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The expression is…March comes in like a lion…well, I never loved that expression. It implies turbulence and storms. Lions in reality lie around in the sun a lot gathering strength for their one best shot of a good hunt. But I have to say, this March is living up to the old expression.

First of all, I started the month off by painting a store window. In a previously written blog, I mentioned the new location of a local yarn store. The owner asked if I would paint the windows because it may take a while to get a new sign. I love painting windows, so no problem. But I got a slow start because I have lost my rhythm for painting big projects. My truck is not working, so I have to approach the job without my ladders and gear. And, in general I wasn’t sure how it would it would all come together. I decided just to start with cartoon sheep–simple, fun, whimsical. A man came up and asked me if the new shop was a mattress store. I stenciled in “yarn shop.” I painted tassels across the top of the windows and stood back and looked at it and decided it had a faint Asian flair–maybe a Chinese mattress store, but I didn’t have time to fix it because I needed to drive up to Boulder.

About a month ago I wrote a script for a production for a literary show entitled Listen to Your Mother which is a live show in Boulder. My script was chosen for an in-person audition. I was excited, but the trip to Boulder was bizarre. In Colorado Springs, the rain started. My windshield wiper was showing signs of needing to be replaced and the other one wasn’t working at all. I had no idea why. When did it break, anyway? I didn’t stop and try to fix it; my weather app said the rain was going to stop, so I kept going and made it to Boulder early. I drove around a bit in an area now called NOBO. Boulder is SO pretentious. I started remembering some horrible things that happened to me while I was in college. I actually flashed on this image of myself in a black t-shirt standing on a corner with a plastic hospital ID on my wrist, trying to figure out who to call to pick me up when I didn’t have a quarter in my pocket and I wasn’t sure where my car was. I don’t think about college much, and to be transported back in time like that, felt really real, both upsetting and scaring me a bit. I almost started crying, but it was time for the audition. I felt so off my game. Even though I was supposed to stay with a friend afterwards, I just drove home. I drove straight into a swirling, wet snowstorm with a floppy windshield and almost zero disability. I don’t know what it is about going on road trips and ending up in dark weather vortexes that make me wonder if my last will and testament are up to date. I did make it home safe once again.

I didn’t get into the show. I got a nice rejection note, blah, blah. I was a little disappointed, but also okay, because driving up to Boulder a few times might have been a big commitment and maybe a show like that isn’t where my writing is supposed to take me right now.

I did start wondering about WHERE I am supposed to go though. I feel like I have been retired three months now and a direction should be coming clearer. Why isn’t it, though?

Then I got on a plane to Philadelphia. One of childhood my friends wrote a musical. I didn’t want my confusion to diminish how proud I am of her success, so on the way to Philadelphia, I tried to prepare myself for being in the moment for my friend.

Philadelphia is only about sixty miles to Atlantic City. I always want to see the ocean if I can and I had the first day alone. I thought I could get myself to the beach, delight in waves and sea foam, walk in the sand and then get to the musical. I didn’t know trains don’t run until the afternoon during the week, so I found myself on a bus. A very slow bus. After about two hours, I’d only gone half way. I realized that I would not be able to get back in time for the play, so I decided to return to the city. It reminded me of Demon Copperhead, when the character tries to get to ocean, but crappy things keep happening to him.

As I was looking out the bus window at endless strip malls and row houses and graffiti, it felt like being in a music video I had seen back in the early nineties. Out of nowhere I remembered that Bruce Springsteen is from New Jersey and all of a sudden, I realized I didn’t want to go to Atlantic City anyway.

I thought about college and Boulder again. I spent hours listening to music, trying to figure out my way back to myself. One summer I discovered Bruce–not the Born in the USA Bruce–the gritty, unfiltered Bruce. I bought all his music at an Albums on the Hill and then deep dived into his lyrics. I had a Springsteen t-shirt that I wore for so long that it became a rag. I still have it folded into a plastic bag, because for some reason holding on to that scrap of fabric was an important reminder of my survival. I googled how to get to Asbury Park.

So maybe March really does come in like a lion. Not the dramatic, roaring, charging, killing kind, but the real kind. The lion that spends long hours stretched in the sun waiting for that one, decisive moment.

So far this month has felt a little like that–cartoon sheep–painting on glass, a surface that is streaky and difficult–a strange drive through a city I no longer recognize to unbury painful memories of a forgotten time–a kind rejection letter–a drive toward an ocean that I didn’t see. None of it felt like progress if life is measured by neat accomplishments or tidy plans.

But somewhere between the swirling snow, the Jersey strip malls, and the memory of that worn-out Springsteen t-shirt, I remembered something important. There was a time in my life when music and words helped me claw my way back to myself. Back then I didn’t know where I was going either. I just knew that surviving meant listening closely to the voice that said keep going.

Maybe retirement isn’t about immediately discovering a clear new direction. Maybe it’s more like those lions in the sun—resting, watching, remembering who you are, and waiting for the moment when the next right thing appears.

For now, I’ll paint the windows. I’ll write the stories. And if the ocean wants to wait for me a little longer, that’s okay too.

When I was growing up, we had a den with a stone fireplace. In the evenings, we’d gather together as family in front of one of those great family sit-coms-like Happy Days or The Jeffersons. My dad would usually lie on the floor with his feet up on the couch and fall asleep, and my mom would sit in the corner of the couch, her hands busy with something, embroidery or knitting. I loved watching the glint of the firelight reflect off of her flashing needles. I always thought I’d learn to knit, but fiber arts was never really my jam.

When I inherited an art classroom, the yarn was a snarly mess and and I didn’t really know what to do with the cardboard looms, or big, plastic needles, and for awhile I decided that yarn stuff was craft, not art, and I ignored it.

Then I went on a field trip with the fourth graders and learned how to spin wool. I realized that spinning wool, making yarn, and turning the yarn into something beautiful and useful was an opportunity to connect art with history and I began a weaving unit. I knew the basics of weaving, but I just had to be better than a fourth graders.

About a year or so ago, a few of my friends talked me into a knitting class at the local Yarned & Dangerous store. I’d been in the store, because I like color and pattern and texture, but in my head I didn’t consider myself a fiber artist. I went to the class more to be with my friends than to learn a new skill; I didn’t know that the store would change my life.

Yarned & Dangerous is not just a store; it’s a live colorful, warm, inviting community. You are greeted when you walk in the door and welcomed into experiencing the space. There is a big table where people gather to knit, crochet, weave, or just sit a moment and take in the vibe.

The owner of the store, Tammy Cox, has built a rich inventory of all things fiber and she is kind, patient and helpful. She personally helped me knit a sweater, because I always have to start big with everything I try, so I picked a sweater that was made in pieces and stitched together. It took me five months to figure it all out, but I had help at every turn. I call it the village sweater, because it took “the village” to grow it. It’s not perfect, but I love it because I became part of the community during its creation.

Recently, the store has moved across the street. Tammy and her husband Aaron have worked countless hours reburbishing the Old Taggert building downtown into the new yarn space. From the ceiling to the floor, they have stripped, sanded, painted, refit, redid, re-everything and transformed a cold, cavernous skeleton of a warehouse into a kaleidoscope of color. I have been in the building a few times during the transition, but I walked in on opening day and was completely blown away with the beauty. Even though the merchandise hasn’t really changed the space is big enough so all the colors and textures really command their own spotlights. It’s honestly kind of magical. It reminds me of those cozy evenings I had as a kid, surrounded by people I love, where everyone knew my name.

During this time of transition, while I am learning to breathe and heal and listen to my heart, Yarned & Dangerous has become my refuge. Even though, I still consider myself more of a painter or mosaic artist, I’ve come to understand that community doesn’t have to be rooted in one medium, or even one place. Yarned & Dangerous isn’t about just yarn, or any single form of making; it’s about connection, courage, and the shared act of creating in a world that often asks artists to work alone. It allows for restlessness, for movement, for new landscapes both literal and internal. Rather than anchoring me, it travels with me—an open table instead of a fixed studio, a gathering point instead of a destination. In this way, Yarned & Dangerous becomes exactly what I need in this season of life: a creative home that leaves the door open, invites others in, and still lets the road call my name.

I am so grateful that I stumbled into this place. Yarned & Dangerous has helped me realize that I can still grow and learn and thrive. I feel fortunate and proud to know that it is part of my community.

I feel like I am living in a kaleidoscope of emotion. Each day, the dial spins and everything mixes up and I land on a mood of the day. One day is despair. One day determination. Another day is elation. It would be nice to land on a pattern that isn’t a complete surprise everyday.

My son and the orphaned pitbull moved out. I realized what a huge responsibility a dog is. I guess since most of my adult life I have been caring for multiple people at any given moment, a dog seems minor–food, exercise, affection, a vet visit now and then, maybe a trip to the groomer’s a few times a year. But for a schizophrenic man who struggles on the daily with basic life skills, I realized paying attention to a dog might be asking a lot. But my son says, it’s been good. The dog forces him out of bed; he has to go outside with her and he has to take her everywhere so it makes him think about where he is going and how he is spending money, and just in general living more purposefully. I am cautiously optimistic that the dog is a good decision. I am not going to lie, feeling like I have my house back feels like a victory. And my cat is thrilled.

So about the despair. I have continued to visit my friend in the nursing home and lately it’s been rough. When I arrived at my last visit, she was in tears and said that she wanted to die. I did somethings to help her be more comfortable, but I hated leaving her. I went home and was absolutely destroyed. I hate being witness to the breakdown of her body.

I remembered when I was seven and had an appendix attack, she came over and helped my mom take me to the hospital. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t walk and she carried me from car to the hospital. When my parents died, her number was the first I called, because she has always been so strong and known the right thing to do to fix things. And now I am doing nothing for her, just watching her suffer. It is soul crushing.

Sometimes throwing myself into an art project or a writing project can cheer me up, so I did both. I have picked up weaving and I am in the middle of making a pillow and a pair of shoelaces. The pillow at least will make a good gift, but the shoelaces? I don’t even think I actually have shoes that tie. I wear boots, flip-flops, or Vans. But warping the shoelace loom was surprisingly calming. In theory, I can make other things on it–bands, belts, guitar straps. I was wondering about horse halters. I could make decorative show halters and name my brand–Showing on a Shoelace. I know this isn’t an idea to carry me into retirement. I have no desire to be one of those women dressed in tie-dye muumuus and big hats chatting up customers at craft fairs, but I do like weaving.

I also have been learning a bit about screen writing. Here is the truth, I have movies in my head. I have never felt like I could admit that before, but why not? Putting stories with images seems like a nice blend of all my skills. I started a short story a long time ago about a stagecoach driver hiding from the Civil War by coming West. He meets some characters on a trip and learns that courage isn’t about waving flags and men shouting about what they’d die for. Courage is quieter, more about moving ahead and keeping the wheels turning. I never felt the story was done, but I had an idea about it being a film and all the missing pieces fell into place. I finished my first draft of the screenplay and I was so pumped afterwards. It felt like finding the right road after years of searching.

I am not sure how all this relates, other than I don’t think any of it is random. The dog leaving. The quiet house. Watching someone I love fade. Learning to weave, to write for screen, to imagine all the things that haven’t existed yet. I am holding endings and beginnings at the same time.

This is what making space look like. It’s not junking everything out, it’s rearranging things so that I can breathe. I am learning grief doesn’t cancel creativity, but creativity doesn’t erase grief. They sit side by side, turning slowly like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. I don’t know what will show up tomorrow, but, I’m here moving forward, keeping the wheels turning.

Some one told me yesterday, “It’s your year, horse lover.” I don’t know about that, but the first day of the Year of the Fire Horse was full of absolute good fortune.

First off, I just flat out asked Shayne’s landlord if he could keep the dog at his apartment. She didn’t say no, instead she said she’d need to meet the dog. That immediately worried me because I can’t disguise that Stormi is a pitbull. I seriously considered some kind of safe sedative because she is so crazy when she meets someone, all excited and exuberant with tail wags and barks, like she is has been starved for attention her whole life. But instead I had a talk with her and told her to make a good impression. Shayne had a talk with her and took her for a two hour walk and we gave her dog biscuits. I honestly don’t know if she made a good impression, but the landlord said they could try. She asked for a big deposit, but Shayne and the dog are moving out. My cat will be relieved and I can have my house back.

I know the voices are hard for my son and living alone is challenging, but the dog is good for him and he needs to be independent and believe in himself. I would appreciate any good vibes or prayers for this arrangement to be successful. I am worried Stormi isn’t an apartment dog, but so far everything about her has surprised me, so here’s to her continuing to impress me.

The next amazing thing is–a script I wrote for “Listen to Your Mother,” made a first round of screenings and I was invited to do an in-person audition. LTYM is a pod cast/live show that is a literary event of original material about motherhood. I wrote a piece about hiking with my kids when they were younger. It kills.

When Shayne was doing stand up comedy before he got sick, I went to a lot of open mike nights and thought I could probably do it. I MEAN honestly, I stood in front of kids for thirty years saying inane things–I have been in training for comedy my whole life. So I am very excited to bring my best to the audition.

Finally, I was invited to spend the evening sharing a home cooked Chinese dinner with some people who became very special to me last year. I haven’t written much about my experience with the Chens, because it’s not my story to tell. But last year I had the privilege of helping out a family of four that were having difficulty with housing. I had watched them all grow up in my art classroom and knew about some of the struggles they had endured. I didn’t really do much, just offered them a roof for awhile and some transportation. It was an honor really because to witness their resilience and their strong love for each other made me realize that my problems were small. Sitting around the table and witnessing their growth and transformation filled me with pride and hope.

I once read that the Year of the Fire Horse is considered volatile–marked by upheaval and great change. Maybe this IS my year. At my core, I feel two undeniable truths: I’m burning away what no longer works, and I am choosing truth over comfort.

The Fire Horse doesn’t ask for permission–it runs. I’m embracing that untamed creative energy, carrying forward everything I’ve learned about resilience, strength, and love, and stepping fully into my own freedom.

I keep getting asked if I love retirement and why I am not blogging about my new life. The truth is that I am feeling a bit adrift. I know leaving the classroom was the right decision for me, but I didn’t leave because I was done working. I left because I was done teaching. I have literally worked since I was eleven years old (a paper route) and I am not sure exactly what comes next and it’s a little disconcerting. I am not regretful of my choice, just feeling a bit stalled or stuck at the crossroads.

It’s not like I don’t have things to do. I am supposed to be painting a mural on the river levee. I’d like to redo the mural at the church on 7th and Macon; it is looking shabby next to the new St. Cloud hotel rebuild. I have writing ideas and home projects to do. But what I have been doing is hanging out in nursing homes visiting old lady friends and witnessing what it is like to grow old and watch your autonomy and independence ebb away. I have been watching these women who were pillars of strength all my life be trapped in bodies that are breaking down. I see their rage and confusion. I show up with a bag of grapes or a handful of strawberries. I try to honor who they are at their core, but it’s depressing as hell. And then I think–is this my future–lonely days in front of games shows? I keep showing up because I hope that someone will be there for me, if that does happen. But then I come home, destroyed, and spend sleepless nights worried about the future.

I am not trying to hide from this depression or put a positive spin on it. I just ended a job I did for thirty years and it’s okay to have all the feelings about it. Aging is a reality and there all kinds of examples of how difficult and painful it can be. While I do feel that’s far in the future for me, it’s in my face right now and I am sad for my friends. And maybe a little for myself, because navigating this new path, is a bit like setting sail on a vast ocean with a life raft and a box of saltines. I am hoping it’s temporary and the right island is right over the horizon. I guess it’s my time to be still and discover what my heart sounds like and to follow the rhythm.

I am home from the writing trip. My return trip was harrowing. The weather in South Dakota is no joke. It snows–not deep, but the wind makes it drift. The wind pretty much makes everything worse. Fifteen degrees feels like minus a million below and the ice is a super weapon lying underneath the snow waiting silently for victims. I am not sure why the weather in South Dakota has not been on a list of America’s Most Dangerous. I loved the blowing snow when I was sitting in front of a cozy fireplace, when I tried to come home yesterday, not so much.

I wanted an early start, but backing out of a steep driveway with other cars parked haphazardly was my first mistake. The ice was so severe that my rented Jeep slid off the driveway into an embankment. Maybe if the area had been clear, it would have been easier to extract myself, but I landed inches from the electrical box, sewer clean out and rebar posts marking these spots. I got out to take a look and I fell hard on the ice, jarring my elbow, hip and head on the ground. I really did think my elbow was broken.

When the AAA driver got there, I could see him calculating the angles and the driveway before he even got out of the truck. He had chains for his boots. It took him a while to get my car off the embankment. He’d inch it and then check to see how close he was to all the electric/sewer boxes. He told me “this driveway is sheer ice,” so he landed the car in a safe spot for me. Two hours later than I wanted to leave, I was on my way.

My second mistake was that I took the shortest route back to home. Highway 85 goes through the beautiful Black Hills, over a mountain pass, except in the snow, it’s basically just a ribbon of ice. I had already fallen off one mountain, so I crawled along that highway for quite some time. I’d skipped breakfast, but had an unshelled boiled egg in my pocket. When I fell, the egg smashed, so it was in my pocket, the smell did not really mix with my headache, so when I reached civilization, I threw away the egg, aired out the car and got some food. I figured if I did have a concussion it was mild and I’d probably just be told to rest and I was sitting in the car, that’s kind of resting and I wanted to get home and watch at least one playoff game with my son, so I kept driving.

I had a lot to think about. First off, writing classes, writing retreats, and other writing communities might not be that helpful for me at this point. I know how to write; I just need to do it. Second of all, I realized in ten years, I have lost my parents, two dogs, a cat, my sister, my right breast, and my son to schizophrenia. He is still here, just the potential of his funny, bright, creative nature has changed. And my daughter. I can’t even write about how painful her silence is. The sky might be endless, but I am not sure about the capacity for human grief. I think I might be there. I don’t want to write about these things anymore. Ignoring them won’t make them go away, but not giving them anymore ink might take some of their power away.

The roadtrip and leaning into my voice really made me realize the freedom that I have given myself. It’s just as easy to acknowledge the good, the joy, the beauty in things. I made it home safely. I have nothing to do today, nothing to plan for, nothing to worry about. Nothing feels pretty damn amazing. So I am leaning into pretty damn amazing.

Going on a writing retreat was my retirement gift to myself, in addition to a charm bracelet. I had looked at a few options, but I chose this one because of the time of year and the location. I thought a weekend in a cozy house during a snowy weekend would be just the right atmosphere to lock in to some writing.

The retreat location is beautiful It’s like very near what I imagine my dream house to be. It’s spacious enough for a pool table and it has two fireplaces and a hot tub. The views are aspens and pine trees and it’s quiet and clean with tasteful, comfy furniture.

I started out organizing all my writing. I have been writing on three different computers and my phone. I have bits and pieces of writing all over the place. I wanted to consolidate everything and get it all in one place. I have a lot of writing, but so much of it is sad. I have writing about cancer, schizophrenia, school, death, loss and grief. I thought I wanted to write a memoir about my journey with my son’s mental illness,but as I started piecing my ideas together, I realized that I’m not sure I want to do that anymore. I am kinda bored with my trauma. Maybe it’s time for something new.

Maybe a love story. Or maybe a comedy. Fiction is appealing to me right now. I mean, reality is overrated. I had given my self a goal to get something finished this weekend. My memoir. Or a screenplay. Something. Anything. Finished. I guess I still have time left, but I feel so stuck right now.

I took a break and played a game of pool with myself. A couple of people are sending me updates of the Bronco game and I am fighting sleep at the moment. I brought my knitting and it’s sitting on the hearth. I’m resisting picking it up until I reach a place where I can feel that I have accomplished something.

Not long ago I had this dream where I was working for the newspaper as a writer. I was taken to an office that was in someone’s home and everyone was just kind of hanging about the room. Then the men started doing their impressions of bears and the women critiqued their poses. One of men did a great impression of a sea lion. And then there was a contest at the end where someone told a mystery and he ended up crashed against a wall. Then there was a contest. Everyone had to answer the question–was the narrator dead? I wrote–No. There is no death, only new existences. I think I won the contest, but I woke up before I was sure.

I thought about that dream for days. I think it is about being a writer and how there is no real form or rules, structure is soft and self-governed. I guess I thought it would be easier to sit down and knock out a story, but when is anything easy??????

I guess if I want to be a writer, I just need to keep writing!

I grew up in house of books, but my mom was a clean freak and she thought bookshelves were too messy because of the different sizes and different colors, so our book shelves were hidden. There were big wall length shelves in our den under a picture window behind a couch. To get to the shelf, you could pull the couch out, or crawl into the space between the couch and the wall, and look at books while hidden away. That’s how I did it. The second large collection of books was in the pantry. The pantry was at the backend of a converted garage, and it was always cooler in that room. I would wear my winter coat if I wanted to peruse that shelf. I offer these details to illustrate my commitment to reading and to recall my first discovery of Crazy Horse.

On the pantry bookshelf there was a mishmash of my dad’s college books and that’s where I found “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.” I was interested in someone named “Crazy Horse,” because I was crazy about horses. I was pretty young when I picked up that book, but it started my deep dive into learning about the Lakota people. Being able to visit the memorial was a great honor for me and a because of the weather and time of year, I got a private tour and got to spend time in the museum all by myself for as long as I wanted. The experience was an artist’s paradise.

I carved something in stone once. My piece was about eighteen inches high in marble and it was difficult, physically demanding, and I never finished the piece. So to take on the massive proportions of the memorial was sort of “crazy.” The artist knew the project would outlive him, but he included his children, and in turn his grandchildren in continuing the legacy. There still might be thirty to fifty years before the sculpture is finished. But a huge crane was recently installed and a robotic arm can be programmed to do some of the work, so the carving speed could change with technology. I hope to see it finished in my lifetime.

I watched a movie about the artist and he said to be asked to create the sculpture of a great leader was an honor for a Polish immigrant orphan. He also said in the film, “Don’t forget your dreams.” I kept thinking about that phrase as I walked through the museum marveling at the ancient paintings, beadwork, pottery, and wood carvings gathered from Indigenous people all around the country. The work was beautiful and highlighted the resilience and legacy of so many artists and people. It was an honor to be among all the greatness gathered in that space.

My writing retreat is in Lead, SD and the state highway to get there was closed, so I had to go to the interstate and through Rapid City, so I left the memorial before l really wanted to, but I figured I’d have time to check out Deadwood, the infamous town of the Old West, but first I did laundry.

Laundromats and I are not friends. The craziest things always happen to me in them. This was no exception. The lights didn’t work, so the shop was dark. The soap dispenser ate my quarters. There was one other customer and he gave me a scoop of his Tide which I accidentally dumped into the softener dispenser and then transferred it into the right place with my hand. When I started the washing machine, it was so loud that I thought it was breaking, and when the spin cycle came on, I honestly thought the machine was going to explode. I put the clothes in a dryer and it didn’t work, I tried four before I found one that actually spun, but after forty minutes my clothes were still wringing wet, but my rental car has heated seats, so I just spread my jeans out in the car and drove around Deadwood a bit. That’s when a herd of Big Horn Sheep crossed my path.

While I was waiting for them to clear away, I saw a bar and grill named, “Mustang Sally’s.” That was a must stop. While I was eating my chili in Mustang Sally’s, the snow started. It was beautiful, light and crystally. I thought I was in a Hallmark holiday movie.

I still had time to kill, so I decided to go check out Calamity Jane’s gravesite. The map said it was less than a mile, but I decided to drive because of the snow. In the time that I left Sally’s and drove up to the grave, the snow was a blizzard. The cemetery was closed and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to drive down the hill. I know I have grown up in snow, but I have never seen so much snow so fast. I only had five miles to drive, but it took forty minutes to get there and it was terrifying to drive in blinding snow and trust that GPS knew the way.

I made it safe to the retreat and was welcomed to a warm, cozy, gorgeous mountain house with a roaring fireplace and herbal tea. I thought about the Crazy Horse carvers and the strength and passion it’s taking to continue that dream. I really do hope I get to see the sculpture again. Even if I don’t see it finished, the progress alone is a testimony to facing challenges and believing in the dream no matter what.

The wind is still howling outside, but I feel pretty safe and inspired and ready to write my stories.

When I made the decision to retire, two things happened. Almost everyone I know asked me what I was going to do next and then about half of everyone I know gave me their advice or opinion. The first and only thing I really had planned was a road trip and a writing retreat to Lead, South Dakota.

I took a solo road trip to Mt. Rushmore more than thirty years ago. I didn’t have a cell phone or GPS then. I just had a general idea and followed the road signs, or stopped and asked for directions at filling stations. I think I had a gas card, and just enough cash for a little food. Back in the day, I didn’t really travel with a destination in mind, the goal was to drive and blast my mixed tapes. I probably didn’t set out to get to Mt. Rushmore, but that’s where the road took me that particular day.

I remember pulling up to the monument. It was winter, maybe even the same time of year as this trip, and it was late afternoon and just starting to snow. There were maybe two other cars in the parking lot and to get to the view was a short walk along a dirt path. I remember hugging myself with my arms because I didn’t have a jacket and the snowy wind was biting. I stopped when the carving came into view and gasped. I didn’t expect to be impressed because I’d seen the president heads on TV, in magazines, in movies my whole life, but in real life, the sculptures carved in stone are massive and impressive. I do remember feeling a bit sad though, because the stone mountainside didn’t need a monument to be impressive. I got back in my car and somehow got lost in Custer National Park. I was a bit frantic because I was on a dirt road and the snow was picking up and it was starting to get dark. I came around a bend in the road and slid to a stop. A giant bull bison stood right in my path, his breath all steamy. We just stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, then he ambled off the road and I went on my way, but kind of shaken. It felt magical, maybe even spiritual. I remember thinking, “Whoa, did that just happen?” I slowed down, and turned off my music. I realized in that moment that my solo adventures really were more reckless than wise and maybe almost colliding with an animal that could destroy my car and maybe me was some sort of message from the universe.

I have never been back to South Dakota, but I have felt drawn there over the years. I dream of the Badlands sometimes. In the dreams, it is always winter and the cliffs give me shelter and answers. Sometimes the bison returns, locking eyes with me, leading me to the right road, so I guess it makes sense, that returning to South Dakota is my first destination on my new journey.

On this trip, I entered South Dakota from the south, not the west and this time I took the backroads and not the interstate. There is not a lot to look at, but at the same time so much, that it’s hard not to stop and photograph everything–the clouds that look like mountains, the single, old-fashioned wind mills, the gray, almost fallen down barns, the rez dogs running along the side of the roads, an old Pontiac Firebird held up by bricks, towns that are empty. My imagination was busy writing the hopes and dreams and stories that were left behind on this incredibly, vast landscape.

Everytime I stopped, my GPS would interrupt my music to tell me to proceed to the route. It’s annoying. I turned it off.

I stopped at Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska, and watched a paint pony running with the wind, and hiked a bit in the Badlands which really can’t be described, only taken in with reverence. I felt free and alive and in love with my life.

Just like on my first trip, I arrived at Mt Rushmore early in the evening. Place memory is strong and it was a very different place. There was an immense parking garage and big buildings with bookstores and cafes and gift shops and the dirt path was paved and the Presidents were lit up, so even in the fading light they were visible. They were still striking and impressive, but I felt sad again. Sad that it wasn’t the same as the first visit. I missed feeling like I was finding a hidden treasure on a hiking trail. I did walk through the museum and read the history and learned facts that I didn’t know, and I had a nice chat with a ranger who also remembered the park from thirty years ago. She gave me a map and circled things that I might want to see. I liked the paper map with her handwritten notes. It was like having a bit of nostalgia in my pocket.

I thought about hanging out at the monument until it got dark and taking some photos with a black sky, but there aren’t a lot of tourists in January and my brain started writing a Mt Rushmore version of Dateline.

I didn’t get lost on my way down from the monument this time. I didn’t meet a bison either, but I did remember the girl I was on my first trip. I used to think she was half crazy and needed to be someone else, better, but I realized today that girl was brave, kind of bad ass really. I just didn’t believe bad ass was a thing thirty something years ago. She made me realize my path forward is about imagination and freedom and being brave enough to embrace the unknown. Maybe it’s always been about that, but I just took the long way around. Being on the right road now was worth everything it took to get here.

“People can be a bit stupid about their pets…”

Out of the million plus words in Harry Potter, that sentence always brought a smile to my face. It’s so true. I saw my dad dig a fox hole for a cat so she could hide when she was hunting. One of my brothers converted a basement into a cat bedroom complete with its own maze and private bathroom. My cat, Charlie ran for President and had his own webpage. But my sister, Pam topped all the outlandish pet stories with her obsession with her dog, Stormi.

Pam was adamant about not getting a dog, but when her daughter brought the tiny black pit mix home, it was love at first sight for Pam. Pam bought that dog toys, comfortable bedding, the best dog food, spa days, and paid for a babysitter, so the dog was never alone. When Pam died, I knew it had to be an accident because she never, ever would have abandoned that dog.

Stormi came to me because my son had been babysitting her for about a year and a half. Stormi was distraught at the death and the paramedics and the disruption to the house, but Shayne was able to calm her down and she went with him willingly. He brought her to my place because he can’t have pets at his place. I thought it was temporary, but it’s not turning out that way.

For a few weeks, Stormi was re-homed, but she cried at night and whined during the day. My son went and picked her up and brought her back to my house. I swear she exhaled a sigh of relief when she walked into my living room. Like “I’m home.” And I was, “Like, oh crap, I am starting to love this dog.”

But here’s the thing. I don’t want a dog. I want to travel and be open to any changes that might come my way. Also caring for the dog has put my son back in my house. He still has an apartment, but he is basically living with me again to help with the dog. He maybe could keep her if he found a new place to live that would accept a section 8 voucher and a pit bull. That seems almost impossible. We waited too long to get housing for him to give it up and he needs to live on his own. Being independent is important for his future.

I asked Shayne what he wanted because he and Stormi have a strong bond. He said he would care for her, but if a good home was available for her, he would be okay letting her go, but only if it was the right person.

The right person has to be infinitely patient, work from home or be retired, and possibly be a Pisces or a Cancer, or a maybe a Scorpio. The right person would cook chicken for the dog and maybe grow some carrots for her in the garden. I am kidding, but only sort of. That’s the kind of life she has known.

I am not going to relinquish the dog to the shelter. I am also not going to randomly let her go to someone who is interested in a pit bull for sporting reasons. Pam meant the world to me and this dog meant the world to her.

Stormi has been treated better than many kids I know. She was the absolute center of Pam’s life and has been pampered and spoiled to the nth degree. As a result she is super sweet and affectionate, but also very clingy and has separation anxiety. She needs a home where she isn’t alone much and gets lots of attention. She’s really energetic and loves to play. She’s used to lots of toys and loves fetch, tug of war, and running and jumping. She’s good on a leash, but she’s strong. She also hasn’t been raised with other animals, so I am uncertain how she would be. She is interested in my cat, Lucy, but Lucy said, “Are you kidding me. I hate dogs. I hate that dog the most. When is she leaving?”

So I don’t usually use my blog like this, but I could use some help finding a great home for Stormi. Or a place that Shayne could rent with section 8 and have a dog. Or someone to come and convert my garage into an apartment for Shayne and Stormi.

I want the best life possible for this dog. It’s what Pam would want and it’s the last gift, I can give my sister.