Havre Daily News
Montana Woman

For permission to publish my weekly/monthly column, View from the North 40, or to reproduce any website content, written or graphic, contact:
Pam Burke (that's me) at pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com, or (406) 265-7338.

Phew! What a full day I had. I'd be exhausted, if I weren't just a little bit exhilarated by my efforts.

I tell you what, from sun up to bedtime I haven't had time for anything else but pouting, pouting, pouting.

From the first moment I laid eyes on our late-March blizzard, I kicked into action. Pouting activities started with a little cussing action and heated up with a few growls of disgust during chores, and by 10:30 a.m. I'd ramped up the endeavor with some abject sullenness. After that, well really, where does one go from there, but stubborn refusal to be useful and irrational disagreeability.

Gawd, I am so good at this.

I really think I should do this every day. Y'know, if a person has an innate aptitude for something, she should follow her bliss. Given that the forecast is for snow, wind and cold temps all week long -- this would the second week of spring -- I think I'll have ample opportunity to show that I truly excel at this pouting thang. Imagine the pouting fodder I'll have come, about, Thursday when I run out of reserves of clean clothes and dishes. Right on. Maybe then I can add temper tantrums to my pouting repertoire.

First-class brooding, sulking and huffing also allowed at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

As I write this, I am one minute into Earth Hour ... now two minutes. I type slowly and inaccurately. I figured that since I didn't do much to celebrate the vernal equinox -- because it didn't feel much like spring here -- I could do this. It's kind of fitting since the whole turn-off-your-lights thing is to highlight the threat of climate change. I've been doing this for some time by highlighting the climate change with threats -- it's the same thing, right?

So the only lights on in the house are 1) computer lights, 2) TV screen, 3) the heated mattress pad's controllers (oh, shut up, I know I'm spoiled -- blame the climate change crap), and 4) intermittent lights from the fridge -- 'cuz I really need those snacks. I worked hard today.

We finally got a nice day again, which is supposed to be followed by a day of snow and cold ... again. This a three-peat on this particular weather pattern. Nice day, followed by nasty day which only gradually improves until, one week later, a whole nice day again. The climate change I would most like to highlight is one with me having five consecutive days above freezing.

Because it was a nice day, I spent every possible moment outside. I tortured Jilly and Xena with work and pretty hairdos -- I scraped the sweat mats and shedding hair off them and gave them the popular "earnest young school girl" bowl cuts for their manes and forelocks. I do this with the same attitude I shave Cooper's hair: it'll look perfectly adequate in two weeks. Quit yer whinin'.

I also shuffled junkyard crap around, cleaned out and pitched moldy hay and wrestled the newest boarder horse into submission to trim his feet.

Actually, I'm not that tough. I worked out a compromise with the horse: he stands quietly for me -- no pulling, yanking, stomping, hopping, falling over or sitting on me -- and I only take one snip with the hoof trimmers then put his foot down for a few seconds, rinse, repeat. This is by far the ugliest hoof trimming job I've ever done, but I didn't have the energy to work out some kind of compromise for rasping his hooves. Frankly, I can't imagine being able to negotiate that kind of cooperative effort given his current frame of training. That's alright though because I had two fabulous thoughts: 1) our ground is gravelly enough that it will wear down the jagged edges, and 2) he's not my training problem. I am now totally happy.

Earth Hour is officially over, so I can go to bed now. Apparently, it's entirely unreasonable to get ready for bed until I can use the lights. Ironic isn't it? Maybe because I have to see my flash of shiny smile after brushing my teeth with my new splendiferous toothbrush.

It's the law, the oral hygiene law, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I slept in this morning. Got to work late. Without a shower. Apparently, I wore my Self out with all the waiting yesterday. Phew. That's hard work ... what? You want to know what happened with that baby thing? Oh, of course, you've been waiting too ...

It was so totally worth the wait -- and I'm absolutely, 95% percent sure Baby Brother and Donut feel the same way -- because they had a healthy baby girl at 11:45 p.m. She measured 20.5" long and tipped the scales at 8 lbs., 5 oz. She's not quite Boone and Crockett, but any parent would be proud of a whopper that size, eh? I know what you want to know, and I already asked: no, she doesn't weigh that much because of a big pumpkin head. She is, according to several eye-witness accounts, a very proportionate child with dark curly hair and a velvet complexion.

Although I haven't actually met her, I'm willing to sit myself out on a limb for a tea party here and say that she is, in fact, perfect. Why? Because she is my namesake. For reals! Kenzie Pamela!

I love her already, I do, and I haven't even met her. And normally I really don't even like babies -- they scare me -- but obviously I'm making an exception for this one because, y'know, she's my Mini Me. How cool do I feel about that! I have my very own Mini Me!

Hey, that makes me Mega Me. We should have T-shirts.

Baby Brother said I could call her Junior, too. So now I'm torn, Mini Me or Junior, Mini Me or Junior. Or what if I want to add a little pizzazz? I could call her K-Pam. Or does that make her sound like a purple-sequin bedecked rapper of questionable talent who's in touch with her disco roots? I'll think on that one.

I'm going to teach her how to ride a horse and cuss. Well, her grandpa might beat me to that second one, but I get to put her on a horse first. Donut said I could because la mamacita is the bomb.

I need to get some sleep, but before I go, I'll let you in on a little secret. Remember how I was struggling to come up with a design for Junior/Mini Me/K-Pam/the former Little Baby Holy Shit's crib? I had a couple designs that I'd sketched out, not totally happy with them, but figuring they were a place to start from which I could draw inspiration as soon as I started painting. Right after I got off the phone with Baby Brother I had a vision of the perfect crib paint job. Now I'm beside myself on the Tilt-a-Whirl with excitement for the inaugural episode of Pimp My Baby Crib!

Cigars and epiphanies for all my friends at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I hate waiting ... . So my sis-in-law, Donut, and Baby Brother are in the hospital trying to give birth to Little Baby Holy Shit today. And I'm stuck hundreds of miles away ... waiting. It's really hard on me. I mean, geez, they get to do all the talking with doctors and nurses, procedures, people checking in and out, the whole family irritation thing with both the grandmas and all the pushing and ice cube sucking and breathing stuff and, of course, drugs. Look how much they have to entertain themselves. I'm here waiting to hear from folks. Just waiting. hmmpf. They got it easy.

As a consolation prize, I give you "Products I'm in love with." (Those guys are amusing themselves watching monitors and taking bets on how much Lil' Baby H.S. will weigh and what color her hair will be -- we get products and more waiting.)

I go through toothbrushes like toilet paper -- sorry, that was a gross analogy, true, but gross. Well, true in the sense of "like" meaning "as fast as" not, y'know, "in the same manner as." Now that we have that cleared up -- I generally try to find a pretty good deal on them. We were shopping at the local Cheapmart where I grabbed a two-pack of Reach New Ultraclean toothbrushes and, OMG!, I can't stop brushing my teeth. These babies make my teeth feel sparkly and new, like my own personal dental hygienist in a handy, soft-bristle brush. My gums even feel massaged -- health spa quality massaged. I must brush twice as long with at most half the effort of my former teeth-scrubbing efforts. Plus, when I get done brushing, I have to take another 5 minutes to flash smiles at myself in the mirror. Ohh, aahh! Honestly, I don't know if I've ever smiled at myself in a mirror before and meant it.

(Baby watch update: 9 centimeters. Hurry up and wait!! Not to mention the awkward transition to the next point -- come on, baby, you're making me nervous!)

The other product has to do with dirtying one's teeth rather than cleaning them, but it involves food so it's perfectly acceptable, even mandatory. You know how I like my food stuffs. I especially love any Mexican foods (except the fried beetle delicacy I saw someone eating on the Travel Channel once). Anyhow, now I have the perfect tortilla chip for dipping: Carmen's Authentic Recipe Tortilla Rounds. For the health conscious: no preservatives added, and you can get them with low salt. Personally, I don't care if they're healthy, I care that they're scrumptious and make me do the happy food dance. I love all kinds of spicy and creamy dips, but I happily eat these chips plain too. Except now I'm craving a spicy sour cream dip, mmmm. Or a salsa and bean dip combo, mm-mm. Or avocado dip!!

In fact, I think I need to throw a private baby-bundle-arrival party, break out the cheese and beans and amuse myself with a little snack-o-matic action while I'm WAITING.

(Disclaimer: As always, please consult your physician before using or ingesting new products. Naming of any product is not meant to imply endorsement of said product, its manufacturer, or parent company -- unless, of course, by doing so the company wants to hook me up with some free samples. In which case, I totally love my Toyota Avalon and think the newest, fanciest model year awesomely rocks. Just saying.)

Baby maybe within the hour for aunty: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Every once in a while at the paper someone will pull a word out of his or her airy-fairy brain and announce to the room that we should use the word in a headline.

"'Evoke'? Hey, we should use that one in a headline." And about 75% of the time, presto, the word appears in a headline like a jewel of cleverness dedicated to ourselves. Doesn't take much to amuse us.

I bring this up because I was reminded today that a few months ago the word of the morning was "trove." Y'know, like a treasure.

I was doing laundry today and along with the load of wet clothes from the washer I gained, yes, a trove of extra goodies: three dollars (score!), a pen (black ink, not my favorite blue, so I was thrilled only with the fact that the ink tube and nib appeared not to be leaking), and approximately four soggy and deteriorated horse treats (hmm, my bad).

Not that it's uncommon for me to throw extra items in the washer, but I was a little worried because I usually don't fail so abysmally at pocket-checking that I miss three different treasure sources. Then I remembered I had actually thrown that load in the washer late Friday, after a long, tiring day at the end of a long, tiring week.

All week, I worked extra hours at the paper and then came home to work on the horse pen to get it ready for a second boarder-horse we were hauling home on Saturday. Friday I got home and decided to actually work with horses before finishing up the last piddley few items to prepare the pen.

I walked out into the pasture with a halter for Xena, who was going to get a bit of ground handling and some bute for the swelling in her hock, and one for Ted, who was going to get the saddle fitting and short ride I had promised his humans I would do. But Jilly, The Princess, decided the possibility that she might be caught and worked was too great, so she bolted up the hill, and Ted and Xena followed hot on her heels.

I have to say there are few horse behaviors (of the non-life-threatening variety) that piss me off more than horses running from me when I come to catch them. Therefore, despite my obvious lack of fitness and the riding boots that signaled a lack of preparedness for the effort, I proceeded to explain to the horses that if they wanted to run, that was fine, but they had to continue running until I was happy again. Jilly might be The Princess, but I am high-ruler, queen of all things within my domain, which includes sassy brown horses.

Let's just skip the minutia and boil the experience down this: 45 minutes of me doggedly climbing hills and walking back and forth from one end of the 30-acre pasture to the other. Them dripping with sweat in their winter hair on a 50 degree day. Poor Ted and Xena eventually willing to give in, but not being able to let that rotten runaway Jilly out of their sight. And the ultimate, undoubted success of me getting them all to come when called to get pets, treats and even halters. And yet I still was not happy. Why?

Because Jilly, the royal brat, was giving me her intensely sweet look that she does when she knows she's been bad but isn't particularly interested in suffering the full consequences at the moment -- and is reserving the right to repeat her bad actions in the future on her whim. Don't roll your eyes, she really is that smart. Wicked smart.

The whole time we were making nice, I was gently explaining to her that I was going to put an ad on Craigslist for an equine assassin -- assuring her that in these tough economic times I could find someone who would gladly off her for the opportunity to fill his freezer with her Boone and Crockett haunches. She didn't care.

It would be bad enough if the tale ended here, but no, it continues. We all trooped over to the tack shed where Ted settled in for a well-deserved rest, Jilly lurked around the fringes assuring me with her overly compliant behavior and her sweet gazes that she "wuvs" me deeply ... and Xena couldn't get the adrenalin out of her system until she pulled a post loose from the ground. Ugh.

Luckily, there was no harm to her, and I did get her to stand properly right after the hullabaloo, but the askewed post was the one I needed to close the gate for the boarder-horse the next day. Did I already say, Ugh?

Therefore, after the hiking workout and messing with two horses, I had to re-dig, by hand, the post hole and re-set the post. And then John and I hooked up the horse trailer so we could take it on a test drive to town where we also had to get milk for breakfast. I trooped through the grocery store looking like a dirty, whupped pup -- or maybe a will-work-for-food hobo. Didn't care ... because I still had to go home and put a load of laundry in the washer, so I'd have clean jeans for the morning.

Sadly, I got my load of jeans in the washer but was so tired that I forgot to turn the dryer on for the previous load. I was about in tears when I realized my error. I desperately wanted to go to bed, but (not thinking clearly) figured I had to stay up until the previous load was done so I could dry my jeans -- then I realized I could just dry one pair of my washed jeans with the previous load and I would be good to go in the morning. My relief from this obvious stroke of genius was profound. Thankfully, I didn't see the trove of extra items that night.

And, yes, if you're keeping track of days, I did forget that second load in the washer all day Saturday. In my defense, we left the house early and spent the day on the road retrieving/hauling the new boarder, I was ill with, um, intestinal distress by the time we got home where I completed the last few things needed to make the pen ready, unloaded the pickup and unhooked the trailer, did my regular horse chores, met with the other boarders who dropped by, and came in the house after dark to die. I totally did not care if that load sat wet for a day, or a week.

Exhaustion evokes rebellion at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com ...

where we haven't gotten around to shooting brown horses -- yet.

While I was laboring out in the horse pen today getting it ready for a boarder, I pondered my next column about simple, little things that make my life easier -- what I wanted to say and what wasn't going to fit into the word limit that I could put in here, my blog-o-buddy, for my beautiful Readers.

During a particularly mindless portion of the labor (removing from the gate, rails and posts old chunks of twine that I use to hold things in place while I'm measuring, leveling, hammering, etc.), I pondered my intro. There I was, using one piece of twine to saw through the old stuff because I didn't have a knife with me to cut the old twine, and I was, apparently, too lazy to go get a knife or the scissors from the tack shed.

So I was gnawing through twine and think, think, think McFly, thinking about starting out with something like how I'm a simple person, I like things in my life to be simple because I don't have the mental capacity for more -- being simple-minded and all. ha ha har.

Then I worried that I've over used that "look at me, I'm a moron" approach too much. About that time I ducked under a wire and hooked one of the tools I'd crammed into my back pocket. I better be careful, I thought, or I'm gonna end up ruining my little level - gnaw, gnaw, gnaw through more twine -- then it dawned on me I didn't hook my level on the wire, I hooked my scissors ... which had been crammed into my back pocket the entire gnawing time.

I'm guessing the simple-minded approach is very appropriate, even natural for me, and I ought to stick with it. Y'think?

Nevertheless, Cooper promised not to tell anyone that I did that stupid thing, and I hope all you lovely Readers will also. I would hate for something like that to get out on the internet ...

Simple bimple, smiley dimples 2 for $1 at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

At home, Cooper likes to hang out in the hay stack -- in this picture, he's rousting out a bone that he had stashed away.

One of his favorite town activities is to hang out at the retirement apartments with John when he visits with his parents. So I figure we're going to mess with a few of the old-folks' minds when Coop shows up looking like this:

Yes, it's really the same dog with the same ol' bone. The first time I shaved him he was a pup and his wiry outer coat was almost black. Imagine our shock to have our black and tan guy come out like a buckskin horse. He looks so unusual shaved that many people stop us to ask what kind of dog he is. John always tells them he's a registered High Plains Buckskin Terrier. Of course, we're talking about the same guy who always told people that our Airedale Terrier was a wire-haired Doberman. It's amazing the number of people who say "oh reeeeally!" when he spouts that nonsense in a believable tone.

I spent the first week after that first shave job laughing every time I saw Cooper because I was so surprised by the transformation. Wake up in the morning -- ha ha ha. Come home from work -- ha ha har. Turn away and look back really quick just for the fun of it -- ha ha snort. Secretly, I think he looks like a surfer dude with bleached hair and dark roots showing through at the hair-part down the middle.

I got my second gate hung in the pen -- yes, the one I built last fall. Then I spent an hour or so wandering around trying to figure out what I'm going to do for lumber in the rest of the pen re-model. Of course, I have 8'-9' boards coming out my eyeballs, but need an 11-footer.

All of the outdoor activity and dog shaving was brought to you -- well, me -- courtesy of three days of warmth and melting ... coupled with the fact that my computer time is diminished because my ability to send email has been hamstrung for four days. I'm doing a happy dance in the mud anyway.

Narly, man, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Friends don't let friends nicknamed "the deerslayer" borrow their car ....

Unless, of course, they promise only to get rearended by someone with full coverage.

Just one last piece of bumper trim that's on order, and we're good as new.

Other than that ... I simply hate winter. It's true. We used to be friends ... well, friendly acquaintances who would while away the occasional day together. But our friendship is officially over. Way over. More so now that it's freakin' March 10, and we've had several days of subzero temps. Plus, tonight's forecast is for -16 degrees -- with windchill it's -33.

And I have a bit of a stupid cold. It's still trying to decide if it's going to just go away or blow up into something horrid.

My personal vote is for go away, but I don't seem to have much sway on the universe these days. If I did, I would be spending my days outside basking in the warm glow of pre-spring rather than thawing pipes with the vacuum cleaner. Yes, the vacuum cleaner. Of course. It's the No. 1 pipe-thawing weapon of choice. You set it to blow, put the nozzle in the plumbing compartment and it blows warm, room-temp air into the compartment. Much more effective than a blowdryer -- more air pressure so the heat travels farther and blasts that cold air out of the hole. Voila! Running water, just like in the nice houses.

Hang with me, you'll learn things. Useful things ...

and a lot of pointless stuff at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

And I live to ride another day.

Just a quick note to say that today's ride on Xena, brought to you by Bucking Brown Horse Productions, was actually uneventful. Xe had at least two hooves on the ground at all times, and I was able to sit in an upright and fully connected position while the riding light was blinking.

Walking good -- bucking bad -- at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Banner day in the news. Being too lazy and irresponsible to even consider dying the gray out of my hair will one day be a non-issue. Scientists -- who have nothing more pressing to do -- have discovered the cause of gray hair and expect one day to stop, even reverse, the development and growth of said gray hair.

Right on. I say, screw cancer research, solve the real problems first.

And I didn't use that curse word lightly. The other big news is that using curse words is now good for your health.

So my whole too lazy and irresponsible to exercise regularly lifestyle is OK now too. I'll just be cussin' my way to good health.

Apparently, I'm going to need assistance with my good health if training Xena continues as it did today. Big girl bucked me off. Can you believe it?! Here's another shocker: I didn't swear at her once. I know! Weird!! And now, apparently, unhealthy.

I was riding her in our pasture -- temps were warm(!) but the ground was reasonably awful with little patches of ice, big puddles on frozen ground, melting snow, mud, etc. She spooked herself and took a buck -- and that really scared the bejeepers out of her so she set to launching. Unfortunately, we were headed down a somewhat steep, short hill toward a barbed wire fence. I was hoping to get her lined out enough that she might just consider turning and running for home, but no. Not so much.

She was getting higher and fighting me too, so I chose option B: ditched the ride and tumbled into a snow drift while the getting was good. Considering I live in a gravel pit and junk yard, a pile of snow was a grand place to land.

Then the Warrior Princess ditched me and ran all the way home. That wasn't very nice.

Cooper and I started on the long walk for home and John met us with the pickup -- worried until he saw me that I had met a more ill fate than I had. Both Xe and I were fine, or rather, unwounded.

I pondered the solution to this new training issue on the ride home. In light of the fact that this was the second time she'd bolted away from me back to the corral, I knew there had to be a solution worthy of making her re-think the attractiveness of this option. I grabbed a lunge-line and worked her for a while in the yard then, walking, lunged her all the way back to the scene of the crime where I left the lunge line and whip, got back in the saddle, and finished the ride.

Time will tell if it helped, but I can say this with all honesty: I surely hope it did. Big girl can catch some air and ...

I am getting to old for this shinola at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I am disheartened by highs in single digits and teens, lows dropping subzero, new snow and mounds of old ice, but I have found faith in the sciences.

Major premise: The season commonly known as Spring comes to Montana annually.

Minor premise: The vernal equinox, commonly called "First Day of Spring" is nearing and signs of Spring are occurring.

Evidence A: As indicated in the date listed at the opening of this entry, March has begun thus signally that time is actually passing and that "First Day of Spring" will arrive in just under three weeks.

Exhibit B: Please note Exhibit B dated Feb. 21 below which briefly details the appearance of a skunk from hibernation.

Evidence C: The highlighted areas of the local paper dated Feb. 10

and Feb. 25 which indicate an increase in daylight hours.

Evidence D: The hairball of shed hair I cleaned from my gloves after petting horses today.

Conclusion: Despite cold temps and fresh snow, Spring will be arriving as per usual at some point in the near future.

God speed, Spring, I don't know how much more winter I can handle at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

The White Trash Empire has a new king, and the princesses royal are enthralled -- because nothing says hunk-a-hunk-a burning love more than a large-headed guy with wildly unkempt hair, a dirty face and a suave "huh?" droop to his bottom lip. Really, the only thing more he needs is a beer foaming over next to a pile of empties and a hefty display of butt-crack, and they'd have it made.

Really.

But he's great with the kids, so whadaya gonna do?

This is my sistah The Brunette's big lovable 1/2 draft guy, Ted, that my new horse-boarders are leasing. I'm running him out in the pasture with the girls, and his big job now (besides head-loverboy-in-charge) is to teach the boarders how to be horsepeople. He's doing pretty good so far!

Everybody loves Teddy at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

A blogless potpourri. Or is it stew? a variety pack? haggis? whatever ...

The first order of business, before I go any further or henceforth: we have been experiencing technical difficulties on the computer front, thus the more sporadic than usual entries. We're doing major surgery on the poor old devil in the next few days. This could be good ... or it could be not so much good. Wish us luck, godspeed, and a secure enough marriage to survive the experience. I shall return as soon as humanely possible.

In the category of "Lady Justice has a funny bone of pure irony," I give you:

Bernie Madoff, a 70-year-old family man, former investor and Nadaq chairman, and bamboozler of $50B, is under arrest ... in his swank Manhattan apartment where his only contact with the outside world is his instructions to family and friends on where to hide the expensive stuff. Such tragedy. Someone please send him a happy-gram and a hacksaw.

Now SEC investigators are shutting down Texas jet-setter, international banker, and Ponzi investor dude Allen Stanford for using Madoff's same scheme to swindle folks out of $8B and putting many international banks at risk of implosion. I know what you're thinking. The 8,000,000,000 seems like chump change next to Madoff's 50,000,000,000 in greenbacks, so you'll be comforted to know that Stanford isn't actually under arrest. It's only right.

On the other hand, a woman in Tennessee is incarcerated in the local hoosegow for fraudulently claiming she has cancer and accepting years' worth of donated sick leave and monetary donations from her coworkers. Really, I think they should throw the book at her. Bitch makes 24,000 big American dollars a year and folks gave her at least $18,000 worth of donations over a period of five years. She's a menace to society. It's only right. Right?

I seem to remember the song differently from my childhood, but I think the words have been changed to: America, land of the free to commit mega-billions in white collar crime and home of the finest lip-service to equality in the universe.

The final random subject: Pepe Le Pew

The first skunk of the year apparently crawled from its den in the wee hours of the morning, yawned and then stretched -- and this caused its scent glands to explode in my yard. Good morning, Pepe!

My only question is: does this mean that spring has arrived or that there are still six weeks of winter left?

I need to consult an almanac, or a ground hog, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

A touching snapshot in the life of me.

This morning I was feeding horses at about 6:20 a.m. and was excited to see that, despite the solid layer of high, thin clouds, we had plenty of light to see by (which is a good thing because Cooper has taken to leaving doggy bombs in the little hay corral). I was equally delighted to see that low on the horizon to our east, where the clouds were scattered, a deep red, pre-dawn light was glowing through. oooh. aaah. Red like the sun!

After tossing the hay out (and dodging all doggy bombs), I started lugging a load of garbage to our bin but stopped in my tracks because, holy cats!, the sky was so bright the light made the dumpster glow! It was magnificent!

Uh, sorry, no. John was up and the bathroom lights were shining directly out to the dumpster. Oh, well.

Still, the sky was light and the sun was glowing through and sunrise was at 7:21 a.m. and the sky stays "lit enough" until 6:30 and it's quite possible I might survive this winter.

And my future's so bright I gotta wear shades at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

We are inundated with "giant cottontails" as Cooper thinks of the white-tailed deer.

The other day that herd of five deer kept showing up eating the hay, or so I thought. I finally got adamant about chasing them off ... only to have deer show up again a few minutes later. When one of the youngsters walked up over the hill to the yard, John said, "I'll take care of this." And he brought out the big guns -- literally.

He grabbed a rifle and headed out behind the barn in the direction the yearling ran off. He fired off a few rounds, Good for you, I thought. Then a few more, Hmm. Then a few more, Well now, he's just dinking around. Men and toys, y'know.

Finally, the last report died and he came back to the yard and announced: "It's hopeless. We're surrounded." Apparently, there were at least 50 deer on the hills right behind the house. He said he had a "hard time finding a safe place to aim where he wouldn't hit a deer." Then he had to "kick up some dirt" near a couple mature ones to get the herd even to be afraid of the gun shots.

Oi, we're doomed. They're bold and clever. I'm convinced now that the deer have been moving in groups of five during daylight hours to disguise their true numbers and raiding our pasture en masse under cover of darkness.

I've been bamboozled.

By the by, we were away over the long weekend to a Burke family gathering of champion wiseacres. We cracked ourselves up for hours on end and a good time was had by all.

Included in any Burke family gathering is a passel of dogs. Along with Cooper, we had a white Lab, a chocolate English Lab, a black pug, a fawn brindle English Bulldog, and a miniature American Eskimo, and the neighbor's black Lab joined us on occasion.

Cooper and the chocolate Lab, Luke, got along famously for countless hours of fun and romping. However, the pug and the bulldog scare Cooper with their pushed in faces. He's convinced they're not natural. Luckily, the pug thought Coop was too stupid to give the time of day to him, and the bulldog, Tinkerbell, thought Coop's fear-induced fierceness was a joke.

And in another moment of uniquely-Cooper-quality insecurity, Coop decided that my nephew's guitar playing was suspicious and entirely too scary. I think the problem was that Coop had been in the house for quite a while before he truly realized that Nephew, the Eldest was actually holding and manipulating the strange sound-making instrument. Coop barked every time Nephew, the Eldest played and darted away in fear when he zipped his fingers up the strings on the neck making that squeaking noise. The dog is a wee bit of a tard.

However, he did redeem himself when Luke wandered out the gate to go walk about, but I found Coop standing on the porch looking at me like, "Luke bad. Cooper good."

Humans tired at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Can you spy with your little eye what came to visit in our yard yesterday at sunrise?

That's right, kids, deer! Can you say white-tailed deer? No, kids, the "h" is silent and it's d-e-e-r not dear. You keep practicing while the rest of us move on.

See how beautiful the deer are in the early morning light?

Oh my goodness! What could have scared the poor darlings?

Look! Pacing down the road -- one of the stealthiest, brown-coated, deer-stalking imperial horses ever to scent a trail -- Her Royal Highness the Petulant Princess Jilly.

The dynamic hay protecting duo of Jilly and her regal partner, Xena - Warrior Princess, quickly rout the deer from the horse hay and pause to survey their handiwork.

Satisfied with having put in a full day's work before 8 a.m., Jilly and Xena settle in for a well deserved rest as the last straggling hay usurpers flee the scene.

Badges? We don't need no stinking badges at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

This is the moon to our west Sunday morning when I went outside to feed ponies (pardon the blurriness, that moon was traveling fast and I had to get what shots I could before it ran away):

This is the moon to our east Sunday night when we were up on the hill at the Wi-fi tower:

Everything that came between and after the moonings has just been weirdsville. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the moon was pretending to be a giant star no matter which direction I viewed it from. Besides, it's hiding something in its shadow. Aliens? possibly. Darkness? definitely. All I know is my long-legged horse doesn't know how to use that inseam for covering ground at anything faster than a poke-a-long, my car is caved-in in the backend now and my editor who loves me is no longer at the office.

Cue the Twilight Zone theme song at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

It's a love fest.

This is the first February in forever that I haven't hated completely and wholeheartedly to the core of my being. We've actually had some nice days worth calling nice -- rather than not as horrid as the last few weeks like we had in December and January.

I was late for work the other morning and missed a perfect photo op. Are you sitting down? Because I know this news will knock you off your feet: the sun was up and shining on our hills before 8 a.m. Even though I was late, I stood staring in gape-mouthed wonder at the beauty of sunlight before work. sigh ... Surely, it's love that I feel.

And if not for the sun, then definitely for my horse Xena. I hate to gush too much because I'm firmly convinced that if I tell the world exactly how wonderful she is and how smitten I am with her, she will be maimed or will perish. Let me just paraphrase a line from "National Velvet" about being in love with your horse: "'Dwina's right, your heart skips a beat."

In that movie, a very young Elizabeth Taylor plays the title character Velvet Brown in one of her first starring roles. I don't know when I first saw it, but I loved "National Velvet" from the very start and never could reconcile the gung-ho, horse-crazy girl of the movie with the real life actress. Elizabeth Taylor is all about glamour and jewels and furs and being immaculately groomed and having elaborate parties with all the connected people.

And so very not me.

Then in 1992 when Johnny Carson was retiring from "The Tonight Show" -- I adored him and the show so was glued to each last airing -- he was getting all his dream guests to appear. He had his old friends, his favorite guests, and as many of the people he had always wanted to interview, but never got to, as he could book.

Elizabeth Taylor was one of the dream guests who hadn't been on the show until one of his last nights when she agreed to appear as a tribute to his retirement. I remember sitting there thinking, "yeah, I'll sit through it for you Johnny, but really, Liz? You were jonesing for Liz? Puh-leez."

Then at one point in his interview he asked a question that went something like this: Of all the incredible presents you've received in your lifetime -- and he named the jewels that are so spectacular they actually have names, the furs, the parties, etc. -- what is your favorite present, Liz?

And without hesitation, the woman said, Oh, all the fancy stuff is great, but still my favorite is the gift I got when I was 14 years old and the director and producers of "National Velvet" gave me The Pie, the horse from the movie. I used my income from the movie to buy a farm for him and I owned and rode him to the end. He's buried on a grassy hill there and I will never sell the property. And then she gushed a little more as if she was too fond of the topic to move on.

I bawled and fell in love with Elizabeth Taylor after all.

Suckers for horses are welcome at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Oh, the pressure. A few hundred years ago I stripped the finish off my kitchen table and attacked it with my Grumbacher oil paints. It came out looking as pretty as an acid trip, lovely in a poke-your-eye-out and comment-inducing kind of way.

Now Baby Brother and the mamacita Donut have asked me to paint the impending baby's crib. I agreed in a moment of auntie-joyfulness. I was weak. I was brimming with auntie-enthusiasm. I get carried away sometimes.

As the painting day nears I am overwhelmed by the pressure to create a fitting tribute to the little bundle of babyness. Plus, I don't want to poison the child with toxic paints. That would be bad. So I have to factor the use of baby-friendly products into the design process. And, as if danger of causing baby illness or dysfunction isn't enough, they also have decorated the room -- as in colors of coordination -- and I'm almost positive that it would be best if the crib kind of, y'know, fit in. Like fitting in comes natural to me. Oh, the pressure.

They should've just made a puppy. I know all about chew toys.

I hope baby loves me after she sees her crib at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Merry Groundhog Eve to all. Normally, I would post a long diatribe on just how horrible and pointless February is with apologies to all my family members whose birth-iversaries are celebrated this month.

However, as I was driving home from work on Thursday I had this thought: "February is starting this weekend -- at least we're that much closer to spring."

It was such a shockingly out of character thought that I actually said "huh?" Out loud. Rhut-roh, Shaggy. Put the pedal to the medal on the Mystery Machine -- we gotta get this mystery solved!

So, I guess, congratulations are in order for January and December this winter. Their award-winning weather suckage has built up my immunity for the one month whose only redeeming quality, heretofore, has been that it's short. Now, it's short and "can't be any worse."

By the by, "flooey" is in the dictionary. It's an adjective that means "awry" or "askew."

Have a flooey-icious February at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I am up late, late, late because I wrote an entry that was "inspired" by a "what were they thinking?!" kind of mystifying/tragic death in Montana. I just couldn't post it. Thanks for the tip, though, The Brunette. My sympathiometer for the victims wouldn't let me do it. Stupid human feelings ruining the dark-humor moment.

Then I wrote another entry that was a bit ribald and included photos that were totally not doctored to manufacture incriminating and hilarious evidence of shady dealings. You believe me, right? Although the photos were non-X-rated in actuality, the inference to possible nefarious activities was obvious. So I ditched a second entry. Surprisingly, that switch that's supposed to say, "Ummm, this joke isn't quite fit for polite company so shut your pie hole" actually worked this time. I almost feel grown up -- how odd and disappointing.

So now I'm left with sharing this not funny, yet monumental-in-the-world-of-me news: I rode Xena for the first time today!! Everybody stand up and do a happy dance with me! Ole!!

I hadn't worked with her for over a week because of weather-related obstacles, and the wind was blowing today, so it took a few minutes to get her in the groove. However, by the time I put the saddle on her for the first time, she couldn't have cared less. Yay!

The last steps I go through before getting in the saddle the first time on an unbroke horse is a kind of "mounting training" process. It starts with just putting my foot in a stirrup, pulling said foot out of the stirrup and walking away (keeping the rein in my hand so the horse has to follow -- repeating the walk away part after each increase in pressure). I gradually increase the weight I place in the stirrup until I can stand in the stirrup, bend over the saddle and pat the horse all over on the opposite side. When the horse is calm with all of that from both sides, I swing into the saddle -- then get right back down :). And I repeat this a few times to make sure the horse is calm with the actual mounting and then I stay in the saddle until we walk and/or trot a bit. Then we're done for the day. Yay us.

During the mounting training Xena and I had a few issues. OK, I had issues. Xena's too tall, and I'm too out of shape. Luckily, she quickly got used to the grunting and straining noises I made getting my foot to reach the stirrup -- especially on the offside where I had to grab my leg a few times to hoist it high enough.

Don't scoff, it's a scientific fact that horses are 6" taller on their right, aka offside. Look it up if you don't believe me.

Of course, there's also snow in the corral, so occasionally as I put weight on my foot, my wet boot sole would slip out of the stirrup, and I'd body slam into Xena like a slab of raw beef. The first time that happened she fled the scene. Eventually, she grew immune to this floundering also and reacted only with a look that clearly asked: "Are you always going to be such an idiot?"

I briefly considered changing from jeans to sweats so I could bend and stretch easier, but decided the sweats and riding boots combo while training a horse was a shiny, hand-lettered invitation to an ER visit with a broken leg. I toughed it out in jeans -- they were even new jeans -- that I look good in -- so you know for sure that not only was I not going to require an ER visit, but also no one, but no one, was going to see me. Whatever.

Of course, no one dropped by unexpectedly, and you know already that Xe was so good the training was almost boring. (Go, Xena! You rock, girl!) I like my horse training to go that way for the first few months, so I'm a very happy horse girl today.

We love survival with a side of success at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

It's no secret that I'm not a big fan of winter. It wears out its welcome after about one month -- tops. February is a real pariah for me. That said, this winter has been so suk-a-lux that it's almost laughable at this point. Because much of the nation has had troubles worse than ours, I've found myself whining loudly on occasion, but I've tried to keep the major whining to, well, a minimum. Even without large amounts of alcohol or drugs to alter my moods.

Here's the short and skinny of our latest fun times: Monday morning with the temp at -19 degrees, the water "main" at the shop, which supplies water to the Singlewide Mansion and the water trough for the ponies, was frozen solid. The heat tape burned out overnight. Fab. Monday noon, battery in the car went south for the winter without me. I was supposed to be leaving work to go fetch a new heat tape and parts for the pickup, but all I was getting was that rapid clicking that tells us it's time to pull the plug and let the battery die in peace. Fab-u. John braved bringing the pickup in and we fetched the needed parts, including a new battery, together. All humans and vehicles as well as the canine-child substitute arrived home safely. John installed the heat tape, but still no water by 7:30. Fab-u-lous. I had to run in to the sister-in-law's to bum some shower time. Thanks to the new battery I could "run" in the car. I hate showering at night, but it beat the alternative.

This morning, at 6:15 a.m. I headed out to feed -- still no water and temp at -22. Did I mention that I hate winter? Ended up wrangling the horses up to the shop and hauling a bucket of water out to them -- fully prepared to haul three total -- but the princesses royal were, apparently, more interested in finding oats in a bucket than they were water. Waste of time. Not thirsty.

However, we were definitely getting a warm wind by that time, and the girls confirmed it by racing and rampaging around like a pair of fools. By the time I got the horses and bucket restored to their rightful places and back in the house by 7 a.m. the temp had risen 37 degrees to 15 above. Nice.

Running water was restored to the house by 7:40. Sweet. And the temps reached as high as 32 degrees during the day -- with hurricane force winds, but what did I care with running water at my disposal.

The truly big news of the day is that the tween-niece Keen Eye, who's been struggling for several weeks to master the kneeling position at rifle club, had a major breakthrough tonight. She whipped out her final four required targets (scores of 40+), and moved up to standing. Woot! Woot! Woot!

Look, Pa, indoors water, and it swirls 'round and 'round in that porcelain chair in the little library at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

A flying car named the "Transition," or as its MIT designers prefer to call it the "roadable aircraft," will be debuting in 2010. The Transition currently sells for $194,000. Cheap at twice the price for anyone wanting in on the ground floor, so to speak.

Then there's this guy in Germany who thought he'd try to get a jump on the competition, but ran out of runway and made an emergency landing on a church roof. He is being heralded as a hero for saving the lives of all crew and passengers aboard the craft. When he was asked what he called the mechanical contraption he said, "An aeronautical ve-*hic*-omobile." Authorities are now testing the piloting driver for excessive alcohol consumption.

Penguins can't fly either, dude, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Last weekend when I met my clansfolk in Great Falls, we exchanged Christmas gifts. John and I were given a set of Cuisinart stainless steel cookware, and, ohmigawd, when I use the stuff I feel like a kitchen princess!

Seriously, I think the last time John and I got a new pot or pan was almost 20 years ago for a wedding gift, so I'm totally distracted by the sheer, unscratched, non-dented, or over-"seasoned" newness of these pots and pans. They're so shiny they'll poke your eyes out in the right light. I even dry them, by hand, when I'm done with the dishes, contrary to the Singlewide Mansion dishes motto: Oh, just let it dry by the sink - we need the humidity.

Ohmigawd. I could star in my own cooking show with these babies!

Shoot, I could rule the Cooking Channel at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Faaantastic. Iiiincredible.

I've had my first mondo-ironic moment of the year. Then I opened my big fat mouth about it and had my first just-bury-me-in-the-hole-I-dug moment of the year the next morning -- when I was proofing the paper and found that an article contained a blah blah blah quote from me. Yes, moi. Myself.

I'm all, like -- Shut. Up. I do not want to be in the paper. And the boss was all, like, No, you shut up, girlfriend, cuz you can check the quote for accuracy and move on, or you can just skip it and I'll print what I please. I am the boss woman. (In real life she said something like, "I didn't write your quote down yesterday so when you read that article fix it if I was wrong." And I said, "What! I don't wanna be in an articlllle!" which sounded a skosh whinier than it looks here. And she said ... nothing because she ignored me. Went back to faking that editors of small-town newspapers are busy just before deadline. Like not having one of her precious reporters around is such an added burden too. Drama queen that she is. Whatever.)

So I stood my ground ... and edited the comment to make me sound clever. Or, rather, not totally stupid.

Here you read it (note to Dear Readers of my blogless: "4-for-2" is local-speak for "widening Highway 2 from two lanes to four lanes"):

Another Havreite, Pam Burke, said she saw the equipment moving into Havre early Tuesday afternoon while she was following another wide load that met this one on the highway east of town.

"I was sitting along the highway behind a very wide load with a long line of cars, waiting for another extra-wide load and an even longer string of cars to pass by -- while listening to Bob Sievertsen on the radio talking about problems in the Legislature getting 4-for-2," Burke said. "You can't beat that for irony."

Even though I got to use the word irony, I have a strong urge to re-write again. Gaahhh! Let it GO, Pam.

The thing is that I'm OK with my columns. And bizarrely OK with sending these thoughts out in the blogosphere, but entirely creeped out by being quoted in a real article.

Don't search for explanations. There aren't any. Blame my aberrant social skills.

Before I go bed-a-bye I'd like to put this randomly captured dictionary entry out there in the world: pissmire is in the dictionary.

And it doesn't mean what you think it does at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Thanks to my Dane-ish friend who has his finger on the pulse of the news media, we are now aware of the true historical import of tomorrow's presidential inauguration:

"This is the largest temporary restroom event in the history of the United States."

Right on America! Go No. 44! You are guaranteed to rock the White House with this kind of publicity!

To the, uh, relief of the 2 million people estimated to be viewing the inauguration in person tomorrow, there will be 5,000 to 7,000 port-a-potties also attending the festivities.

Although Park Service people recommended 1 toilet per 300 people and the numbers above cover 1.5-2.1 million human-waste producers, somehow, it still doesn't seem like enough bathrooms. Does it?

Someone else thought that also because the Presidential Inaugural Committee is paying the Smithsonian Institution to open two of its museums, the National Museum of American History and the Smithsonian Castle, earlier than their usual 8 a.m. The world's two most expensive and instructional lavatories. Beats the tar out of the one-porcelain-throne "little library" in the Singlewide Mansion, for sure.

The cost to let several hundred thousand people into a museum to skip the dioramas and go straight to the head? $700,000. Being able to use a heated bathroom with running water in the dead of winter? Priceless.

FYI: Time to pump, clean and restock a port-a-potty? Five minutes. (If they do showers too I'll so hire them to clean my mobile home-a-potty.) How do you get the waste hauled away quickly? Police escort. (No kidding.) And there's more interesting stuff where that came from. I highly recommend the two articles for their insight into a part of event organization logistics that those of us who attend rather than organize often overlook -- until we're dancing around desperately searching for that familiar box-o-potty receptacle.

I love that the Washington Post article takes a historical look at inaugurations and the fact that in, say, Abraham Lincoln's day portable toilets were not an option. But, the author goes on to say, that's OK because the daguerreotypes of the event show mostly men in attendance and their, er, plumbing allows for easier outdoor urination. And, what the hay, said the Lincoln Library curator, "With all the horses everywhere, it probably didn't make much of a difference." Blaming your horse for the mess, dude? Oh, that's nice.

As if a horse would make a piddley little mess like that at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

John, Cooper and I spent the day goofing around with my family in Great Falls, the city at about midpoint between our homes. I am refreshed to have participated in the synergistic convergence of sarcasm, irreverence, jocularity and buffoonery -- the essence of the culture of my people.

The special treats of the day were 1) having my oldest nephew along for the visit, although he may be second-guessing his decision to hang with us again in the future. 2) Seeing Donut all preggers with Baby Girl Holy Shit (Baby Brother -- the still shell-shocked father -- named her, so don't look at me). I didn't get to feel any baby movement, but did distend my belly out to match the mamacita's and shared a spontaneous belly bump with her as a parting gesture of love. She's fun like that. 3) Taking Cooper shopping in Big R and having Baloney give him a rawhide treat, making him and me look like shoplifters too stupid to leave the store after stealing the loot. And 4) watching Baloney walking around the sporting goods store for 30 minutes "test-driving" a pair of sunglasses with the tag dangling down her nose and all the stickers obscuring the lenses like some timewarped, modern Minnie Pearl. The sunglasses didn't seem to hinder Baloney's world-famous, bargain-shopping skills. The woman is nothing short of amazing.

Last week I submitted a little bit different column -- not so guffawish as usual -- I suspect it may lack all amusing qualities reasonably expected of a person of my caliber of writing. (I just snorted pop out my nose.) It may, in fact, be hotly steeped in suckery, yet my obsession with our recent weather compells me to share it anyway, so read on at your own peril:

Weather you like it or not: A story

Gather 'round, children, and I'll tell you a plain and simple story:

Along the northern border of a vast country that stretches between two immense oceans lies a prairie land that wallows in its rural splendor. This land is called "the high plains desert" by the hearty and simple folks who live there and "fly-over country" by the busy and important people flying between the two coasts.

This high plains desert is a topsy-turvy place with seasons called Dang Cold and Dark, Smells Like Mud and Dog-doo, Bug Season, and the One Lovely Day of the Year. Despite their names, the craziest thing about these seasons is that they all take place jumbled into one another, and absolutely no one can predict when the One Lovely Day is going to occur.

(Sometimes the lovely day even comes and goes without anyone realizing until it's gone because it's lovely only in comparison to the other days of the year.)

That said, it is generally agreed upon by the hearty and simple folk of a certain age and grayness that the seasons used to be called winter, spring, summer and fall, and at that time -- known as "back when I was a kid" -- each season started only after the previous one had run its full course.

(Sometimes, children, things get changed for the sake of changing rather than to make a logical improvement on a current system. This is a good lesson to learn while you're young and still accepting of the absurd.)

No one knows when the seasonal changes started, either, except to say that one day the hearty and simple folks were standing there, in the middle of winter, in their shirt sleeves with nary a stitch of long underwear beneath their practical and sturdy outerwear.

Someone commented that this warm day would make up for the day of freezing rain during the previous summer. The idea sounded so reasonable that even the folks of a certain age and grayness didn't disagree. And so it progressed with winter, spring, summer and fall muddling together so much the folks renamed them just to make clear that modern seasons aren't the same seasons as those in "back when I was a kid" times.

Even though this was all so very peculiar, the hearty and simple folks accepted the new seasons willy-nilly as they came. They carried on with living -- always prepared for whatever season the weather might bring.

(Some years, kids, people hung their Christmas tinsel wearing a tank top and shorts, and during Bug Season they couldn't decide if they needed a fly rod or an ice auger to go fishing. Can you imagine?)

Then it came to pass one Dang Cold and Dark Season that a good old-fashioned winter seemed to settle in. The hearty and simple folks of the high plains desert were baffled. Walking down any street, one could hear these comments:

"I don't know what to do. I've had to use my snow shovel every day for a month. Am I supposed to pack away the rollerblades?"

"I didn't know snow could pile so high. I heard a scientist on the TV call it 'accumulation.'"

"Is there something wrong with the sky? The sun has forsaken us! Oh, woe is me!"

"My long johns are wearing out. What's that all about?"

Everywhere the folks of a certain age and grayness gathered, they smiled and raved about winters "back when I was a kid," and children (much like yourselves) listened without rolling their eyes and disappearing into their iPods.

Now, it came to pass that this winter ended with the arrival of a few days of Smells Like Mud and Dog-doo weather. Followed by some Dang Cold and Dark. And then a day that might just go down in history as the One Lovely Day of the Year -- but the folks would have to muddle on for 11 months to know for sure.

And thus our story ends, not like a fairy tale with all the good people getting a happily ever after, all the bad people getting their comeuppance, and the audience getting a nice, neat "The End" after the last sentence. This is not that kind of story.

It ends as plainly and simply as it began with the high plains desert settling back into its regular irregularity of weather and all the hearty and simple folks carrying on with life -- a snowmobile in one hand and a jet ski in the other -- prepared for whatever season would come on the morrow.

(Rain, slush, snow and ice for sale, cheap, at www.viewfromthenorth40.com. Will trade for sunshine.)

Forewarned just wasn't enough, was it. You were crazy enough to read this far.

BTW, I got the sunshine, and life is good at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

News about the war in Gaza killing you? The ever-deepening, swirling waters of the economy about to flush you under? Fear of salmonella poisoning from peanutish products making you ill? Knowing that everybody survived the Hudson River plane crash not enough to float your boat? The impending inaugural goodbye to Bush not enough to Barack your Obama?

There's this:

The pope, as in Benedict XVI of Holy Catholic eminence, is getting a Google channel. Word is that texts and video of the pope's speeches and news about his pope-ishness will be posted onto the channel. This will be a grand addition to his online presence -- a true complement to his Twittering and his Facebook profile. Sign up on his friend list anyway. You never know when that'll come in handy. Like the ad for a local bail bondsman says: "Better to know us and not need us, than to need us and not know us."

I wonder if the pope's channel will pop up first if you Google God? Just asking, 'cause I know this site won't make the list.

Irreverence and irrelevance stroll hand-in-hand at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Riddle me this: Can a person have bad zipper Karma?

A few weeks ago the zipper on my chore coat failed. My stupid fault. It's a thigh length coat with the two-slide zipper feature, and I don't always remember to run the bottom slide up to relieve stress on the coat when necessary. (FYI, slide is the official name of the slide-y part that goes up and down making that nifty *zzzzzzip* sound -- should you ever need to know for, y'know, a Jeopardy appearance or a bar bet or something.)

I was outside for the umpteenth time with mega-layers of insulation on to fight the cold, and with the added bulk of me under the coat -- *plink* -- a few teeth popped off. The zipper parted from bottom to top, except where the top slide was situated under my chin valiantly holding the teeth together. Right under my chin. That's the important part.

Being just a wee bit claustrophobic, I was just a wee bit desperate to get the slide down far enough that I could pull my coat off over my head. I was starting to hyperventilate a wee bit by the time I got that accomplished.

No harm no foul. I got the zipper working well enough -- as long as I raise the lower slide above the missing teeth. You, dear Reader, get me enough to understand that this is an important point, right? I must remember something, every time.

Yeah, so this afternoon I came in from feeding horses and *zzzzzck*, the zipper came apart because I. Cannot. Remember. Simple. Things. Like. A. Normal. Adequate. Human. Being. Should.

Luckily, I was able to snatch the coat off over my head before the first sign of anxiety. So, yay me.

Then tonight, as I go trotting into the bathroom (I was going to write "sashaying" just to be funny, but it sounded creepy, don't ya think?), I unbutton a perfectly loose-fitting pair of pants -- in preparation to tinkle, so you know my bladder was all like "woohoo" and ready to relax -- and I hear *zzzzck*

What th--? My pants zipper failed. For reals. And it's serious. Remember the anxious-to-be-happy bladder? And the wee bit of claustrophobia? Yeah, they wanted me out of the pants. Now.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the mondo-pliers, and gently pulled on the, well, pull (that's the official name of the tabby-thingy. Yes, I googled). Not much success, but some growing anxiety. When I got near a good light, I could see that a zipper tooth (yes, official) had failed, so I just reefed on the sucker. Success!

The zipper is destroyed, but I was free at last, free at last! Thank gawd-a-mighty, free at last!

Although I am certainly relieved that my immediate anxiety is alleviated, you do know that I am now in the midst of a massive dilemma, don't you?

I have very few useful pairs of jeans. I either have to go clothes shopping (gag), or I have to lose weight to fit into some of the "skinny" pants collecting dust in my closet (retch), or I have to wear dress pants ...

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

OK, kids, I am falling asleep as I type because we had warm weather over the weekend -- and I wore myself ragged doing loads of stuff outside in it -- then we got cold weather again -- and I even rubbed the ragged edges smooth out in it trying to relive the glorious moments of the two days above freezing. All that said, I took pictures galore over the weekend and spent an inordinate amount of time downloading and resizing them for you, my lovely Readers. I also spent an inordinate amount of time in photo quality control. I apparently was so emotional about the weather that I thought everything was beautimous and photo-worthy. But, no, not so much in reality. I deleted gobs of boring and downright stupid and utterly pointless photos, saying to myself, "What was I thinking?"

From the dregs I pulled some pictures of:

The sun glare so bright it could poke your eye out. This is after we had the wind blowing the snow into hard-pack, the sun and above freezing temps melting the hard-pack, and the temps dropping again so we have a quarter-inch layer of ice on the snow. Fun times.

The brightest moon of the year -- because it scored really high on the SATs ... and, according to scientists, because the sun was going down directly opposite the moon. Whatever.

A herd of antelope, aka prairie goats, with a bunch of girls ...

and boys ...

and you can get the big picture here because I had to piece together six photos to get the whole herd in one image. I spied with my naked eye, 165 head of antelope -- in a field across the highway from our place -- at the time I took the photo. More goats kept trickling up out of the brush as I stood and watched them. All I could think was, "Oh thank-gawd they aren't migrating through my haystack."

Does that make me selfish? at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

John's dream of becoming a Somali pirate is looking a little grim these days, what with the pirates washing ashore with their loot strapped to their bodies and being unable to spend the ill-gotten gains because of their unconditional lifelessness.

Times are tough for everyone, I guess. But I say, don't let a little threat of death by oceanic drowning deter you from your dreams, hon.

Arrrgh and avast ye matey at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

You know what else makes my head want to explode? When people who you think are your friends aren't supportive, and they undermine your efforts at self-improvement in the harshest way imaginable: dismissive laughter.

The news lately? Y'know how I said it's been upsetting me and threatening to, like, make my head all cuckoo-bird crazy and explody? Well, I went to work this morning and was really up front with everyone and announced that for the sake of my mental health I was going to forego proofing pages and that I had brought a really good horse training book to read instead.

They laughed. Yeah. And I said I wasn't joking and showed them my good book. And they laughed again, harder, and someone handed me, like, five whole pages of news to read.

That really hurt my feelers.

Now I've broken the only vow I've made in 2009 that comes anywhere near being a New Year's resolution. Does that make me a bad person?

Plus, I have to admit that some good did come of the enforced news reading. That probably does make me a bad person. But the scoop is that Plum Creek, the hedonistic business that was pushing to get the Forest Service regulations changed so they could develop ritzy subdivisions back in the Montana woods, has withdrawn their efforts for both the subdivision and the rule changes. For a part of a nanosecond I was all "right on!" then, of course, I wanted to know what nefarious, backhanded plots they are cooking up now. That almost definitely makes me a bad person, but, just saying, it could be happening.

Keep one eye open at all times at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

If you believe in no other conspiracy theory in the history of the world, you can believe in this one: The soon to be former President George W. Bush and the anxious to be former President-elect Obama are conspiring to make my head explode. It's true. I know things ... because I'm wired like a finely-tuned, connection-detector machine thing.

I really meant that you'll just have to believe because I've been ranting about the conspiracy in Word for the past hour, and then I deleted it all because I'm so angsty. Oh, my horror of understanding the unspeakable irony of the world -- unspeakable even in writing. Still, if you're terribly interested in the foundation for the conspiracy, you can read this and this and connect the injustice -- and hope that no one perfects undersea subdivisions any time soon. Then read this and this and do the math, or find some new-age loan officers and bank CEOs to show you the new math. It's beyond me to figure out how to make bigger payments with less income.

Obviously, there's a reason why I don't read the news. My brain hurts. The people and events in the news and the people who write the news and the people who spread the news, like, in their blogs and stuff, drive me crazy.

Mostly, though, I already hate winter -- a month ahead of my regularly scheduled February hating of winter -- so now I'm a crabby-pants-wack-job. I am one crazy news bite away from becoming the town character wandering the streets talking passionately to myself and gesticulating to no one.

Tomorrow, I'm not going to read the news. I'm going to read a book, maybe daydream a little, spend my time doing more healthful things.

Searching for sunshine and a cabana boy with an umbrella drink at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

We may rest easy in the new year. No. 7 on the list of Top 10 Mysteries of the Universe has been solved.

I now know why my cereal keeps me from feeling hungry from 7 a.m. until noon. It is the unhealthiest cereal -- ever -- to be packaged in a colorful box and sold at the neighborhood supermarket.

According to the article, I am consuming about 8,000 calories in one meal -- 10,000 of those calories from fat. This is the nutritional equivalent of eating eight barbecued chickens. For a more healthful breakfast, the nutrition expert recommends I eat Coco Puffs instead.

Oh, yeah?

Dear MSNBC Nutritional "Expert,"

Put down your Crack pipe and pay attention. I tried eating my weight in Coco Puffs every morning for an entire week, and every morning at 10 a.m. I got hungry. Me being hungry is the mental equivalent of a teenaged boy thinking about sex.

I think about food constantly -- how I'm going to get it, what it's going to be like, who I need to con out of some, whether or not I'm going to die before I get any, etc. I have a food thought approximately every .07 nanoseconds. The situation is not conducive to sustaining adequate levels of productivity as recommended by my employer.

I recommend the worst cereal ever to anyone who doesn't want to be hungry all flippin' morning. And I recommend you shut your pie hole about it because I don't like you trash-talking my food staples.

Regards,

Pam
Queen of the Singlewide Estate

Keeping the beast well fed at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Today's topic: winter weather.

Before I write about our recent snowstorm, let me recap a few previous days' highlights.

After weeks of subzero and single-digit temps, on Wednesday, Dec. 24, we got a chinook that took us from minus-25 degrees to plus-26 degrees in two hours. We enjoyed balmy temps that stayed mostly above zero for the week. Wednesday, Dec. 31., we got another chinook that took the temp as high as 34 degrees. Go ahead and say what you're thinking: oooh aaah!

Jan. 1 it was back to a high of 15 degrees, but the wind had died to nothing and the sun was shining so I snuck in a short ride on Jilly, who was a joy to ride for a change. The ride also marked the first time she was completely happy being ridden bareback. Yeah, give her one too: oooh aaah! She deserves it. She is obviously possessed, but the aliens, poltergeists, mad scientists, or whoever took the evil Jilly can keep her and leave this one.

Now the riding has ended for a while. The snow and wind and cold hit on Friday and we are living in a refreshed winter wonderland with snow from 6 inches to 6 feet deep with the low temp at minus-26 and "high" at minus-8. Ironically, from the hay bale to the water trough is the worst traveling in our yard with upper-calf to mid-thigh deep snow everywhere -- but the last 10 feet to the trough. Wow. That's a nice relief from the exertion.

Here's a lovely photo montage:

Remember our newest friend Arena Gate, and how funny he looked sticking up above the fence posts? His freakishly tall shame is now concealed from your ridiculing gaze. The dark bar in the middle of the picture is all of Gate (and the fence) that's high enough to poke out above the snow. If I were standing at the high side of the gate, the snow would be at the bottom of my sternum. If I stepped through to the downhill side of the gate, I would be at least up to my chin.

This is the fenceline at the other end of the arena. I can't tell you how excited I am to see that the snow has pulled the wires down the posts -- normally that top strand is at the edge of the white tip of the post. Please note that the second post away is lodging eastward and that after the fifth post the entire fence disappears under the drift. It will be splendiferous fun redoing all that in the spring.

You can't tell from this photo (which I decided to include because I like the curves and shadows), but this drift is massive. It's on the east side of a hill that sits at a 90-degree turn in the road to my back pasture. If I were standing where the hill base meets the edge of the road, you could just barely see the tip of my head at dead center of the photo. I tried to get Cooper to launch himself into the drift like this dog. But Coop wasn't having any of that nonsense.

He's a smart dog who also knows he's not a pheasant. I spotted this pheasant track next to the last drift pictured. You can barely see at the top right of the photo where the pheasant started walking in the shallow snow, and as it wandered along, the snow got deeper and deeper until the bird must've thought, "Hey, screw this. I'm mobile in three dimensions." And it wallowed its bird feathers outta the snow into the sky.

I was wishing I had that upward mobility option about 5 minutes after I snapped this picture because I was slogging my way through about 100 yards of snow up to my nether regions -- the last 15 feet up to my waist. I made a poor choice of trails I know, but in my defense, the area was consistently wind-swept bare of snow the past two years, so I didn't think it would be so deep this year. What a difference a nor'easter storm or two ... or three makes.

And that concludes the visual entertainment for today. I hope you enjoyed the photos I took on my sub-polar expedition across my little portion of the high-plains desert today.

Nota bene: All of this was beautiful and grand fun, but I am officially tired of winter -- about one month ahead of schedule. I shall endeavor not to whine.

Dreaming of green things at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

A baby was born and all 'round the world people who measure time by the Gregorian calendar, and those who just want an excuse to party, celebrated his birth on this, the first day of the year.

At the stroke of midnight, somewhere along the eastern coast of Russia, or in a hut on a lovely Fijian island the tiny baby crawled out from under a mound of guests' coats tossed onto the bed. While the fireworks exploded in a raucous medley and the revelers kissed whomever was handy, an ancient and beleaguered man handed the confused bundle of joy an hourglass, a toga, a top hat, a cane and a pre-soiled diaper.

"Here's your stuff, kid. I'm gonna go party like it's 1999."

And the baby said, "Hey, old fart, get your doodied Depends off me and get outta here. I don't even have a name yet, so don't burden me with your baggage."

"Well, sport, like it or not you are Baby New Year 2009," said the old man. "It's after midnight, and the rule is that all of these things are now yours and I'm free at last. I'd tell you more, but the only other rule is that you gotta figure out what's going on by yourself. Good luck. Uh, sorry about the crappy mess I'm leaving ya, kid."

Little Baby New Year 2009 looked so bewildered and pitiful that even Old Man 2008's well-earned cynicism faltered. "Alright, Baby. I'll spot you this tip: when this party gets around to a place called Hawaii, find a guy named Barack Obama. He was really blabbing on and on about change in 2008, maybe he can help you with that diaper."

And so it came to be that Baby New Year 2009 shouldered his burdens, even the load of crap, and began trudging his way westward through the time zones, wandering and wondering from party to party -- aging at a freakishly accelerated rate.

At each new midnight he'd ask questions, read the local newspaper, walk the streets and study the situation. After a bit he'd toss back a drink of whatever the locals were having -- saki, beer, kumis, whiskey, cauim, tea, wine, brennivin or champagne -- and journey to the next time zone.

By the time poor Baby New Year (who was more like a toddler or young child by now) reached Hawaii he was cranky and in need of some real food, a nap and that promised diaper changing, so he hunted down the guy named Obama like the old man had suggested (flying past the Secret Service guys like a well-aimed shoe).

Obama, in a festive mood because of the holiday and the fact that he hadn't yet assumed his burdens and his presidential portion of the pile of the 2008 crap, greeted Baby New Year with a warm handshake and a friendly pat on the back. He listened to Baby New Year's troubles and did, indeed, change the dirty diaper. The smell alerted the Secret Service that their perimeter had been breached, and they converged on the unlikely pair. As the intrepid Other Men in Black ushered Baby New Year along to his original time zone, Obama called out, "I hate to tell you this, little man, but that smelly mess in your diaper is only a fraction of the dung heap we'll be dealing with this year."

Leaving the Secret Service men to fumble around in their sunglasses in the dark of midnight, Baby New Year 2009 trekked away to a Fijian island at the beginning of time whereupon he could rest. Exhausted, but clean for the moment, he snuggled into a hammock swaying gently between two palm trees, and he pondered the stars and all he had learned in the first 24 hours of his life.

"I am hope," he told the stars. "I have all the same baggage that every Year has carried before me, even a heap of crap not of my making to deal with. The only thing I bring to the Year of 2009 is renewed possibility."

With that conclusion, Baby New Year 2009 covered his eyes with his top hat, tucked his toga under his chin and drifted to sleep, dreaming of the possibilities his Year could bring.

Good luck to us all from: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

And the wind that visited me -- through every weak seam in the Singlewide Mansion -- said that I would be visited by three Christmas ghosts.

Lo, it came to pass that a ghost from Christmases past, Apache Pete, sent an email reminding me of the old days when we all dreamt of writing for a living. The lesson that this ghost imparted unto me was that this dream could come true. The secondary lesson being: have the volume turned down when visiting his website, because the theme from "Magnificent Seven" scared the bejeezes out of me.

Then, just as the wind had foretold, I was visited by a ghost of Christmas present (pictured left) who was intensely cute. He bade me remember my priorities and haunted me with this stare until I fed him treats, scratched his ears and let him, in his 45-pound glory, hog some space on my lap in the recliner. And life felt good and right. It's an easy lesson to remember.

As the clock struck midnight I was visited by the horrifying visage of the ghost of Christmas future. She was haggard and bloated and blotchy white -- and I was scared to the very core of my being. This fear was heightened when I realized I was looking in the mirror at myself. I vowed then to get more sleep, do more exercising and, for god sake, skip a dessert once in a while.

And so it was that on Christmas morning I wrote a blog entry, spoiled my dog, and then proceeded to sit around eating too much and sampling large quantities of every dessert I could find (which was a lot since we hit three Christmas celebrations).

Two out of three ain't bad. It says so in that song.

To start 2009 off right, I give you my New Year's Eve sunset:

Now I must attend the festivities, as it is movies and munchies time.

Hardcore partiers only at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

An itty-bitty Christmas gift from the Queen of the Singlewide Mansion to you:

I received a fabulous spam-gram the other day that was just so precious I have to share. Normally, I barely notice, if at all, the words in the spam subject lines, but what's not eye-catching and appealing about:

"Your manhood will return to you like a boomerang"

I beg to differ, dude, if my manhood returns to me, it'll be like a bad haircut because I got called "Sir" a lot the one time I had short hair. (John, bless his pea-pickin' little heart, would always say, "Well, they obviously weren't looking at your butt, hon, because that's an extra-fine bit of feminine." I gotta love an L&A man.) Still, though, I don't think I'll ever have short hair again -- I don't need that manhood, but thanks for the offer.

And why a boomerang? You could poke your eye out with one of those things. Why not like a paddle ball on a string? Why not like a joke email sent to all your friends? Or like riding a bike? "They" (who have been featured in the blogless site often lately) say that you never forget how to ride a bike. You just hop on, maybe wobble around for a while, perhaps fall off once or twice, but soon enough you're pedaling your little heart out, smiling. That's some good manhood ... man.

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you it's yours. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be.

Peace on Earth at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

American culture -- it just don't make no sense at all.

A woman in Pennsylvania had her home raided and three kittens taken away, and likely will be charged with cruelty to animals because she gave the kitties ear, neck and tail piercings and placed them for sale on the internet as "gothic kitties."

Gothic kitties? Once you stop laughing you'll realize that that is mean and a little bit twisted. Of course, it's wrong to pierce your little kitties, and give them tats and make them wear heavy eye makeup, too. One should not laugh over it.

And for crying out loud, no one should get raided or arrested for it either. How is this worse than, say, ear- and tail-docking your dog just so it can have the properly pointy ears and stubby tail for a dog show? Docking ears and tails isn't even original or funny either.

Don't get me wrong, I'm neither condoning nor condemning any of this, I just don't get the double standard. Why is it illegal to create a "gothic kitty," but AKC standard to dock your Dobie? Just saying, it's like American movies.

You can show a few frames of breast shots, but not too much, especially if there is activity involving said breasts, but absolutely no full-frontal nudity -- that goes double for male frontal nudity which is bad, bad, bad -- and for Pete's sake, don't be throwing the F-word around like verbal candy. These shenanigans will get you an NC-17 rating, or worse.

Fine, whatever, draw the line in the sand wherever you want. I'm cool with it and know we need guidelines, but where is the logic in having the above restrictions while allowing (even glorifying) rampant killing sprees, senseless destruction, drug use, explanations of how to build a simple explosive at home and multiple utterings of almost every other cuss word in the English language in PG movies?

I don't get it. The criteria upon which "the powers that be" base our culture's moral code is randomly convoluted. Maybe I'm too blonde to understand, but if one of "they" could explain, I would appreciate it.

That concludes the exercising of my brain-things in the deep end of the pool. Let us speak of something shallower -- me.

I had a tragedy in my house this morning. It didn't involve bodily harm to my left side as I predicted my next tragedy would, but -- and maybe you should grab a tissue -- my monitor died. It had been showing flickering signs of illness for the past few months, and this morning, it flickered its last and died with a pitiful little "pop."

As per its wishes, I buried Monitor in the family dumpster. It was a quiet ceremony with only the dog and me in attendance. Monitor will be sorely missed, if only because I am now forced to use a painfully older, smaller monitor.

This monitor is, in fact, so old that it was designed and manufactured by grunt-speaking cave men. A prehistoric nerd named Bluhg had a vision, sketched his plan out in the dirt with a stick and, along with his buddies, built this first monitor in the cave where they parked the travois. Of course, they didn't have the resources to refine a lot of metal, glass and plastic, so they built the monitor roughly the size of a no-frills, 2-cent stamp. The standard font is something like 5-point, and I'd make it bigger but then only 10 words would fit across the screen. Gads. This has to be torture from the second level of hell.

Surviving a blast from the techno-past at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Before I get started with profundities, I just want to thank everyone who emailed to express their concern over my recent damages. Except for the knot on the back of my hand. I should be all healed by Christmas. Also, let's raise the roof for the winter solstice and the beginning of longer daylight hours! Right on!! You ROCK!! W00t w00t w00t!!

Profundity: What a difference a few hours makes. OK, maybe it's more pithy than profound, but it's all the deeper I'm willing to dip into my well of wisdom right now.

On Thursday, the wind visited and rearranged the snow into a more ergonomic and feng shui friendly configuration.

And then Friday the skies cleared and we got a lovely sundog. This is just one of the flares on the parhelion ring. I couldn't figure out how to get the whole ring in the picture because 1) my camera didn't fit the whole sundog in one frame, 2) I don't know how to make the camera stitch photos together and 3) I didn't want to go outside in the minus-10 degrees to see if a different angle would make a better shot -- like if I could find something to block the sun. Yes, you heard me right. I was so wimpy I stood at my front door and took these shots through the window.

But I was a warm wimp at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

"Bad luck comes in threes." That's what "they" say, with "they" being the same folks who say "that which does not kill us makes us stronger." Me? Well, I say that sometimes the things that don't kill us often hurt like a mutha, too.

A couple weeks ago I whanged the back of my hand on my metal stirrup and crunched a blood vessel between the stirrup and a bone close to my middle knuckle. It didn't really hurt much at the time, but later, after the hematoma swelled across the back of my hand, it was, mmmm, uncomfortable. And when I hit that knot which still persists, it makes me, mmmm, want to swear. Just a little bit.

Then last week, I was pulling shoes off of Xena with a pair of old hoof nippers (since I don't have a pair of "official" shoe pullers, but nippers do fine for the horses I ride). For those unfamiliar with the tools, nippers have a cutting edge like large, steel fingernail clippers, but mechanically, they work like a pair of pliers -- with stopper "knobs" about the diameter of a pencil eraser on the handles to keep the cutting edges from smashing together. I was really holding pressure on the handles and prying on the shoe, and when things kicked loose the meaty pad on my ring finger was -- magically, mystically, exactly -- between those two knobs and I lost a chunk of meat and skin -- just a little larger than a pencil eraser. Oddly enough.

It was rather dramatic with blood splatters and everything. I growled and swore. I've made those noises repeatedly since then too because right about dead center of the wound is an exposed nerve that doesn't like being scraped, jabbed or otherwise disturbed.

That brings us to this Monday, 6 a.m., when I was outside feeding in minus-30 temps with a beautiful 3/4 moon making the snowy landscape glow pale blue in the darkness. I noticed the ponies were taking a bite of snow with each mouthful of hay so thought I'd water them early. But I either have a dribbling leak in the hydrant head, or one of the ponies slobbered water on it because the handle creaked up to about 1/3 open and quit. I decided they'd have to wait for water until I got home at noon and the sun had a chance to warm things up (no problem since the horses hadn't left the hay to come for water anyway).

When I reefed on the handle to shut it down, I slipped on the snow, slamming down onto my knees. The knobby end of my lower-leg bone whanged into a rock that was frozen solidly to the ground. My initial "aagh" when I went down turned into two minutes of agony after my brain finally registered the screaming pain. All I could manage were gasping short breaths in -- which I exhaled with an explosive "guuhhh!" because my stomach muscles were contracted taut in an involuntary, sympathy-pain spasm. I slowly collapsed from kneeling to lying on my side, rolling onto my back, and then carefully straightening my leg. I laid there gasping and "guuhhh"-ing and mentally assessing the damage in the beautiful moonlight. That slow-mo falling process was very interesting to horses who had to come investigate. Xena snorted every time a gust of breath billowed out of me. Jilly decided to lick my overalls. That was helpful.

I finally decided I hadn't broken the bone and that even if I had I should get into the house because the pain sweat that had flooded my face was freezing my skin. No chance that either horse was going to go Hollywood hero on me and kneel down so I could crawl onto her back for a lift or even offer to drag me to the house. Worthless beasts. I had to pick myself up and limp back to the house, pitifully on my own.

So that brings us to a total of three wounds: a knot by the knuckle of my right hand, a chunk missing from my right ring finger and a bruised and stiff right knee. As soon as these wounds heal, I shall start in on the left side. I ought to be about ready for another knife wound or a rope burn pretty soon. I'll see what I can do.

Following are some pictures of our snow because it's such unique snow -- each flake is different, y'know. Or so the more scientific of "they" tell us.

Xena and Jilly eyeing the suspicious-looking deer lurking in the creek bottom. They may be rare, carnivorous deer with an appetite for horse flesh. Probably French-bred.

Before I go, I need to give a shout out to my "reeking havoc" line of the last blog entry. Yes, I know it's supposed to be "wreaking havoc" as "they" say. I just like the idea of havoc reeking. Think about it.

It might grow on you at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Beautimous picture, eh? I woke up this morning to a little blizzard and rapidly falling temps: -0.4 degrees without windchill factored in at the time the photo was taken. I tried to get a few pictures when I went out to feed but was so cold I didn't stop to read the flashing lights on the camera display.

Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I wasn't that cold since I was bundled in winter boots and insulated overalls and a winter coat and a stupid hat and thick mittens over a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, heavy sweatpants, thick socks and a thong. The thong made all the difference. It was practical cotton.

Mostly, I was just that shell-shocked over the nasty turn for the weather-worse. And I might've noticed the flashing messages if they weren't written in code. Could someone please program a camera to say, "Hey, moron, can't you tell your husband switched this to manual-setting? Read an instruction manual once in a while."

Nonetheless, I think the picture is rather cool, and though it over-dramatizes the snowfall, it captures the essence of the day with sub-sero temps and horizontal snowfall that was 0" to 40+" deep depending on where you were standing. Of course, the storm was a rare nor'easter so it reeked havoc with the plumbing. We spent some time outside playing around and finally got water restored to all faucets -- though the kitchen sink doesn't have hot water yet. What's that you say? Maybe I should be working on fixing that problem so I can get the dishes done? Sure, sure. In a minute.

The ponies were split 50/50 on the weather. After seeing a gigantic drift on top of where I fed them last night, I worried about how much hay they actually got, so I grained them a bit. Xe was happily gobbling up the feed -- I could practically hear her humming a happy eating tune. Or am I the only one who hums that? Whatever. Jilly, though, was tremoring to ward off the cold. I felt her pain. Everyone says fat insulates, but you get that chub chilled, and it's practically impossible to get it melted again. I noticed that she warmed herself up frequently during the day shunning Xena away from the grub.

I need to go hum a dishwashing song.

It sounds like a dirge at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I have late-breaking news from the Butt front. Nebraska's already-infamous Butt Bandit, who left greasy imprints of his rearward and frontal nether regions on downtown windows in Valentine, Neb., has been sentenced to 13.5 months in jail for indecent exposure. Hmmm ... I'm betting he'll beg for solitary confinement. Just saying.

While we're on the bare naked nether regions topic, I have a somewhat old piece of news that I was sitting on, but then decided to bare since my friend Terri sent me the sentencing update on Mr. B. Bandit.

Viking's football player Visanthe Shiancoe was inadvertently caught inadequately wrapped in a towel by Fox news cameras as team owner, Zygi Wilf, gave a postgame locker-room speech. Although Shiancoe plays Tight End (ahem, *cough*cough*), the footage allegedly involves frontal nudity. Shiancoe joked a little about the incident but is said to be embarrassed. He is, after all, a nice guy who does after hours charitable work -- out of the goodness of his heart and person, not a court order as cynics like me might expect of a pro athlete.

Now, I have to admit that when I first heard this I thought: "Gosh, I'd actually watch sports if I knew that was going to happen on a regular basis." ha ha har, right? Here's the goofy thing about all the bare-nethers-in-the-news stuff -- the inequality, if you will. It's like hair. We stroke our loved ones' hair, we smell it, we caress it with our lips and cheek, we love it, but let just one hair show up in our salad, and we don't care who it came from we're gagging.

So yeah, one young, athletic guy gets his hoo-hoo exposed in the background of some national news broadcast, and we can wink, or laugh, or drool for more, but the average Joe slaps a little Vaseline on his nethers and presses them up against a church window in the middle of the night, and we're all creeped out and derisive. This kind of seems like an injustice.

I don't care. Some things are acceptable, and some things give you the crawly-spine syndrome.

That's life at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

The universe is conspiring for me to have a lazy day. I went outside to build another gate (wooden this time) and got rained on. Well, technically, I got the gate built while the skies were only sprinkling, but it's really not doing much good laying there on the sawhorses waiting for hinges. Except it's looking mighty fine, and square, and all new-wood sleek. Yes, I know, I'm polluting the White Trash Estate with new lumber. Don't tell the neighbors.

Having spent almost four hours walking/fixing fence in the freezing rain yesterday, I think I'm entitled to dry clothes and warm fingers today. Besides, I have a column to write ... What? This entry is just a warm up exercise, not a sign of procrastination. You know that right?

Time for the hilarity to ensue at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

One more post for the day because you know I love to hang with you guys.

Yesterday was a busy day with errands and going to the big concert and all, so it just felt like a Friday. This morning I was kind of waking up then thinking, "Aw, screw it, just a few more minutes." At 6:45 a.m. I finally rolled out of bed, drug my lazy butt into the bathroom and then into some sweats while thinking, "Aw, heck, I'll just take a shower later."

I strolled out into the living room and settled in for a chat with John and about 7:10 a.m. he said all excitedly, "Hey, do you know what today is?"

"Uuh, Saturday, December-something?" It was a lame answer that didn't fit his excitement -- and it really didn't go with the shocked and crest-fallen look that resulted from the answer.

"Isn't it Friday?"

So, yeah, it's Friday, "Ohmigawd!! Friday!" and aaack! I have to leave for work in a little bit! I have to feed and water horses! I'm not going to have time for a shower!

And John says: "Well, I'm really glad you slept in. You need more sleep."

I'm all "Dude! What are you talking about? I can't have more sleep on a weekday morning! Shut yer pie hole! And don't let me laze around past 6:30 ever again!"

Yeah, no shower this morning. I barely managed to fix the bed-head hairdo, and I have nothing but praise for the gods of science and commerce for perfumey deodorant. My face, though, was a disaster beyond all repair. I actually had woken up sprawled on my stomach. Who knows how long I'd been there, but it was long enough that my face was both puffy and deeply creased with a sheet wrinkle from forehead to jaw.

My ability to contribute quality effort at work was negligible, especially since I couldn't seem to rustle up 60 cents for a pop with caffeine. I was very close to rethinking the whole "I hate everything about coffee" stance, because I think if I had the paraphernalia, I would've mainlined it for the caffeine jolt.

I blame the Earth. What's up with that whole axis canted at an angle from the sun, thing. We are down to something like 8.5 total hours of daylight this time of year. I can't survive on that little sunlight. The next 16 days are just going to get worse until winter solstice. I shall party then.

But I shall slumber now at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Last night, John and I went to our niece, Keen Eye's, first sixth-grade band concert in which she played clarinet, in something like seventh-chair position. First of all, let me say that ol' Keen Eye was gracious enough to give us a private concert after our Thanksgiving meal and I was impressed. Oh, not with the music, because this is the first-year band version of music with some basic notes and rhythms and lots of counting out loud. However, her ability to keep her composure in a roomful of card-carrying wiseacre family members was remarkable. When she hit the one squeaker note, she just grinned past her reed and kept playing.

The concert was in the middle school auditorium -- standing room only with hundreds of other family members just aching to be tortured by our young music protégés. It worked, we all smiled and clapped. I hope those people around me were not offended because I laughed during those moments when every kid in the band hit the same wonky-wrong note at the same time. It was painfully cute to see them playing their hearts out through the audibly ugly moments.

I was also interested to note that the quality of music and skill rose sharply for each grade. It's not quite as endearing, but I like that the kids will feel a sense of accomplishment for the improvement. Guess I'll have to trade in the pain-induced laughs for toe-tapping smiles in the future.

I also met, for the first time, a person who played the tuba in band just like I did! John didn't hear the conversation I had with the guy sitting behind me, so after the concert I was excitedly sharing my information with him. He said, all dead-pan and wiseacrely: "Well, he's the first person willing to admit he played a tuba." That man of mine needs to stop taking conversation lessons from me is all I have to say about that little jab.

The tuba is a fine and entirely underutilized instrument. I used to copy the trumpet music and translate it into tuba-speak. I dream of getting my hands on some French horn music and resonating it in bass-notes up the coulee. Wouldn't that be awesome!

Oh, how I want a tuba of my own again. One of the big brass sousaphone kinds that coils around the player's body so you can literally wear it and has the big bell that you can move around to direct its beautiful big ooom-pa tone. That's all I want. ... And lessons. A brass sousaphone and lessons. That's all I want. ... And some talent ...

Once again, I've gone too far. Asked too much.

Ooom-pa dreamin' at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Back in the day, when I worked for the health department writing press releases about our health, or lack there of, and writing grants that would fund services to improve the "lack there of," I had to do loads of research. From this experience I developed three sentiments about health research.

1) I love to read about health findings, diseases and illnesses. Ooooo, creepy.
2) I hate to read about health findings, diseases and illnesses. I became neurotic about them. Read about scabies and scratch all day. Read about breast cancer and worry about that boob ache. Read about norovirus and spray everybody with disinfectant in lieu of a handshake. Psycho.
3) It was a foot race to the finish to see which was going to drive me crazy first: the hypochondria/obsessive compulsiveness or the research.

This is what I'm talking about:

Today msnbc.com has an article from Reuters about Vermont being the healthiest state. (BTW, anonymous Reuters staff writer -- a state isn't healthy, the people are. Give the health credit where it's due, to the Vermonters. Vermontans? Vermontinites? Vermontinators? Whatever. You know who I'm talking about.)

I breezed through the article looking for blog-fodder, but saw no mention of Montana. I delved deeper -- which means I clicked on the little interactive map-thingy because all serious researchers love clicky-maps. Really.

Eventually, I noticed the map stats were inconsistent with the article stats and realized that it's a 2007 map from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the article's from 2008 stats from the American Public Health Association. Hmmm. Good job msnbc.com.

So I blipped into both the CDC and APHA sites. (I can do that now with high-speed Internet which makes me so happy.) CDC -- no 2008 stats (and a little hint from me, they probably won't be available until late 2009). As a rare consolation prize I got a cool map-movie illustrating the changes in obesity rates in the U.S from 1985 to 2007. APHA -- go to a sister site, Americas Health Rankings, for those 2008 stats. Thanks folks.

By now, I'm not so amused by my little pet project, especially when I lock up and have to restart my computer while hunting around the AHR site to find a simple frigging table of the rankings. And if that wasn't enough, the CDC and AHR numbering systems for ranking are reverse to each other, so I have to do math? Whatever. Worse yet, the CDC and AHR obesity rankings are vastly different. Granted, I didn't read all the background info to see how the numbers were generated, but please. Montanans rank 7th in one table and 23rd in the other? This is the kind of shinola that can drive a researcher nutso.

And another thing! By now, I've spent three times more time than planned tracking down disparate information from a bunch of sources which are diligently documented, and dealt with technology glitches that threaten to lose all my work, so I can write a long and gibberish-filled document about numbers. Welcome to the world of grant writing.

And I'm just trying to write a humor column!

Now I've arrived at the insult poking at my research injury: Montanans are 23rd? What the--? What kind of a ranking is that? Where's the humor in being average? I want to be extreme, freakish even. Bah! 23rd ...

Louisianamators, eat your vegetables and take a hike, literally. Vermontians, sit there on that couch and don't even think about getting up until you've finished your donuts.

We'll meet here in the middle, with the crazies at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

My new, bright yellow front door has a new, highly functional neighbor named Arena Gate.

Door, Internet World, Lovely Readers, meet Gate:

In keeping with our junkyard tradition, after I realized that I could put a gate in this spot along the fence I went in search of a vaguely gate-shaped pipe contraption I remembered sitting around. I measured the opening, measured the thing (apparently once used in a horse trailer as a partition), asked if I could use "the partition," asked the junkman-in-law if he would weld some pipe on it for hinges, and voila! a new gate.

It looks a little funky sitting higher than the posts, but I did that on purpose. Really. The approach to the gate, down that hill behind it, is a tad steep right up to the opening. The posts are actually a little low from that side -- my side, the horse's side -- from ancient times when the bank to the road was laid and it sloughed into the fence line. I didn't want the horses challenging the gate so I made it more imposing by making it taller. We'll see how my theory plays out the first time I work a horse down there and leave the other(s) to run the fence line.

I still have to clear a little brush, though it isn't as bad to walk through as it looks in the picture. And I'm pondering the merits of building in a banked step, too, but will decide if that will be a help or hindrance after using the gate for a while.

Still looking to hire a brawny guy at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com