatty, deep voiced grey and white cutie pie who has grown up with our girls. He is fine now, everything turned out great, but it was a tense and scary few hours.

Dusty in his younger, slimmer, fashion model days xoxo

In the middle of a hectic morning at work, my husband rushed home to help, and after an hour or so of watching and evaluating, we felt comfortable enough with Dusty’s progress to drive up the road to Tractor Supply Co for electrolytes and probiotic chews.

Tuesday was a warm and bright, violently windy day. The weather was beginning to turn, with both straight-line gusts and the twirling, circular kind of wind that creates sudden little leaf-and-stick tornadoes.

As we drove the few miles north, we passed a man tending his lawn with a leaf blower. In Oklahoma. On a wind advisory day.

He was really bundled up, as if the temperatures were actually about thirty degrees colder. He was wearing a thermal hat and massive gloves and jeans and boots, plus a substantial brown canvas coat, no doubt thickly insulated. I registered all of this plus his solemn expression. Then I marveled at the tedious attention he was paying to his leaf blower chore.

The dried oak leaves flew slightly away from his mechanical dismissal then spiraled back on him, then scattered sideways, then blew ahead of him in short, straight bursts, then flew wildly again, caught in another random gust. They flew up and away and directly over his hat. He was in the middle of a late winter ticker tape parade, like a cash tornado for people who believe that decomposing organic matter is black gold (these people are correct).

He was making exactly zero progress, but still he gripped that power tool with an air of focus and calm determination. He remained bent over his incomprehensible task. He walked slowly across the curved concrete driveway, pointing himself and his apparatus at each next area of chaos, and he never looked up or ahead of his immediate steps.

I have so many questions for him.

Maybe he was commanded by a spouse or an employer to do this job, regardless of weather, and dared not argue.

Maybe he recently received this leaf blower as a gift and thought a windy day would make for a fun maiden voyage.

Maybe he was in shock from some catastrophic family news and needed a rote, mind numbing activity to distract him, to help him gather his strength.

Maybe he was in covid-19 quarantine and needed to be outdoors for his mental health but couldn’t allow himself to just sit still.

Maybe he was an environmental scientist studying wind shears, but on, like, a really small scale.

Maybe he was a gardener desperate for some kind of gardening activity but couldn’t find his shovel.

Did he think he was helping something, serving some purpose? Was he having fun? Was that even his house, his leaf blower, his heavy coat? Maybe he was a shape shifter or an alien invader occupying Choctaw, Oklahoma, mimicking human behavior without really understanding the hilarity of the situation. (Forgive me, we have been watching lots of vintage X-Files.)

We drove past this man in the briefest moment, but he made such in impression on me. After we purchased the horse medicine at TSC and drove back south toward the farm, I looked for him. He was gone by then, but the leaves on his property (or on the property where the aliens had recently landed or where he is being held captive by a weird, mind-games playing taskmaster) were still swirling and thrusting against nothing with wild energy.

Maybe I had imagined him, except that I think my husband had seen him, too.

May be an image of 1 person, horse, nature and grass
We are so very thankful this boy is healthy and happy again!

Dusty continued to make progress all day, eventually acting exactly like his normal sweet, spicy self, eager to rejoin the bachelor herd and eat a late breakfast. I gave thanks constantly (gosh I love this horse) and thought too much about the things we do for animals, the care we try to provide, the good habits we try to maintain, the love we try to show. I thought about the prayers we whisper urgently when none of that seems to add up to enough.

I marveled at how little control we have over some things.

About as much control as the leaf blower guy.

XOXOXOXO

little lady marigold xoxo

Little Lady Marigold is the precious, diminutive, wild sheep I have always wanted. She is opinionated, lucid, brave, and full of energy.

She got her fancy name by two strokes of beautiful timing. First, I asked Handsome and Jessica separately for name ideas, and within an hour of each other they both texted, “Little Lady.” Then I added “Marigold” because the day she arrived here at our farm was the first day my French marigolds bloomed that spring. So she became Little Lady Marigold, LLM for short.

Little Lady Marigold is a Shetland sheep, diminutive in stature but bold in spirit. Her fleece is mostly white or white adjacent, dirty after many months of growing free and wild, and her face and legs are coal black. Lovely. I cannot get enough of gazing into her domed eyes and slotted pupils.

LLM is lightning fast and agile, able to glide and bolt low and quick, in and around both trees and horse legs alike. She is skeptical and fussy and makes you earn her trust, which I respect. When Klaus is being just too much, she raises one of her stiffened front legs, tiny black hoof shining with anger, and bows her forehead as if to warn him of a good noggin ramming (which, in fact, she is very able to deliver). We call this warning the Stick Leg Treatment. It looks like a great, fluffy praying mantis preparing to do battle, and it almost always shoos Klaus and any other nearby animal, including her huge pasture mate Romulus the King of Llamas, right away. On the rare occasion that the Stick Leg Treatment does not work, she squares off, keeps that woolly head lowered, and charges forward in mean, fearless thrusts until her opponent is properly humiliated and retreats. No one has bested her yet, and she is the tiniest of all our animals, save the cats and chickens.

Nephews Greg and Connor wanted her way too much.
She can smell it. She eschews sincere desire.

Marigold was borderline feral when we first brought her here. It took many weeks of slow, quiet movements and cautious approaches to convince her to eat sweet grain out of my hands, and now she practically climbs my leg when I swing it over the gate to her enclosure. I love scruffing her pretty face and stroking her slender, knobby legs. Her hooves are unbelievably tiny! And that wool, you guys, oof!! It is voluminous and full of mystery (also sticks and dried leaves). If I have a lucky day and get to handle her enough, my hands feel oily and a bit slick from the lanolin. She is usually pretty content having the heaps of gray and white wool on her back scruffed. Or, perhaps this is the truth, there is so much there that she cannot always feel me scruffing her?

Speaking of that massive woolly burden, our Shetland sweetie is destined for a spring shearing this year, so I have begun desensitizing her to a halter, noisy with metal buckles, during hand feeding. I wear it on my wrist like a bracelet, making it necessary for her face to be almost up against it while she nibbles grain from my palm. Occasionally I jingle the buckle and flip the straps, so she gets used to seeing and hearing it while staying safe. She absolutely hates it, ha! But if this slow, steady process works, it will lead to her next level of elegance and domesticity and to my next life accomplishment. I’ll keep you posted.

Little Lady Marigold’s favorite song is Norwegian Wood by The Beatles, followed closely by Never Gonna Gove You Up by Rick Astlee, if I have just left the duck pond and chicken coop.  Soft songs. Easy words. Pretty things that cool her hot temper. She sleeps either beneath a wild cedar tree near the pond-facing hill or in her little shed. Also in the hay! Rather than calmly eat from the outer surface of a large hay bale, she burrows deeply in it, snoot forward, then naps in the tunnel she has eaten away. Upon waking she emerges with an ill balanced hay bonnet. I love this more than words can say. Which is another song she might like. I’ll try it.

Little Lady enjoyed a good, healthy, stress free week of winter here, for which we are so thankful. She is spicy and personable, and I just love her so much. If you ever visit the farm and want to meet her, don’t be shy! I’ll take you over and make the proper introductions. Just know that so far, my little sister Genevieve is the only other person who has successfully hand fed this animal. I think the secret is that Gen didn’t care that much. She lacked the stench of desperation most visitors emit, ha.

Okay that’s it for today! I just wanted to share some of my sheep love.

I hope you’re having a beautiful weekend filled with everything that refreshes your soul. Remember you are deeply and wildly loved, your potential is untapped, and your emotions and imagination have actual creative power in this world.

“Patience is passion tamed.”
~Lyman Abbott
XOXOXOXO

P.S. President Roosevelt also kept Shetland sheep, but one of his rams attacked several people and killed a small boy, so he had to relocate them all to Monticello. The End.