Badboulder's Junipers

'Tis the season to break open a juniper berry for a whiff of gin.

What a aromatic treat for those of us who had never experienced junipers.

The Ozark mountain region (I wonder if the person declaring them mountains had ever traveled to the Rockies or beyond) is home to many deciduous as well as a more limited variety of conifer trees. The forests are spectacular. The evergreen in our area was the red cedar.

Cedars grew so prolifically at my childhood farm that they were considered a nuisance--cows didn't eat them. My mother actually paid my sister and me one penny for each red cedar seedlings we pulled up--we never earned much money at that endeavor nor did we contain the cedar population. Many farmers did bring in some extra income from cedar harvesting, hard work and dangerous. I don't remember ever seeing a juniper tree before moving west.

Yarnell historians tell us that this area was once populated by huge pine forests that were chopped down and used for the gold mining industry. I can only surmise that the juniper was of limited value to the miners as Yarnell boasts a few elderly Juniper specimens.

Badboulder's untamed landscape is home to three juniper trees, one a gnarled-trunked old beauty that still supports an ancient deer stand. The second is part of a dense growth where the cat-eating creatures lurk. The youngest juniper is ideally located for admiration--outside our bathroom window.

The bathroom juniper received a severe pruning last spring in an effort to create a wildfire break around the entire house. It has rewarded us with its fragrant, blue berries.

Anyone have a gin recipe?

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Okay, everybody knows that gin gets its exotic flavor from the juniper tree. But did you know that the juniper berry has been used as a treatment for diabetes? Or, that it has been used as a female contraceptive? But above all, it is a beautiful tree. Especially the gnarled, ancient reverence of an old juniper. Old junipers exude power, authority, and timelessness similar to the eternal hope of the old rugged cross which could not extinguish the hope of the greatest life that ever lived. If you sit quietly and study an old juniper, you will understand that hope.

a parting shot from bbman: facebook now has more than 500 million users, which may help explain why unemployment is around 10 percent. jimmy kimmel

Another Yarnell Treasure

Okay, I'll just admit right up front that I once carried home a yard sale find that was a true piece of junk. It happened fourteen years ago and, alas, we don't have a picture of the chest at its ugliest. It was covered in a garish, oil-based paint which proved difficult to remove. To call the color burgundy would be kind.

David said it looked like a chest that his grandmother left on her back porch back in the rainy Ozarks. Later, he said please don't bring home anymore furniture in such dire need of repair; he had a house to build.

I stripped the offending paint from the wood and found the framework and drawers to be of a much different sort of wood than the side panels. The side panels were falling off the frame; removal was necessary to rebuild the chest. What a surprise awaited us on the inside of the panels--they were made of a wooden refrigerator crate!

Early Yarnellians made good use of every resource because hauling materials up 4,800 feet was never easy. The chest was among the remnants of an estate sale of a woman, aged ninety plus, who had been a long-time resident. I like to think that her husband made the chest as a loving Valentine, birthday or anniversary gift.

The interior of the drawers had seen lots of wear and tear, so I scrubbed them clean then decoupaged sentimental cards and pictures of favorite flowers. One from a student who begins her message, "It's been two long years we've been together...". (Indeed, it had been; this one didn't want to learn to read or write.) I love it because she now gives me hugs and tells me news from college.

Yes, I did have too much time on my hands when I devoted so much to restoring the lingerie chest. I did it before we began any building and one can only cut brush for so long before the creative needs take precedence.

The wooden side panels were soft, full of snags and small gashes so I decoupaged them with some botanical prints of roses. We found some rosy drawer pulls at Home Depot to complete both appearance and function as the chest was missing any sort of pull (in the Ozarks, my ancestors would have used wooden sewing spools for pulls) .

The girly chest has held my unmentionables now all these years and patiently awaits its final move into a spacious closet. HINT! HINT! HINT!

Not to be too pushy, in his own good time, David will make a fabulous closet.

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Hi folks. It's me. Up here. Peeking into Badboulderlady's lingerie chest. So, little children and old men with weak hearts, hide your eyes. Wow, did you see those fishnets? Woooeee! Let me tell you, that chest was a real piece of junk when she brought it home. I spent days and days trying to patch it together. And then, Badboulderlady did her thing, again many days of scraping, and papering, and gluing, and painting, and layers of this and that. I suppose it is sort of pretty, but a good thing its contents are very lightweight. But, we're saving money. Buy a piece of junk for a buck, bring it home and work on it for weeks, maybe years. Yup, we got a bargain. I am spent. Could somebody give me a hug?

a parting shot from bbman: a prize in every box. cracker jacks

A Touch of Macedonia

Badboulder has become a part of everywhere we've been; admittedly I've been much more the collector than David.

"Why are you buying that?' , "What do you want with that?" , "Do you know how much space that will take in our luggage?" or "What exactly is that thing?" is his frequent commentary. David no longer asks about pebbles and when it all comes together he has the grace to praise my selections, if indeed he likes the item.

Because part of our wonderful family is Macedonian, I've traveled to that part of the world a bit more frequently. Logically, many treasures collected this last decade are Macedonian--gifts being the most treasured.

I saw a bit of his father in our son the day I walked to a tile store in Skopje and returned with all the small tiles I could carry. The shopkeeper spoke no English and my Macedonian consisted of "please and thank you" so he was a bit surprised I had made a monetary transaction. He also doubted I would arrive back to the USA with tiles intact. (If not, those tiles would have become mosaic material)

I saw a bit more of those father/son characteristics on another trip when I scored big time at an antique store. Our son had lived in Skopje five years and NEVER spotted that shop. Admittedly he had much more important things on his mind while living there--learning a new language to court a bride, then helping parent two new daughters, writing magazine articles as well as commuting to Kosovo to earn a living. Maybe it just takes a collector to spot such gems.

Common items used in Macedonian daily lives as well as the decorative caught my fancy. Badboulder's commode room door now sports definitive plaques that I found on every W.C. that I ever visited in Skopje--bought at a grocery store. I don't recall visiting a home without icons; luckily I found some. Replica tiles from twelfth century art are favorites. A hand-crocheted tablecloth made by a much loved Baba, a Turkish coffee pot, casserole dishes, and some stoneware pipes used for drinking hot, sugared Rakija (the local firewater) add to the Macedonian touch.

Not being a minimalist, one of my favorite decorative theories is "If you like it, it will fit in with other items you own." I love Badboulder's touch of Macedonia.

FROM THE KNOT: Rakija is not just a touch of Macedonia; it's a genuine TWO-FISTED, FULL-THROTTLE KAPAO. Badboulderlady usually finds the softer side of the world. So, let's check in on her. She is, you know, sort of a modern day Marco Polo. When she comes home from her visits about the planet, whether it be Macedonia, Korea, or California, or the bottom of the Grand Canyon, she is laden down not with spice, but pebbles and tiles and everything nice. There is a story behind each item and each pebble, as any visitor to Badboulder can attest. And see this little black pebble, it came from.....please, please, pray do tell us about this unusual little pebble. Fancy a shot of rakija? Or two? Or three?

a parting shot from bbman: 58,195--the number of names on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, sometimes called the wall

Prickly Pear Jelly with Pizazz

Like many newcomers to the high desert, I wanted to learn the art of prickly pear jelly making. I did one procedure right--picking the fruit with tongs. I spent hours holding each piece with tongs in one hand, tweezers in the other to remove the spines. I walked in a light rain to our local mercantile to purchase pectin only to have the clerk inform me that her mother in Michigan said never make jelly on a rainy day. I'm not sure if her mom was correct or if I was too generous with the juice but I canned some excellent syrup that we ate on our hotcakes.

Advice from a wonderful neighbor, an eighty year old AZ native, helped take the cactus jelly making to another level. A blow torch was her quick method of removing those pesky stickers; we tried it and wouldn't go back to the tweezers. Then, she explained that in her opinion cactus jelly was too bland to merit the effort unless jalapeno was added. What worthwhile advice.

This year's harvest of prickly pear is outstanding. David performed the torching duties and I processed the fruit shortly after. I washed each piece checking for any stray spines, used a fillet knife to make a cut and release juice, then covered with water to boil. After cooking the fruit, I used a potato masher in order to maximize color and flavor. Next, strain the juice through two layers of cheesecloth. At this point I refrigerated the juice and completed the jelly making the next day.

I found a recipe on line that appeared reasonable, excepting the 18 (eighteen) teaspoons of pectin. For two and one/half cups juice, one/half cup lemon juice, five cups sugar, a box of pectin and for us one/half of a plump jalapeno, sliced. It's delicious!

My next prickly pear effort will be syrup with jalapeno. I plan to try the recipe above but substitute five cups cactus juice for the two and one/half cups.

This lovely, but sassy jelly will take the chill off a Badboulder winter day.

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Hey, up here, it's me, on duty, keeping an eye on the front gate. You know, don't want no scallywags coming in uninvited, especially when Badboulderlady has her hands full of prickly pears. Here in Arizona, nothing sums up the image of our state quite as well as the cactus. Just to make my point, we put a cactus on our license plates. While Arizona boasts many varieties of cactus, the undisputed star of the lot is the tall, stately, imposing saguaro cactus. In all the world, the saguaro cactus can only be found in the Sonoran Desert, which is shared by Arizona and Mexico. Are Texans just a little bit jealous of our Saguaro? You can bet your boots on that one. As we leave the desert and follow U.S. Highway 89 up the Yarnell Hill to Badboulder, the Saguaros quit growing at about 4,000 feet in elevation. Although Saguaros bloom and produce a fruit which can be used to make jelly, jam, fruit leather, wine, and syrup, Badboulderlady prefers to use what grows right here on Badboulder, where prickly pears are abundant. So, when the winter days turn cold up here on Badboulder Mountain, I expect Badboulderlady will warm me up, with her jalapeno laced prickly pear jelly. Life is good.

a parting shot from bbman: one life is not enough. zsa zsa gabor

Bicentennial Quilt, Twenty-six Years in the Making

I'm thinking it's no surprise that any woman taking twenty-six years to embroider a quilt is hooked up with a man who took sixteen years to build a house.

I bought the patriotic quilt kit at the PX in Fort Benning, Georgia the summer of 1974, plenty of time to get it embroidered by our country's bicentennial. I listened to Sweet Home Alabama and The Air That I Breathe (Lynard Skynard and The Hollies) as I watched Leslie and Matt's swimming lessons and cross-stitched like a fiend. I took the embroidery project along to work on while we waited to watch David jump off the airborne school towers, then out of an airplane. The three achieved their summer goals; not I. Much of the quilt was unfinished.

In September David went on to Korea unaccompanied, leaving me wondering how fate could be so cruel. This was his third unaccompanied tour in eight years. Then, much to our surprise he was able to change his assignment to accompanied and we were on our way. Yes, I brought the quilt top.

Korean language and culture classes, social responsibilities and managing our move kept me busy. Answered prayers, not one but two adopted infant daughters, soon filled my nights and days. Somehow, the quilt project was stowed safely away for eight years. It missed the bicentennial.

This time all four children helped with the stitching--a couple of them wanted to contribute only enough to truthfully say they were part of the project. I won't name names as to who those two slackers were but Leslie and N.C., I couldn't have done it without you.

Life got really busy when I returned to university and began a teaching career. Somehow, that quilt didn't surface for another ten years or so. This time when our little girls helped with the sewing they were on break from college!

We finished the embroidery. In order to keep the quilt entirely handmade, I sewed the panels together by hand. At this point, the quilt had so many memories that it was hand carried to and from my mother's quilting frames. I have no recollection of the time required for her to do the quilting; but, as always, my mom did a superb job.

The Congress Community Quilt show displays quilts made by groups and this one certainly qualified in that regard. We won first place!

Independence Day celebration has very high priority at Badboulder. The patriotic quilt comes out and someone always wraps up in it. If the usual Fourth of July monsoon rain doesn't hit to cool us down, we crank up the air conditioner enough to justify using the quilt for a few minutes.

David recalls the horror his grandmother experienced upon seeing one of her handmade quilts being used as a ground cover--protecting her grandson (not David, he 's a bit more sensitive) as he changed the oil on his '57 Ford. Who knows what our grands may do with the patriotic quilt, but if it involves changing oil, I don't want to know.

Let freedom ring!

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Okay, let's get one thing straight. This quilt did not win first place in a quilt contest in the United States Congress. That Badboulderlady is sometimes rather squirrelly, and she might like for you to believe that her patriotic quilt has been the recipient of high honors from the US Congress. I mean, that's a great story. And, true, the quilt has flown over some rather important places, like the Pacific Ocean, Japan, Kimpo Airport, Wake Island. But the truth is that the quilt contest was in Congress, AZ, a little desert town in the middle of nowhere, where a few hale and hardy cowboys and cowgirls call home. But, if I were to suggest where you would find greater allegiance to motherhood, apple pie, Old Glory, and even patriotic quilts, the US Congress or Congress, AZ, I think I would lean decidedly toward the latter. And, what will the grands do with the patriotic quilt? I hope it continues to a part of family 4th of July celebrations. Let freedom ring!

a parting shot from bbman: eternal vigilance is the price of freedom. there doesn't seem to be a clear consensus of the origin of these words, but they are still meaningful and still used today

Max, Badboulder's Gentle Giant

Seven years ago I returned from a joyous trip to Macedonia to some unexpected news from Leslie, our Airedale lovin' daughter. She had found a dog equal to Kelsey, our much loved giantess who had passed the prior summer. Max, a Ouachita, the largest of the Airedales, was residing in an Airedale Rescue facility.

Probably like most rescue dogs, Max had his story. He ate his owner's clothing. He ate the plastic laundry basket that housed her dirty clothing. He ate plastic lawn chairs. His diet had resulted in three necessary but expensive surgeries and there was no indication that his behavior would change. Max was living in a condo, his owner was facing more time demands at work, and recognized that his welfare depended upon the painful decision of giving him up to someone with more space.

For Max, Badboulder must have been Eden. Colonel, our springer, was waiting at the green gate, tail a wagging. The two were best buds from first sniff. Max had room to roam, loved the shady guesthouse courtyard, befriended our cats, and never ate another non-food item. He does love chewing on a good stick and digs at will in his own yard. He does love food and once weighed in at one hundred forty-seven pounds. I had to switch from dog bones to green beans for treats as I was the culprit that aided and abetted in his weight problem.

Badboulder is on the map for a band of javalinas; they pay us a nightly visit. They will devour bird seed and fish food if we are so forgetful as to leave it out. Only once have we witnessed any fear on the part of the Boulder Mountain herd of javalinas--the night Max pushed me aside and bolted out the gate. Gravel flew as the entire herd scattered and ran full out. Max quickly returned from his bit of fun with a big smile on his face.

Max barks at thunder but doesn't seem fearful. It's more of a "just bring it on" bark. What really puts the fear in Max is a bath--absolutely no water for our Max. He savors haircuts and brushing but we gave up on the baths years ago. Max is the most loving dog an owner could ever enjoy and we will not put him through that trauma. I have a few hundred pounds of baking soda to brush through his hair before we entertain house guests. We'll see if that recommendation works.

One rainy winter Max and Colonel ran away. We'll never know how they opened the gate but we do know they were in pursuit of great adventure. Upon finding them missing, David and I walked, alone on separate pitch black mountain trails with our flashlights and walkie-talkies in a rainstorm. During our three day search, we put out fliers and canvassed door-to-door. We went to every cafe and the town bakery as we thought hunger would set in. Water was not an issue as all the washes and streams were full and the rain just kept coming. No one had seen two dogs. On the third day, David found them in the afternoon frisking about on a mountain trail. They jumped all over him as if to say "Where have you been?". It was a parent/teacher conference day for me and by the time I arrived home at 8:30 p.m. all those dogs could do was thump their tails, both were too sore to rise. They laid around a couple of days, then were as good as new.

Max has one habit that is not endearing, he is consistently curious about skunks.

Max is quite intelligent in one regard. He forgoes rubbing his big, wooly head all over me or goosing me if I am dressed for school or going out. If I'm in grubbies, then I get his full attention. During my chemo days, I became very weak and falling was a huge issue for me. Not once did Max rub, nudge or push. Upon recovery, I was fair game. Max has ESP for his humans!

Max and Badboulder have been the proverbial match made in heaven. He embraced the boulder environment, perhaps there is a genetic stirring going back to the days when his breed hunted mountain lions . Max takes his job of protection seriously and barks at all intruders. His size alone say "Do not enter without permission." It's all show; Max is the most lovable of dogs.

Max and Colonel are living in their eleventh year. Max is beginning to show his age a bit--sleeps longer and sounder, getting up takes some effort at times and it's back to green beans for treats in an effort to lose a tad of weight.

Max is a vital part of Badboulder. His story is a testament for Airedale Rescue.

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Remember when Crocodile Dundee was on the streets of New York and some street punk pulled a switchblade knife on him? Dundee said, "You call that a knife? This is a knife," as he pulled out a knife half as big as a machete. Well, I think Dundee would say, "Now, that's a dog." There may be bigger dogs, but I've never seen one as big as Max. He weighs more than Badboulderlady who is about average weight. Max does not have a temper. He never growls at people. We have never seen him the slightest bit aggressive toward humans. Just playful.

a parting shot from bbman: been to the drive-in movies lately?