Last week, Annie and I visited daughter Marshall in Portland. While the ladies shopped, I sat at a table in Kornblatt’s Deli, pretending to write the great American novel but mostly watching people on the street.

There were young mothers dressed in black leotards and pink tutus, sporting carefully spiked purple hair and diamond-studded noses, jogging behind double-wide strollers. They were all dressed the same—exercising their individuality, I guess.

A homeless guy pulled a cardboard sign from behind a planter outside the linen shop and set up on the corner. His sign read along the top “%&#$ CAPITALISM” and below “CAN YOU SPARE SOME CHANGE?” The inconsistency in his message didn’t seem to bother him.

An elderly lady, wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe, pushed her walker erratically down the sidewalk, yelling obscenities at her nurse. The nurse had a blissful, bemused look on her face.

A biker covered head-to-toe in black nylon sped down the sidewalk, skidded around the homeless guy at the corner, dodged two women coming out of the linen shop, and ran headlong into a bus stop sign.

As he lay on the pavement, writhing in pain, one of the ladies handed her packages to her friend so she could wag her finger at the biker and give him a good talking-to.  The ladies strutted off in a huff and the biker limped away pushing his bike.

It was a great show—all for the price of a toasted whole-wheat bagel and a cup of black coffee.

I walked out onto the street. Annie and Marshall were nowhere in sight. We’d planned to meet for an early dinner at Papa Haydn’s Restaurant. I figured I’d wander over to the bar, maybe have a glass of wine while I waited for them.

As I sat at the bar reading a book, in walked a tallish woman wearing a leopard-skin hat, gold-framed sunglasses, and lipstick the color of cotton candy. She chewed gum while she scrounged around in the bottom of a purse the size of a small suitcase. Her brown leather coat hung open so you could see her ruffled pink blouse, heavily freckled cleavage, black miniskirt, and knee-high black boots with stiletto heels.

She asked if she could sit next to me at the bar.

“Sure,” I said, courteously.

She ordered a Sailor Jimmy and retrieved her cell phone from the depths of her bag. It blared the theme song from Rocky. She dropped her sunglasses on the bar and replaced them with bifocals so she could read the phone’s tiny screen. That’s when I knew we were much closer in age than I’d first thought.

While she chewed her gum, sipped her Sailor Jimmy, and talked into the phone loud enough to be heard down the street, a chubby little fellow walked in and sat down beside her.

He’d combed a few strands of black hair over his baldpate. He wore a black silk shirt, collar upturned, unbuttoned to the top of his paunch. A heavy gold-chained medallion rested on his hairy chest. It looked like an Olympic medal, but wasn’t. He smelled like Old Spice.

When the tallish lady with the freckled cleavage got off the phone, she turned to the little bald man, looked startled, and said, “Robert?”

“Alice?” he replied.

“Well…uh…yes,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “Your picture makes you look…uh…different,” she added. “I’m surprised I recognized you.”

“Yep. I need to update the photo on my Facebook page,” he said. “What are you having?”

“Second thoughts,” she said.

She slid off her stool, tugged at her skirt, took one last sip of her Sailor Jimmy, pushed a few dollars across the bar, hit the speed dial on her cell phone, told somebody on the other end of the line that her plans for the evening had changed, and walked out.

Robert looked at me and shrugged. He picked up Alice’s Sailor Jimmy and took a sip. “Shame to let this go to waste,” he said.

Our oldest daughter, Summer, was home for a few days last week. She’s a back-to-nature-leave-no-trace-kind-of-girl who lives in Missoula, Montana, rides a bike everywhere she goes, and picks up trash as she strolls down city sidewalks. She’s what you might call a “good person.”

She’s not pushy about it, but finds ample opportunity around our farm to point out life-style changes Annie and I should make to save the planet.

Last week, she caught me accepting a UPS delivery of shoes I’d ordered from Zappos.com. My fat feet with the high arches are hard to fit and the shoes I buy aren’t available here locally, so I order what I need from Zappos.

The service is fabulous. I love Zappos.

But I must admit, the shoes come with a lot of packaging—a sturdy box within a sturdier box, cardboard inserts in the shoes, paper wrapping around each shoe, a plastic sleeve around the inner box to hold its lid on, etc.

Summer was quick to point this out.

“Dad, do you have any idea how many trees were killed to produce that packaging? Or any idea how much energy went into making those boxes? Or any idea how much oil and unnatural chemicals went into making those shoes? Or what the transportation costs were to get all those trees to the place where they were turned into paper? Or…”

“No,” I interrupted. “I don’t have any idea about any of those things, but thank you for pointing them out to me. I am forever in your debt.”

“Oh, Dad. You’re incorrigible,” Summer said, hands on hips, eyes rolling. “And you know what else you and mom should be doing? Think about all that driving back and forth from the farm into town, and the…”

Well, by now, I’m guessing you’ve gotten the point. We were sorry to see Summer leave after such a short visit…sort of.

After she left, the guilt set in. I started picking up trash as I walked down the street and, one day, I even walked the five blocks to pick up my laundry instead of driving. I was starting to feel pretty self-righteous. And then I walked back into our house one night and saw a big stack of boxes by the front door—stuff Annie had ordered while she was laid-up in bed, nursing her broken arm.

“Annie, dear,” I said. “Do you have any idea how many trees were killed to produce those boxes full of stuff we don’t really need, and how much energy was burned to get those boxes all the way here, or…”

“Sam,” Annie interrupted, “I put a box from Woolrich on the bed. It’s addressed to you.”

“Oh…uh…well…uh…good,” I stammered.

I was wondering when those shorts were going to get here.

It’s springtime here at the farm—a time full of chores: weeds to pull, pastures to mow, voles to chase out of the yard, a garden to plant, a chicken coop to build. There’s a lot going on, but not so much that we can’t enjoy watching Sammie with my (his) exercise ball. Very entertaining!

Sammie Ball

Broken-arm Annie isn’t doing any riding these days. The doctor says she needs to let the arm heal for another couple of months before she climbs back on a horse. That’s not easy for Broken-arm Annie. Patience is not her strong suit.

So, yesterday she took my exercise ball-the four-foot-diameter, air-filled rubber ball that I do my sit-ups on-and threw it into the round pen next to her horse, Sammie.

“What the heck are you doing with my ball?” I asked.

“What the heck were you doing with it?” Annie responded.

“That’s the ball I do my sit-ups on.” I said.

“And when exactly did you last do a sit-up on that ball?” Annie asked.

“Well…”

“I’m guessing 2007,” Annie said. “Maybe January, 2007.”

“It hasn’t been that long…” I started.

“Oh yes it has, Sam. That ball has been gathering dust in the guest bedroom for…”

About that time, Sammie stepped up to my ball and kicked at it. The ball bounded away. Sammie thought about that for a minute. Then approached the ball cautiously and kicked it again.

Annie whooped, “Good boy, Sammie. Kick it again.”

Sammie followed my ball and kicked it again. The other horses gathered at the fence line to watch. BIG ran along our side of the fence keeping up with the ball as Sammie kicked it, over and over again. Even BC the Barn Cat came out to watch. Sammie proceeded to put on a show, racing around the round pen, moving that ball ahead of him. Extraordinary, really.

“Guess I’ll have to get a new ball,” I said.

“I’m guessing that’s a good guess,” Annie said.

For that upcoming springtime picnic, give this recipe a try.

Serves 8

Ingredients

1 cup sugar
¾ cup white vinegar
⅓ cup vegetable oil
1½ teaspoons kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
1 can (15 oz.) French-style green beans, drained
1 can (15 oz.) small green peas, drained
1 can (15 oz.) shoe peg corn, drained
1 jar (4 oz.) diced pimentos
1 cup diced celery
1 green pepper - diced
1 small red onion - diced

To make the marinade, combine sugar, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper in a medium saucepan. Heat the marinade to a boil, stirring frequently to make sure all of the sugar dissolves. Turn off the heat and allow the marinade to cool.

In a large bowl, combine the remaining ingredients. Pour the marinade over the vegetables, cover, and refrigerate for 24 hours - stirring occasionally.

This morning I woke up before dawn, left Annie buried under a stack of heavy quilts, put on the coffee, and pulled on jeans and a heavy sweater. While the coffee brewed, I built a fire in the fireplace on the porch and watched our patch of star-studded sky give way to a fan of sunbeams unfolding somewhere behind the mountains. Fog hung like a soft blanket above the river and drifted to the edge of the porch. The dawn was chilly, still, and quiet.

On mornings like these, I remember summer vacations at the Boulder River Ranch. For some 20 years we McLeods vacationed there until the ranch was sold and went out of the guest-ranching business. Every year we spent a week with the same crowd and over time acquaintances became friends became family. We fished together, hiked together, took our meals family-style, and sat on cabin porches in the evening swapping tales while the kids played capture-the-flag or hide-and-seek in the failing light—special times with extra-special people in a magical place.

Mornings at the Boulder River Ranch were always the same. Moms and kids slept until breakfast.  The dads were up early.

John was the earliest riser—up at the first hint of dawn. He started a fire in the dining hall fireplace while Marge the Cook started coffee and breakfast. By the time Hal, Steve, and I wandered in, a fire blazed away in the fireplace and the coffee was hot. The four of us sat. We watched the fire. Conversation didn’t amount to much. Whatever got said was short and pleasantly meaningless.

I have fond memories of those mornings in front of the fire.

So here I sit on our porch, watching a few high clouds pass over the mountains. The fire’s crackling. A tom turkey pecks his way along the riverbank. A pair of geese stand guard at their nest. A mother deer and her fawn are nibbling the new growth on the trees beyond the root cellar. The coffee’s hot. I’m missing John and Steve and Hal.

But I reckon this’ll do.

I woke with a start at 2:00 AM this morning. From our bedroom window, I could barely make out a group of coyotes howling at the moon down by the river. Sam, our great big Pyrenees guard dog, stood at the fence watching the coyotes. Yoda, our low-slung Corgi with the giganto ears, paced the fence line next to Sam, barking frantically.

I couldn’t see BIG, our Pyrenees puppy. Where was he? I started to worry.

We’ve heard stories of coyotes calling dogs out with their yelps and pouncing on them, killing them if they can. I don’t know whether the stories are true, but I’d heard them and figured I’d best go check on BIG. So I wandered out on the porch in my boxers to have a look around.

There was BIG, cowering behind one of the Adirondack chairs. He bolted from his hiding place and tried to climb up into my arms. The poor little guy was scared to death. I told him it was okay, that Sam and Yoda wouldn’t let the big bad coyotes get him. But BIG wasn’t buying it.

About that time, Yoda and Sam showed up on the porch. The howling stopped. The world went quiet. Frogs croaked along the riverbank. The night was chilly and clear. The stars were spectacular.

I put BIG back down on the porch. He ran to Sam, but Sam just turned his head and lumbered away. Yoda wouldn’t have anything to do with BIG either. I could read Yoda’s mind, “The boy is supposed to be a guard dog and, when things get dicey out here, he hides behind a chair. What is that about?”

I told Yoda that BIG was just a puppy. “He’ll catch on, ” I said.

“Whatever,” Yoda thought. Then he wandered off.

BIG sat at my feet. I told him not to worry about it. “They’ll get over it,” I said.

BIG crawled back behind his chair, lay down, put his paws over his head, and sighed loudly.

He was having a bad night.

About three weeks ago, Annie dove off the back of my horse, Bo, and planted her left shoulder in the dirt—really hard dirt. As a consequence, her left arm is badly broken. The doctor says she’ll be laid-up for several more weeks.

Why she did that, I don’t know. “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Annie says. When I asked if she thought she’d be doing any more horse-diving, she said she didn’t think so. “Once was plenty.”

The doctor said Annie broke her humerus.

“Your humorous?” I said. “Is that your funny bone?”

The cute nurse with the golden hair and sparkling blue eyes thought my little quip was irresistibly charming.

Annie didn’t.  “Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,” she said, holding her arm and grimacing like she meant it. “Here I am at death’s door and you’re making jokes and flirting like I’m done and gone.”

The day of the accident, Annie and I spent a few hours in the St. Mary Emergency Room. The next day we rode in an ambulance back to the Emergency Room where we spent several more hours. It was quite an outing. Along the way we met lots of great folks from the Walla Walla Fire Department, Fire District No. 6 (Touchet), and the St. Mary Emergency Room-all wonderful, compassionate, capable folks. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Now for the bad news: By default, I’ve become Annie’s nurse and maid and cook and go-fer and most everything else. I’m not very good at any of them. She’ll tell you that herself. But she thinks I’ll get better over time and that all the practice I’m getting will turn out to be good for both of us.

“I’ve always wanted somebody to wait on me hand and foot,” she says. “You’ve got potential. Keep at it, Honey, and don’t worry, I’ll let you know if you go off track.”

She wasn’t lying. She sits in bed with her arm in a sling and offers helpful instructions all day long.

Several months ago I read that women say 20,000 words every day, on average. I didn’t believe it at first, but I read it in the newspaper so I figured it had to be true. Well, I have been home more than usual the last several weeks, tending to Annie’s every wish. Annie and I have never spent so much quality time together. So, I’ve had a chance to conduct my own little study. I’ve come to believe the 20,000-word estimate may be a little low.

As helpmate, I’ve done some really stupid things. The stupidest was giving Annie a tiny silver bell to ring whenever she needs something.  If I had that to do over again, I wouldn’t. She’s had a death-grip on that bell since I gave it to her. Even when she’s sleeping, she’s got her skinny little fingers wrapped around that nuisance. She rings it constantly-more ginger ale please, saltines please, chicken noodle soup please, another blanket please, and on and on and on.

All this has caused me to wonder about my marriage vows. What exactly did I promise? How far am I required to go as a go-fer? I don’t remember. I made those promises over 30 years ago.

So I’m out here in the barn scrounging through old boxes looking for our wedding pictures and related paraphernalia, hoping against hope that I’ll find a copy of our vows and discover that the “in sickness and health” line got dropped.

I must be getting close. I just found some dried flowers from the wedding itself. When I picked them up, they turned to dust. I’m sure those vows are in one of these boxes somewhere…

Oh #$*&, there’s that bell again. Sorry, gotta run.

“I’m coming, Sweetums.”

I’m sitting in Break Espresso (Missoula MT), pretending I’m writing something important. Two guys at the next table:

Fred:    Don’t see your name here in the newspaper.

Bob:    Good.

Fred:    You ain’t here in the obituaries.

Bob:    Ain’t dead yet.

Fred:    You ain’t here in the want ads.

Bob:    Nobody wants me. Why you think I’m sittin’ here drinkin’ coffee with your sorry ass?

Fred:    You ain’t named here as a sex offender.

Bob:    Ain’t been caught yet.

Fred:    Not much here in the newspaper worth reading.

Bob:     Anybody ever tell you that you talk too damn much?

Fred:     Nope.

Bob:      You talk too damn much.

ELAPSED TIME: 20 minutes

I’m pleased to report that Broken Arm Annie and daughter Marshall—who just had her tonsils removed—are recovering nicely and beginning to get around on their own.

After two weeks cooped up in the house with two invalids—fluffing pillows, opening cans of chicken noodle soup, folding laundry, listening to muffled moans, doling out pills like a pusher, boiling water to make Jell-O, and helping Annie button her shirts—my shallow store of nurturing capacity hit empty.

I called daughter Summer. She lives in Missoula with her husband, Rusty.

“Help,” I said.

Long story short, we agreed to trade places for the weekend. She went to the five-and-dime and loaded up on Easter projects for the invalids, got in her car, and drove to Walla Walla. I threw a pair of blue jeans and a toothbrush in a bag, kissed Broken Arm Annie and Tonsil-less Marshall goodbye, and ran out the door.

As Summer and I passed each other going opposite directions on I-90, we waved enthusiastically.

I kept running.

Last night, I met Rusty for a beer and pizza. I don’t know what we talked about but we didn’t talk about relationships, or our feelings, or what we’re going to wear to cousin Berkeley’s wedding, or what we’re going to do with the rest our lives—all undeniably important things. We mostly drank our beers and watched a baseball game on the television above the bar. That was refreshing.

This morning, I’m sitting here at Break Espresso in Missoula. It is another of my favorite coffee shops (see earlier blog about Fido, a coffee shop in Nashville, TN).

Rusty is participating in a local triathlon today. I’m not. So we’ll touch base late this afternoon and go to Kettle House Brewery for a beer, maybe two…and then to his favorite low-brow bar for the Montana version of Cajun food. I can’t wait.

AND I have the whole day to myself. I’m writing until this hardwood chair gets too hard. And then I’m going for a long walk. And then…who knows?