Nurturing the Heart

Dandelions

Feeding Mason Bees

Making Wishes

Makes Me Grumpy, Sometimes

Small Acts

Celebrations

Not a Road for the Car

Dandelions in the Valley, Snow in the Mountains

Eyes on the Pack River

Rushing Snow Melt

Cavorting Dogs

Watching the River...Moose...What Moose?

Danger Lurks in Mossy Trees

The Man Cares for His Dogs & Wife

Watching Dandelions & Mason Bees

Commit Acts that Nurture the Heart

#1000Speak

Mason bees flit from dandelion to dandelion. Their golden wings and small bodies are easy to overlook. Sitting in the grass affords me a closer inspection

I can't understand why anyone would consider dandelions weeds. The blossoms scatter across meadows and lawns like tiny returning summer suns. Often, these blossoms provide the first food for pollinators, like these silent mason bees. Pluck the flowers and you can make dandelion wine. Pluck the feathery globe of dandelion blossoms gone to seed and you hold the power of making wishes in your hand.

The leaves are slightly bitter and edible. Salad season is nearing and already I have greens to add to the mix. Those who do not understand the gift that is a dandelion curse the tap root. Home improvement stores even sell a special tool to dig the roots, not to mention dangerous chemicals to kill the plant. Yet the root and leaves are most beneficial; they detox the liver, prevent diabetes, boost iron and strengthen the heart.

I'm sitting in grass surrounded by mason bees and heart-toners. If not by dandelions, then how do we nurture our hearts?

I've been grumpy with my husband lately. As we approach 28 years of marriage, I recognize a dip. The path to longevity in relationships includes highs and lows. Couples who want to forever be in love are shocked the first time they hit a dip. The heart might recognize love, but we have to do the nurturing. We have to keep our relationships heart-healthy.

Dandelions don't bloom every day of the year and neither does our heartfelt love for one another.

The grumpiness will pass if I practice patience and loving acts. My loving acts are simple and constant, mostly. I cook his breakfast before he goes to work, and most days I cook his dinner, including fabulous BBQs now that the weather is sunny for such outdoor cooking. If I withhold these simple acts, I can almost feel my heart shrink. Yet, I want to experience something other than grumpiness with my spouse.

Some couples renew their wedding vows. I've known people to take elaborate renewal vacations to Hawaii or on cruise lines. Other couples have thrown big shindigs with gaudy party favors and elaborate invites. And some have paired up for high-risk adventure such as zip-lining through the Amazon jungle to re-spark the heart.

For us, the moment simply happened, unplanned without invites or plane tickets. We renewed our vows of commitment through a shared near-death, heart-stopping experience.

With the return of dandelions and mason bees, the roads to the upper Pack River are free of snow. Well, almost. It started out with me feeling grumpy toward him because he was driving our car up what was more or less a muddy two-track winding higher and muddier into the mountains. We reached a spot rutted by 4-wheel drive trucks and I said, "We can't go through that."

He grinned and shifted the car -- a car, not a truck -- and said, "Yes we can."

Gripping my seat, grumpiness flared into full marital fury. Why had I married a three-year-old? When would he grow up?

We made it through only to get high enough up the road where the snow was yet drifting and melting. Beneath a tall span of pines was a clear patch where we could get turned around. I could see the roaring Pack River coursing with spring snow melt and I wanted photos. Once turned around, we stopped and I headed to the river.

The silts in the Selkirk mountains are blue-gray. When the snow melts and silts churn, the water doesn't look muddy, it appears glacial blue. With huge frothing rapid over boulders that range in size from pumpkins to smart-cars, the river echoed down the forested canyon. With eyes only for the river, I didn't heed my surroundings.

Our dogs -- his dogs -- cavorted like children and stepped into the churning waters. They galloped upstream and I snapped my camera doing a full circle and when I saw my spouse coming at me he looked grim and determined. Had he grown heart-weary of our relationship, too? He seemed on course to push me into the river.

In a low and calm voice he said two words, "Charli...moose.."

How I missed walking right past a moose, which is as large as a horse, is beyond me. Even the dogs zipped past her. Her. The worst gender to meet on the trail when dandelions are in full bloom in the valleys below. A female moose is deadly.

Just then, my husband did an incredible thing; he stepped between me and her. That one act was greater than 28 years of cooking breakfasts. That one act renewed our vows of love, commitment. That one act nurtured both our hearts. He took on til death do us part. And we were looking at it.

Incredibly, our dogs returned from up river and saw the moose and gave her chase. His dogs -- our dogs -- stepped between us and her. What happened next is unheard of; the moose turned and ran. Moose do not turn and run. Moose kick, charge and stomp. They hold their ground. This one did not, and Todd told me to run to the car. He went after the dogs.

Once at the car, which is not necessarily safe as moose are capable of destroying a car, I called for those dogs like a desperate mother calling for a lost child. Todd trailed them for almost a mile before they turned back miraculously unscathed. It was a miracle that none of us were injured.

My husband knows he has hero status now. I don't doubt his love. Nurturing is vital, big or small acts. We have to nurture our own hearts to be able to love another. We have to practice that love when it is difficult.

Those dogs mean the world to my husband. I know that without a doubt. But I know that I mean the world to him, too and he to me. So when I feel stuck with a special needs dog, I remember what we all mean to one another.

So here I sit among the dandelions and mason bees holding my dog -- our dog -- in the throes of a full seizure. It's a little act, one he knows I'll do because I love him and these two dogs. The other dog waits patiently by the door understanding that his sister is helpless but being helped. He'll lick her face when we return inside.

Nurturing the heart is never easy, but we can't mistake dandelions for weeds. Sometimes the very things that annoy us, feed us. Embrace a life full of dandelions and live the big and small moments fully.


This post is part of a #1000Speak movement happening every month. Learn more at 1000Speak for Compassion.

My Shootist

One Day the Ice is Gone

The Next Day the Ice is Back

Setting Up a Shooting Bench

My Shootist

Coaching

Teaching

Defining a Target

Explaining the Target

Explaining the Mechanism

My office is expansive, covering most of the second story of the ranch house we lease. On my desk sits a pair of binoculars to catch early arrivals to Elmira Pond. The past few weeks have been a cycle of ice-on-ice-off. Today, a slight sheen of ice mirrors the setting sun. Yesterday, two geese bobbed in open water for a submerged meal.

The pond is uncertain about its ice, just as I'm uncertain as to whether or not I need that extra blanket on my bed. Like the ice, the blanket stays because it's still chilly enough.

From the bedroom beyond my office I hear the metallic clacking of a gun action. It's a common sound. My husband, former US Army Ranger Sgt. Mills, is either cleaning, building or changing out a part. A gun part. He reloads and tinkers with optics for scopes. If you want to know about Mausers, he can tell you when and where the models were made, for whom and why. He can spew formulas for ballistics like a rocket scientist.

My husband is my shootist.

In 1976, John Wayne made his last film, The Shootist. The storyline describes a dying gunfighter who spends his last days looking for a way to die with a minimum of pain and a maximum of dignity. It was a poignant movie for John Wayne fans because the actor was already battling the cancer that would take his life in another three years.

In the movie, the term shootist refers to a gunfighter. Today, it can be a term to describe those who practice the sport known as benchrest competition. My shootist is not a hunter; he's not a gunfighter. He challenges himself to shoot the tightest groups possible at the farthest range.

A shootist has mechanical and mathematical precision. Former Sgt. Mills builds or modifies his long-range rifles for accuracy. He buys his own brass, bullets and gun powder to reload  ammunition. Much of his accuracy is gained by his loads. Next he installs a quality scope with the proper range that can be dialed in to his targets.

The shootist targets paper. He marks and measures his groups to recalculate any changes he needs to make to his firearm, scope or reloads. He keeps journals like a writer with numbers filling the pages. He can tell you with expertise which loads are best for which distances and rifles.

Benchrest requires rests or sandbags to steady the rifle and demands a steady hand and calm breath from the shootist. It is an exciting sport that combines intelligence, mechanical aptitude and prowess as a shootist. It's a little like golf, settling into a shot that can be exhilarating.

John Wayne's shootist character comes to mind because the story is about a gunfighter seeking dignity at the end of his life. It is not unlike a soldier who is seeking dignity in the civilian world. Often, people express empathy for the homeless vets or ones in crisis, but many don't see that a great number of vets find dignity and healing at the local gun range.

My shootist educates others how to properly handle firearms and he's always willing to share his sport. Many times he has helped first-time shooters overcome their fear and realize that benchrest is an exciting activity.

When we traveled to Montana, former Sgt. Mills took time to instruct each person about the firearm, safe handling and how best to shoot it accurately.

Linking up with Abracabadra for Wordless Wednesday. Photos by Charli Mills. Firearms by former Sgt. Mills.

Run to the Hills

Running Through Hills of Snow

King of the Hill

Like Race Cars

Puffing on His Pipe

The snow is melting, the snow is melting!

With a serious case of cabin fever, we rushed the dogs up the Pack River so they could run to the hills. The Upper Pack River Road has been inaccessible to us since mid-December. The melt has opened up the road and away we drive.

White, crusty hills of piled snow encircle the snowmobile landing area. That was as far as we could navigate (without a snowmobile of our own). The entire drive up the road, Grendel nose-whistles; he's that excited. He leaps out the opened door into rivulets of running water. The road is packed sand, still frozen enough not to be muddy...yet.

Grendel and Bobo dash up and down the hills; hills of snow, slopes of snow-crusted rocks. The Pack River rushes in our ears but too much snow prevents us from getting a closer look. Like race-cars, the two dogs zoom around the open area where snowmobilers can turn around trucks with toy-haulers. They kick up icy water and fine grains of quartz sand.

Todd pulls out his pipe and blows puffs of smoke, watching the dogs. I watch him. The sun shines warmly on all of us and it satisfies our need to get out of the house, to breath in the sharp scent of pines and watch dogs run to the hills.

Angel With a Plow

Stuck in the Driveway

Some Angels Have Plows

Plowing the Driveway

Snow Pile

And It Starts to Snow Again

Digging Out

Last night as the dome of snow clouds dimmed like mood lighting in a restaurant, Todd got the car stuck in our driveway. The mood it set was dismal at best. Darkness encroached and he still couldn't budge the Fusion one inch back or forward. We ate our crab quiche dinner in silence not sure what the morning would bring but more snow.

Morning dawns with that hopeful feeling that sunlight brings. It's not exactly sunny; the clouds hang so low I can almost touch one. The snow has let up, and Elmira is crisp as white linen with the Fusion plugging the driveway like a broken cork in a wine bottle.

Todd is digging with his shovel as I fix an apple puff-pancake for breakfast. He's supposed to leave for Moses Lake to work a 12-day shift. Digging out a stuck car is not a great start. I sip coffee, pour batter over diced apples and pray that someone helpful comes along.

Last night, Todd trudged through drifts of snow to get to a neighbor and ask for help. Seems the neighbor was in bed sick, and his sons were busy digging out their own road. It looked as though we'd be stuck until spring.

Breakfast is ready and I call to Todd who's ready to break the shovel in half. Sitting at the table, Bobo begins to bark at the south window. Not sure what to expect, I go to the window. "Todd," I say, "Get your boots back on--there's a man with a snowplow in our driveway!"

True. A man with a beautiful midnight-blue, 4WD, Dakota truck with a split-flex snowplow, orange cab lights and a sand dispenser in the bed. When God answers prayers, He sends the best. I'm grinning with cup of coffee at the window, watching Todd greet the man who says, "I see you're stuck."

The men strap a towline to the car, get it out of the snow bank and the truck proceeds to plow great swaths of snow into our yard. Todd has the car turned around and now the plow is clearing the way to the road. I grab the last of my Peach Man freezer jam and call to Todd, "Give this to him!"

Todd comes back in to gather up his duffel bag and say good-bye. I ask how much we owe the man, and Todd smiles and says, "Your jam was enough. He just stopped to help."

As Todd leaves, the clouds begin to dump more snow, but we are no longer stuck thanks to the angel with a plow.

Parking Lot Politics

Me, Recording Parking Lot Politics

Taking Politics on the Road with 4WD

Tailgate Political Portfolios

Some Slogans Fades But Never Die

No Bumper Sticker? Paint Your Own

Hubby Just Needs a Stick Horse and a Horn

Just Being Silly

By one definition, politics are the "art and science of government organizations." By another, they are "factional scheming for power and status within a group (as in, office politics)." To be political is to "take sides" and this is where politics loses any appeal to me.

While I get frustrated with the politics of this nation, I love this nation with its amber waves of grain and its diverse swatches of people. I'll serve as a citizen, but I won't get political in the partisan sense. But I'm not here to discuss, debate or digress on politics.

Today is "Silly on Sunday" so I'm going to poke fun at parking lot politics in northern Idaho. It's that grand arena where trucks become mobile campaign slogans and politics rebuke from rusted tailgates.

Yesterday, my husband had me drop him off at the Bonner County Gun and Horn Show. I snort-giggled when I read "gun and horn." What came to mind were a bunch of boys riding stick-horses with pop guns and toy bugles. My husband scowled at my giggling and informed me that "horns" referred to antlers, as in hunters. I still held my vision, but was wise enough to also hold my tongue.

While I shopped at Super One and Winter Ridge to replenish the kitchen pantry, he talked ballistics, barrels and bears with the other gun-toting, horn-tooting boys. After a few hours, I called to say that I was on my way to pick him up. My husband had that octave-higher voice of excitement and I realized he was probably let loose in the candy-store too long. He sounded wired on sugar. "Not, yet," he told me before clamping his cell phone shut.

What was I to do in the parking lot with blowing snow and nothing but tailgates to read? So I drove around, in my car noting that there were few cars parked in the full lot. Northern Idahoans drive trucks; 4WD trucks with tires as big as my car and political rhetoric as bold as red paint.

Some tailgates still held to faded concepts involving Clinton, but most favored repealing Obama. The plights of rural western places spoke out in anger with catchy slogans and colorful witticisms. No one was denied speaking out against anyone or anything, and if someone couldn't afford a bumper sticker, they just painted one like drawing a Sharpie tattoo.

Feeling bold among such strong statements I grabbed my camera and recorded (note: to protect the privacy of others I cropped or blocked plate numbers and hid one gun-toting smiling face of a man I did not know). Finally, my husband emerged.

When I told him about recording parking lot politics he read a few and did what every political person does--he debated this slogan, disregarded that one and debunked the myths behind others. Sides. Even in parking lots.

Want to read other silly stories or look at silly photos? Join blog host, Everything Susan at Silly on Sundays.

Winter Blues

Fluffy Crystals Cling to Evergreens

Huskies Romp to the Pond

The House Awaits With Warmth

The Rusty Blur of a Freight Train

Silent Sentinals

Busting Mice

Elmira Pond in Winter Blues

Walking into SuperOne grocery store, the hastily penned sign reads: "Happy Lights on Sale." Chuckling, I ask my husband--who wavers between toddler obnoxiousness and old-man crankiness--if we need to buy him Happy Lights. "No," he grumbles.

In case you're curious, Happy Lights are full-spectrum light bulbs that are meant to infuse the human body with full rays of the missing sun. In the north, the sun can go AWOL (absent without leave) for days, abandoning it's blue-sky post for places I've never been before--like Yuma, Arizona or Khardga, Egypt. People must be giddy, living in such full sun year round.

Some people suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), also known as "winter blues." While I get sleepier, crave more coffee and bake chocolate chip cookies, I'm never sad in winter. I love the snow even with its cover of clouds. It's the blue-sky-arctic-front winter days  I'm happy to have left behind in the Midwest.

My friends in Minnesota have declared the state "colder than Mars." My own "happy light" is just knowing that my valley in northern Idaho is protected by three Rocky Mountain ranges that buffer me from arctic blasts that nail Canada and the nation east and south of me. It's been warmer here than in northern Florida the past few days.

Yet today the sun disappeared. While the rest of the nation shivered, the Pacific Ocean crept over the Cascades and trapped Elmira beneath a gray dome spitting snow that was easily ocean water days ago. Thus the winter-scape on Elmira Pond glows white with fresh fallen snow.

Taking huskies and camera to the far south pasture, I begin snapping white, only to end up with blue photos. The missing sun, domed sky and snow-covered everything creates a blue hue. Snapshots capture pixels of the winter blues that infuse me with joy.

White fluffy crystals of snow gather upon poky needles of evergreen. The camera shows falling snow as fairy-like globes of light floating in air and the landscape deepens into blue. The huskies dash from the pond to the pasture, inspecting every possible mouse hideout in between. A train blasts by, a rusty blur in the blue of snow. The house promises warmth, lights and hot nettle tea while the horse barn stands as silent as the Ponderosa guarding its perimeter. Trucks and cars pass by with chains snow-muffled, driving slow and cautious.

Unchained and infused with winter blues, the huskies and I walk back to the house with snow drops kissing my face the entire way.