You would have cried, but Verlaine laughed, when the basket of fruit slipped off the seat of the van and fruit went rolling all over the front seat and floor. While I went into the post office on the way over to Diana's, Verlaine put the basket back together as well as she could.

When we arrived she explained what had happened, but it didn't faze Diana or Maralee as they said they loved fruit and could wash it, no problem. That was the first part of our going to visit Diana. Sort of a disaster, we thought.

We found their home just fine, and Diana was at the door to welcome us in. We were glad she seemed to feel pretty good that day. We met Maralee, her daughter who she is living with now, and that was a treat in itself. Maralee and Verlaine had a lot in common as Verlaine has a window covering business and Maralee is very creative and had sewn her own curtains and pillows. So, those two had a lot to chat about.

You would never have guessed it, but Maralee has seven cats. A beautifully clean and fluffy cat came out to investigate -- and soon a couple more followed, but they were shy. They are so beautiful, and a very big part of Maralee's life.

We felt so enriched to have met and visited with Diana and Maralee. We were served coffee and cookies and soon it was time for us to be on our way.

Of course we talked Bulletin. I did take some pictures which I asked Diana if I could share with The Bulletin readers ... and she kindly left it to my discretion. So here is a picture of a mom with a loving daughter ... and a picture of one of Maralee's beautiful, fluffy cats.

Start at the left, back: Jim Miller, LeRoy Dake, Billy Dake holding Stanley and Don Anderson....

At the quilt: Vonnie Dake, Dorothy Dake Anderson (Our Madam Bulletin Editor) Alice Endresen (I think), Lois Gandy Dake (Mrs. Billy Dake), Grandma Greer, Blanche Dake Miller, "Mom" Gandy (Lois's mother), Mom Dake, and Carol Dake, daughter of Lois and Bill ... I think!

Tom Miller
Madera, CA

Editor's Note: You have a good memory ... the one you guessed as Alice is really Julia Sigman ... and her granddaughter Ardis Sigman Quick tells of a visit to see her in Bulletin #128.

---

The good news was I was back on the road at a respectable hour of the morning. That, combined with my long night of driving the night before and my imminent crossing into the Mountain Time Zone, meant I would reach my Uncle Will and Aunt Mary Jo's place early in the afternoon, leaving plenty of time for visiting.

My mom's brother Will and his wife, Mary Jo, live near Calhan, Colorado, about a half hour drive west of Colorado Springs. Last time I had visited them, they still lived in their old house in Colorado Springs and had just bought the land where their house now stands. My mom, my brothers and I flew out there that summer to help them fence in their land, on which they planned to raise horses.

My brothers and I were fence building experts back then, having been swept up in the high tensile fence building craze of the early to mid-1990's. Actually, I don't know if that trend exploded beyond the Johnson farm, which represented my only portal into the farming industry, but it sure seemed popular, given the miles of fence my dad enlisted us to construct.

As I drove across Nebraska and into northeastern Colorado, my anticipation grew as I tried to picture what the land we had fenced so long ago looked like now, with horses grazing around the recently completed home and barn. I exited I-76 and headed south to Limon as the vast prairie began giving way to rugged foothills and forests of ponderosa pines. Soon I was pulling into the driveway, just as I remembered it. Except, where a tractor and pile of fence posts had been in my memories, a beautiful house now stood.

I pulled up to the garage and by the time I got out of my car, I was greeted by Will, Mary Jo, a neighbor who had dropped in for a visit, and two friendly dogs. After exchanging handshakes, hugs and a couple of wet kisses to my hands (the latter only from the dogs), we headed into the house, where Will and Mary Jo gave me a tour. The home is beautifully decorated, warm and inviting, with a rustic touch that seems perfectly suited for a home on a horse ranch. We spent most of the afternoon sitting around the kitchen reminiscing about our fencing exploits and catching up on each other's latest news.

As evening neared, it was time for Will to feed the horses. I trailed along to see the horse barn, which is down a path about 50 feet from the house. Will pitched hay into each stall, telling me a little about each horse with every toss of the pitchfork.

"We've had Bailey for years now; she may have even been around last time you were here ... And this guy over here, he's not even two years old yet. He still acts like a kid! We'll be sending him off for training soon." It was amazing to hear his descriptions. He has spent so much time with his horses that he knows every nuance of their personalities, perhaps better than he knows some of his human friends!

After the chores were finished, we retired to the house for a delicious dinner of ham and scalloped potatoes, prepared by Mary Jo. It occurred to me that, despite being on vacation 1,000 miles from home, I was enjoying the best home cooked meal I'd had in quite a while!

Eventually the evening wound down and soon it was time for bed. The next morning, I awoke to the smell of Will cooking pancakes from scratch. It turns out both Will and Mary Jo are good cooks! I gave a moment of consideration to scrapping the rest of the trip and just moving in with them, but decided that might push the limits of their generosity. Best to thank them for their hospitality and get back on the road. So that is what I did. But before I left, Mary Jo made me a couple of sandwiches -- leftover ham and spicy mustard on rye. A welcome addition to the cooler of food I had packed for the trip.

As I pulled back onto the gravel road, headed for Colorado Springs, then Albuquerque, I resolved that I would come back sometime when I can spend more than one too-short day. I hope that opportunity comes around soon.

To be continued...

Horse barn on Uncle Will's and Aunt Mary Jo's Colorado ranch.

Just an hour ago, the bird had been free to fly about the forest, gathering food in preparation for the winter she could sense was coming by the hint of a chill in the wind that whistled through the ponderosa pines. She darted among the treetops before swooping down, picking up speed as she neared the ground. I don't suppose she even felt the blow that would lead to her incarceration in the plastic cell. Certainly never saw it coming. Maybe heard a thud, but everything must have gone black before she hit the ground.

* * * * *

Will led me to the screened-in porch, where the plastic box containing the injured bird sat on the glass top of a table.

"I heard it hit the window," he explained. "Luckily, I found it before the cat did. I could see it was still alive so I brought it in here."

"Ever since we built this house, we have had birds flying into the living room windows. We hung tin foil from all of the bigger windows. We thought that birds would be more likely to see the windows before they hit them, but it doesn't seem to help."

I had noticed the pieces of tinfoil hanging in the windows and had wondered what they were. I had assumed they were some sort of decoration. Each sheet was twisted in the middle and resembled a large bowtie hanging sideways in the window, reflecting the afternoon sun.

As Will recounted the story, he opened the lid to take a closer look at his patient.

"Its left eye is open now, but the right one is still closed."

He lifted the twig between his thumbs and forefingers. The bird clung to it, balancing on its perch. He moved the twig up and down quickly, hoping the bird would instinctively flap its wings to maintain its balance. But she did not react, just continued to cling to the twig with her head hunched low to her breast.

He placed the twig back in the bed of stones, but the twig rotated forward, causing the bird to lurch forward and land face first in the stones. She made no effort to right herself. We couldn't help but laugh at the sight of this bird tipping forward onto the ground. Will rotated the twig, returning the bird to an upright position, and closed the lid. We returned to the house.

"How does it look?" Mary Jo asked.

"I don't know. It still seems pretty out of it. I don't think it's going to make it."

"Well, let's just give it some time. Maybe it will come around."

* * * * *

The three of us continued on with our afternoon. Will and I took a drive up the road to visit a horse of his that was being trained by a neighbor. Mary Jo stayed in the house to entertain a friend who had stopped by.

In time, Will and I returned to the house and ventured to the porch to check on the bird. Both of her eyes were open now, and she seemed slightly more alert. Will lifted the twig, rolling it again between his thumbs and forefingers. This time the bird's wings instinctively shot up to help maintain her balance. The sudden movement caught us both off guard. We smiled and looked at each other, as if to see whether the other understood the significance of the flapping of those tiny wings.

"Maybe she is starting to come around after all," Will speculated. "I should get her some water."

He went into the kitchen, and soon returned carrying a small cup of water and an eye dropper. He drew a small amount of water into the dropper and inserted the tip into the bird's delicate beak. Its beak and throat began contracting as it drank down the drops of water.

As he continued to water his tiny brown patient, Will began reminiscing. "Ever since I was a little boy, I have tried to save animals. I can remember back on the farm, my brother and I trying to save birds, turtles, frogs or anything else we found."

Soon the bird stopped taking any more water, so Will gently closed the plastic lid and we returned to the house.

"It looks like it's doing a little better," he told Mary Jo.

"Good! Maybe it will make it after all."

* * * * *

As evening approached, Will completed his evening chores, feeding hay and grain to his horses and cleaning their stalls. Meanwhile, Mary Jo was busy in the house, preparing supper for all of us. We enjoyed our meal, and by the time we finished, darkness had swept over the forest and the temperature had begun to drop.

Mary Jo went to check on the bird, and returned to file a report.

"Both of her eyes are closed again. She is not really responding. I don't think she is going to make it."

"I suppose I will have to kill it," Will said. It was the last thing he wanted to, but it was starting to seem like it would be for the best.

He went out to the porch and returned to the living room, cradling the bird in both hands, the way one would handle a delicate ornament.

"It may have just gotten cold sitting out there," he said hopefully. "Maybe if I warm it up it will show some signs of life."

He held the bird in his hands for a few minutes, but in time it became evident that no signs of life were forthcoming. While the bird's sides continued to puff with each tiny breath, her eyes were still closed tight.

Will placed the bird back on its perch in the plastic box, hoping she would roost and balance herself. But again, she tipped forward, her face hitting the bed of stones. This time, no one laughed.

"I don't think it's going to make it," Mary Jo said sadly.

"No," he agreed. "Might be brain damaged. She just never really got any better. There probably was nothing we could have done."

We sat silent for a moment. Wordlessly, Will rose from his chair and carried the bird in his hands as he walked out the front door. Mary Jo and I remained in our chairs.

"He's going to be really bummed when he comes back in," she said.

Soon the door re-opened. Will entered with empty hands and closed the door tightly against the cold October night.