The Flying Lawnmower

I hate flying out of Wyoming's regional airports. Regional airports in general, actually. I always have. Miniscule airplanes seem a faulty alternative to handing out wings and teaching commuters to flap themselves from city to city.

Nothing leaves me feeling less secure than having a mere panel of plastic window separating my very beloved head from the whirring propellers of the aircraft that's supposed to safely deposit me on the tarmac of Denver International or on the tiny strip of runway in Small Town USA. Anything that sounds (and feels) like an outsized lawnmower automatically gets a FAIL in the category of making me feel secure during my airborne travels.

The safety demonstration does nothing to allay my fears. I know - deep, deep down - that these planes are small enough that, in a Worst Case Scenario, the pamphlet is useless. I won't survive whatever misfortune befalls our plane long enough to look for the oxygen mask that may or may not be dangling in front of my face or to find the illuminated strip running down the aisle.

I think I'm better at hiding my angst than I used to be. I can pretend to read pretty convincingly, making it appear that my miniscule iPod headphones really are drowning out the head-splitting drone of the plane's engines, which happen to give my seat a not-so-soothing vibration/massage.

But in reality, my ears are following every dip and rise in the rhythmic hum of the engines. My stomach is accutely tuned into every millimeter of the plane's climbs and falls. I'm constantly looking out the frosted-over window at the blender blade which I'm certain will be flung through the cabin at any moment. Jesus and I are getting reacquainted, and the cover of my book now bears the indelible imprint of all ten of my digits as I clutch it in a death grip, checking my watch for the fifth time that minute, wondering whether it's possible that time has actually stopped and I'll never really arrive at my destination.

This is hell, or limbo, and I'm stuck, eternally anticipating a painful Ending via Propeller Blade.

I used to think I was odd - not quite unique in my fear of regional planes ("puddle-jumpers," my roommate Debbie used to call them), but certainly not in the majority - because my fellow travelers seemed so much calmer than I felt.

But according to an article in msnbc.com's travel section, I'm far from being in a minority in my loathing of Flying Pencils.

I don't know whether I feel better about that, but at least now I know that should my worst fears come true while encased in that tiny flying tube, I won't be alone in thinking "I knew it all along," for whatever cold comfort can be derived from that.

You can see the world from here

Something that I love about Wyoming (and the West in general) and that I missed severely when I lived in Virginia is that, for hours before a storm hits, you can watch its approach. For that purpose, I also love the Garfield Street footbridge.

It's just another reason that Wyoming is wonderful.

Victorious fans!

Victorious fans!
Originally uploaded by wyosarah203

I think the smiles say it all ....

Southern hospitality

Much more to come, but lemme say:

Where the heck has this UW football team been all year?!? I couldn't have picked a better away game to go to if I'd had a crystal ball for the season. What an amazing day.

The game.
The party bus afterward.
Joe's RV (and Joe's barbecue. And Joe's apple-cinnamon moonshine).
Hot tub, pizza, Amber's swing dance lessons, a great cabin, a fire in the fireplace and too many good times.

What a weekend. Happy birthday, Matt.

Snow Angel

As much as I complained about the cold and snow over the weekend in Gillette, it was exactly a year ago when we were having Mom and Dad's anniversary party there, and it snowed that weekend, too, much to Molly's dismay.

Molly hates Wyoming and blames her spite on Wyoming always being covered in a layer of what she's convinced is permafrost and rarely getting above zero before the wind is factored in. I think this is unfair, but I do dislike the wind in Wyoming.

This weekend was special, in that Mother Nature got back at me for not getting my car stuck once last winter.

Oh, it got stuck. And good. At night. Outside of town. I was wearing a dress and high heels and had left my snowboots conveniently in my coat closet in Laramie. My only option besides my very cute black heels was a very cute pair of black dress boots. Better than the heels, but by the time the ordeal was over, I was pretty sure I wouldn't have any feet left to worry about needing shoes or boots ...

I had gone out to visit Brooke and Colin and the kids and wound up staying for dinner and a recorded episode of "My Name is Earl." And then at 8, when Colin said he was worried that I might not be able to get back out of the driveway, I decided to try my not-so-superior drift-negotiating skills.

They're still not very superior.

The ironic thing was that, should stuck come to tow, I was stuck behind the very vehicle we needed to do the towing. Hah. Hahaha.

So Brooke had a go.

It was a slight improvement -- after pulling forward too far and nudging her SUV with my front bumper, she pulled back, the car floated in the drift ... and wound up stuck behind a tractor, with mere inches between the tractor tire and the front of my car. I couldn't hear what she shouted at the dashboard, but I can imagine, and I was glad the kids were in bed, whatever it was.

So now I'm in the "boots," black tights and a short dress, and I'm shoveling snow from around my car as fast as I can. It was frickin' cold.

And then Colin, who just thought he was going to get to go to bed, wound up pulling on his full-body coveralls and work boots and had his own go at getting it unstuck. He managed to get it stuck in a convenient enough position that Brooke was able to get the SUV out of the garage, and then it was a good ol' game of wintertime tug-of-war, SUV vs. tiny little sedan.

In the meantime, Brooke and I maintained a steady stream of apologies.

"I'm so sorry you guys are having to help me get out."

"I'm so sorry I asked you to come out here ... I should have known."

And so on ...

And every time my car found a new and deeper drift or a deeper, muddier rut to get stuck in, I apologized all over again.

While it was getting re-stuck, it was also kicking out quite a bit of mud, quite a bit of which wound up on me -- my clothes, my coat, my hair, my glasses. It didn't matter where I stood -- my car was determined to give me a spa-quality mud bath. Joy.

"At least it wasn't manure," my dad said when I told him the story the next morning.
At least.

To make a long (and cold) story a bit shorter, after much tugging, swearing, steering, revving, more apologizing, shivering, swerving, charging and more tugging ... the car was free, and my numb feet managed to press the pedals and my numb hands steered the wheel and my numb mouth asked for warm, woolly socks when I got home ... and then I lay on the floor in front of the pellet stove, my feet suspended in front of the blower while Mom and I discussed life and the crazy renters in her house.

Once I got the feeling back in my feet, things were pretty good.

But I think I've more than paid my dues for not getting stuck last winter. I hope it doesn't happen again this winter.

In the Book on My Desk Musing

from "Postcards from Ed" by Edward Abbey
(Note: I don't agree with Mr. Abbey's views on many, many things, but the tone of his letters, such as this one, cracks me up ...)

To the High Country News, Lander, Wyoming
Dear Friends:
Please don't print that dumb interview from the "New Mexico Independent." I must've been drunk or hung over. That's not me talking, that's me trying to impersonate a responsible conservationist. I am not a responsible conservationist, I am a wild preservative. If I knew how to blow up Glen Canyon Dam, I'd be out there working on it tonight.
Yrs truly, Ed Abbey -- Wolfe Hole