An open letter to the victims of Californian fires

In November 2017, my wife and I bought a farm. Nearly seven acres in the rural scrub between Spokane and the Idaho border. We quickly found ourselves to be a blue dot in a red corner of a blue state. But it was home, and it was good. We did everything we could to make it our own little slice of paradise.

A year later, the first flames sparked on Boeing property near the Simi Valley. It quickly erupted into the Woosley Fire, ravaging the city of Malibu and surrounding hills. It completely destroyed over 1600 homes and killed three people. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only blaze terrifying Californians that month. Two other wildfires began the same day: Hill Fire 15 miles to the west of Woosley and the Camp Fire near Chico. The Northern Cali fire was deadlier, ending 85 lives. It destroyed 18,000 structures and displaced 50,000 people.

Our tale of homesteading bliss and collected Californian disasters might appear both emotionally and geographically unrelated. However, these contrasting events are not completely divergent.

Come January 2019, home sales in our area increased. Over the next few months, real estate prices in the Spokane area continued the upward trend. Before long, complaints arose from locals priced out of buying a home. Annie and I considered ourselves lucky to purchase when we did - a year before the spike. We were still confused though. Sale prices exceeded actual property value. It defied logic which unsettled my analytical autistic brain.

At a holiday party late that year, a family member (who happened to be a realtor) provided an explanation. Californians who lost their homes in the wildfires were bringing their insurance settlements northward. They flooded the inland northwest with enough money to make cash purchases, often offering tens of thousands of dollars more than the seller’s asking price. If there was a bidding war, the Cali expats were going to win. Some of them could buy two houses in Spokane with the amount of money they got from insurance.

It made sense. Relocate to a state with similar cultures, geographically close, with climates less wet than Portland or Seattle. Process of elimination made Spokane an ideal destination for their new hometown.

It took a full two years for the skyrocketing market to hit the top and another two for actual values to catch up with listing prices. During the pandemic, a national article was released by a major media outlet detailing the ten most over inflated real estate markets in America and the Spokane area was plopped right in the middle of the listicle.

The collective disasters of the Camp, Hill, and Woosley fires were unfathomable tragedies for the state of California but they were not isolated events. The fallout caused financial burdens upon uninvolved populations in regions outside their state.

Now, a little more than six years later, history is beginning to repeat itself as multiple fires rage around Los Angeles, including the Sunset fire in the Hollywood Hills. Much like Hollywood blockbusters, the sequel is worse than the original. There are five separate fires ablaze in the area with at least 180 thousand residents under evacuation orders and 1.5 million people without power. Two of these wildfires are already the most destructive in LA’s history and they’re not yet contained. Five deaths have officially been reported with thousands of structures destroyed, a number sure to grow before this horrible saga is over.

Image courtesy of KTLA

I don’t want to make light of the harrowing ordeal consuming the greater Los Angeles region. The heartbreak, loss, and fear are all valid as these Americans are living through an apocalyptic nightmare. I know because Spokane experiences a wildfire season every year. Even if the flames are not dancing on our doorsteps, winds bring the smoke into our neighborhoods, slowly choking out the outdoor activities and entertainment which make the unbearableness of the inland PNW more bearable.

The devastation also hits close on a personal level. Several family members on my wife’s side live in Medical Lake - the site of 2023’s Gray Fire. We are intimately aware of the fear and pain of a wildfire’s invasive touch.

If history truly is repeating, the people of Spokane should prepare to meet some new neighbors. A lot of new neighbors. I hope not though. Not because of an anti-Californian bias which is common around here. Not because we’re already struggling with the logistics of population growth even though we are. I hope for something different this go around because our nation is in crisis. Californians might not be the heroes we deserve but they could be the heroes we need.

We can laugh as a way to cope with tragedy but there is nothing funny about the massive and destructive force of nature in its cruelest moments. In lieu of jokes, I offer a proposal.

Take that fire insurance settlement and move to a red state. Hear me out.

States like Oklahoma, West Virginia, Indiana, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Kentucky are among the cheapest places to buy a house in America and they’re all red states. They also have some of the worst education systems compared to other states. They are most in need of improvement. A little insurance money can go a long ways in states like these.

Move there. Property is cheap. Buy a home and work remotely. Buy two or three homes and turn them into rental properties for ongoing income. As soon as you’ve met residency requirements, run for political office: school board, library board, city council, county commission. Or be entrepreneurial; start a small biz and join the town’s business association or Kiwanis club. Become a foster parent or sponsor a refugee family. Volunteer with a local chapter of PFLAG, Color of Change, or Citizenship Coalition. Donate to homeless shelters and organizations that help women escape domestic violence.

Whatever it is, where ever you go, use your money, time, and votes to make that place a little better. Transform your new hometown into a safer place for immigrants, people of color, and the LGBTQ community. Build grassroots foundations to create something even bigger and better, something blue wavyish. And maybe, just maybe, people like you are the ones who save us all from MAGA. Perhaps you would be the ones to actually make America great again.

I’m happy to share Spokane with you but you should spread the love a little. If all else fails, Spokane will still be here. Please though … try a red state first.

Of Elk and Maddening Times

Pick an animal. Any animal. You will surely find symbolism for that creature within the indigenous cultures native to the lands forming the wildlife’s natural habitats. From Africa to Europe to the Americas to South East Asia. As long as humans have interacted with the animal kingdom, we have looked to our furry, feathered, and scaled friends to derive meaning, provide sustenance, and deliver omens.

In recent years, I’ve grown fascinated with mythologies from around the world. I’ve studied the gods of ancient Egypt and the convoluted stories of Norse mythos. I’ve researched the religious pantheon of Greece, India, and Japan. I’ve delved into the mythological creatures of the Irish, Scottish, and British lore.

This intellectual quest is not a search for faith. I already have a core set of beliefs and am not looking to upgrade or replace. However, I’ve reached a phase in my life where I care more about why people believe what they believe than what they actually believe. The human mind intrigues me. While I am skeptical the appearance of a beast or a constellation can predict my future, I think it’s important to understand how cultures of our history interpreted the world around us and how it shaped their lives and folklore. From totems to spirit animals, creatures great and small had deep meaning to peoples of every continent.

Especially as I get my skin decorated with ink. This fall I will have a sloth added to my arm, with plans for a crow, mountain goat, jackalope, sasquatch, and the jörmungandr to be a part of my collection of tats as soon as possible. Yes, I realize three of those are mythical creatures, yet even the cryptids and beasts of myths are important in understanding why people do what they do. Because of my tattoo dreams, I have spent a significant amount of time studying the symbolism of these animals and more (bees, bunnies, sharks, hummingbirds, etc).

Which brings us to the elk. This grand species of the deer family once populated most of North America (with one subspecies stretching into Mexico), Northern Europe, and northern Asia which exposed elk to a wide variety of ancient cultures from the Pacific coast, to Scandinavia, into the northern islands of Japan. Unfortunately, elk went extinct in much their former lands, now remaining in the Cascade and Rocky Mountains of US and Canada, and the eastern regions where Russia, Mongolia, and China meet.

For Buddhists in eastern Asia, elk were seen as messengers and guided lost travelers away from peril. Seeing an elk in the wild would lead people to believe they were enlightened. They thought elk represented a search for truth, harmony with nature, and the ability to live peacefully without attachment.

The Celts saw nobility, pride, independence, strength, and endurance in elk. They believed elk guided heroes through danger and on secret quests. In Ireland, elk were omens of success if seen during the harvest season.

The Norse connected elk to Freyr, the god of peace, sunshine, and rain. For them, the animal represented peace, prosperity, and … um … reproductive potency.

Myths and legends about elk varied across America depending on the tribe. Most groups revered elk for their strength, stamina, and noble appearance. When hunted for sustenance, Native Americans used every part of the elk for food, clothing, shelter, and jewelry. The elk was essential to the Osage creation story. Lakota Sioux saw them as symbols of good fortune in hunting. It was a sacred animal for the Cherokee nation. In the Pacific Northwest there were legends of elk finding women captured by enemy tribes then leading them back home. Depending on the region, elk represented attributes like pride, independence, freedom, guidance, protection, success, triumph, survival, prosperity, and overcoming obstacles.

Knowing these things, imagine my delight seeing this herd after leaving the house earlier this week, on my way to set up my first DJ gig of 2024.

This last year has been difficult at our house. Outside forces have brought Annie and me closer together than ever before, yet our souls are wounded and our spirits are weary. We have shed a lot of tears and prayed with broken hearts. When confronted with a deluge of discouragement and tragedy, it would be nice to get a sign – something to remind us that everything is going to be OK.

Mythologies and folklore are something people invented. Yet they are real as a way we have handed down stories through generations from one to the next. In many ways, what is fact or fiction is irrelevant. These beliefs, traditions, and superstitions existed for a reason. Once you dig into the different stories, you begin to see a commonality between this culture and that culture, from one region to another. With elk, there are similarities connecting people separated by oceans and vast distances.

Nearly all ancient populations thought bull elks signified attributes like strength, confidence, and determination. They found qualities like protection, providence, and provision in cow elks. When they spotted a whole herd, most cultures interpreted it as a sign of community and the need to rely on those around you. There is a universal certainty an elk crossing your path was a suggestion to change course. In dreams, it was commonly believed elk represented fortitude, resilience, and overcoming trials.

Seeing a herd of animals won’t change the course of my life, even creatures as majestic as the elk. Still, the myths about elk are too consistent to be accidental. Folklore survives because it teaches us lessons about our people, our land, and our selves. If I am superstitious to think finding a herd of elk grazing in a field along the road is a sign from God that my community has my back, so be it. Nothing is harmed feeling a bit more confident and determined from the tales of my ancestors.

Our Region In Flames

I thought about fire burning in your eyes. I thought about fire. - Blindside

Image Courtesy Thoma Casey

How can we dance when the world is turning? How do we sleep while our beds are burning? - Midnight Oil

Image courtesy Myk Crawford

We didn't start the fire. It was always burning, since the world's been turning. We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it. - Billy Joel

Image courtesy WADOT

Now I see fire inside the mountain, I see fire burning the trees, and I see fire howling souls. I see fire, blood in the trees, and I hope that you’ll remember me. - Ed Sheeran

Image courtesy Greg Halling

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. - James Taylor

Image courtesy Tom Burgess

Death is on the top of her tongue and danger’s on the tip of her fingers. Streets are on fire tonight. - Lupe Fiasco

Image courtesy WADOT

Things we lost to the flames, things we’ll never see again. All that we’ve amassed sit before us shattered into ash. - Bastille

Image courtesy Zack Zappone

Liar, liar, the world's on fire. What you gonna do when it all burns down? - Dolly Parton

Image courtesy Erik Smith

We’ve built our confidence on wasteland. We’ve seen how the walls come down. Life burns. - Apocalyptica

Image courtesy Brian Jacob

Sleep now in the fire. - Rage Against the Machine

Image courtesy Colin Mulvany @ SR

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There are three major fires burning around us. To our east, Ridge Creek above Hayden Lake has burned 4100 acres. North of us, Oregon Road in Elk has burned 10,000 acres. Finally, the Gray fire west of us in Medical Lake has also burned 10,000 acres. There are two known deaths and hundreds of homes and businesses destroyed. The Spokane region is devistated and funds are being raised by the American Red Cross, Salvation Army, Giving Back Spokane, and No-Li Brewhouse. We also have family direclty impacted who had to evacuate including the grandparents in Medical Lake who host all of our holiday gatherings. If you think of us, please pray for rain.

This Church Probably Doesn’t Exist

I want a church where sermons focus on applying biblical teachings to daily living. I can see motivational speakers outside of church and fear mongering is counterproductive.

I want a church where biblical study is open for everyone to participate, ask questions, disagree, and learn from each other. Discuss what it actually means as a group instead of letting the pastor tell you. This is how scripture was studied when Jesus walked the earth.

I want a church where musical worship is a communal activity. Anyone can play an instrument (bring your own) and everyone sings. Together. Take the attention off the stage and focus on God. This was Paul’s instruction to the church in Ephesus: “Speak to one another with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord.” Musical talent shouldn’t matter; after all, the psalms tell us to make a joyful noise, not a pleasant one.

I want a church where dancing is viewed as a method of worship just as King David danced when the arc of the covenant was returned to Jerusalem. Even if it is undignified.

I want a church where grief and mourning are accepted as an act of worship. One psalmist wrote “the sacrifices God desires is a broken spirit and contrite heart.” Elsewhere the poet told us the Lord is close to the broken hearted. I want a church where people can openly and honestly lament without being told to get over it or move on.

I want a church that prioritizes care for the weakest and most vulnerable members of our society. The Bible often instructs its readers to care for orphans, widows, and foreigners - going as far as calling it a religion that is pure and undefiled. From Levitical law, through the gospels, into the New Testament epistles, this is one of the most commonly repeated commands. These verses also include other maligned groups - impoverished people, hired workers, prisoners, homeless individuals, and more. Serving what Jesus called “the least of these” should be of greater value than serving ourselves.

I want a church that embraces social justice. The book of Jeremiah tells us to do justice and righteousness. Deuteronomy tells us those who pervert justice will be cursed. Micah says God requires us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly.

I want a church that understands Christianity is not an American thing. We should recognize the oldest church buildings in the world are found in Syria and Egypt and the oldest Christian communities are in Armenia and Ethiopia. Even the first convert into Christianity (according to biblical record) was a man from Ethiopia. God’s covenant is for all people of all nations and there is no biblical basis for thinking America has a privileged relationship with or unique protection from God.

I want a church that isn’t offended when someone says “Black Lives Matter” and isn’t scared to talk about critical race theory. Paul tells us there should be no racial discrimination in the church, declaring both Jewish and Greek people are equal because of Jesus. As long as racism is rampant in America, I want a church that fights for reconciliation, supports minority communities, and amplifies voices of POC leaders.

I want a church that sees the feminine in the divine, not limiting God to exclusive masculinity. Genesis says both male and female were created in God’s image so the personhood of God must be simultaneously male and female.

I want a church that values and promotes women’s rightful place in leadership. God chose a woman to bring the Messiah into the world; Jesus chose women to be the first to preach the gospel; and Paul calls out Pricilla, Julia, Junia, Phoebe, and Chloe as partners in ministry. Women were active in and essential to establishing the early church and they must be allowed the same roles today.

I want a church that affirms the LGBT community. The first Christian convert from Ethiopia was also a eunuch. Such people were considered sexual deviants and were not allowed to enter the temple. If the early church welcomed those rejected by established religious traditions, we should do the same thing today. If all people are created in God’s image, then all bear God’s image regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.

I want a church that isn’t afraid of foul language, skeptical attendees, uncomfortable questions, provocative conversations, and taboo topics. I want a church that supports public education, believes in science, protects the health and safety of their communities, and realizes the most qualified people to provide counseling are licensed therapists.

I want a church who takes God’s command to Adam in the creation story seriously – to work the land and take care of it. I want a church who realizes earth’s resources are limited and we must be good stewards of the environment. We cannot continue to strip God’s creation in the name of human progress.

I want a church who calls nationalism, prosperity gospel, and capitalism what they are: idolatry. I want a church that eschews the ideals of consumerism, white supremacy, jingoism, and collection of wealth. I want a church that abandons teachings rooted in colonialism, American exceptionalism, patriarchy, classism, ableism, homophobia, and xenophobia.

I want a church where anyone is safe to express their reservations, their hopes, and their fears. I want a church were anyone regardless of their background, personality, existing beliefs, or economic status can walk through the doors and feel welcomed. When someone says “I have my doubts,” I want a church that says “So do we.”

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Maybe a church like this doesn’t exist. Perhaps this is asking too much. I can dream though.

Coping Isn’t Coping

Situational depression. Or at least that’s what my therapist called it. One situation in my life sucked and another was really crappy. A + B = D for depressed. Ideally, once circumstances changed, I’d be happier.

Things did change and eventually I did feel better. I also attended therapy and took medication. I had a couple different support groups and was involved in my church. I was happy, or at least as close to happy as possible.

Biologically speaking, depression is always there. For some people, it’s a lingering presence and daily burden. For others it ebbs and flows like the tide. Today is OK but tomorrow never knows. Those with SAD (or seasonal affective disorder) fall into this latter category, their mental health dependent on the weather. My situational depression makes me a candidate for the occasionally depressed. Since it’s a chemical imbalance, there isn’t a cure, only treatment through prescriptions and counseling can reduce the symptoms. Your brain is what it is. It can be rewired but not replaced.

So this is who I am. Some days my depression is an echo in the basement of my psyche. Other days it’s the annoying neighbor throwing an all night kegger when I have to work at 5am the next morning. Some days, it’s mellow enough to be forgotten and other days it’s so loud and crippling it can’t be ignored. Some days, it is a circus clown waving in the distance, other days it’s a masked killer from a slasher flick chasing me up a flight of stairs because why wouldn’t I be foolish enough to ascend the stairs where there’s no means for me to escape - that’s what people do in horror movies.

image courtesy of Dark Sky Films

I didn’t learn about my depression and anxiety until I was in my mid-30s. My oblivious perspective didn’t mean I was not depressed prior to my diagnosis. I didn’t suddenly develop symptoms the moment my therapist gave me a label.


My journey through depression and anxiety mirrors my story of autism. I didn’t know I was on the spectrum until I was 40, but I’ve been autistic my whole life. In the same way, I didn’t know I was depressed until I was an adult. Looking back I can see I’ve struggled with depression since adolescence.

These are challenges no one should face alone. Life doesn’t come with a user guide; the closest thing we have to cheat codes are therapists. So I got one. She prescribed some drugs. So I took them. And it helped.

Mental health doesn’t have easy fixes. Therapeutic and pharmaceutical solutions are not cures, they’re temporary salves. Wonderful and helpful yet not enough to heal the deepest wounds. To cope with the stresses of life, changes in weather, and negative self talk, people plagued with depression and anxiety need to develop useful coping mechanisms.

Neurotypical people cope naturally. They do it without thinking. Bad things happen, they adjust and keep moving. They’re upset about something, they process the emotion and continue to function. It’s the natural order. However, not all brains are able to self-regulate on autopilot. That’s why good therapists teach coping mechanisms.

Some people count or take deep breaths, meditate or punch a pillow, read or play video games. I have a big challenge though: coping strategies don’t last. For example, I tap my fingers when I’m anxious and it helps me feel calm. Yet the anxiety returns the moment I stop tapping unless I’ve resolved the cause of my worried stress. However, finger tapping isn’t the only coping mechanism I’ve tried.

Doing something nice for someone else is a great anti-depressant. I’ve volunteered for various community programs, served homeless people, opened doors for strangers, participated in charity events, and donated to non-profit organizations. All of it feels great in the moment. I never feel depressed when engaging in acts of kindness. Unfortunately, I’m not able to do these happy acts all day every day. I have a regular job, kids to feed, and a farm to run. I can have the serotonin high of helping someone, only to come home confronted with the reality of laundry that never ends and fences perpetually in need of repair.

I’ve been told nature walks and spending time with animals are good for mental health. I agree. That’s why I tend to linger outside longer than necessary after doing evening barn chores. Giving ear scratches to our donkey, playing with the goats, or staring at the stars. It’s a peaceful end to an often hectic day. As refreshing as this time is, I can’t stay outside forever. The next day is coming with a new set of stressors.

I feel great at my DJ gigs; music is therapeutic. But my gigs have end times when the speakers are turned off and I must tear down my equipment. There are times throughout my day where music cannot be played in the background, whether due to business calls or a lack of accessibility. Songs, regardless of genre, calm me, but the benefit vanishes as soon as the music stops.

There are more coping methods. I could go on ad nauseam. Hopefully, you get the point. Coping is great until it isn’t. Coping doesn’t last. Coping isn’t coping. I still have to function.

Neurotypical people are able to cope without coping mechanisms. Either due to depression, anxiety, or autism, I do not posses that skill. How do I do it? I don’t know. What I do know is I wake up every day and do what must be done because there are people (and animals) who depend on me.

I’m OK, and even when I’m not, it’s OK. If you see me tapping my fingers, at least you know why.

Sedona

Two years and a half ago, we got Sedona intending her to become Chloe’s new barrel racing horse. Our daughter needed a step up horse, a steed who could help Chloe reach her full potential as a rider and a competitor.

Chloe rode Sedona bareback the first day we had her. It’s one of the happiest moments I have ever witnessed. The two made a quick bond and practiced together any chance Chloe could find. Sedona was a little overweight so we placed her on a strict diet and had her exercising in the round pen daily. We took her out for walks and runs on trails and roads. Sedona worked her muscles walking up and down a hill we affectionately refer to as “the butt kicker hill.”

photo courtesy of Susan Shouse Photography

Sedona competed with Chloe through most of the 2019 rodeo season and we watched as both the girl and her horse made improvements in their skill. After the Covid pandemic ended everyone’s rodeo season for 2020, Chloe continued to ride and work with Sedona. She had her eyes on the future. She knew that one canceled season was not the end of anyone’s rodeo career. If she was going to compete again, Sedona would need to stay in shape.

Chloe hustled. Sometimes she begged to do it and other times we bribed her. With the 2021 season approaching, we hired a trainer to work with Chloe and it looked like Sedona was going to be the perfect partner.

Then April 22 happened.

Like many other days preceding it, Chloe and Sedona were in the round pen working. My daughter stood in the middle directing the speed and direction for her horse to run. Some occurrences come out of nowhere, freak accidents you are unable to explain even as you watch it happen. One moment, Sedona was running like a race horse, the next she was spooked and tried to jump the gate. Sedona is not a jumping horse and she was too short to clear the gate. Instead of landing on the other side, Sedona’s front right leg slipped into the smallest space possible: directly between the wood post, the end of the metal gate, and the chain looped to keep the gate closed. Sedona’s sudden predicament scared her even more and she started thrashing around, aggravating any potential injury caused by her dreams of flight.

Chloe, Christian, and I made quick efforts to free Sedona while JJ ran in the house to get Annie. The next few hours were spent trying to calm the horse and clean her wounds. Phone calls were made to the emergency overnight veterinarian who gave us practical advice and we arranged to bring her in the next morning. We feared she would need to be put down. Chloe feared losing the bond she spent two years building with Sedona. We worried about the potential costs about the veterinary care Sedona would need.

In the end, all our fears were relieved. Miraculously, Sedona did not break any bones. Her official diagnosis was a complete degloving. This is a severe injury where she did more than tear away her fur – she also ripped off the outer layers of her skin and connective tissue. She managed to deglove a solid ring around the lower part of her leg, requiring multiple stitches and isolation while she healed.

This picture is her wound several weeks after the initial injury. The first photos we sent to the veterinarian are too gory to share.

Results were better than we imagined possible. However, Sedona still had a long road ahead of her. The next few days were chaotic and filled with sleep deprivation for both horse and humans. She would need regular bandage changes for several weeks, requiring sedation for her to allow us to wrap fresh bandages around her leg. The vet prescribed antibiotics and pain medications, both of which Sedona hated consuming. Finally, she would need to miss out on the 2021 rodeo season.

Instead of forfeiting the season Chloe chose to train Renegade; the result of her decision is a beautiful and victorious story deserving a blog post of its own. Sedona slowly recovered, eventually rejoined the heard, stopped exercising, and ate a bunch of hay. She regained a bunch of weight but she would live, nay … thrive.

Sedona’s injury did more than complicate Chloe’s rodeo season, it threw a wrench into our wedding plans. Annie and I had arranged two horses to go with us to the wedding: Sedona and Roxy. After exchanging vows on the beach, we hoped to ride off into the sunset together. With Sedona’s injury, that possibility was cast into doubt. Renegade has a habit of bucking and throwing riders and we only have one other ridable horse – the mare Annie planned on using.

We kept Sedona healthy and fed. We let her walk the pasture at her own leisurely pace. Gradually, she built up her strength. Her wounds were scabbing over. It was clear I would need to begin working with her soon, shed some of the belly weight she added while in recovery, and build a bond with her so she trusts me when there are ocean waves crashing next to us.

Sedona’s most common recent interactions with me were through the ritual of medicating, sedating, and changing bandages. None of those activities were experiences she enjoyed; she actively attempted to avoid it as much as she could. She wanted nothing to do with me but she didn’t keep that attitude. First she let me approach her while she was munching on hay. Next she allowed me to scratch her neck and ears. Then she started lining up with the other horses when she saw me walking from the house to the barn to feed them. She would follow me as I dragged a bale into the pasture and stood patiently while I broke open the twine. As soon as I threw a flake of alfalfa, she’d turn away from me to go eat. Finally, on a Monday night a few weeks ago, I took a bale out to the horses while all the horses were grazing in the back half of the pasture. I looked up and saw this running at me.

Instead of waiting for me to toss some food in her general direction, she walked up to me and invaded my personal space. I spread out several flakes; the other horses found their own personal pile and started to dine. Not Sedona. She stayed with me. I picked up her feet to check her hooves, rubbed her back to see if she had any sore spots, and patted her neck to let her know she’s a good girl. As I was running my fingers through her mane, she rested her jaw on my shoulder and turned her neck to place her head behind mine – the closest imitation of a hug a horse can give.

I knew then it was time. It was time for me to start working with Sedona in the round pen. I knew it was time for her to have a rider. I knew it was time for me to (figuratively and literally) get back on the horse.

Last Saturday, we did a thing. While the family completed morning barn chores, I got Sedona into the round pen and strapped a saddle to her back. We walked around in circles in the round pen for a while, both of us reacquainting the experience of riding (me) or being ridden (Sedona). Feeling brave, I followed Chloe out to the back half of our property. It’s the first time in a couple years we’ve rode horses together. We did some practicing in our arena and I had Sedona walking through a pole bending pattern. I even got her into a trot.

Three weeks from now, Sedona will be introduced to a new environment: road trips and beaches. A couple weeks ago, I was feeling nervous about how she would handle my weight or how I would manage to control her in the sand. Now I feel much more confident and prepared. I think Sedona and I are going to enjoy our time together.

Like Orion on a Cloudy Night

It was a stressful day. Which is weird because it should not have been so burdened by stress. The morning started like any other Sunday: Joylyn and Annie helped me complete barn chores before we all went out to breakfast as a family at our favorite little greasy dive in Rathrum. Later in the day, Annie went out for a horseback ride with one of her friends while I relaxed and played video games. I spent some time cleaning in the kitchen while Annie prepped the dining room table for a crafting project. Then we went on some errands to get wood stain and groceries. The day ended after a walk with our Mastiff at the dog park, more housework, and bedtime barn chores.

No dire emergencies. No kids arguing. No mishaps. No perceivable cause for frustration. Still, while we were on the freeway between home and Winco my brain declared battle against itself, like there was a civil war waging between my prefrontal cortex and my amygdala. From the coattails of a relaxing Sunday, I was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed by anxiety. My shoulders tightened, my chest was constricted, and my breathing grew shallow. Thoughts of impending dread and inevitable failure flooded over me.

There was no logical reason for me to feel the way I felt. Even in the moment I knew there was no validity behind my anxiety. It was what it was. I knew my emotional paralysis was devoid of substance yet I was powerless to avoid it. I felt better the next morning, ready to tackle a new work week and carry on as if I hadn’t been plagued by self sabotage less than 24 hours prior. But Sunday night, for causes beyond my capability to describe or understand, was rough. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head.

After we returned home, and when the worst of the anxiety faded, I walked out of the house to retrieve groceries from the trunk. I briefly looked up and noticed a small break in the clouds perfectly framing the constellation Orion. The belt was shining bright. A few years of living on the farm has made those three stars the easiest for me to identify among the abundance of distant suns populating our night sky. I stood still for a moment and traced the outline of Orion up to the club and shield then down to the hem of his garment. I marveled at the unique position of my geographical location. The constellation was perfectly framed by cloud cover - grey masses above and below it, and to both sides. The overcast sky obscured all other constellations visible in early February.

I removed a few grocery bags from the trunk, closed it and looked up once more before going inside. In the time it took me to gather our purchases, the clouds shifted, blown by currents of wind. The only stars still visible were Zeta, Epsilon, and Delta – Orion’s Belt. A few seconds later and those stars also disappeared behind the overcast weather.

A couple hours later, I ventured outside once more to feed our animals and refill their water troughs. At the barn, my eyes wandered toward space again and the clouds populating the inland northwest earlier in the day had dissipated, pushed further east by the jet stream, revealing the clear and beautiful expanse of endless galaxies above us. Orion the hunter still stood proud above me, joined by his neighbors Cassiopeia and Pisces.

Orion is there somewhere

In a short span of time, Orion was the only constellation to be seen, vanished, then reappeared joined by dozens of visible constellations. Time and meteorological changes in the atmosphere alter the way we see the stars. Yet the shifts and adjustments in astronomy move slower. Night after night, Orion is still Orion. Mars and Jupiter move into and out of our night sky in long lethargic arcs. The moon cycles through its phases from full to new and back again every 29 and a half days, the subtle change barely perceptible from one night to the next.

As I pondered these quick adjustments in weather and its effect on our perception of the longer lasting existence of astronomical phenomena, I realized my struggles with depression and anxiety were much the same. My emotional state is often like the clouds, moved by circumstance and unseen forces. My melancholic disposition sways between bitter and sweet, often lingering where the two are blended. There are times my anxiety completely blurs my grandeur, other times it breaks long enough to observe glimmers of greatness. Then there are days where depression breaks and I feel as if I can shine. Regardless of how I feel from one moment to the next, I’m still me. I possess the same hopes and fears while overcome with anxiety as I do when serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain are stable. Moods come and go like the weather but my goals and beliefs remain, only to be changed through slow progression.

When I am feeling down, I know that feelings are only temporary. Anxiety comes, but it also goes. Happiness exists on the other side of these temporal adjustments. This concept isn’t an easy one to explain to someone who doesn’t struggle with depression and anxiety. If you want to better understand what it’s like to be me, just watch the stars on a partially cloudy night. Perhaps you could learn something from Orion.

The official Heartsong ornaments 2020

Every December when I was younger, my mom created handmade Christmas ornaments for my brother and me. Her plan was to provide us with ornaments of our own to use when we were older. She had a theory: when we moved out of her house to start life on our own we would have at least 18 Christmas ornaments to decorate the Christmas tree we get four ourseves. It wasn’t just Aaron and me either. She made these ornaments for all of the Budd family cousins too.

Annie also indulges in this crafting tradition. She started making ornaments with Joylyn when it was only the two of them together. Now, with our families blended together, the holiday crafts continue.

There is a difference though. When I was a kid, Aaron and I just let mom do her thing. These days, the ornaments are a family affair. The kids help brainstorm ideas and often handle sharpies and hot glue guns to assemble and decorate the family ornaments we give as gifts to our closest friends and family.

It was tempting to aim for funny this year. The thematic possibilities for 2020 were endless. We even googled in search of toilet paper roll and murder bee shaped confetti. We looked for miniature medical masks to place inside a plastic globe. We pondered the viability of using dollar store sized bottles of hand sanitizer.

After much contemplation, a decision was made to avoid the year in review approach to ornament making. No references to the pandemic, social distancing, the election, Netflix binging, conference calls, extreme weather, or apocalyptic animals.

We realize 2020 has been a weird year. This was the year that real life imitated something halfway in between Maury Povich and the twilight zone. It started with a tiger king refusing to accept reality and is ending with an American president who refuses to accept reality. In between those two cultural mileposts, we’ve seen mask orders and anti-mask rallies. We got professional sports played in empty arenas and super-spreader parties held in NYC, DC, and LA. New generations of video game consoles were released with near life-like graphics yet the most popuar game in America is a cartoony contest about armless spacesuit wearing little people trying to catch a murderous imposter while fixing their spaceship. Graduations were observed on zoom, vacations were cancelled, theaters were closed, and everyone had to figure out how to live life six feet apart.

This world has enough crazy, we didn’t need to add to it. We ached for something normal. Nothing could be more normal for us than this.

Inside a plastic mason jar, you’ll find feathers and snow. Well, artificial snow but the feathers are real - mostly from our chickens and ducks with a few from our turkey, Uno.

While we love our horses, the birds are the heartbeat of Heartsong Meadow. Annie had a pair of Chinese geese when she moved to the farm. Elvis, a black silkie, was one of the first three chickens we got and is the OG of our farm animals. Ruby and Stanley are long time fowl residents. Wasabi the emu is one of our newest feathered friends and he’s quickly become a favorite part of our world. This farm wouldn’t be what it is without the birds.

They greet us every morning. We’ve hatched several, both naturally and artificially, raising some ducks and chickens from tiny lil ducklings and chicks. Joylyn collects eggs and sells them. Chloe has trained a few chickens to jump on her and perch on her shoulder. Annie and I even rescued a dozen abused birds while on the way to a Valentine’s Day date. Now everyone wants to pet and hug the emu.

When it came time to design this year’s ornaments, it made sense to do something with the feathers. In a year as weird and wild as 2020, the birds kept us grounded.

We all took turns collecting feathers, searching for the cleanest and most intact plumage we could find. The birds blow feathers frequently enough that we could have made 100 ornaments. However, we only made 19.

If you receive one of the Heartsong ornaments, we are sharing with you a piece of our hearts. The fake snow has been added because we’re always dreaming of a white Christmas.

Maybe next year we’ll do something funny.

The Covid Effect

It’s been a year (give or take a couple weeks) since the initial cases of Covid-19 were reported in the city of Wuhan. A little more than a month later, the first documented cases would appear in the US and we were given warnings this would turn into a global pandemic. In the following months, the Coronavirus overwhelmed our culture impacting every American – some through getting sick but most through changes in lifestyle. 

When states begin implementing various orders to wear masks or close non-essential businesses, we thought it would only be a few weeks and life would get back to normal. Spring and summer passed with the pandemic dominating headlines, controlling American life, and a menagerie of state or municipality protections remaining in place. Now in autumn with winter upon us, we’re seeing new government measures issued to try and contain this virus and it seems things will never be the same. 

It’s obvious the shelter in place directives interrupted the way Americans live, work, and play. The three Es of education, employment, and entertainment all drastically altered how they exist and operate. When this pandemic is over (and it will be over eventually) it’s likely some of the changes in our lifestyle will never return to the way it was before. 

But is that a bad thing? 

There is cause for concern, elements of American culture in need of repair. We’re facing an enormous mental health crisis as isolation is not good for the human psyche. There is a generation of school kids falling behind as they’re missing essential learning while schools are scrambling to prevent making the pandemic worse. The masses of newly unemployed workers will need to find new jobs. Many who contracted Covid-19 and recovered have been and will be suffering long term effects of the virus. 

There is also reason for hope. Fewer pollutants have been released into our atmosphere and waterways because less people are travelling. Reduced exhaust and fossil fuel usage means we’re breathing cleaner air; rivers and lakes are clearer. People are paying better attention to basic hygiene – doing the things they should have always been doing like washing their hands frequently, sanitizing high use surfaces, exercising, spending time in the wilderness, and eating at home instead of getting fast food. There’s a greater attention on science and increased appreciation for nurses and doctors. Individuals are investing in acts of kindness and generosity in ways to inspire and renew faith in humanity. 

In this pandemic, as with most things, both the good and the bad inhabit the same space. 

But what about the post Corona life? What lasting affect will Covid have on our culture? With a few different possible vaccines on the horizon, I think it might be beneficial to speculate on what our world will be like after life returns to normal. Or if it ever will be normal again. 

Since business as usual went on lockdown last spring, corporate America adjusted. In the process, we learned to use technology to our advantage, canceling non-essential meetings and moving important group conversations into virtual spaces like Zoom or Google Meet. Employers got creative giving more employees the option to work from home. New remote jobs became available. Those still working on site have been encouraged to stay home when they’re sick. These are changes to American life I hope never return to the way things were before. 

I am optimistic supervisors, managers, directors, and CEOs everywhere have learned some things are better for an email and not every idea is worth a half hour meeting in a conference room. I wish for telecommuting becomes more prevalent as it will make our workforce larger and more diverse. More people working is good for the economy and more people working from home is good for the environment. Side note: I don’t miss my 25 minute commute to the office. I hope more people consider the health of their neighbors, friends, and colleagues before leaving the home with flulike symptoms. As much as we all hate wearing masks, people should keep them – not to wear indefinitely, but for times of illness. Maybe if people wore masks any time they were sick, we would live in a healthier society by limiting the spread of the flu, common cold, and other contagious diseases.

(psst, wear a mask) 

Still, there are things I miss in this Covid world. When this is all over, I hope some elements from our former lives resume as soon as possible. I miss concerts and movie theaters. I miss hanging out in coffee shops. I miss seeing smiles on strangers’ faces. I miss parades and festivals and farmers markets. Of everything we’ve lost, there is experience I miss more than anything else and I hope it isn’t gone forever: the samples at Costco. 

Please bring back the samples as soon as it is safe to do so.

Like a Plane in the sunset

Waiting on you has been like a pilot flying a plane into the sunset being the last human to see the beautiful sight before the world is cast into darkness. 

Waiting on you has been like a little kid at bedtime hoping to stay awake a little longer - just five more minutes daddy please. 

Waiting on you has been like ordering a meal at a popular restaurant, anticipation filled with aromas from the kitchen so strong you can taste the food before it even arrives. 

Waiting on you is like a baseball game and the home team has the bases loaded when the star player steps up to bat, as the first pitch is thrown you know it’s going to be a grand slam. 

Waiting on you has been like a comedian telling a a funny story and she takes a deep breath after delivering the punchline before the crowd erupts with laughter. 

Waiting on you has been like a hike in the woods on a spring day while the roar of a waterfall grows increasingly louder long before it’s visible through the trees. 

Waiting on you has been like a radio station playing your favorite song as you reach your destination so you let the engine idle until the song is over because you need to sing along with every note. 

Waiting on you has been like savoring every moment every rainy day, of every mile driven on a road trip, of every sloppy wet kiss given by a dog, of barbecue smoke, family movie nights, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, foggy mornings, and a comfortable bed at the end of a long day. 

No longer waiting on you has been a fulfillment of joy, anticipation and preparation subsided, to have you here and hold you in our arms knowing some day you will protest bedtime, tell jokes, climb mountains, and giggle after puppy kisses. 

 Until then, I’ll forever be a pilot flying my plane into your sunset.

The Theory of American Everything Part 1: A Scientific Lesson

Life is guided by a set of rules, laws, processes, norms, and various theories. Entropy, general relativity, Newton’s laws of motion, gravity, magnetism, photosynthesis, apoptosis, string theory, uncertainty principle, quantum mechanics. These rules of science explain how our universe works: from the tiniest molecules inside our bodies to supernovas in the furthest reaches of space. Yet these laws and theories are far from complete. Even the greatest minds of history, from Plato to Galileo to Curie, they were imperfect people working with limited understanding. As we study and learn more about the workings of chemistry and physics, scientists have disproved, revised, and expanded old concepts. Even Einstein’s memorable equation of E = mc squared has its limits. It’s generally true but it’s not exactly correct either; modern science looks at Einstein’s mass-energy equivalence in a “yes, but” manner. 

Scientists examine and experiment with all of these laws to test their veracity. The majority accepts them as a basis for their understanding. They trust in the validity of these scientific norms yet believe it’s not enough. There’s gotta be something more. Something that explains everything. Some of these scientists collaborated on an idea: a hypothesis of one overarching law explaining all known laws of science into one unified formula. They call it the theory of everything. 

In the theory of everything, scientists are hopeful to connect the disconnected rules of everything from thermodynamics to quantum biology to astrophysics. They’re looking for answers to unsolved scientific problems, define the singularity at the beginning of time, explain the exceptions to known scientific standards, and fix the flaws in existing theories. If proven, the theory of everything could provide a framework that ties electromagnetism and nuclear forces to particle physics and the entirety of the space time continuum. Depending on how much credence you give to the theory of everything, it could be the next big scientific breakthrough proving the possibility of elements once confined to the imagination of science fiction: dark matter, time travel, teleportation, and interstellar exploration. 

Scientists look into both microscopes and telescopes to answer the same question: why we are the way we are. When I study history, theology, politics, and pop culture, I find myself asking the same question. Why are we the way we are? 

What makes America America? How can we be so functionally dysfunctional? How can anything be so awesome and awful at the same time? How do capitalists and anarchists coexist? Is it possible for our socialists and our libertarians to get along for the sake of our general welfare? Why do we possess the cognitive dissonance believing it’s patriotic to call Obama an illegitimate president but treason to say the same thing of Trump? Why is this nation of invention and innovation also a land of religious cults and serial killers? How do we have the greatest military force of any nation on earth and still think it’s too weak? Why is the quality of our health care going down while the cost is going up? Do we need to make America great again? Or just make America great? How did we get so divided and polarized? Where is the balance between American exceptionalism and American idiot? 

If scientists can strive to find a unified theory of everything in our universe, we should be able to find a singular theory to explain everything about America. We need something that explains both California vibes and southern charm, amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesty, Starbucks and Chick-Fil-A, bowling alleys and sandlots, comic books and gospel tracts, Fried Green Tomatoes and Boyz n the hood, Dueling Banjos and Smells Like Teen Spirit. What is the theory of American everything? 

I think I’ve figured it out – the reason America is the way it is and why we are the way we are. It's all about they way we began.

Step One: Know Yourself

Five years ago, a social networking expert invited me to participate in her 365Awesome project - a series of blog posts about how to be awesome all year long. Below is my contribution. In the years since, she deactivated her blog and the post I wrote for her migrated into the void of 404 errors. Since my original post vanished from a website that no longer exists, I’m reclaiming it.

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Step One: Know Yourself

When my phone receives a call from an unknown or blocked number, the default ring tone blares out a couple distorted power chords and a warbling synth riff, followed by a chorus familiar to anyone who watched CSI or listened to 70's era rock music. "Whooooo are you? Who Who? Who who? Who are you? ..." This gives me an automatic recognition that I don't know who is calling me. And I really want to know, who are you? Are you someone I want to talk to? Or should I let you go to voice mail?

Looking at the relationships in my life - family, friendships, colleagues - answering this question is essential. As a storyteller, I want to know who you are. I want to know your story. What excites you? What defines you? What makes you you?

Can you answer those questions? Who are you? One of the most fundamental elements to human existence is the desire to know and be known. Such knowledge is the foundation to intimacy. Who are you?

It is a simple query, yet complex enough to make it a challenging question to answer. It is easy to fall back on token answers, to rely on job titles or social status to define our identity. Or our hobbies, our finances, our romances. We tend to allow inconsequential tasks or labels determine who we think we are while our true selves are buried or forgotten.

That is the path I took. Afraid of criticism and ridicule, I stuffed my personality in a box and hid it in the attic of my mind to gather dust and cobwebs. The result was unpleasant. Not only was I chronically unhappy, I forgot how to experience true joy. The people that were most important to me suffered. Emotionally, spiritually, socially, I was a mess.

Thankfully, that was not a permanent affliction. I began to unpack my baggage and examine myself. Who am I? I sought to answer that question as thoroughly and honestly as possible. I didn't want to be miserable. I wanted to know myself. My desire was to discover someone awesome.

Along the way, I reclaimed my love for hiking and live music. I connected with an encouraging and vibrant community. I indulged in my geekiness. I took responsibility for my actions and choices.

I also learned a critical lesson. If you want to chase your dreams, if you want to be a leader, if you want to achieve your life goals, if you want to engage in any measure of personal growth or self-improvement, the question of your identity is one that must be answered. Who am I? Who are you? A complete answer to this question is the first step to bigger and greater things.

When you are interviewing for your dream job, launching an entrepreneurial venture, beginning a healthier lifestyle, or heading out for a first date. Knowing yourself makes the journey easier and more rewarding.

This is not a new concept. 18th century Scottish philosopher Adam Smith recognized this same truth. He said, "The first thing you have to know is yourself. A man who knows himself can step outside himself and watch his own reactions like an observer."

You need to know yourself first. Before anything else. This self examination gives you the ability to embrace the parts of you that you love and provides opportunity to fix the parts in need of repair. Your core identity grants you a baseline for self worth. It is the platform upon which you can accept healthy criticism or reject unwarranted discouragement.

To know your innermost self is power. Use it wisely. So, who are you?

Tidbits

In my life, I’ve been told I have a few famous look-alikes. In no particular order, I have been compared to Billy Corgan, an older Mark Hamill, Drew Carey, and the Pillsbury Doughboy.

This week, a coworker discovered another celebrity twin for me. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember his name.

“I saw your doppelgänger this weekend.” She told me. “He was on TV and I thought, wow, he looks just like Nic Casey, but without a mowhawk.”

Note, I don’t have a mowhawk. It’s a fauxhawk. Semantics.

She confirmed it was an actor on TV, but not any of those I listed above. She couldn’t recall what show he was in, just that he looked like me if I had a normal haircut. So I’m clueless. If you know who it might be, let me know.

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“Dad,” it was Chloe. She had a question. “You know the Shawn Mendes song If I Can’t Have You?”
“Yeah.”
“The line, where he says he can’t drink without thinking about you, how does he know drinking alcohol makes him think of someone if he’s not old enough to drink?”
“Um, because he’s old enough.”
“No he’s not, he’s 20.”
I did a quick Google search to verify Mendes is indeed 20 years old.
“How do you know Shawn Mendez’s age.”
“Because I know things, Dad.”
“Well, he’s old enough to drink in Canada, maybe he’s from Canada.” Another Google search confirmed the singer is from Toronto.

Phew, saved by geography and Canadian law.

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Summertime is rodeo season. And baseball season. As a result, we’re a busy household.

The girls competed in two different rodeos this weekend, one in Davenport, and a second in Spokane. We’re hosting a graduation party for Annie’s nephew tomorrow and Josiah’s first baseball game is on Tuesday followed by team pictures on Wednesday.

In addition to all this activity, we both have full time jobs, a farm to maintain, and a house to keep clean. We live at a frenetic pace. While lamenting the hectic schedule ahead of us, Annie asked if we were ever going to get a chance to breathe. I gave her the most accurate answer I could imagine.

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Did you know cows can jump? And not just a little hop, but jump over barriers higher than the top of their head?

Yeah, neither did I.

We had a bit of an adventure this morning. A total of five cows escaped from two adjoining properties in the neighborhood. Christian and I were on our way to the store when we encountered a blockade on our street. A few local cowboys in a couple of trucks and at least one quad were blocking driveways and partially obstructing the road while a half dozen men were running around with lassos and ropes. I followed their gaze to the target of their attention; a trio of bulls were running free and causing chaos in the yard a couple properties south of our house.

Then I saw an unimaginable sight, one of the bulls jumped the fence. It wasn’t graceful in any form. It nearly tangled itself in the electric wire. I don’t know if the fencing was hot, if it was the bull didn’t care. He progressed across our neighbor’s yard straight toward our fence line. I parked the van and hopped out in hopes to help contain the beast so the owners could retrieve it. The fence between us and our neighbor is chain link and the fence is taller than the bull, so I thought it was adequately trapped with no way out.

This is him, in the corner of our neighbor’s property, moments before he jumped into our front yard. I didn’t think it was possible. Even after witnessing the bovine acrobatics in person, my brain wants to deny it ever happened – as if it would be more believable for the cow to have phased through solid matter as if the fence didn’t exist, than it would be for the bull to leap over the top like a high jump event in the Cattle Olympics.

I drove into the back pasture with a whip, thinking I could corral it back toward our front gate, onto the road, and into the ropes of his pursuers. Instead, he slipped through the electric wires at the back of our land, a stretch of fencing we just completed a couple months ago. Then it happily pranced away out of view and away from our pasture. While there, I talked to the owner of two of the five escapees. She filled me in on the full story: the location of the three bulls where known, but a heifer and calf where missing. The five animals busted out together but had separated. They had been running loose for about an hour by the time I got involved and I have no idea how much longer before all were contained and returned to their own fields.

On my second attempt at grocery shopping, I pulled along the side of a truck parked in the middle of our road. The driver was an older farmer with an exasperated expression. I asked if he was a part of the crew looking for the cows and he nodded. I wished him luck to which he responded, “It’s not the first time they got out, and it won’t be the last.”

Wait.

Not the first time? So this has happened before?

A Presidential Goat

This is Trumpet. He’s a goat. And he has some fantastic hair.

A few days ago, while doing barn chores, Annie had a revelation about Trumpet’s hair: it’s a combover. His hair has a certain presidential quality to it. Maybe not presidential in a traditional sense, more like it reminds us a little of the man currently serving as president. Then we got thinking and the more we realized our goat and our president have a lot in common. And it’s more than just the floppy coif on the tops of their head. Consider the following.

They can’t stay faithful. Donald Trump initially gained fame and notoriety through tabloid headlines highlighting his marriages, mistresses, divorces, and remarriages. He has five different kids with three different women. He’s cheated on every woman who married him. Trumpet is just as much of a philanderer. A couple weeks ago, Viola gave birth to twins. Trumpet is their dad. Meanwhile, he also got Didgeridoo pregnant and she’ll be going into labor soon. If you think two baby mamas are enough, you’d be wrong because he’s also been getting frisky with two of our other lady goats: Ukelele and Kazoo. We’re going to have a farm full of goats and he’ll the daddy of all of those kids.

Trump has a weird and creepy obsession with his daughter. I’ve lost count of how many cringe inducing and inappropriate things he has said about Ivanka. Like when Trump said he’d date her if she wasn’t his daughter. Or when he asked a writer if it was wrong to be more attracted to your daughter than your wife. Or when he gave Howard Stern permission to call her “a piece of ass.” Or when he awkwardly groped her hips at the RNC convention. Trumpet also has an incestuous fascination with his kin. Let’s just say we try to keep him separated from his sister.

For Trump and Trumpet, rules don’t matter because they do whatever they desire. You want to try and contain Donald Trump? Good luck. I’m guessing his unpredictability and subversion has contributed to the unusually high turnover in the Trump administration. Likewise, Trumpet shows little interest in what you want from or expect of him. He goes where he wants. If you try to contain him, he will jump over gates and fences to do what he should not be doing.

We all know that President Trump is a raging narcissist. His sociopathic behavior is mirrored in Trumpet the goat. As far as Trumpet is concerned, everything that happens around our farm is about him. When we go out to the barn, he jumps to greet us as if we only made the trek to see him. Then he circles around us until we acknowledge him. Should any smaller creatures stand between him and his destination, he will trample straight over the top of them. If Heartsong Meadow had a daily newspaper, he would demand constant front page mentions. He poses for our trail camera. He smiles when we catch him acting naughty. And don’t ever call Trumpet a goat – he might get confused and think you’re calling him the greatest of all time.

When we feed the chickens, Trumpet thinks we’re feeding him. When we feed the horses, Trumpet thinks we’re feeding him. It doesn’t matter what animal is being fed. Trumpet assumes all food is for him. He loves to eat, much like President Trump. What would Trump be without a bucket of KFC, his extra scoop of ice cream, or a taco bowl on Cinco de Mayo? Trump and Trumpet share an insatiable appetite. Neither of them, man or goat possess the will power to resist a Big Mac.

They have so much in common: megalomaniacs, obnoxious, loud, and constantly in search of a meal. At least in the goat’s case, the hair is real.

A Fowl Tale of Horror and Survival

The attack happened in darkness. The morning sun revealed carnage none of us were expecting.

Nemo and Dory were the original residents of our barn – a pair of Chinese geese who first lived in the yard behind Annie’s old house. We stuffed them into a carrier and they rode in my car for a noisy transport to the new property. At first, they didn’t care much for the farm life; they made frequent attempts to run away. Within weeks at our new residence, Annie had lost them only to find them at the neighbor’s neighbor’s neighbor. The poor lady was scared to go out her back door because our geese camped out there, honking at her and refusing to vacate the premises. Last spring, they hatched a few eggs; we sold two of their chicks with the intention of doing the same for the third. Instead, it lingered with us where she became fond of our kids. All of our water fowl are named after Disney characters, but we never picked one for the little goose – our friend Pam lovingly called her Peepers.

We also had a collection of ducks. Rouens, pekins, khaki campbells. They were a mixed bunch – two drakes and four hens who stuck close to each other. If you ever saw one, the others were close behind, all squawking and quacking and waddling between the house and barn like the happiest flock you’d ever meet.

Between the geese and ducks, our farm was constantly noisy. The geese would honk anytime another creature approached. The ducks quacked as they walked; the only time they ever shut up is when they were sitting still. Our environment was exuberant and dominated by our birds.

It was over in one night. When the boys and I headed out to the barn for morning chores the air was silent – an unnatural absence of sound. JJ noticed something out of the ordinary before any of the rest of us, pointing toward the fence and asking what was over there. I dismissed it at first, but then I looked closer: two motionless white lumps in the grass didn’t belong there. On closer inspection, it was Nemo and Dory, slain and left side by side. Closer to the barn we discovered Peepers. The ducks were also quiet. I opened the barn door, fearing the worst. Inside, two ducks started quacking at the site of us humans and they scurried into a side room. But there were only two, the other six were gone.

We suspect the predator was a cougar. It killed indiscriminately, stole away what it could carry, and left behind the extras as if it planned to return to collect the rest at a later time.

Heartsong Meadow has been a great learning experience for the kids. They’ve learned how to care for animals and manage the land, how to be good stewards, how to enjoy and appreciate the natural world. Along with the good, there is tragedy. We live in bear country. And cougar territory. And near coyote habitats. Possibly in the midst of wolves. Falcons, hawks, and owls patrol our air space. Raising farm animals in lands inhabited by nature’s savage killers, it’s only a matter of time before one of our beloved creatures fall victim to a predator. Our time ran out. The ducks were gone and the geese remained to be buried. Christian and I dug their graves and laid them to rest. Our plans for the day were sidelined as the kids figured out how to grieve.

However, the final count of the deceased was not as bad as we originally thought. Later the same morning, I found Tadashi in front of the house. He was disoriented and having trouble walking; he found his way into the garage where I caught him and held him for a while. There were no signs of injury but he demonstrated the effects of trauma.

As evening approached, we found another reprieve from our loss. It started with a light quacking in the distance, coming from the far side of the horse pasture. It came closer and closer, the squawk of distress growing louder until we could determine its identity. The larger of our two pekins: Merida. The cougar must have carried her to the gully at the back of our farm. Attempted murder yet Merida survived. When she reached the barn, we picked her up for inspection. She had puncture wounds in her neck, blood streaked through her white feathers, dirty and disheveled but otherwise unharmed. We brought her to the house where we had a makeshift hutch built in the garage. Merida and Tadashi stayed there for a few days while we nursed them back to health.

Unfortunately for Merida, the battle with a cougar had lasting consequences. The bite in her neck damaged a nerve. Within weeks, it was apparent she had lost most of her vision. Before long, she was completely blind.

Merida is still with us. We added new ducks to our flock and she enjoys the extra company. She waddles around the farm sightless; she listens for the quacks of her duck pack and follows where ever their sounds lead. She finds food and water by smell. Sometimes, she walks into solid objects, bumps into other birds, or trips over obstacles. Other times, the main flock walks out of the barn and turns right but Merida will turn right before leaving the barn – ending up lonely in the corner unsure of how to join her companions.

There she is, the one in white, walking into Mulan.

She’s alive and she’s the sweetest thing. Christian has adopted her has his own – his duck. Any time he picks her up, she snuggles into him in a way she doesn’t do with any other person.

She’s also my favorite duck. Then again, I have always had a thing for the broken ones, the odd ducks, the weirdoes, the outcasts, the ones who aren’t normal. I root for the underdog. Always. Merida is all of that. She’s also a fighter and a survivor. There’s no reason she should still be living, but there she is, every morning when I throw out seed. Every time I go into the barn to check on our pregnant goat. In the evening when I feed hay to the horses. She follows the other ducks’ quacks in a search for food, often stumbling over my feet while impatiently waiting for grain. Merida is determined to thrive against all odds. Or, Jeff Goldblum as Dr Ian Malcolm said: “Life, uh, finds a way.”