Travelogue 52, High Hope Ranch, TX: Why I Do What I Do

Greetings My Dearest Friends and Family,

Let’s do a spearmint! It’s 8:21 a.m. on December 19, 2014. The Miami flight from which I am writing you is due to land at 9:44 a.m. Dallas time, which gives me a window of two hours, more or less, if we factor in the time change and subtract out the turn-off-and- store-all-electronic-devices dead air space. I’m going to challenge myself to crank out a travelogue, salga como salga, (however it might turn out) before the wheels of this Boeing 326 hit the tarmac.

 

It seems eons since I chased that snake around the henhouse (or it chased me, depending on how you look at it) in travelogue #  51. A lengthy list of transformative experiences has transpired during the past six months, the most significant of which, I will start with:

In the most unsuspecting circumstances, I experienced a nano-second of enlightenment and realized WHY THE HELL I DO WHAT I DO. Decades of anguish over feeling confused as to why exactly I exist dissolved into a rush of peace with one fierce lurch of a chicken bus rolling down a Nicaraguan mountainside. 

The story goes like this: We (10 Leapnow students, my co-leader and I) were staying on a coffee plantation 40 minutes from any place civilized enough to have internet and I needed to go into town to take care of logistics and “stuff.”  After a day of getting the to-do’s done, I missed the first bus back and was forced to take the one that everyone and their uncle who has a job jumps on when the work day is over. Typical Latin America public transport situation-- a 1970’s, U.S.A retired school bus resuscitated from the junkyard, driven to Central America, packed 30 people over capacity and called “better than hoofin’ it”. That wasn’t a complete sentence and I know it, but I’m under a time constraint here. Anyway, the space was so packed that not only was there no place to sit on the bus, there was no room to have both feet flat on the floor. I had one resting on top of the other so the lady beside me had somewhere to set her sack of carrots.

Let me interject a few details here so this story will have at least as much momentum as the bus on which it took place. It was dark. The windows were fogged up, which is bound to happen when 80 sweaty bodies are crammed into a space made for 50 in a tropical climate on a rainy night. I was near the back of the bus. I had told the money taker where I wanted off, but that was over 40 minutes and 20 stops ago. Even if he did remember, I don’t know how he’d ever relay the message back to me, so I thought it in my best interest to be proactive and make my way to the front. There are situations when I’m happier than a hog in hippy doo doo to be abnormally small; overcrowded buses is one of them. Like a snake gliding through dense jungle, I slithered my way up 25 rows and popped out in the open space by the gear shift.

“Will you let me off at Santa Emilia, please?” I asked politely, just as the bus rolled to a stop.

“Santa Emilia? Where in Santa Emilia? Santa Emilia is 10 km long and has 5 stops, two of which we already passed.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “At the farm they just told me to tell you, the hacienda called  Santa Emilia. It’s a coffee plantation.”

“Honey, there is nothing in Santa Emilia except haciendas and coffee plantations. Lots of them. I don’t know where you are talking about,” he responded and closed the folding door.

Well, hell. Now what? Should I stay on in hopes that we haven’t indeed already passed it? Or should I risk getting off, ask for help and start walking down the road where I’ve seen gangs of young men with machetes traversing from coffee farm to coffee farm?  Over and over I’ve been warned that Nicaragua can be one of the most dangerous countries in Central America, if one doesn’t stay in a group. Indecision. Get off? Stay On? The driver’s loyalty, with reason, was with his exhausted countrymen, eager to get home to their families. Without announcement, he let off the brake and stepped on the gas. Now, given that, first, I was front heavy with my sundries-bulging backpack hanging off my chest, AND my right hand was buried deep in my pocket to protect my wallet AND my other hand was carrying a sack of apples, AND I was free standing from the crowd….given all of that, when he made his move, there was nothing to stop me from a full-force face plant on the front windshield…

…nothing that is, except for blind human kindness…in the form of a benevolent, anonymous knee-jerk hand unrestrained by differentness. Just as I was about to eat glass, I felt a force from behind grab a fistful of my raincoat and pull me back to steady. 

“Tell me more about the place where you are staying,” says a woman’s voice.

“Well, it’s a coffee plantation that is owned by a Turkish man and lots of people work there and there is library project for the kids.”

“Do the workers live in  casas ecologicas?”

“Yes! The bioconstruction houses!”

“We’ve still got a way to go,” she assured me and told the driver, “She’s at La Cazona. Drop her off at the entrance.”

Here’s what touched me so deeply: the whole rest of the way she never let go of my coat. With each lurch forward and roll back she adjusted her grip to keep me steady on my feet. This  woman, a complete stranger, who given the condition of her teeth and clothes, has much greater things to worry about than some lost gringa on a chicken bus, made my wellbeing her priority. Dang, I thought, when walking up the dirt road to the coffee plantation, THAT is why I do what I do. I nomad around, detached, confused, vulnerable, riding the edges of uncertainty and discomfort, so I can experience humans rising to their highest potential. I expose myself to strangers, often in harsh conditions to cultivate contrast, so that we, both they and I, can show up in our human glory. It is enough. Her simple act of loving kindness is enough. Me appreciating it is enough.  Giving and gratitude are enough. I can let go of the rest.

***************

New Year’s Eve, 2014


I’d be a big, fat liar if I said I adhered to “salga como salga”. I've spent this afternoon finishing and grooming the above story, my belated holiday gift to you. I really must get into the kitchen to prepare a Spanish tortilla for this evening's potluck. I will be bringing in the New Year at the ranch with my loved High Hope family and friends. I'm leaving a huge gap between chasing the snake in the henhouse and undergoing an epiphany on a chickenbus. TBF! (To be filled!)

In the meantime, know that I am the happiest I have ever been and wish you the same for 2015!

Much love, G

Travleogue 51, High Hope Ranch, TX: Loose with a Snake in the Hen House

If I had a nickel for every travelogue I’ve started since the last….well, I’d have about 35₡, but you get the idea. As so often happens, I start and stop, and then end up greeting you from an airport gate after the fact. This time it’s A13 at DFW, awaiting a flight to La Guardia, NY to connect with a twin engine to Mangus Holler, VA. Actually, the plane will land at Roanoke Regional Airport and my cousins will ferry me on up to their house in the Holler in their Ford Taurus station wagon.

So much has happened at the ranch this summer, the most amusing of which I will begin with.  I had originally named this t-logue, “So Way Very Woo Woo on the Ranch,” because that better encompasses the past two months, but I know “Loose with a Snake in the Hen House” will draw the fair weather readers out of the woodwork like “Blessing the Prostate” did.  Is that manipulative? Doesn’t matter. Why lie? I like for people to read my stuff after I invest hours and soul in grooming it.

Before I get into the details of the story, there’s something you’ve got to understand: I have SUFFERED from an abnormally severe fear of snakes most of my life. It’s not that I hate snakes. I don’t have anything against them personally; I’ve just been absolutely petrified of them since I was a child. I’m talking night sweats, daymares and hallucinations about them. People think I’m this tough mountain girl adventure traveler, but truth is, I’ve denied myself many a pleasurable experience due to the mere possibility of a snake on a trail making me turn back….   

 Anyway, my fear is quite explainable given that where I come from, when you go to visit the neighbors, even before they ask how your momma’s been, they want to know, “Seen any snakes?” And if you have, well, it’s a sure thing that they, or someone they know, have killed one that was bigger-n-meaner.  From diapers to death, every time you walk out the door somebody’s warning you, “Now, you watch yourself for snakes, ya hear?!” There might be three inches of snow on the ground, but when you go out to the woodpile to get some logs—“Watch for snakes!” So, on top of the “normal” ophidiophobia that most people suffer, I’ve been brainwashed into believing…..believing what? I don’t know exactly, other than I should check under my plane seat before sitting down because a black mamba might be lurking there, escaped from the carry-on of an African traveler. 

      As a final bit of evidence to prove my point, just last week when I was telling my oldest brother about clearing trails on the ranch, did he respond with curiosity, enthusiasm or some sort of interest beyond a stern warning?  No. “Watch out for snakes! They’ve got some mighty big rattlers down there in Texas I hear,” was what he said.

The depths of my fear now well established for my reader, I move on with the story: When the ranch manager, Chandler, went on vacation, I took over the chicken duties, which I was thrilled about, because I like the routine of their care: open up the hen house at dawn, periodically collect the eggs during the day, feed and water in late afternoon and then close them up for safekeeping at dusk. Silly as it sounds, it just fills my bucket to find a white oval or two waiting on me in a nest. Well, about two days into my taking over the guard, I ducked in for the noonday egg check, started to stick my hand in one of the cubby holes and saw the hay move. That’s not normal. 

        It’s dark in the hen house, perhaps for ambiance, but I’m not sure. The closest I’ve ever come to laying an egg is ovulation, and I get grumpy, as do the hens, I gather, having heard how they cackle and raise a ruckus when they are on the roost. I imagine some soft lighting could be comforting to one working so hard to produce, so maybe Chandler keeps it dim on purpose, but then again, it might just be due to the building materials at hand at the time of construction. Anyway! Of importance is that I couldn’t half see in the box, until my face was inches from the entrance and my pupils adjusted enough to make out a scaly, tan and dark brown pattern doubled up on itself amongst the straw. 

I just about shit my britches! Snake! It’s a snake! I knew this was eventually going to happen.  It’s not uncommon that a snake gets in the henhouse. What’s never happened before is that I’ve had to deal with it. Somebody else has always been around to handle the situation while I wallflowered by the door. Here was my chance to face my fear and I wasn’t going to wimp out.

         That decided, while I’m standing there,

1.   trying to shoo away the hens that are prancing around my feet waiting their turn at a laying box like a bunch of college girls outside the portapotties at a beerfest

2.    trying to get my heart rate down to under 120 and my courage up to full throttle

3.   trying to get a picture on my iphone, because this IS going on Facebook!

4.   trying to figure out how/where exactly it is that I am to clamp down on the snake with this fancy trashpickerupper snake stick I’ve seen them use...
 
a serpent head peeks out of the middle box, turns a quick left and starts into the adjacent box.  

Time’s up. It is making a move, and so must I. Using the snake stick, I grab hold of what has made it out of the first box, but not into the second, and pull. I swear, it was like trying to slurp in that infinite spaghetti noodle that spans from your tonsils to the bowl and ends up dangling down past your bellybutton. I know I looked like a six-year-old landing her first fifteen pound catfish on a surf rod. I had about the first 1/3 of the serpent stuffed into the trashcan, when the other 2/3 finally flopped out of the box, and wouldn’t you know, wedged down between the wall and the guinea cage on the floor. I pulled and pulled until my hand gave out, the pressure on the stick eased and dang! before I could bat an eye it was on the loose and racing around the henhouse looking for a way out.

       “Holy Fuck,” were the exact words that came out of my mouth. The snake started up a wall, I clamped down on it again, this time with a death grip, and yellow shit came spurting out of his mouth. “Oh, geezus, I’m hurting it!” I thought and let go…and then realized those were egg yolks, not snake guts. Too late.  Hysterical hens flailing about. Gigi prancing around like she’s barefoot on hot coals. Startled snake slithering laps around the baseboard. It was an ice pageant of chaos in Hell.

          I had it trapped though, you see, because a rat snake is skinny enough to get in through the holes in the chicken wire, but after it eats an egg or chick, it’s too fat to get back out. We were stuck with each other; a 5’ woman with a 5’ snake in a 10’x10’ chicken coop. I suppose I could have opened the door and let us both run like hell, but I had set my sights on facing a fear and I wasn’t chickening out.

         Exhausted in sync, everybody paused to breathe and I grabbed him again, 12 inches behind the head. I was craning him over to the can, when the dangling four feet of tail slap-wrapped around a roosting pole. Dag-nab-it! I pulled and pulled, but I didn’t have a chance in hell of out muscling this rascal.

        Now, math and measurements have never been my strong suit, but I do have enough of a grasp on the subject to know that if I grabbed him further down his body he would have less tail to wrap and I’d have a better chance of getting all of him into the can. So, I let go, he relaxed, I grabbed for the midsection and had him! …for the five seconds it took that snake to take advantage the shortsightedness of my mathematical calculations. Five foot snake ÷2=2.5. A 3.5 snake stick-2.5=1. The first time that tongue-flickering head came careening around to within an arm’s length of my face, I threw the whole kittenkabootel—snake, stick and all.  The snake went up one wall and I went up the other.

       “Holy Geezus me cago en la puta madre quien me parió Fuck!” For the non-Spanish speakers, that’s the strongest cursing in my second language vocabulary inserted in a statement of blasphemy and obscenity in my first language that would have gotten my tongue amputated right out of my mouth, if uttered when I was a child.

       This time the snake was high enough off the ground that I basically  raked the middle of it into the can, tucked in the two ends and slammed on the lid. Then I marched my trembling ass over to the cabin stairs, sat down and cried. I needed to take in what I had just accomplished.  “Handling” that snake is one of the scariest things I have ever done. The easier route would have been to grab a hoe and chop its head off. That’s not the way at the ranch and I’m glad. If at all possible, we catch and translocate, even the copperheads and rattlers. 

Look to my left and you'll see the copperhead

That degree of seemingly illogical respect for something so potentially harmful is woo woo, I know, but it resonates with me. 

The perfect conclusion for this anecdote just arrived via email from Chandler. It's from the book about animal signs called Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams.

“Scared little Rabbit…

Please drop your fright!

Running doesn’t stop the pain

Or turn the dark to light”  
          It would be a big fat lie to say I'm ready to crawl in a sleeping bag with a rattler, but I can tell you that my fright is greatly reduced from giving the snakes a chance to show me that they intend no harm. They strike at humans only when they feel threatened. Can't say as I don't do the same in those circumstances.

         As for what I am “up to,” somehow or another, my whole next year has fallen into place and looks like this:

Today –Aug 5 Virginia for family matters

Aug 5-7 Road trip from Sacramento to Medford, Oregon with two Quest buddies

Aug 7-18 Vision Quest at Moondance Ranch in Oregon

Aug 18-24 Wake Up Festival, Estes Park, CO

Aug 24-26 visit with friend in Denver

Aug 26-Sep 2 visit with friend in Oakland

Sep 2-23 Calistoga, CA for training with LeapNow trip to Central America

Sep 24- Dec 5 Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras with LeapNow kids

Dec 5-Jan 9   down time-- Uruguay?

Jan 9-May 2 trips to Cuba with Road Scholar,

which brings me to some of you saying you would like to go to Cuba with me. A bit of news is that Grand Circle Foundation is no longer using U.S. reps, so I will be exclusively working for Road Scholar, which for me means, lower pay, fewer tips, but more guaranteed trips. Here’s the schedule they have given me, should you want to think about joining a tour:

Program #	Start Date	End Date	Group Leader	#Pax as of July 10
20612 (SCU)	Friday, January 09, 2015	Saturday, January 24, 2015	Gigi Austin	22
20612 (SCU)	Friday, January 30, 2015	Saturday, February 14, 2015	Gigi Austin	7
20612 (SCU)	Friday, February 20, 2015	Saturday, March 07, 2015	Gigi Austin	0
20612 (SCU)	Friday, March 13, 2015	Saturday, March 28, 2015	Gigi Austin	8
0437 (HAV)	Monday, April 07, 2014	Tuesday, April 15, 2014	Gigi Austin	0
20612 (SCU)	Friday, April 17, 2015	Saturday, May 02, 2015	Gigi Austin	1

Go to http://www.roadscholar.org/programs/search_res.asp?CountryCode=Cuba    for details.

OK! I’m ready to hit publish and get back to experiencing life instead of writing about it.

Much love, G

Travelogue 50, Glen Rose, TX: Smooching St. Francis in the Meadow

Wow! Number 50! Seems cause to pause, reflect, celebrate, eat cake or something along those lines, yet that's not what I feel called to do. My mind steers toward a quandry of the present...

Does it seem crazy to make a ritual out of running two miles every morning to a lone statue of St. Francis on a knoll, in a meadow, to kiss him awake and pet the dovekin in his hand?

Several are the reasons that I have committed to doing this:

1.  There and back takes exactly the amount of time I want to run. I’m more motivated to JUST DO IT, if there is a clear goal in mind.
2. On a less, but not totally un-practical note, you never know what might happen between here and there when running out in the middle of nowhere,
   
   which is exactly what I need, if I am ever to win that game where you are supposed to say 3 things that are true about yourself and one that's not, and then the other people have to guess what's the lie. I’m not good at fooling people, because I’m an excellent exaggerator, but a terrible liar. Let’s test it out, but in reverse... which one of these potential, real ranch-life dangers actually happened to me this morning on my run?:

a.      A skunk sprayed me

b.     A rattlesnake bit me

c.      A turtle peed on my brand new pair of REI running shorts when I performed the good Samaritan act of moving its slow poke ass out of the road so it wasn’t smashed to smithereens. It probably would have shat on me too, if it had seen the doubled-rear tire pickup with horse trailer in tow hauling tail right toward it. Nothing short of a miracle (i.e. me) could have saved it from becoming one with the pavement.

d.     A butterfly lit on my nose

See? I can’t help it. I know I don't have to tell you which one really happened.

3. It occurred to me the other day that I don’t know jack about being in a romantic relationship, because all of mine have either been so short lived, or so long ago, that I can’t remember how I kept the woman I had caught around for as long as I did. One thing I do know that helps is adoration and sweetness on a consistent basis. So, I’m practicing on St. Francis. Shortly after dawn, I arrive, cup the side of his face with my palm, say, “Buenos días, Señor Sweetheart St. Francis!” and place my lips gently on his forehead for .00001 seconds. Why so short a time? A big (I’m assuming from the size of the deposit) bird pooped right on Señor Sweetheart St. Francis’ head, which raises a question: Does the fact that I considered wiping it off with my new Solomon Activlite tank top, but didn’t, mean that I’m not there yet? I’m not ready for the sacrifices being in a relationship require? I mean, I guess I could have used my shorts since they had already taken one for the team and were soaked in reptile urine, but still…bird poop is so acidic...it will eat right through concrete if you leave it there long enough. Can you image the destruction it would reek on  polyester? Anyway, the bigger question is, would a girlfriend be hurt, if I brevied a kiss because she was pooped on?  (Yes, I am aware that I have again invented a word that's not in the dictionary, but needs to be)

The even bigger question than that is, am I single because I think too much? Probably not. It's more likely that to try to date me would be like trying to date a hummingbird.

As for the dovekin, I know you are wondering what one is. Far as I know, the only specimen known to humankind lives here on High Hope Ranch. The story is, when I did that radical uproot and got rid of ALL my stuff, I donated St. Francis to the ranch. Somewhere along the way, one of the doves nested in his cupped hands lost its head. Coincidently, the ranch manager had been given a ceramic chicken as a gift and one day it was knocked off a shelf and only its head remained salvagable.  "Match"! she thought and performed a head transplant. As a result, a new species of hybrid fowl was born, the dovekin.  

Speaking of matches, since I'm going to be in one place for the summer, I figured I'd mess around on Match.com just for grins. You never know....

You sure don't...know what the cat might drag in. One night, just on a whim, I see a picture of a woman that gets my attention.  I’m scooting down through her profile, looking for a point of entry and read her description of an ideal date:

“To have an engaging conversation in which the person does NOT talk about her ex gf.”

I don’t know. It was late, I was lonely.  I could relate to the experience of dating someone still hung up on her X. Hell, I’ve been that person. So, I fired off, without much thought: Ha! We can so easily cling to those people and experiences that have made us a victim.  What would engage you in a conversation?

Is it obvious I've O.D.'d on therapy and read too many self-help books?

She writes back: Hi I am not.sure I understand your message. I like talking about life,philosophy,nature and art. I don't think we have a lot in common though.

I was taken aback. Nothing in common? Are you on drugs? If I were to highlight all the commonalities we have that appear in your profile, it would look like a crime scene. I DID NOT say that, nor did I cut, paste, highlight and send back to her the self-description she posted as I am going to do here for you:

I am 40 years old, single, lesbian, Asian American (half Chinese and half Japanese). I am 5'5" average weight, long hair that I wear up. I am a professor at a state university and I have a Ph.D, and I also like to make artwork and create art out of recycled materials. I teach in south Georgia and then I go back to my house in Fort Worth, Texas for the summer to teach, then I move back to Georgia to teach during the fall and come back to Fort Worth during the holiday breaks. My life as a teacher has left me with no time to meet other women; so this is why I am here--- to seek a smart, compassionate lesbian to be friends or have a possible long term relationship with. I would prefer someone to be around my age but I am open to friendship with single lesbians of all ages depending on the maturity level. Hiking and kayaking are outdoor activities that I like to do in my spare time, along with visiting art museums, travelling and going to art and film festivals. I value intelligence, integrity and heart in a person's character. I am a professional career woman and I am looking for the same. My ideal partner would be someone who is independent, self-sufficient, and can communicate well. I don't want endless emails back and forth. I would like to make sure you are a woman first. Please be willing to voice verify by phone so that I know you are a woman at some point. I prefer someone around my height and weight, intelligent, thoughtful and considerate. Sorry, but I am not into women that look like men. I never understood why some females would dress and act like a man but it's not my cup of tea.

Nor did I heed the big, fat, blazing red flag those last four sentences hoist up, and thus responsed:   I like talking about life, philosophy, nature and art, and I also make recycled art, and  I do summers in TX and winters between Cuba and somewhere warm. I used to own a kayaking business and I hike whenever possible.We have much in common, but you seem a bit closed...

I can't help it. I plead Scorpio.  It's in our nature to say it like it is, even to strangers.

I not only got her attention, but made her change her tune. She writes back:  

Hi I apologize if I seem a bit closed. I work a lot of hours and I am under a lot of stress. What is your name? Perhaps we can meet for coffee sometime and you can talk to me more about your philosophy. My name is Cindy. Sorry I seemed closed-minded. Will you accept my apology?

Too intrigued at this point to heed the signs, I responded:   Sure, I'll accept your apology. Really, I only responded to give you a little something to think about. On a side note, stress is absolutely the worst thing for your health.

That response seemed to have ruffled her feathers and she spouts off:  Well the real reason why I I thought we had nothing in common is because I had bad experiences with Hispanics living in Texas and for a long time I did not like to hear Spanish I can't stand hearing people speak in Spanish and I try to stay away from a lot of Hispanics because of the bad experiences I've had it done and in your profile you said you wished you were latina in another life and you speak Spanish so that is why I feel we hav e differences.a mexican raped me when I was 13 walking home from school and it effected me for years. I cannot stand Hispanic music and you love the culture so I don't think I can get passed a lot of things.

 

Prudence would have had me just leave it at that and let silence reign, but I couldn’t help myself:

Wow. I'm so sorry to hear that and ask myself, if an Asian person had harmed me when I was young, would I write off the whole ethnicity? Hope you are able to get past it. We definitely aren't a "match," but for other reasons than you thought. Wishing you the best.

Ohhhhhhhh, that stirred her up like a lawnmower over a yellowjackets' nest:  I never thought we were a match. You aren't my type at all.

And then a day later she adds:  I am not even sure why you bothered to email me. It was such a waste of time for me to read and respond to your emails. I was being nice to you about meeting for coffee because I thought I hurt your feelings and I didn't even want to meet you. I never thought we were a match because I am attracted to women with dark hair and dark eyes and who actually say "HI, my name is....." in an email instead of some lame obscure riddle. Goodluck.

Lame, obscure riddle? Girl, I was just testing your depths, hitting you a hard, choppy grounder to see if you could field it.

As for why I included this dialogue in a travelogue, I don't know, other than, I find exchanges like these fascinating studies in human psychology. Perhaps you do too. And I'm talking about my own psychosis for writing what I did as much as I am her "intricacies," for lack of a better word. 

On another note, I had the most uplifting experience today in Whole Foods when I ran into someone I forgot I knew.  I mean to say she looked familiar, but I couldn't I place her. Turns out we had gone on a retreat together in 2009 and lost touch since then....or so I thought. I had no idea she was not only reading my travelogues, but was really inspired by them...so much so that she printed something I wrote and hung it above her desk. What a lesson in assumptions for me! I struggle so much with writing these because I don't believe they serve enough of a purpose.  I've so much work to do in the area of limiting beliefs. It is a tap root of my suffering.

Anyway...lots of work (of a different sort) tomorrow on the ranch, so I'd best get some shut eye. I'll leave you with a few shots of the sunset off the deck of the house I am sitting and other miscellaneous moments. The Universe continues to out do itself with the promise it made to me, "Stay the healing course, and you will be provided for."

Poolside show

My name is Lightenin'

Bodi taking a break from frisbee

Pop taught me how to trap and it's come in handy

catch

Release. (Pop would have caught and skinned. I'm starting a new generation of Austin animal policy)

Hope-a-Long hurt her leg and needed a lift back to the barn. Oh, how I have come to love the baby goats!

I again extend an invitation to come visit me at the ranch.  It's really cool.  http://www.highhoperanch.com/   My former neighbors came out for the weekend and had a blast.

Thanks to all who send me responses....and to those who don't....as I found out today, many more read than respond.

Much love, G