The Only Pet I'll Ever Love

I've done it. I've found the impossible pet. One that I actually like!

Yes, it's true. I am evil. I don't like dogs. Or cats. Or ferrets or guinea pigs or hamsters or horses. I am not a pet person. I've had every opportunity to become a dog lover. I grew up with dogs; my parents have a dog now and so do my in-laws. Although the former is a bit scraggly and the latter is slightly neurotic, these dogs are nice enough. But I just don't have the animal lover gene - the one that encourages people to snuggle their smelly animals and allow themselves to be licked and scoop their poop and nurture and train and care for these creatures.

But now... I have found the ideal pet.

 My parents brought three caterpillars from the ranch for the little boys to observe. Calvin named them Milkweed, Jady (because at the time, he was in the shape of a J), and Idy. (Can you guess which letter he resembled?) Shortly after these little guys received their names, Jady moved and became Ody for a minute. But then he moved again and his former name was restored.

Jady has already spun his chrysalis. I think Idy will spin tonight. Milkweed is still chowing down on his... you guessed it... milkweed.

Listen to me! I am just as invested in the happiness and wellbeing of these striped worms as the little boys of the house. They don't leave hair on my furniture or poop in my grass. They don't require love and affection, nor training, nor exercise. As long as I keep a constant supply of fresh milkweed coming, they are content. And, in a week or two, after the novelty of having real live insects on our kitchen table wears off, they will emerge from their green and gold enclosures and we will set them free!

At The Ranch

As always, we had a lovely time at Grandpa's ranch. My family has celebrated our nation's birthday at the ranch every year since I can remember. When I was a kid, we brought only our old, stained, ripped clothes to the ranch because there was only one bathroom and about 50 people. The kids didn't have priority in the tub. Now things are a little more civilized (3 toilets, 3 showers, and a shaded bowery with picnic tables), and there are fewer people that stay at the cabin. (We still celebrate with the whole extended family, but most families opt to stay overnight at a motel in town.) There are still only two tiny bedrooms though, so everyone who stays at the cabin sleeps either on the deck or in a tent. I don't understand why my fellow Johnsons would ever choose a motel room over the rhythmic crickets, milky stars, and campfire aroma. My annual trip to the ranch nourishes me in a way that a schedule, a computer screen, and a pillowtop mattress never could.

I miss you Grandpa. We all do.

His Natural Habitat

I found the punk sitting comfortably under this beautiful Japanese maple, enjoying a warm oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. This natural chamber is perfectly punk-sized. He can sit on the old railroad tie or stand upright under the bowed branches. If he were wearing camo, I wouldn't be able to see him.

It made me think of the "secret" places in which I used to find sanctuary as a child. The woodpile on the north side of my house (where I once punctured my bare foot with a rusty nail). The tunnel-like trail behind Grandpa's cabin; it was the only way to get from the cabin to the "Indian caves" via the alfalfa field, without having to squeeze through a barbed wire fence. Although it was a main thoroughfare, we girls thought it was our secret hideout and were infuriated when we found the boys back there.

In addition to meditating with a sweet treat, the punk enjoys spying on the neighbors...

"Look at that man!"

Being adorable...

And being ferocious.

He discovered these beautiful flowers and picked one, which we put in a vase inside. Later, my man told me they are chives. No wonder they smell funny! Nevertheless, the punk lovingly named his little pet Flower Bell.

I showed the punk our first strawberry! Then I immediately regretted my foolishness when I remembered that he was so excited to see a jalapeno in the adjacent pot that he tore half the plant apart. We'll see how long this little berry lasts under the punk's supervision.

After busying myself inside for a few minutes, I looked out the window to see the punk donning his dad's hat and work gloves.

He is at the age where he has really started to look up to his daddy. Here, he's checking out the sprinklers and puttering around the yard, just like his old man.

He even has his dad's "don't take my picture" expression down!

Friday at the Ranch

The day ended as beautifully as it began: with the October sun perching at an angle through the yellow trees. Grandma Caryn sat at the river bank with the punk, handing him appropriately-sized throwing rocks.

Venna put her creativity to use by crafting a whimsical Princess Leia out of river rocks.

On our walk to the river, the three wild turkeys collected wild turkey feathers.

Before we found feathers, we passed the Lake of Shining Waters, as my cousin Megan and I used to call it when we were young Anne of Green Gables fans. (I think Aunt Karla is the one who planted the seed... of Anne and of naming the pond.) Could this view BE any more lovely?

Before we took our walk, I took advantage of a small but precious moment of "me time" before the punk awoke from his very short nap. I had brought my headphones outside with me, but couldn't resist listening the sweet song of the stream as it flowed underneath the bridge.

Before his nap, the punk took a moment of "punk time," wherein he sat on a rock and pondered... something. He didn't tell me what he was thinking about.

But it appears to be something mischievous, don't you think?

Tent-Induced Crazy

Filthy. Stinky. Grumpy. Prickly. Greasy.

That's what I was when I arrived home yesterday afternoon after 4 days at the ranch followed by 4 days on trek.

My grandpa's ranch is heaven on earth, despite the tent factor. It was cold and slightly uncomfortable, but we do it every 4th of July and I love it. I have never been home for Independence Day. Ever. Although I would much rather tent it than go to "town" (Vernal) at night with some of the others to sleep in a cheap motel, living in a tent gets tiring after a few days. But I do love being in a place where there is no cell phone coverage (no land line either), very few clocks, no TV, no internet. Just grass, trees, wind, rocks, a painfully cold river, solar power, and dozens of cousins.

Directly from the ranch, my man and I left the punk with his grandparents and drove to Middle-Of-Nowhere, Wyoming to meet the teenagers of our stake for pioneer trek. (Tell me, is there anywhere in Wyoming that is not the middle of nowhere? No wonder why no one stopped there in the 1800s on their way to Utah, California, or Oregon!) Unlike the ranch, there were no showers on trek. No sinks, no tubs. Just Camelbaks with which to brush our teeth, and wet wipes for our faces. We walked an easy 6 miles around Martin's Cove on Wednesday, but on Thursday, we pulled our handcarts 14 miles on the Mormon Pioneer Trail, ending at Rock Creek Hollow. The LDS Church has an agreement with the Bureau of Land Management in Wyoming so we can do these treks with our youth; however, the agreement stipulates that we must stay on the designated trail, no matter what. This trail took us through about 7 large mud holes, some up to the waist, and we were not allowed to go around them. We even had two missionary guides on horseback who made sure we stayed on the path. Many people lost their shoes to the hungry muck. My man has quarter-size blisters on both feet. I have one smaller blister; it was pretty much impossible not to get one since we were all walking with wet socks and shoes that were filled with mud and rocks.

After this long hike, everyone was tired and filthy, but happy to have accomplished such a feat. We ate well and had a nice testimony meeting that night. In the morning, we packed up camp and headed home.

At a gas station on the way home, my man picked up two small fountain drinks for us: Diet Cokes. Yum! Now, it's not like I hadn't had any Diet Coke this week. Aunt Cindy had shared her stash at the ranch, and I had joined two other leaders in the back of a trailer for a "discreet" (read: secret) Diet Coke pow wow on the second day of trek. But for some reason, this Diet Coke with ice in a styrofoam cup tasted like love itself. I took a sip and sighed with pleasure. Although my legs were still caked with dried, cracked mud and my hair was a giant glob of grease and dust, I was satisfied.

So when my man reached for my cup because he had finished his, I screamed, "No! No! No! No! No!" and violently grabbed it out of his hands. I think I shocked the teenage boys in the back seat, who started laughing nervously, and I know I shocked my man. He looked at me like I was just a tiny bit crazy. About 60 seconds later, I started giggling. It took me that long to realize that yes, I was crazy indeed.

The Bucket Brigade

Every 4th of July, the entire Johnson clan goes to The Ranch: my grandpa's beautiful 330-acre property outside of Vernal. And every year, we happen to start Saturday in our swim suits, and a major water fight just happens to break out around lunchtime. This year it began at about 10:30 and lasted for 3 hours! In years past, the major weapon has been a giant fire hose. I think the incident of 9 year-old Kalin tackling poor Grandma to the ground ended the use of the fire hose. This year, there were buckets.

A plethora of buckets.

Buckets claimed by mean men who stole them from their wives and children.

Many of you have warm memories of fireworks and barbecues on the 4th day of the 7th month. Me - I have ice cold memories of water.

River water,

pond water,

and now... buckets of water.

What's your favorite 4th of July memory?

See more pictures of The Ranch 2008 here.