And that concludes our trip through Missouri. Thanks for traveling with me—I’ve enjoyed reliving it all!

 
While we were in St. Joseph, MO, we toured the Pony Express Museum. (I’m sure you know why I was interested in it!)




“The mail must go. Hurled by flesh and blood across 2,000 miles of desolate space—Fort Kearney, Laramie, South Pass, Fort Bridger, Salt Lake City. Neither storms, fatigue, darkness, mountains and Indians, burning sands or snow must stop the precious bags. The mail must go.” –M. Jeff Thompson, Mayor of St. Joseph, Missouri, April 3 1860, before the inaugural ride of the Pony Express.

Pony Express service lasted only 19 months, until Oct. 24, 1861 when the Pacific Telegraph line was completed and the Express was no longer needed. The Pony Express eventually had more than 100 stations, 80 riders and between 400 and 500 horses. Despite the hazards of the route such as Indians, extreme weather conditions and wild animals, only one mail delivery was ever lost and one rider killed.

“It was not until December 1860, that I had an opportunity to ride. The boys were dropping out pretty fast. Some of them could not stand the strain of the constant riding. It was not so bad in summer, but when winter came on, the job was too much for them… My first ride was in a heavy snow storm, and it pretty nearly used me up.”—William Campbell, Pony Express rider.




Despite the romance of the idea of the Pony Express and its usefulness to those relying upon its news, it was not profitable and led its founders to bankruptcy.

On the way to our first genealogy destination, we stopped at the James Family Farm and Museum, childhood home of Jesse and Frank James, in Kearney, Missouri.

The cabin, built of log and clapboards, is quite small, and was originally built in 1822. The Reverend Robert James brought his wife Zerelda and son Frank there in 1845, and Jesse was born here in 1847. After the Reverend’s death (he had gone to California after gold was discovered and died there), Zerelda remarried (twice, ultimately). She began giving tours of the farm after 1882, a practice continued by Frank after her death, and later, Frank’s son and Jesse’s grandsons. The home contains many items belonging to the James family, including two beautifully made quilts crafted by Frank’s wife, Annie, who seems to have been a gifted seamstress. In the 1890s, Zerelda added two ready-made rooms to the original structure, purchased from the Sears catalogue.

In addition to the family’s home, there is a small museum which contains more James family items, including Jesse’s and Frank’s saddles, the family Bible with entries made by Zerelda, the boots Jesse was wearing when he died and the tombstone of Frank James’ treasured horse, Dan. It seems that when Dan died, Frank had him buried on the farm some distance from the house. Frank included Dan’s grave in the public tours he gave, but as he aged, he found it harder to make the walk to it, and the horse’s tombstone was moved closer and closer to the home. No one knows now where the horse is actually buried!

Later in the trip, we visited the house in which Jesse James was shot to death at age 34 in 1882. He was living with his wife and two children in St. Joseph, Missouri, under the name of Tom Howard. Jesse’s tiny white house still bears the scars of that shooting: a hole in the wall, subsequently enlarged by treasure hunters, and gouges in the wood floor where more treasure hunters carved pieces of blood-soaked wood out of the boards! The home also contains artifacts from Jesse’s coffin—his grave was exhumed in 1995 so that forensic scientists using DNA testing could determine if the body buried in his grave was really him. (It was.)

When I tired of galloping through the pasture, I swam in the irrigation ditch that ran behind Grandma’s house like my own personal river, caught frogs for frog swimming races, or stretched out on a beach towel on the wooden bridge that crossed the ditch, baking myself in the summer sun. Or I would read in a lawn chair under the huge oak in the front yard, listening to the soothing sound of chickens softly clucking while they searched a flower bed for tasty bugs. Occasionally, the rooster’s crow broke the quiet of the afternoon.


Grandma was a great cook and I ate slabs of her homemade bread covered in fresh butter or homemade jam all day long. I reveled in peaches and watermelon purchased from local produce stands, or plums picked right off the tree. For a special treat, sometimes Grandma would make boysenberry cobbler, the purple berries oozing juices through the crumbly top crust.

Grandma’s mother, Great Gram, lived across the street in a tiny, pink house and many evenings I’d go play Rummy with her. (One of my first lessons in sportsmanship came at the card table: You can’t play cards with the grown ups if you cry when you lose.) I loved to play cards with her, but I admit to an ulterior motive as well. She made the best milkshakes I’ve ever had. She’d pour canned Hershey’s syrup over several scoops of chocolate chip ice cream and icy milk, then mush up the whole concoction with an old-fashioned egg beater. It was so thick, I had to eat it with a spoon.

My mom and step dad live in the house with the red trim now. Sadly, we don’t get to visit very often, since we live 2500 miles away. But when we do make the trip to Cottonwood, I’m reminded that I was once a girl with no cares, running wild through a cow pasture and slurping up milkshakes without a thought of their calorie count.

I’m still new enough to blogging to really appreciate these awards, and get a kick out of answering the questions that go along with them. For this one, I’m supposed to tell you 10 things about myself. You already know of my horse addiction and several of the various other pastimes I enjoy, so here are 10 random facts you probably don’t know:

I worked on an archaeological dig in Jerusalem when I was in college.

I’ve been quoted in two books.

I do a crossword puzzle every day, in an attempt to keep my brain cells snapping and popping.

I sing along with the radio in my car. Loudly.

I’m allergic to kiwi fruit.

I was born and raised in California, and still miss the wonderful climate.

My husband and I have been married for 22 years, despite having worked together in the same office twice and currently working out of a shared home office.

I’m totally addicted to a game on my computer called “Mahjong Titans.”

My great grandmother was full Cherokee Indian.

My favorite flavor of ice cream is mint chocolate chip.

More important than the random facts, I get to share some blogs I enjoy. I hope you will like them, too.

The Enchanted Earth. I keep passing these awards on to Meredith because her blog is utterly delightful. She takes beautiful photos and writes uplifting and creative posts. One of my recent favorites was “Star Stuff.” Check it out.

A Nature Art Journal. Elizabeth’s nature journal pages are wonderful, and I’m inspired by looking at them.

Hope in Every Day. Krista’s blog title says it all.

Walking Nature Home. Susan is a writer, her husband is a sculptor, and he is fighting brain cancer. Her writing is lovely and positive, even in the face of her husband’s illness.
Thank you to Laure for giving me one more reason to smile last week, and to all of you for your kind and encouraging comments.

Edited to add: One more great blog to visit: Blueberries, Art and Life. Teresa's thoughts on art and life--and she's already won this award once before!

I know I should be able to enjoy the Zen of the sudsy dishwater or the aesthetic beauty of the chopped tomatoes and basil in the salad. But, frankly, I’m just tired of it. It never ends! Sure, I can clean the toilet. Then it will get dirty again. And the family will get hungry and require dinner. Again.

Since I can’t afford to hire a chef or a maid, I have to trick and bribe and reward myself into keeping up with my household responsibilities when I feel like this. I use the kitchen timer. I promise myself I only have to clean while the commercials are on during a favorite TV show. I reward myself with a half hour of reading for pleasure if I empty the dishwasher and refill it. I even—gasp—skip doing a chore at its appointed time. Guess what? The world doesn’t end. The house remains standing, and though it occasionally looks a little disheveled, the health inspector has not yet condemned it.

This ennui tells me something: I need a break. I need a day or two where I don’t have to do chores and errands and cooking. A day or two in which to listen to myself and see if there is anything I could simplify or stop doing. Does my schedule need rearranging? Is there something I should start doing that would feed my soul? I’m learning not to be so hard on myself when I’m feeling a little less than enthusiastic about household chores.

Soon enough I’ll feel better, and I’ll go back to cooking and cleaning with a better attitude. Until then, does anybody have the phone number for the pizza delivery place?

Aside from learning about my impatience, the other important things I’ve learned include:

• Pay attention—both to Tank and to myself. What is Tank’s body language saying? Is he paying attention to me? How do I feel? Am I tired? Distracted? In a rush? If I’m not wholly present, how can I ask Tank to be? My attitudes and feelings will be reflected in him.

• Slow down. Don’t expect he will respond to me as he does to the Parelli clinician who has years of experience working with horses in this way. It may take me a few tries. This is not a race. I’m not trying to get my horse to do tricks—I’m building a respectful and trusting relationship, in which he views me as his leader. I came to see a successful session as one in which I was sure I had clearly and firmly communicated what I was asking of Tank, whether or not he responded “perfectly.”

• Try something different. If what I’m doing isn’t working, try signaling it a different way. And if something really feels off, take a break. Let Tank graze, or watch my friends work with their horses. Go back to it if I feel like it. We’ve had some very successful sessions this way.

To quote John Strassburger, performance editor for Horse Journal (a sort of Consumer Reports for horse owners), “With horses, the reward comes from the journey with them, not just from reaching a destination. The fun comes from figuring out and developing the horse as an individual and as an athlete. The fun comes from the relationship we develop with those horses and seeing them mature, progress, and (if we have them long enough) to become senior citizens” (“Invest in the Horse, Not the Destination,” March 2010).

The Parellis often say this is not a system of training horses; it’s a system of training people. I’m beginning to see what they mean. I now realize what I’m learning here can be applied to every area of my life: Paying attention, slowing down, trying something different…and most importantly, enjoying the journey.

Experts think gopher tortoises may live as long as 60 years. They grow slowly, taking from 9 to 21 years to reach sexual maturity, and average nine to 11 inches in length. They eat mostly grasses and legumes, and some wild fruits and berries. They are the only tortoise found east of the Mississippi River.

Gopher tortoises dig burrows in dry habitats, including pine flatwoods, scrubby flatwoods, dry prairies, xeric hammock, pine-mixed hardwoods, and coastal dunes. These burrows, which average 15 feet long and six and a half feet deep, protect them from predators, the elements and extreme conditions such as drought, freezing weather or fires. Gopher tortoise burrows also serve as homes for other creatures, such as snakes, frogs, mice, rabbits, armadillos and even skunks and foxes. Some of these animals share the burrow with the tortoise, and others take up residence in abandoned burrows.

In Florida, gopher tortoises are categorized as a Threatened Species, primarily because of loss of habitat.

This little guy has come to visit us a couple of times, apparently finding our front porch a good place to hang out. We're always on the lookout for his next appearance. Especially when pulling the cars out of the garage...

I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Fancy Pants. His official name is “Psy. Mariposa Oncidium ‘Green Valley,’” but Mr. Fancy Pants rolls off the tongue a bit better. I wish I could take credit for his nickname, but my friend Barb, who is responsible for my obsession hobby of orchid-keeping, came up with this moniker. We think he looks like a flamenco dancer—can you see his little head, ruffled shirt and fancy pants?

Barb helped me choose my first two orchids. I purchased several more on my own, and each time after they finished blooming, for at least two years I waited in vain for another blossom. During that time, a couple of the new purchases went to the big greenhouse in the sky (and imagine what that looks like!). I swore to myself until one of my purchases bloomed for a second time, I wasn’t going to buy any more. In the meantime, I did a little research on orchids, and decided mine might do better on our lanai—perhaps our house was too dry/cool/had the wrong type of sunlight. Barb’s orchids, which she keeps inside, bloom their hearts out constantly. Indoors, mine were sad little ghosts of themselves, even when I put them near the window in our steamy bathroom.

So I dutifully moved them outside. And lo and behold, in the fullness of time, a flower stem appeared, first on one and then another! Well. That was it. I began looking for orchids that were “different”—I bought a scented orchid (Oncidium Sherry Baby) and one that lives attached to a piece of wood—“Epi Timezepe Belle x Epi Tampensis x Epi Memorale” says the tag. Whatever that means. I infected my husband with orchid fever, and now he wants us to have enough plants so that we always have one blooming.


We now have 12 orchids. Four including Fancy Pants are blooming right now, and three more have buds that haven’t yet opened. I am no orchid expert—in fact mine seem to thrive on benign neglect. I’ve had a couple more casualties since that first rebloom, but overall our little orchid colony is thriving.


So far I have a mild case of orchid fever. I haven’t traipsed through a swamp in search of a rare variety or illegally picked any in the wild. I don’t have a greenhouse filled with thousands of plants—and I don’t want one. I don’t want to become an expert or spend untold hours and money to amass a huge collection. My orchids are a simple pleasure and a way to add beauty to our surroundings. And that's enough.


For more information on orchids, visit the American Orchid Society at http://www.aos.org/.

 
I hope I can live up to the examples these three women have set. I love them and I’m blessed with their presence in my life.

Happy Mother’s Day to them, and to all of you!

Walking iris

No one comes back here except the dog on squirrel patrol.

New crop of cherry tomatoes

The rare and endangered Offspringus basketballus

I wish I had taken video, not for the images but for the sounds. Birds sang and all manner of little creatures rustled through the palmettos. A breeze whispered through the leaves, shaking them gently, often just as I tried to take a picture. Every now and then I could hear a child shout or laugh somewhere in the neighborhood.

I found several small magnolia trees

This little episode reminded me that there is so much beauty and so many interesting things around me all the time. I am simply too preoccupied to see them. I'm really so grateful for where I live, even though I frequently complain (loudly) about the humidity and heat. 

Pink hydrangea--still alive!