Embattled Collards

Last year's exuberant collard greens were an unqualified success in the garden. A. was delighted and declared we will grow collards forevermore. Accordingly, he bought six collard starts in April and we planted them out.

Then it didn't rain. Like, at all. 

It's interesting that not all water is created equal for plants. Our garden plants will, grudgingly, survive when watered by a hose with well water, but they don't really thrive. They want rain water. I'm guessing this has something to do with the minerals in our well water? I don't know, but I do know that there are definitely some seeds that won't even germinate on well water (notably, root vegetables like carrots and beets), and that the garden doesn't grow well until it actually rains.

The collards were displeased by the well water and just kind of sulked there, waiting for rain.

Then it started to rain! Hooray! 

And then the harlequin beetles showed up, right on cue.

Behold, the destroyer.

The harlequin beetles arrive in great numbers at the beginning of June every year, and brassicas are their favorite plants to eat. They're not that hard to get rid of, it's just that there are so many of them. When the infestation is the worst, I use a bucket of soapy water and drop them in there to drown. Thereafter, I just inspect the plants whenever I'm out there and squish the ones I find.

Incidentally, if you ever have to hunt harlequin beetles, it's helpful to know their habits. When they sense you hovering, they'll scuttle to the underside of a leaf to hide. If you grab at them and miss, they'll drop to the ground, where they can be squished quite easily. They never fly, which is helpful.

Anyway.

The rains also came with two separate nasty hail storms, about a week apart, that were particularly detrimental to the big, spreading leaves of the collard plants.

The end result of all of this is, well, sad.

Not a picture of health.

However! The nice thing about collard greens is that they grow new leaves from the center, so even when they look like that, there is healthy new growth coming. 

Of course, I'm also starting to see the first small grasshoppers coming as well, which will be the next wave of attack on these hapless plants.

Will we ever actually eat any of these collard greens this year? Stay tuned to find out.

Mission Complete

Poppy and I have been going to all the far-flung churches in our very spread-out parish for the past year. She wanted to see all of them. Most of them are quite old, some are very beautiful, all of them only have Mass once a month.

This past Saturday, we went to the final church. It's not that far from our house--about thirty miles--but it's in quite a dramatic location.

After turning off the paved road.

It's an adobe structure that was sheathed in local cut stone.

This is the only church in our parish that is privately owned. It is also the oldest church in our parish. The family that owns the ranch takes care of it.

Some of the older owners of the ranch are buried right under the church. Their tombstones are under the statue of Jesus there in the center.

Poppy and I climbed up to the rear choir loft, from which we had a good view of the giant pieta at the entrance to church.

Most of the grave markers in the surrounding old cemetery were hand-carved sandstone.

It was a good thing we had time to look around the cemetery before Mass, because this was what was coming towards us as we were going in to Mass.

Dramatic.

The storm hit during the Gospel reading. It was mostly over by the time we left, thankfully, and the dirt road was still passable.

And that's it. Our tour of the parish churches is concluded. It was fun, but I appreciate only having to drive ten miles to our regular church.

The Christmas Pilgrimage

Last December, on a very bright, moonlit night, we took a walk to the unused church I can see from my kitchen window that our neighbor spotlights every Christmas season.

Poppy remembered this and wanted to do that again. Right before Christmas, however, I was disabled with a pinched nerve and wasn't walking anywhere. Right after Christmas, A. was hunting with the younger two boys. Then it was really windy.

But finally, Saturday night it wasn't windy, it wasn't cold, and everyone was here. So we walked to the church in the dark.

Well, there was still a little bit of light in the western sky, but it was mostly dark.

We started out using flashlights because of the clouds, but about halfway to the church, the moon rose above the clouds. Just like last year, it was bright enough to turn the flashlights off.

Nature's flashlight.

Getting closer. (The brightest light is the church. The smaller light to the left is our neighbor's house.)

We stayed at the church awhile, playing shadow puppets on the wall.

Yet another Christmas tradition observed, and just in time. Today is Epiphany, the feast commemorating the visit of the Magi to the newborn Jesus. This is the last day of the Christmas season for us. The kids all get one more present under the tree, as well as a few more Lindt truffles. I'm making a lasagna and Poppy is making brownies, and that's a wrap on Christmas 2025. The decorations will be put away tomorrow.

How about you? How long do you leave your Christmas decorations up?

Christmas Tree Hunting

Per tradition, we have cut our Christmas tree for the year. It's also a tradition for me to take photos and post them here so you can come along on the adventure with us. Let's go!

We always go to a friend's ranch to cut our tree, as the good trees don't grow near our house. I have now discovered the best area for the trees, so we walked right to that area and found a tree within about two minutes.

Camouflaged by nearby trees, but I still saw it.

We left the saw there so we could cut it on our way back to the van and went down the hill to the dirt tank to play.

Also a tradition.

This year, the younger children also climbed this tree.

Poppy is in there somewhere.

We brought the dogs with us.

After suitable play time, back to the tree we went.

Sawing away.

At home, the tree was, as always, deposited in a galvanized metal bucket and anchored with rocks before I started putting the lights on.

I discovered to my dismay that of the four strands of lights I had, one of warm white lights only half worked, one of multi-colored lights didn't work at all, one of bright white lights worked all the way, and I had one strand of multi-colored lights that were fully functional.

Sigh.

Luckily, we get small trees and we put them up against a wall, so I didn't really need to wrap the lights all the way around the whole tree. I wound the bright white lights around the trunk, so the branches would soften their glare a bit, and then used the multi-colored strand and the half-working warmer white lights to kind of zig-zag across the front of the tree.

The children added the ornaments, and . . .

Tree!

Now all it needs are presents under it. Only nine days and counting . . .

Tumbling Tumbleweeds

Tumbleweeds are so iconic of the American West: blowing about on the wide-open spaces, a fixture of western movies, almost as recognizable as the cowboy.

They are also awful.

We live in the land of the tumbleweed, which is actually an invasive plant called a Russian thistle. They grow big, plentiful, and prickly, drying in the ground and then getting uprooted by the wind to blow about and disperse their seeds.

Still firmly rooted and biding their time.

They are wretched plants. They are stiff and sharp, embed their prickers into the sheep's wool, and this year, they are EVERYWHERE.

We must have gotten rain at just the right time for them, because I've never seen so many. Even the one year when they formed a solid four-foot-high bank of tumbleweeds against the garden fence, I don't remember seeing so many in the ground. They're currently still rooted, but in the next month, they'll start blowing free, and then we're really in for it. 

All the dark patches in this field are Russian thistle.

There's really nothing to be done about them at this stage except wait for them to build up against fencing and then pitch-fork them into piles to burn. And hope that next year isn't such a banner year for them.

(Not) Free Falling

My sister was here visiting over the weekend with her boyfriend, who is a climbing enthusiast, as well as a climbing teacher. He happened to have a children's harness and all the equipment for climbing with him, and we happen to live near(ish) a canyon with lots of rocks and cliffs.

This was inevitable.

A couple of children weren't feeling well this day, so only Poppy and the middle boy went. The climbing in this canyon is too advanced for kids, but they could rappel down in some places. So that is what they did.

This started, of course, with lessons in safety equipment, how to tie off the rope at the top, and the proper form. I was reassured by how professional and clearly experienced my sister's boyfriend is, not only with climbing instruction in general, but specifically teaching kids. 

My sister rappelled down first, so that she could hold the rope at the bottom for the kids, and also encourage them from down there. Her boyfriend was at the top, getting them started and instructing them as they went.

Small girl, big rock.

Poppy was initially very nervous, but she made it all the way to the bottom and declared it so much fun after her first attempt that she wanted to do more. Middle son was extremely enthused about it all from the get-go.

They rappelled down the same place twice, and then our personal climbing instructor found an even bigger cliff that we could easily access for rappelling*. 

This one was . . . well.

That's a big cliff.

Nothing daunted, down the boy came.

Starting the descent.

He ran the harness back up for Poppy, and she started down.

Not quite halfway.

Poppy had a problem a bit more than halfway down when she got her hand too close to the metal device on the rope that will stop the rope from moving if you need to brake entirely. She got the skin between her thumb and forefinger caught in the device. All her weight was on the rope, so she couldn't get enough slack to get herself free. My sister had to free-climb** from the bottom up to the ledge closest to Poppy, balance with her knee up to set Poppy higher, and then free Poppy's hand.

Super-aunt saves the day.

Poppy wasn't hurt and continued down. Despite that little mishap, she announced that rappelling was the most fun thing ever and she wanted to go the next day. Her brother agreed. We were busy with other things the next day, however, so they didn't get to go again, but it was fun to watch them try something new (and initially scary) and enjoy it so much.

* Being able to get to the top of the drop safely and back up is just as important as being able to get down it. For obvious reasons of not leaving children in the bottom of an inaccessible canyon.

** If my sister hadn't been able to get to her, Poppy could have also been pulled back up to the top, but as she was closer to the bottom and reachable, this way was faster.

A Canyon Birthday Adventure

Poppy's birthday happened to fall on a Saturday this year, which meant we could celebrate on the day itself in a more satisfying way than happens when the birthday falls on a school day. Especially since, miracle of miracles, there was nothing else going on that day.

Poppy loves to hike. We asked her if she would like us all to go hiking as a family in our (relatively) nearby impressive canyon.

She was of course enthused about the idea, so I packed a picnic lunch, A. packed a fishing pole and bait, we both packed the two dogs into Adventure Van, and away we went.

We hit a bit of a snag at the very beginning of our hike, which requires us to go across the river. The point at which we cross typically has many rocks above water for a dry crossing. This time, there was no way to get across without getting wet. No way for me, anyway. I took one look at this situation and said out loud to A. "I am going to fall in this water."

Well, the boys found one spot a bit further downstream where they jumped about three feet from one rock to another, downward-sloping rock. They tried to convince me that I could do this. I, however, have no delusions about my complete inability to jump even short distances, so I declined.

A. and Poppy crossed at our usual spot by removing their shoes, rolling up their jeans, and wading across. A. offered to carry me across, but I didn't want to consider what a bad scene it would be if he fell while I was on his back, so I declined this, too.

I took off my shoes and waded. And sure enough, I was the only one to fall. Much to my family's amusement. 

I just fell back into a sitting position, and all that got wet was my bottom. I didn't get hurt or anything, so I continued on to the other side and spent the rest of the hike with a soaked seat. Good thing it was a warm day.

Also by the stream were some nasty burs that got stuck in the barefoot children's feet, as well as in the dogs' paws. But once we took care of that, we were all set to hike.

Birthday girl hiking. And some gnarly Russian thistle plants that lined the path.

This trail leads to a very nice shady spot under a cliff that only requires maybe a half mile walk. The river where A. wanted to fish was about a hundred yards further down the path. 

We stopped at the cliff in the shade to eat our lunch. This included Poppy's birthday taste test: Pringle flavors.

Cheddar, sour cream and onion, ranch, and pizza.

The pizza-flavored ones did taste surpisingly very like pizza, but it turns out this is somewhat disconcerting in a Pringle. These were not universally enjoyed. More popular were the ranch and sour cream and onion flavors. I personally liked the ranch best. Pringles are pretty tasteless in the original version, so the addition of flavors is a good one.

We had other food, too, of course.

Biscuits (made that morning because I was running low on bread), tuna salad, and not-pictured cookies and beef jerky.

A. left after lunch to fish. The children elected to stay and climb the cliff. It's one of their favorite things to do.

It looks much bigger in real life.

The older two boys made it all the way to the top there at the right. The younger two were about halfway when A. yelled "Fish on!" and they went scrambling down and away to the river to see the catfish A. caught.

The dogs stayed with me.

In the shade. Smart Jasper.*

The younger kids fished for awhile themselves before we decided it was time to head back. We of course had to cross the river again. I elected to keep my shoes on this time, and had no trouble at all. I guess I just can't balance well on rocks in bare feet.

The slippery algae didn't help, either.

The children, unsurprisingly, wanted to stay in the water for awhile.

And since we were about to go home, I didn't care if they got soaking wet. Which of course they did.

After a thorough soaking, they all piled their wet selves into the van and we headed home for a birthday dinner and presents.

It was a good day. We should do it more often.

* Amazingly, Jasper doesn't smell at all like skunk anymore. I guess maybe the dry climate keeps smells from lingering? I don't know, but I appreciate it.

The Sharp-dressed Cowboy

One of the many things I have learned since coming here to cattle country is that cowboys are very particular about their clothing. Not, of course, when they're working. When they're out branding or fencing or rounding up cattle, they wear their old, worn-out jeans and shirts*. But if they're dressing up for church or a school event or even a rodeo?

Then it's Starch Time.

Starch is a very important part of the cowboy's dress clothing. They still wear the same kind of jeans or shirts, they're just in good condition and, most importantly, they are heavily starched and ironed. And I do mean heavily. The laundering happens preferably at an actual laundry, because they don't use the spray starch. They actually dip jeans in a vat of starch before pressing them. This results in a starch so heavy that the jeans will literally stand up on their own and the owners have to "break" the legs of them before they can put them on.

I have listened to half-hour conversations among ranch wives about which laundries use enough starch and get jeans starched enough that they will stay creased properly through four wearings. It's a big thing.

I have never visited any of these laundries, and don't usually worry about starching and ironing our clothes, but my sons do occasionally have to make an effort to meet the proper cowboy standards for their clothing. Most notably for FFA contests.

One son went to a livestock judging competition this past weekend for which his FFA advisor specifically said his clothes should be ironed. He could wear (new) jeans and just a button-down, but they must be ironed.

I knew that meant starched, as well. Said son was busy helping a neighbor round up her cattle the morning he was supposed to leave, so I did his ironing for him. I do not like to iron, at all, but I know how to do it if necessary. Just like a businessman's dress clothes, the sleeves of the shirts and the legs of the jeans should have a visible crease that runs in the center of the seams, which requires folding the clothing carefully before ironing.

We have heavy duty spray starch, which is what I used. I sprayed more starch than I thought I would need and very carefully lined up the creases properly before ironing them in.

This would probably be easier if I had a full-sized ironing board, but I don't want to store one.

Those jeans certainly won't stand up on their own, but at least they had the proper creasing. Even if it only lasted for one wearing.

* ALWAYS long-sleeved button-downs or snap shirts, though. This is entirely a matter of practicality, to keep the sun from absolutely frying their arms and necks when they're out working all day. 

The View from the Bench

Right outside our porch door, we have a big wooden bench that A. made some years ago. If I can manage to sneak outside without anyone following me, I can enjoy some peace and the view from the bench*.

I particularly like sitting there as the sun is setting, or even after it has set. The light lingers almost an hour after sunset, because it's so flat here.

To the west (ish.)

And the other way.

There are some benefits to living a hundred miles from anywhere, and the bench is one of them.

* Not that I object to their company (usually), but anywhere my children are immediately becomes less peaceful.

Country Mouse in the City

The eldest child was scheduled for wisdom tooth removal yesterday morning, which is a pretty common event in the teen years these days. I myself remember doing this when I was about his age. The difference for us, of course, is how far we have to drive to do it. The only oral surgeon that takes our insurance is in Albuquerque, which is around 200 miles away.

His appointment was at 9 a.m. I briefly considered just getting up early and leaving at 5 a.m. to drive to Albuquerque. But then I considered how miserable that would be for the fasting patient, as well as for me when I had to turn right around and drive another 200 miles to get home after the surgery.

I got a hotel room for the night before.

The oral surgeon's office was near the balloon park, which is where they have the big Balloon Fiesta that Albuquerque is famous for. I was wondering why the hotel room was almost twice the regular price for Sunday night, figuring there was a graduation or something. I found out when we arrived and saw signs for "Boots in the Park."

It was a country music festival. There were something like twenty different bands playing for the weekend. The eldest child, who is a big country music fan, was incredulous that we were RIGHT THERE and were not going to be able to go see Luke Combs. I did look to see if there were any tickets available, because I actually would have taken him--it's not like we were doing anything else that night--but the only ones left were $500 VIP tickets. Sorry, kid.

The park was only a mile and a half away, though, which meant we could actually hear the music in our hotel room. Son could even identify the songs. So it was kind of like being there, right? Right.

We stayed at a Quality Inn. It wasn't the worst hotel I've ever stayed at, but it wasn't particularly nice, either. That's why this car in the parking lot was so amusing to me.

A Corvette at the Quality Inn? I guess those car payments ARE pretty steep. 

There are a lot of things I might do when I myself have GRWNKDS, but buying a Corvette is not one of them. I hope that person is enjoying it, however.

Since we were in the Big City, we had an overwhelming number of restaurants to choose from for dinner. The son with me is a big fan of sushi and sashimi, which is not something we are often in close proximity to. We were this night, though! Off we went to a Japanese restaurant.

So much raw fish.

I do not care for fish cooked, and certainly not raw, so I got literally the only thing on the menu that didn't have fish in it.

Noodles, vegetables, and beef. It was okay, although way too sweet for me. Kind of like teriyaki.

None of the dessert options were very appealing to me at this place, but I thought that surely, we must be pretty close to a Cold Stone Creamery. My phone informed me that we were only about half a mile from one, so we went there for dessert.

We got back to the hotel around 7 p.m., which is too early to go to bed. I have no interest in TV, but as it was still light outside, I went for a walk.

I think this is the biggest flag I have ever seen. Must be some really patriotic mechanics in that shop.

Albuquerque has nice mountains outside the city, which makes me feel right at home. It reminds me of Tucson, where I lived for seven years.

Then back to the Quality Inn to read for a bit before bed, and listen to the concert through our window. And to the concert-goers as they came back to the hotel in the wee hours, still very hyped up from all the excitement. They were almost certainly drunk, too, which made it quite the party scene.

I always wake up early, usually around 5 a.m., although I didn't actually get up until 6 a.m. when the breakfast stuff was put out in the lobby. 

Unbeatable dining ambiance.

I had some scrambled eggs that were almost certainly mixed up from a powder, as well as cornflakes and coffee.

Breakfast of champions.

I typically drink my coffee and chicory with only a tablespoon of heavy cream. This sort of hotel coffee needs a lot more help than that to make it palatable, though, so I added whole milk and sugar to it. 

It was still early after this. Time for another walk.

A much different scene than my typical morning walk.

Spring comes a lot sooner in Albuquerque than in does at our house, so there were many flowering plants.

I don't know what this is, but it smelled heavenly.

After my walk, we still had about an hour before the surgery. I had discovered that the oral surgeon's office was right near the big grocery store I had been to last time I was in Albuquerque. 

Source of The Good Italian Sausage.

I of course had my coolers in the car, which is why I decided to go grocery shopping right then so we could just go home after the surgery.

Then finally, the actual purpose of this trip.

Awaiting the patient.

Eldest had been referred for extraction of one tooth, but on the advice of the surgeon, ended up getting all four wisdom teeth taken out. So that was pretty much the end of anything fun. But it was a nice city adventure while it lasted.

About that Church

I post a lot of photos of our church. Partially that's because I'm there a lot in my role as mayordoma. But mostly, it's because I love it.

The very old pump organ that is no longer played.

We go to church in a village about ten miles from our house, in the same village where the children go to school. That's why we go there: Because it is our community church. The Mass is the Mass no matter what building it is in, which is one of the great things about the Catholic church. But I realized when Poppy asked me last week what my favorite church I've ever been in is, that it is, in fact, this tiny church in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico.

New Mexico has no shortage of historic churches. We've been to many of them. And while I can appreciate their history and the faith that built them, I am not really enamored of their aesthetics. They tend to be quite heavily decorated in bright colors, with folk-art statues and paintings. I guess I prefer a more French style, which is also not that uncommon in New Mexico, thanks to the French missionaries that are a part of New Mexico's Catholic history.

The blue ceiling is a classic of the French-style churches.

I also appreciate the cruciform layout of our church, which means the footprint forms a cross. So at the front door of the church, you're standing at the foot of the cross.

From the front looking up the aisle.

This style lends itself to symmetry, which I have always preferred.

I particularly appreciate this because, although the church is fairly old--built I think in the 1920s--it was at some point renovated with truly hideous brown paneling all behind the altar, ugly carpet on the floor, and weird doorways on the altar leading to the sacristy. It was a victim of the 1970s, and it looked it. I've seen pictures, and it was appalling. It was renovated again to its current state in the 1990s, and I am forever grateful to the congregation and priest at that time for making it the way it is now.

The colors in our church are quite muted, which means that when the altar colors are changed, it has more of an impact.

Purple for Lent. (The Lenten altar does not typically include flowers, but there was a funeral this day, hence the flower arrangement on the altar.)

Last year's Easter altar.

Also, something you can't see in the photos is that is completely silent in this church. We have no sound system, no plumbing, nothing except the heater in winter makes any noise. I have grown so accustomed to this that I find it very distracting to be in a church with microphones or water fountains humming and switching on and off.

For that reason especially, this is my favorite church to pray in. I will stop when I'm in the village for something else just to go sit in there. Perfect silence is so rare in our modern world, and so appreciated.

This is a church I am happy to take care of, even if I sometimes find my role as mayordoma to be a lot on top of everything else going on in my life. I will remind myself of this as I clean the church, change the altar linens, buy and arrange flowers, and otherwise prepare the church itself for Easter Sunday.

Waiting on its transformation.

Caring for this building so it can offer to others the same peace I have found there is one of the most important things I do. I am so thankful to have been brought here to this unlikely place so I can do just that.