Naughty and Nice 2009

As we close in on the remaining two weeks before Christmas, it seems Naughty and Nice lists are popping up everywhere. Yesterday John Stossel teased his list compiled on which retailers were Christmas-friendly and which were not on Fox News. In this age of Top and Bottom 10 lists, I thought I’d add my own thoughts on some random subjects from the year 2009 that remind me of what’s good and bad in the world right now.

State Government

Naughty: The Massachusetts school that removed the Christmas tree and replaced it with two perfectly secular and perfectly boring snowmen. Oh, and now they’ve taken the candy canes and Santa Clauses out of their school holiday gift store.

Nice: Arizona governor Jan Brewer who had the chutzpah to rename the capitol’s holiday tree a Christmas tree and call it like it is.

Health Care

Naughty: The part of the proposed national Obamacare plan that taxes such medical devices as catheters, blood pressure testing equipment, and diabetes and CPAP supplies costing over $100. The economy’s bad enough as it is without the Feds being so Scrooge-like.

Nice: The lawmakers who are opposing federally funded abortions. I believe women should have the right to make a choice, but I don’t think taxpayer dollars should pay for it.

Retailers

Naughty: Banana Republic and Gap, for not using the word Christmas anywhere in their stores, advertising or website but not being afraid to push gift giving, in other words for being so PC yet so annoying.

Nice: Macy’s for being a true icon of the Christmas season with their elaborate window displays and beautiful decorations.

Naughty: The 5th Avenue New York retailer featuring live models changing clothes in front of spectators on the street.

Nice: Bass Pro Shops for providing Santa’s Workshop with fun Christmas activities for impressionable young children.

Politics

Naughty: Proposed cap and trade legislation that will make Americans’ utility bills rise dramatically, another Scrooge-like and totally unnecessary cost for Americans already suffering the loss of jobs and the recessionary economy.

Naughty Honorable Mention: The Copenhagen global warming conference coordinators who nixed a Christmas tree at the facility.

Nice: The UK researcher who was brave enough to leak emails revealing the lies and deceit behind global warming claims, the so-called "Climate-Gate".

Naughty: The Washington State capitol building policy that last year allowed a sign from atheists decrying Christmas and Christianity. They’ve now been reduced to allowing nothing from anybody to celebrate the season.

Nice: The West Yorkshire Probation Service for making inmates read the letter from a scared little girl asking the robber of her family’s home why he did it.

Television

Naughty: The CBS network for producing a commercial that turns Frosty the Snowman into a sexual, porn-loving monstrosity.

Nice: Okay, not nice but funny is the kid in Idaho who stuck his tongue on a frozen flagpole a la Ralphie in “A Christmas Story”.

Can you think of any more? If so, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

It's Not 'Happy Holidays', It's Merry Christmas

I rarely get one of those emails forwarded to 5,000 people that I share but this one really hit home. It is something my husband and I have long considered to be one of the biggest problem in society today. I truly believe that the "de-Christianizing" of American society is hampering America's efforts to once again become the great country founded hundreds of years ago.

So here goes:

‘Twas the month before Christmas
When all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying
Nor taking a stand.
See the PC Police had taken away,
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.
The children were told by their schools not to sing,
About Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.
It might hurt people's feelings, the teachers would say
‘December 25th is just a ' Holiday '.
Yet the shoppers were ready with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks down to the floor just to get it!
CDs from Madonna, an X BOX, an I-pod
Something was changing, something quite odd! 
Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken & Fonda.
As Targets were hanging their trees upside down
 At Lowe's the word Christmas - was nowhere to be found.
At K-Mart and Staples and Penny's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.
Inclusive, sensitive, Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used to intimidate me.
Now Daschle, Now Darden, Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzen
On Boxer, on Rather, on Kerry, on Clinton!
At the top of the Senate, there arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus, in all public matter.
And we spoke not a word, as they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak of salvation and grace
The true Gift of Christmas was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season, stopped before it started.
So as you celebrate 'Winter Break' under your 'Dream Tree'
Sipping your Starbucks, listen to me.
Choose your words carefully, choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS ,
not Happy Holiday!
Please, all Christians join together and
wish everyone you meet during the
holidays a MERRY CHRISTMAS
Christ is The Reason for the Christmas Season!

Even though money is tight I, for one, am looking forward to a Christmas tree with an angel on top, lots of decorations, and a creche with the baby Jesus that will take pride of place in my living room. So may I say in advance "Merry Christmas!"

Oh, and BTW - did you know our nation's capitol Christmas tree came from the forest right here in the White Mountains of Arizona?

If I Only Had a Brain

I would probably look something like this.

Honestly, with the weather getting colder and all the leaves turning color up here in the White Mountains, I have been more than ready to put up my fall decorations. It's not like I have a lot - I'm no Martha Stewart by any means - but I do have a few things I enjoy seeing each year, such as a collection of little stuffed cats wearing Halloween costumes. They are jointed and I can place them in different poses. Maybe that's kinda weird, but I love my Halloween kitties.

Anyway, I cannot for the life of me find my fall decorations. I have looked high and low, in closets, in sheds, in the spare bedroom - everywhere I can possible think of. But they are gone, simply gone.

I told my husband that someone must have broken into our house and took my autumn decor. This makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

To compensate for my lack of decorative items I decided to make a scarecrow with the straw I keep for lining the chickens' nesting box. I had a bag from flour, some old clothes I was going to give to charity, and a couple sticks, too. I put them all together and voila! a scarecrow was born.

Of course the only one who gets scared by Ms. Scarecrow is me, when I glance outside and seeing someone sitting in my front yard. Oh, if I only had a brain...

Full Throttle is Coming Soon

Look at my newly created cover art for Full Throttle! I think the artist, Trisha Fitzgerald, did a fanastic job.

Full Throttle will be available October 1st through Champagne Books. Here's a blurb about this contemporary romance (my first!):

When ex-Harley racer Linc plots a full throttle seduction of motorcycle tech Samantha, the last thing he expects is love to throw a wrench in the works

Phoenix is hot but the bikers are even hotter and Samantha finds this out firsthand after partnering with her cousin to run Dr. Doug’s Mobile Dyno, a motorcycle testing and performance tuning business. Spurned by an ex-fiancée and resolved to taking care of her aging father and his medical problems, romance is the last thing Samantha’s looking for while expanding her new business is at the top of her priorities list.

Along comes opportunity in the form of Linc Montgomery, a tough, business-savvy, ex-Harley racer and new owner of Full Throttle Custom Cycles in Phoenix. Linc is used to having gorgeous women fall at his feet. When he meets Samantha and agrees to contract her dyno services, he quickly realizes she isn’t one of those brainless bimbos he normally dates before carelessly tossing aside.

The challenge is on for Linc as he sets out to seduce Samantha just to prove he can. He doesn’t plan on the interference of his ex-wife and her ex-fiancée – both of whom serve to make him realize that along the way, his seduction scheme causes him to fall head over heels in love. It isn’t so easy to convince Samantha she belongs to him

This book is so far the nearest and dearest to my heart. It is based on my own experiences owning a mobile motorcycle dynamometer and the adventures my partner and I had traveling around the area and attending biker events. I can't wait until it comes out, and hope you can't either!

It's a Bird's Life

Lately, I can't help but humming "Birds to the left of me, chickens to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you" (thank you Stealers Wheel for that parody! - and why didn't you ever do another song?). Anyway...

Back here in the rural enclaves of the White Mountains, I seem to be destined to live an aviary life.

To the left of me, on the front porch, a momma bird decided to make a nest and lay her baby chicks. The little buggars are growing by leaps and bounds and they constantly cheep, cheep, cheep, asking momma to feed them. We keep the windows in the living room open to enjoy the breeze, but at times they raise such a cacophony I can barely hear myself think.

On the right of me I've got the hens and roosters. They're making a whole lot of noise now, too, as the roosters vie for the title of Cock o' the Walk and try using their charm and charisma to get lucky with the hens. And because we don't have the yard fenced off yet all the way, the chickens keep coming across that invisible line between their run and our grass and flower beds. We've tried training our dog, Colby Jack, to be a good chicken herder, but when we leave the house and return, it's to find piles of chicken poop all over our deck and all the leaves on the flowers mysteriously gone. As you can see from the picture on the left, they are not averse to going anywhere. Hey, who needs a coop for shelter from the weather, anyway?

I guess I asked for it, though. Just call me the Chicken Lady. Pfftt! Had a feather in my mouth.

Candy Land

I wonder when I changed from being “Candace” to “Candy”.

When I was growing up, I was always called Candy. In a bit of defiance, and to prove that I was different from everyone else, I decided to spell it different than the norm. From junior high to high school, I was “Candé”, as if all of a sudden I’d turned French.

Round about the time I started college, I decided that Candy was either too little-girlish or made me sound too much like the happy hooker. So I went back to going by my full name, Candace.

Nowadays, except for those few friends who have known me for decades, I am known as Candace.

Except here in my new home in Arizona’s White Mountains, that is.

For some reason, everyone here shortens my name to that childhood nickname of Candy. I introduce myself as Candace and at the end of an encounter, my new friends and acquaintances are saying “Nice to meet you, Candy.”

Even complete strangers do it. The propane delivery driver handed me a handwritten receipt for my tank fillup. It was made out to Candy Morehouse. My neighbors call me by my nickname, so do people at church, and even the checker at the grocery store.

I gave up trying to correct everyone a long time ago. I guess up here in the rural outskirts of town, I have gone back to living a simpler life, in every sense of the phrase. First it was my name, then it was the chickens I bought. I’ve got my eye on a goat to add to our farm animals but I just hope he doesn’t eat the vegetables I am growing in my garden with my own homemade mulch. What’s next? Riding a horse into town, grinding my own flour, and fermenting my own wine? Sounds good to me.

Until next time, yours truly, Candy

I'm in Love

Yep, I admit it.
I'm in love.
He's tall, dark, and handsome, a big galoot by the name of Cochise. He's a black brute who stands 17 hands tall.
Of course Cochise is a horse.

I recently met a lovely lady by the name of Pat who lives just a couple streets down from me. My husband did some remodeling work for her. She's a retired school teacher whose real passion is for horses. She has several of her own, and boards a few more.

Pat thinks it's just great that she got to meet me - a real live author.

I've been jonesing to get back on a horse ever since we moved here to the White Mountains with a stable and corral in the back yard - but no occupants. With a signed copy of Golden Enchantment in hand as a bribe, I casually mentioned to Pat that if she never needed someone to ride her extra horses, I was the woman for the job.

Well, she did, and I got to. Ride, that is.

Little did I know she was going to pick this big black brute of a gelding named Cochise for me to ride. The first time I used a stepstool to climb aboard and view the world from up in the clouds. I didn't feel so bad when another riding companion, Rosie, had to do the same to get on her smaller horse.
(That's the three amigas there in the photo - Pat on the left on her horse Ribbon, the 80-year-old dynamo, Rosie, on Bunny in the middle, and me, astride Cochise.)

I was a bit nervous at first. After all, I haven't been on a horse for nearly two decades - almost since I got rid of my own pure blooded Arabian, Nijem Warrior, so many years ago.

"His ride is as smooth as glass," Pat assured me. "You could hold a glass of wine while he's trotting and not spill a drop."

I was skeptical at first. How could such a huge animal be so smooth? But she's right. The big brute is gentle as a kitten and his gait feels like I'm riding a Cadillac.

According to Pat, Cochise loves me. I've taken a big leap and can now mount him without that silly step stool. I trust him enough to let him gallop. He hugs me with a nuzzle from his smooth, velvety face and I feed him a horse cookie to watch his gentle brown eyes close in contenment. I'm falling, fast.

Yep, I'm in love. And his name is Cochise.

The Chickens Definitely Came Before the Eggs

Life out here on the farm is…well, farm-like.

Especially with our new addition, ten baby chicks. We’ve got five that are Rhode Island Red mixes and five that are black Leghorns. They’re pretty cute little cheepers right now that peck at the sides of their box home and fall asleep standing up. They are congregating in the corner beneath the heat lamp and sometimes they even pile up on top of each other.

Our hope is that the majority of these little fellows turn out to be hens (it’s nearly impossible to tell at this point). We’ll keep one rooster and eat, or sell, the rest. My husband is making them a fine coop to move into when they are old enough to put outside.

Since I didn’t grow up on a farm or even participate in 4-H, this is a new experience for me. I’ll let you know how it goes. I can’t help but remember the I Love Lucy episode where she and Ricky moved out to the country and started raising chickens. Lucy had to bring them indoors to keep them warm and Little Ricky lets them loose so they had little chicks running all over their house. And then there was the episode with the eggs, when Lucy decides to buy store bought eggs to convince Ricky her hens are good layers. She puts them down the front of her blouse and then does the tango – only to have them all break down the front of her chest.

If I encounter any Lucy-like episode with my chickens, I’ll let you know. After all, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

The Old Lady and the Shoe

I'm going to share an experience I had recently. It's just another one of those, "I live in the mountains again and this is the way of life" experiences that I have encountered in the past year, ever since I left the big city behind and opted for life in rural Arizona.

As you may have read in a previous post, we have a river running through our 'back yard', in the BLM acreage just a hop, skip and a jump away from our house. When the weather is nice, I enjoy taking the dogs for a walk there and watching them frolic and play in the water.

Unfortunately, it is usually quite muddy. I have a pair of hiking shoes I wear. When I return home, I leave them outside on the back porch so I don't get mud inside the house.

The shoes had been sitting there a couple weeks because I was too lazy to clean them up. One day I decided it was time to quit using the back porch as my shoe closet. I picked them up, dismayed to find that a spider had woven a web across the opening in one.

Being used to running across spiders on a daily basis (both inside and out) and not afraid of them, I took a stick and poked around inside the shoe to get rid of the web. I held the shoes upside down and banged them against each other to try and get the mud out of the dried lug soles.

All I've got to say is thank goodness that I decided to do a good job of cleaning them up. After banging them together for a couple minutes, out popped the spider which had taken up residence inside. No ordinary spider, this. Oh no. The spider living in my shoe was a black widow which had just laid eggs. I smashed her into the dirt.

So I know the black widow is now gone. But I still haven't been able to wear those shoes again. The moral of the story? Always check inside your shoes before putting them on. And that's just life here in the White Mountains.

A River Runs Through It

Although the calendar says it is still winter, the temperatures are indicating an early start to spring. With the weather being so beautiful this past weekend, I decided to go on a hike and check out the Indian ruins again in the forest land behind my house. Imagine my surprise when I found a river running through it!

Since we moved up here to the White Mountains in June of last year, I’ve spent some time toodling up around on the mountain and below the rim which is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from my house. But I’ve never seen water, outside of rain water that accumulates in the wash.

Apparently the runoff from the mountains is already melting and it has formed a nicely moving river that is pretty wide in spots. The dogs loved it! Even Colby Jack, who has never been much of a water dog, had a great time. When he and Yogi were done frolicking in the water, they came back up on shore and shook off in the snow.

It’s nice to have discovered just one more thing that I absolutely adore about the place that I live!

I've Been Tagged By Ciara Gold

My dear fellow Champagne Books and Eppie-award winning author, Ciara Gold, tagged me. The idea is to list 6 things that make me happy. I am happy to oblige, so here goes:

6 Things That Make Me Happy

1) Taking care of other people (that's always why I enjoyed work in the hotel industry and wanted to buy and run my own bed & breakfast)
2) Having company, especially my son, whom I don't see enough of anymore now that he is an adult.
3) Playing with my dogs, Colby Jack and Yogi.
4) Cooking (goes along with #1 - no one leaves my house hungry)
5) Writing (guess that's a good thing since it's what I do for a living!)
6) Watching the sun rise on another day and the pine trees and lakes of the gorgeous White Mountains

So, the rules state I now must tag another 6 people to do the same thing...hmmm...I'm going to go with:
1. Kimber Chin
2. Karen Babcock
3. Phyllis Campbell
4. Linda Laroque
5. Allison Knight
6. Rose Lerma

Additional Rules: Link to the person who tagged you (http://www.candacemorehouse.blogspot.com/)Write down six things that make you happy. Post these rules. Tag six others. Notify me that you've tagged six others--or not.

Candace Morehouse

It Never Snows in Arizona...

With my apologies to Hammond Albert:
It never snows in Arizona,
But girl don’t they warn ya,
It storms, man it storms.

There are those who hear “Arizona” and think “desert” automatically. They picture arid acres of saguaro cacti and palm trees amidst countryside of sand and low, rocky-topped mountains carved out of the rugged landscape.

If you have ever viewed the vast regional differences, you know that the state of Arizona features geologic designations from low desert on up to altitudes considered alpine. In fact, visitors to the Grand Canyon who approach from the northern edge and make their way down to the bottom of the canyon will go through no less than seven geologic zones and five of the seven life zones - Lower Sonoran, Upper Sonoran, Transition, Canadian, and Hudsonian - along their journey.

I happen to live in an area of eastern Arizona where a ridge of mountains spans the distance from my native New Mexico to the region referred to as the White Mountains on Arizona’s Mogollon Rim. The elevation here ranges anywhere from 6,000 to 8,500 feet above sea level and more. We have a ski area, Sunrise, which tops out at over 9,000 feet in elevation. This is no way – even remotely – a desert area!

For instance, recently I stepped out on my front porch at night in the sub-zero temperatures accompanying sunset to view the spectacular vista set out before me. A full moon illuminated a myriad of majestic pine trees, boughs laden with winter’s snowy bounty. Moonlight cast a blue glow over the pristinely white crystal blanket on the ground, creating a magical scene perfect for Santa’s Christmas Eve ride.

Unfortunately, those photos didn’t turn out but here are some from today’s snow storm. The tree is right outside my bedroom window and the other photo shows the ridge beyond our house (where all the Mogollon Indian pottery shards must surely be buried deep in the snow).

I guess I’m still a kid at heart when it comes to snow. I get excited when I see it and start thinking of snow angels and snowmen and chestnuts roasting on an open fire... The good thing is that staying warm inside while watching the flames in the stove and the big flakes float through the gray sky outdoors is a real boost to my creativity.

Luckily, we are expecting a foot or two of the white stuff in the next couple days. Christmas in the White Mountains is indeed a beautiful time of year.

Merry Christmas!

When It Gets Cold, the Cold Get Baking

For me, autumn, winter, and the transition in between are the times when I settle in and do the most amount of baking and creative work. It’s a time to hunker down, accumulate dozens of bags of pellets for the heating stove, and stock up on food.

We got our first snow last Sunday night. While it rained down south of us, our afternoon rain/sleet quickly turned into snow when day finally melted into night.

We let the dogs out into the snow and there they frolicked and played. They are much like kids in that respect – can’t wait for that first season snow and leaping about in it.

As for me, I usually turn to the oven – not only to warm up the house but to warm up our very souls by serving comfort food. Isn’t that what cold weather is all about – comfort ford?

So here’s another recipe which I enjoy baking during these frosty nights and mornings. This is another old one, which I’ve kept in my arsenal of recipes for a good 30 years or so.

Apple Bars
1 ½ cups granola (any variety)
1 c. flour
½ c. sugar
½ c. butter, softened
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
¼ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ tsp cinnamon (optional – spices should go with the type of granola you use)
1 large apple, pared and chopped (any baking apple works fine)

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease square pan, 8 x 8 x 2 inches.
Mix all ingredients except apple; reserve 1 cup dough.
Spread remaining dough in pan. Arrange apple pieces over dough in pan. Drop reserved dough by rounded teaspoonfuls onto apple; spread slightly. Bake until golden brown and wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes.
High altitude directions: Heat oven to 400 degrees. Decrease sugar to 1/3 cup.

This recipe is easily doubled for baking in a 13 x 9 inch pan and makes a great Thanksgiving morning coffeecake. Enjoy!

No More Mosquitoes? Must Be Autumn

It is autumn here in the White Mountains.
The top ten reasons I know this:

10. Elks are bugling in the wilderness beyond my back yard, mingling with the plaintive cries of coyotes

9. The hummingbirds are all going south – my feeder has been full for two weeks now, unheard of in summer when the greedy little bastards fought over sugar water tinted red

8. Nights are down into the 40 degrees and sometimes we have to turn on the pellet stove in the early morning hours

7. The dogs are shedding less and thickening their coats (hallelujah, I’m sick of vacuuming)

6. The mosquitoes have all but disappeared (another hallelujah, sick of buying mosquito pads for my Off candle)

5. It’s dark at six o’clock (not particularly good when you want to enjoy the great outdoors and read a book at the same time, my favorite hobby)

4. High school football games are on the local radio station every Friday night

3. NFL football games are on every Sunday and Monday

2. Outdoor plants are starting to go dormant and trees aren’t producing any more leaves

And the number one reason I know it’s fall in the White Mountains? * Drum roll *

1. I keep a sweater at the ready for cool temperatures – like when I step out of the shower all damp. Like seven o’clock in the morning when the sun fully rises and the temperature is actually coldest…Brrr…

And to think a year ago I was in Mesa (Phoenix) and sweltering. Yeah, I’ll take sweaters over triple digits right now any day.

The entire reason this post came to my mind was because I was doing a Google search on wild violets. Apparently, folks back east categorize wild violets in their yard as an invasive weed.

Me – I’ve got them all over my front yard. And I love ‘em. I think they’re beautiful. In fact, when I weed eat, I cut a wide swatch around ‘em. I’d love to grow them indoors. My one attempt at doing this was pitiful so if you’ve got any advice for me, feel free to advise away in your comments. I really want to save my wild violets before they die from frostbite.

Ramblings from Arizona's White Mountains,
Candace

You Just Bought That Hog?

My husband and I decided last month that we really wanted to buy a hog from the county fair to support one of the local 4-H kids. On a bright Saturday morning we left for the Apache County fair on a whim.

Half an hour drive from our house brought us to the lovely little town of St. Johns, Arizona. The landscape is high desert, and most residents are involved in agriculture or ranching.

Dear Husband was disappointed by the fair. Located right next to the small St. Johns airport, the fairgrounds included a tiny carnival setup, a short length of vendors and food booths, a commercial building, fair exhibit building, and a couple barns for livestock. For me, this is pretty close to the county fair I grew up with in New Mexico. If you were a lucky student from the area, you got your project of whatever type – clothing or baking or painting or growing vegetables or raising livestock – entered into the fair at Cliff, New Mexico, for all of Grant County to judge. It was a well-attended event each year and considered an honor to win the blue ribbon.

Dear Husband used to raise dairy goats when he was a young lad. His goats, apparently, were the first place winners in every competition and highly sought after by goat buyers of southern California, where the county fairs were much bigger.
So we both had our memories of the annual county fair – each very different.

We registered as bidders at the livestock auction and received our hand-printed number on an index card. While we waited for the auction to begin we walked around the fairgrounds, looking at exhibits and vendor booths, and baking under the sun in our cowboy hats, jeans, and boots.

As the livestock auction started, we took a seat in the bleachers around the arena, me on the left and Dear Husband to my right. The order was determined by the animal’s place, starting with the Grand Champions of each breed and ending with the animals which didn’t place at all. Dear Husband and I decided on our maximum bid amount and agreed that we would wait until the end to buy. After all, we just wanted some ham and pork chops and bacon and sausage – our hog didn’t need to be a grand prize winner.

The Grand Champions were auctioned off and next up was the Grand Reserve Champions – just a step below the big winners. The Reserve Champion hog came out into the arena led by a young man wearing jeans and shirt and tie, typical attire for a 4-H kid.

The bidding started out weak and out of the corner of my eye I noticed Dear Husband take our bidder card out of his shirt pocket, not thinking about it too much.

The auction spotter did his job efficiently, going back and forth and pointing out bidders to the auctioneer. Before I even realized the bidding was over, the spotter pointed directly at me and Dear Husband and said “Sold!”

I turned to look at my husband and asked him with a tone of disbelief, “You just bought that hog?”

Everyone seated around us started laughing. How had I not kept up with what was going on?

We could have paid less for our hog, most assuredly. But Dear Husband was determined to give the kid a fair price for the Reserve Champion animal he’d raised for months and honestly, what we paid probably didn’t even cover the feed.

While we wait for our hog to be butchered, I’m reminding myself that next year, I’m going to be in charge of the bidding card and pay much closer attention to what’s going on.

Dancing in the Rain

Labor Day weekend 2008.

After church on Sunday my husband and I headed over to the Orchard at Charlie Clark’s. This is the oldest restaurant in the White Mountains, housed in a fantastic historic building. The outdoors Orchard is only open in the summer – usually Memorial Day to Labor Day. It is an outdoor area set amongst over two acres of evergreens and apple trees, complete with bar converted from an old barn, dance floor, outdoor heating oven, and horseshoe pits.

This was the last weekend, the last hurrah of the summer before all of our “Flatlander” visitors left the White Mountains to return home to Phoenix until skiing season.

Labor Day weekend at the Orchard features a craft fair, with vendors of arts and crafts and foods and such set up all around, and live music.

My husband and I had to go. After all, it was the last hurrah.

It had been raining all morning – a sullen, gray, wet day but cleared up a bit by the time the church service was over. For the most part, the weather reflected my mood. Dear husband and I have been going through some tough times this summer and it hasn’t exactly helped the state of our marriage. We had to save money and hadn’t been doing much for entertainment throughout the summer. Going to Charlie Clark’s on Labor Day Sunday was a much-needed respite from real life. For a few hours we forgot about money issues, lack of work opportunities, the high price of gas and groceries, and paying bills.

We frequented the outdoor bar – a comfortable place with “windows” that open to the fresh air via wooden planks and rows of bar stools along two sides. A collection of beer bottle caps line the bar’s wooden countertop and a profusion of signs, the likes of which proclaim Only Cowboys Served Here add a homey decorative touch.

We drank beer. We shopped. We made an extravagant purchase of a beautiful lamp – so unlike us for so long. It was a heady feeling.

Not long afterward it started to rain again. The darkening clouds knit together into a dense blanket overhead and a gentle shower began.

“Let’s dance.” My husband turned to me beneath our flimsy shelter of pine boughs. The rain came down harder.

When was the last time we’d danced? Nearly a year earlier, I quickly figured in my head, ticking off the months while drops danced on the brim of my red felt cowboy hat.

“But it’s raining,” I protested, watching puddles form on the dance floor and vendors pull tarps over the front of their canopies.

“So?”

So, indeed. I surely wouldn’t melt.

I took a big gulp of my beer and shrugged. “Sure. Let’s dance.”

And so we did. We danced in the rain. We splashed through puddles. We danced when no one else was brave enough to weather the gentle storm. We applauded the one-man band who was giving his all, singing such classic tunes as New York, New York. We danced to slow tunes, and to two-steps.

Peeking out from the brim of a black cowboy hat, I gazed into beautiful blue-green eyes, as stormy and intense as the sky overhead, as I was twirled about the rustic dance floor, the eyes of all spectators watching our moves.

And I was reminded of why I’d fallen in love with and married this man.

Because he will dance with me. In the rain.