Gophers, Vets and Women

Gopher Mountain

War on Gophers

Honoring Vets

Todd & His Crew

Papa Sonny, WWII (Marines)

Papa Riley, Civil War (Union)

Papa Sonny and his Woman (Grandma Donna)

Sgt. Todd Mills

Scampering below ground, an army of gophers attack my yard and pastures. Diligently, they can kick up a mass of dirt that towers over lawn and stretches beneath fence-lines. During the winter, they will push dirt above drifts of snow. Anyone who tells you not to make a mountain out of a molehill has never seen one erupt.

My go-to-gopher-annihilating-man is Todd, of course. He's a combat veteran, Ranger battalion trained with weapons. He has sat early mornings, poised with a pistol for gophers to poke out a head. He's hosed numerous holes, dug up others and planted sonic beacons. The beacons have kept scoundrels out of my garden, but have merely chased the gophers from one end of the yard to another.

My only rule is no chemicals, as we have dogs, horses and migratory birds. The pond is pristine, my garden organic and frogs thrive to attract Blue Heron, osprey and mergansers. Kill a rodent with poison and it will kill golden eagles, hawks and owls. So my veteran stalks with knives, guns and water in our war on gophers. He is successful.

Today is the day I am suppose to thank him, but one day of focused praise almost seems silly. Yet gratitude for men and women who serve is serious, and honor deserved. However, I don't ask Todd what he did in the Army. I don't ask, "So did you shoot people when you jumped into Grenada?" or "What's it like seeing a friend die right before your eyes?"

But I listen when he talks. I don't question, interrupt or offer my opinion. I didn't serve in the military and I never saw combat. I pat his shoulder, hug him and wear his 30-year old Ranger fatigue jacket with pride, although neither of us can button it anymore, having grown wider and wiser. We also, "smoke and joke," something my husband has taught me from his service. It means to laugh and tell stories.

Before he died, my Papa Sonny spoke of being a Marine in WWII. He choked up, telling me about the boy he saw in the hospital who cried out in agony for his mother. He tells me the boy was an angel. I don't know why he thought that, but then again, I did not serve in the military or watch a youth who had lied about his age die in pain. I just listened.

My cousin Mitch served. His son Matt has, too. Men call our house around the anniversary of Urgent Fury and ask for "brother" Todd. I'm not sure my cousins, husband or their many brothers can say why they signed up to serve, but why they serve can found in that hint, "brother."

Saturday, I attended my second Wild Horse Trail Daughters of the American Revolution meeting in Sandpoint. Not only do we honor the original patriots in our heritage, we also honor living ones. In Papa Sonny's line we have at least seven patriots who served the Revolutionary War, including 6th-great grandfather Conrad Elrod who was a Minuteman. My 3rd-great grandfather Riley Hatley wrote in his journal that his grandfathers fought the British in Ireland, fought them in the Revolutionary War and he fought them in the Civil War.

Again, I'm not sure I understand why Papa Riley thought he was fighting Brits as a southern man who fled Tennessee to sign up for the side of the Union, but I honor that he felt strongly enough to do so. So did two of his brothers. Taking action, answering that call to duty and serving one's country in the capacity of soldier is not easily explained. It takes courage.

At the DAR meeting, three WWII vets shared their recent experiences as Honor Flight participants. How exciting for these aged vets to travel to Washington, DC to see memorials and eat "enough food to feed a Boy Scout troop." But what did they remember most about the trip? The current soldiers guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. They cried, telling us what an honor it was for them to see the changing of the guard.

And another reminder from these vets of WWII. Each one of them said it's good to thank a vet, but don't forget to thank their women.

Women sacrifice, too. Raising children as widows is as ultimate of a service as their spouses who died in action. But as the man who sat in a Japanese prisoner of war camp in China from 1941-1945 said to us on Saturday, "My wife waited."

Listen. Wait. Say thanks. Honor those who serve today, yesterday and beyond. And if you have a gopher problem, maybe a combat vet will assist you. Mine does. I love you, Sgt. Todd Mills!

Osprey Honor Guard

Pastures Mature

Shady Tree

Ring-necked Ducks Flirting

A Little Apple?

Cherries!

Pastures mature; green deepens like a husky voice. The verdure of spring has faded like old WWII Army fatigues.The northern Rockies look drier now that the white of snow has melted to reveal brown and gray stones. Tamracks that grow among the evergreen pines flourished brightly with new needles bright as first-month aspen leaves, have now faded to olive green. As the pond retreats into reeds, the surrounding meadow takes on hues of blond and brunette.

Even though it is early morning I make this observation under the shade of an apple tree (maybe). I see no fruit in the canopy of leaves, so I am guessing that this is even a fruit tree. It's already hot and I plop down upon the grass in the shade of this tree to watch. I don't even bother with coffee; ice water already sounds appealing. Two ring-necked duck males paddle after a female. Another hot day and not much happening.

Still gawking as I rise from my shady spot, I see little apples. Not in the apple tree, but the skinny, poplar-like tree next to the wood shed. I zoom in with my camera and see glossy-red. Cherries? With reverence, I walk to the tree, looking up. It is a cherry tree! Hopping, I swing at a branch, missing. So I carefully bend a branch to me and pluck a ripe cherry. Gold, I am eating gold. Never in my life have I had a cherry fresh from a tree. I thought fresh strawberries were the hallmark of summer, but that was before cherries.

As if that first bite infused magic into the air, I hear an osprey. In the heat, the sky in no longer bright blue, but the osprey still soars like a wing-master. There are huge power lines that cut across the back of the pond and he lands on the middle post. Capturing him in the telephoto lens, I notice that sparse slope behind. I had thought it to be logged, but at closer look, the hill and trees have burned. Wildfires are the tornadoes of the west, the wind-driven hurricanes of forests.

Osprey Arrive

A moment of silence to mourn the passing of 19 firefighters from Prescott, AZ. It could have been my father, your brother, my neighbor's husband. They were all such to women who keen the loss. We mourn with those who mourn.

Osprey with Fire-scarred Slope Behind

They were defending the west, whether human homes or natural habitat. I imagine them as saving my home, saving the trees the osprey fly among this morning. Three osprey show up and show off. If there is an honor guard to escort us to heaven,
let's hope it is osprey. The tones are dusky, but watch the photos for flashes of white and brown. Presenting, the osprey honor guard. May they bring us home one day.