Here’s another piece of Clara’s writing. It came to me late in the process of writing the book, but it confirmed the direction the book was taking. I thought you might enjoy reading Clara’s own words:

“Cause we wanted to; that’s why!” That was the exasperated answer my partner gave to the last man who stopped by the ranch and asked, “Why would two girls come clear out here, buy an old dilapidated ranch, and raise horses?” I’m sure many people wondered why, but most were too polite to ask.

In the first place, we’re not exactly girls. We’re both getting pretty close to 30 years on earth, but it wouldn’t be ladylike to say exactly how close, now would it?

In the second place, we didn’t just “come clear out here.” We both quit good teaching jobs and went $35,000 in debt to come out here.

And in the third place, it is not “an old, dilapidated ranch. It is “old,” but not dilapidated.” It is a beautiful ranch in the Wet Mountains of the Rockies in southern Colorado, and there’s lots of life in the old place yet. It has beautiful grass and lots of timber and plenty of water and a house that is livable. What more could one want?

If the place is undesirable, then you tell me why in the two months we’ve been here we’ve had over fifty visitors, fifty per cent of whom say, “I sure envy you,” or something similar.

Other questions that always come up are “Are you two sisters?” “How did you get together?” “What are you raising Appaloosa horses?”

“No, we’re not sisters.”

“We met while teaching riding for the Girl Scouts on the Glying G Ranch in Colorado.”

“We’re raising Appaloosas because I got interested in them and someone bet me $5 that I couldn’t raise Appaloosa colts out of the two mares I had. I took the bet, bought three more mares, carefully selected the proper stallion, and raised 5 Appaloosa colts the first year.”

Those are the answers usually hurriedly given to a passer-by. No Margaret and I are not sisters. I was born and raised on a farm in south central Kansas. Margaret was born in Everett, Washington, and grew up in Oakland, California. We were both nearly through our respective colleges when we met and were both planning to teach. At the conclusion of one of those summers for the Scouts, I invited Margaret to come home with me for a visit. She took me up on it.

While there, we needed another horse to ride so we went half and half on a nice mare and thus began our partnership in horse-raising. It was the following summer we bred our mares to the Appaloosa. Margaret began spending her summers in Kansas, and eventually got a teaching job in Kansas where I was already teaching. While working for those few summers for the Scouts we had decided that someday we’d have a ranch in Colorado. We found that “someday” doesn’t roll around by itself and if you just keep saying “someday we’ll do it,” you never will. Thus, we started looking for our ranch and in the spring of 1965 we found it.

True friends have asked in awed tones, “How did you find such a place for sale?” Our answer is simply, Strout Realty. Our Strout man, J. Howard Morris, on Canon City saw our needs and found us the place.”

Clara had every intention of writing more, but her energies seem to have been hijacked by working an Appaloosa ranch, teaching, bagging trees, building and running a ski area, and running a horse-riding program. I’m glad I only had to write about it. I never could’ve kept up with those two!

You may remember the Cartmill family [Ch. 8)] whom Clara and Margaret met through mutual friends from Kansas. Not only did Danny become like a son to Clara and Margaret, but also parents Marj and Dan and the whole Cartmill family remained close to them over the years.

At one point in my writing BECAUSE WE WANTED TO! I received a note from Marj and Dan with a letter Clara had written them several years earlier. One of many artifacts and stories I couldn’t quite fit into the book, it remained in a file, haunting me. I knew I couldn’t possibly rephrase it and capture the spirit with which Clara wrote it. But the blog now allows me the chance to include the whole thing in original wording. So, in Ring Number One, here are Clara and Margaret in action!

Dear Dan & Marj,

Tis time for another chapter in the saga of circuses at Singing Acres. (None of the names have been changed to protect the innocent—let’s face it; none are innocent!)

It all began as a typical day in Margaret’s life—she was at school—kids throwing erasers; teachers asleep in the lounge; the copy machine running off reams of the latest in applying-the-rules philosophy. Then she receives a message from Sherry. [Sherry Campbell, see pgs. 158 & 200 in the book]

“My Tom turkey had a stroke [Note: strokes are common among Toms] and he’ll have to be killed and dressed right away or we’ll lose all that meat. I put him in the yard; he CAN’T run away from you (the proverbial famous last words . . .) Can you possibly . . ..”

After school Margaret progresses to Sherry’s Rockvale chateau to nab said Tom, remembering, “He can’t run away.” Well, said Tom is no longer in ICU.

He gets up and runs. Margaret hotly pursues and at last prevails. Turkey tires. She gets him in the back of the car and tells him, “Stay!” Fast trip home ensues.

Meanwhile, Clara is back at the ranch, home from a typical day at school—you guessed it, kids throwing erasers, etc., anticipating a quiet peaceful Thursday evening with “Bill Cosby” and “Cheers.” Little does she know what lurks for her in the minds of Sherry, Margaret, and Tom.

Margaret, bursting into the house: “We have a very large problem out in the car.”

“What do you mean ‘WE,’ whiteman?” [recalling Tonto’s sage insight regarding assumptions]

“Well, Sherry left a message . . .”

Have you ever tried to picture a LARGE turkey who has had a stroke lying in the back of a Toyota? All kinds of things went through my mind, but not to worry. After all, how hard could it be to kill a disabled Tom? He’s probably lying out there flat on his back begging for euthanization, right? WRONG.

“Well,” Clara says, “let’s go do it.”

No, first we have to heat some water in the dunking barrel to dip him in after his demise.

No problem—put barrel on rack in ditch—put four buckets of tepid (faucet) water in barrel—light dragon’s tongue—aim at barrel bottom—bring water to just under boiling.

Now to kill Tom with the thought in the back of your mind that a dead turkey once broke the hand of an acquaintance of yours . . . but this one’s had a stroke . . .

I peeked in the back window at the Tom. Now, I’ve seen big turkeys, but this sucker must have been half elephant. He was HUGE. There he squatted, harmless looking. I nonetheless cautiously opened the back of the car with Margaret poised to pounce. Tom just sat there making barely audible turkey noises from somewhere in his depths. When Margaret pounced he started to plop around but she got him in a bear hug and carried him up toward the ax. I assumed the position of cheerleader for the trip. She got down more or less on her knees leaning forward with Tom in her arms and said, “Get hold of his head and stretch his neck out and chop off his head.”

Sure. Easy. Ax in left hand, turkey head in right hand. Ax off the head without hitting Margaret in the head or cutting off your own right hand. Easy.

Whack, flop; not even a dent. Whack—Tom went wild and began beating Margaret up. Got her in the face several times, upper body bruises, but finally she got him on his back. She stood on one wing and I stood on the other. I held his head thus giving her a chance at two hands on the ax. Finally, after several whacks, she got through. As soon as her pain subsided, we went to dip him in the water. He was so heavy, to quote a friend of ours “I kid you not” and “don’t you know,” it took both of us each on a leg, to dip him in the water. (Sometimes I hate Sherry.)

The next day Margaret took him down to Double C Meats to get him smoked. No one has an oven big enough to cook him. We’ll have enough smoked turkey for the next several Thanksgivings! The meat market man said, “That’s one big turkey!” He must have weighed 40 pounds dressed.

This all happened week before last. Margaret is almost all healed up. She really shouldn’t mess with turkeys.

Love,

Clara

West Custer County Library, 10:30 Saturday morning, January 23^rd. Clara and I were about to launch our first book event together, our first time to talk publicly about the project we’d been working on for several years—the book that had brought my seemingly endless questions to Clara. The one that moved her to name me the Queen of Questions and caused her to exclaim, “Oh, no!” when I’d call to ask her just a few more things.

I was nervous. Not because of all the people crowding into the room. They looked friendly enough, and some I knew well. I didn’t have stage fright. I’d done book talks many times. No, the source of my disquiet was far more intimidating than a mere audience or the fact that I was to speak publicly. The source of my unease was, in fact, the smiling, hugging, handshaking woman who stood beside me. It was Clara herself.

A few days earlier I’d called her to see if we could get together to plan our presentation. She said, “I already have a plan.”

Her words, surprising as they were, seemed innocent enough, but her tone was not. It made me squirm. Clara was up to mischief.

We did meet beforehand; we did talk about the event; and we decided on a loose plan, but agreed mostly to play it by ear. Through other friends, Clara heard there would be many questions, but thankfully this time not from me.

So there we were, at the library, with a full house, ready to roll. After library director Amy Moulton introduced us, I was to make brief introductory remarks and read a passage from the book’s introduction. Then ask for early questions.

All of this was going to plan. I was reading. The audience was listening. But from here, then from there in the group, a giggle erupted, a chortle began bubbling, next a guffaw exploded. But the passage I was reading wasn’t funny. At least I’d never thought of it as funny.

I turned to look at Clara. She sat quietly, brimming with practiced nonchalance. She looked far too innocent. Now wary, I turned back to read. I hadn’t opened my mouth again before the whole audience tittered. I knew I was outmatched. Finishing the page as quickly as I could, I asked for questions.

There were many, and Clara fielded them admirably. At one point early on she turned to me and said, “You don’t know EVERYTHING about me!”

I could only fire back, “That’s obvious. I’ve already learned a whole lot you didn’t tell me!”

By the time we finished, I discovered even more, including the cause of those giggles and laughter—Clara making faces and literally behind my back! But that and getting to hear all the other information the questions brought suited me just fine.

 

For some time, I’d wanted to write a blog because I couldn’t possibly get all the stories I already had into one book. That morning brought more. So, Clara, fair warning, here come whole new lines of inquiry. Yep, more questions. Thank you.