Bowling Alone...NOT!

Julia rags Jerry before bowling

Last Friday the Ranchers went to Bastrop for their regular bowling practice at the Chestnut Square Family Entertainment Center.  Special Olympics competitions are coming up and we do love Special Olympics bowling events!

They were in their usual high spirits, glad to be at the end of a workweek, excited about plans for the weekend.  There were several lanes going, lots of joshing trash talk, and body language verging on the eloquent.

We are not inconscpicous in such a situation.  In fact, we epitomize what many politically correct folks who work with people with intellectual disabilities really, really dislike, to wit:

1.  We go bowling as a group--all 22 of us plus staff.  (Nobody's required to, by the way; they could stay home if they wanted to.)

2.  We are pretty identifiable as a group containing people with intellectual disabilities
(since most of us have Down syndrome, we haven't figured out a way around this.)

Way back when, Jerry had a colleague who got very heated up whenever she beheld such egregiously unacceptable scenes as people with IDs bowling with their peers. 

"It's my goal in life to rid the world of 'retarded bowling!'" she would say.

Her ideal world was one in which a person with an ID, living alone in an apartment, would be invited by his University of Texas student neighbor to go bowling one fine evening.

Hey, it's a heck of a vision!  I wish it would happen.

And it does, once in a blue moon.  Not to anybody I ever knew, but I've heard about it, though when it does, it's generally part of a bigger plan to get the regular students involved with the "special needs" ones. 

In other words: it's a project, paid or volunteer.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.  It means caring people wanted to reach out and make someone's life better, and devoted time and resources to doing so.  Nothing wrong with that.

But...who's your real buddy?  Who can you stay up late with, laughing and giggling and dreaming of the future?  Who struggles with the same issues you do, which might include lots of things regular folks never give a thought to?  Who shares your dreams of greater independence, maybe marriage or travel?

Who can you relax with and just be yourself?  Ah...the usual suspects: family and friends.

God gave you your family, and thank God He did.  Your brother might get you out of bed by leaning against the wall, placing his feet on your back, and jettisoning you across the room, with the full consent of your parents.  If anybody else did that it would constitute abuse. 

But to your brother you're just a pesky sister your parents told you to wake up, not a person in official need of protection.  Thank God.

Friends, that's a stickier issue.

You're part of a select group, only about 2% of the population.  Finding and keeping friends is a challenge.  The regular kids, however kind (which sometimes they are not) won't be your friends.  The special ed classes will have an assortment of people with wildly different levels of functioning.  If you're really lucky you might find one or two compatible kids during school to do things with.

But when you get out of school, you generally don't even have that. 

That's the reality.

Down Home Ranch was once scorned by a member of the politically correct crowd as a "fake community."  We don't know what the person who called us that had in mind for a real community, but I do know this.

We have one heck of a good time bowling!

With St. Francis in the Fields

Rejoicing in the beauty of the world

Yesterday afternoon Fr. John Williams, aka Rebekah's dad, came out to the Ranch for our annual Blessing of the Animals.

People were pretty tired from haying in the morning, but a good contingent trooped off in seach of those creatures great and small for whom Down Home Ranch is also home.  Given the current abundance of said creatures, Fr. John suggested that we select a few "stations" from which to bless, since tracking each one of them down was not practical, and in some cases unwise (such as Peggy Sue, the Longhorn, who holds some sort of bovine grudge against me).

And so we set out from the Pavilion towards  the Village, where Missy, Barny, Abi, and Lady all reside.

Barny gets a blessing

Missy the yellow Labrador is off in Texarkana with Anita, mistress of Martha House, so we went on to our first stop at Barnabas House, where little Barny lives.  He was excited to see us, and happy enough to be blessed, but what he really wanted was to go for a walk, so I suggested we put him on a leash and bring him along.

"Maybe not a good idea," said Michael, who is one of Barny's four owners, and proprieter of a huge aquarium housing a multitude of fish.  I quickly deferred to his opinion.

Michael's new fish tank

After that we headed to Teresa House, home of Abi and Lady.  Abi is enthralled with attention from anyone but a veterinarian, so she was delighted to sit in Fr. John's lap and receive her blessing.  Lady watched amiably from a distance.

Next stop was "the new" Joseph House, which Sterling, John, Kyle, and Travis are hoping to move into sometime in the next few months.  Fr. John asked each person to name the home in the Village where they lived or would live, and asked God's blessing on our homes. 

I was touched to see Kelly reach out to put her hand on Joseph House as it received its blessing. 

From there it was to the top of the haying field, the highest point on the Ranch.

Fr. John explained that St. Francis was considered strange by his contemporaries, because he so loved creation that he would stand in a field and dance, holding up his arms and spinning around.  He urged us all never to worry about what other people say about us, but like St. Francis, to rejoice in the beauty of the world.

From the hill, the horses, donkeys, cows, foxes, fish, turtles, armadillos, skunks, racoons, wild pigs and all other creatures on the Ranch received their blessing. 

Natalie moves manure from the barn to the compost pile

"And bless all the horse poop, too," Kyle said earnestly, which elicited a few disapproving murmurs, but I knew Kyle was remembering what we'd told him about how the horse manure he collects and takes to the compost piles enriches and gives back to the earth.

Later on in the afternoon Jerry popped into my office and said, "I've got to run to Bloomer's and pick up some winter veggie packets.  Be back in an hour."

As I left my office, I saw him digging in the garden and went over to investigate.  He'd bought brussels sprounts and broccoli, pansies and peas and was planting them in the beds.  Our adolescent rooster was practicing crowing (pretty funny at this stage) and the evening sun slanted across the newly mown hay field.

In that moment, I knew exactly what St. Francis had been getting at.

New Life at the Ranch!

New life at the Ranch!

Oh boy my mother hen complex came in handy today!

Got the call about 11:00 that our chicks had arrived at the Elgin post office and they were--ahem--ready to have them picked up.

I snagged Matt out of Ranch Camp with Denise's blessing.  Matt's our main Chicken Wrangler and has helped engineer this segment of Operation Independence.

Right now our little friends have a lot of growing to do, but we look forward to the day they will provide major assistance with grasshopper control and give us yummy eggs each morning.

Two of them have names.  Their names are Clara and Ray, because Heidi Clara and Gary Ray Holliday, parents of Rancher Christopher, bid on and won naming rights to the Founding Flock hen and rooster.  We don't, of course, yet know which ones are Clara and Ray, but they're in there.

Proud of our brood!

I have frittered away a good part of the day hanging out with the wee ones.  We have 40 chicks, several each of nine different breeds.  They are so incredibly dear and small and busy, runnning from wall to wall inside the Chicken Hilton. 

They're about two days old, and I don't think they'd eaten until they arrived, but the moment we let them out of the box a gigantic grasshopper leaped through the wire and they were after him immediately.  I guess they got him eventually because when I came back to check on them later there was no sign of the grasshopper.

Casey & Matt check the chicks

Already when I come into the enclosure and call "chick chickee chick chick"  they come running.  When I sit down on the pine bedding they gather around me.  They'll go exploring busily around and then just stop, wobble this way and that for a few seconds and then plop down and close their eyes.  This was a little alarming at first but then I realized they're just taking a quick nap.

When the Ranchers got off work at 3:00 they started coming by to see the new additions.  Alaina said she wanted to name all the boys Tim and all the girls Faith, which was fine I told her except for Clara and Ray.
Tomorrow the Garden Team will begin caring for them.

As you may can tell, I'm nuts about chickens and for me this is a very happy day.  Stay tuned to watch our flock grow and thrive!

Praise on the Porch

Thursday evening we heard music coming from across the Village in the direction of Barnabas House, so we drove down to see what was going on.

 

Rebekah was in the front yard with her prayer flags, and Charles and a gaggle of Ranchers with guitars were holding forth on the front porch.  Diana was leading people in song, and Alan was playing drums.

It was great to see Andrew playing his guitar.  He's really quite good, but hasn't played much the past few years.







It was a great scene--a lazy evening with the cicadas thrumming and a joyful noise rising up through the heavy summer air.

Charles blew his shofar, which we were afraid might attract some unwanted wildlife...



He and Diana promised to make it a regular Thursday night gig.

Birds vs. Snakes II

In March I warbled ecstatically about all the barn swallows deciding to make a home in...the barn, of course.  Don and Jennifer do not want barn swallows or any other birds in the barn, and they have a fierce plastic owl that will supposedly intimidate them and they place it menacingly facing outward at the end of the day, which I find hilarious.

Which, apparently, the swallows do also, because their numbers increased.

They're tucked away so far up in the rafters I have no idea how they fared against the snakes this year. 

We had a little Carolina wren on our house porch this year, and we ardently watched over her and her three babies, but a snake got all four of them anyway.

One five-foot long rat snake made it almost all the way up the martin house pole but Don and Jerry arrived just in time to send it packing.Of the four residence homes in the Village, I think only Martha House's nestlings survived to fly away.  Still, there's no lack of barn swallows.  When we drive over the 183 flyover at MoPac I look down and see masses of nests and birds who seem impervious to predation, except from the skies, which I'm sure also happens.

Mother Nature doesn't care.  All her children have to eat.

The adorable little bird, the slithery snake...we're programmed to say "Oh, how sweet" to the one and "Eek" to the other.

As for me, I'm not taking any stances.  I got my husband Jerry in part because, as he stood talking to my daughter Carolyn, then 12, she suddenly flashed a lanky arm into the garden and snatched out a colorful snake, proclaiming, "Look! A yellow-bellied racer!"

Jerry claims he thought: Any woman who can raise a kid like that is the woman for me!

I spend a fair amount of time advocating for the snakes of the Ranch and have saved many a one from the hoe.  I admire them, enjoy them, and run away from them when appropriate.

But I am sorry about those little birds.




Photos:
Swallow and wren: critterzone.com
Snake after martin house: Jerry Horton
Fake owl standing guard: Judy Horton
Racer snake: National Park Service web site http://www.nps.gov/

But There's Nothing There!

That's what the people in charge of the MARC Center in Rockdale reported in 1995 after a scouting expedition to Down Home Ranch as we prepared for the first ever Ranch Camp.

The Marc Center is an activity center/workshop for adults with intellectual disabilities.  We became acquainted with them through board members and volunteers in Rockdale, who encouraged them to think about sending their people to camp.

I have to admit: the physical plant at that time was unimpressive at best:  one very small trailer, one ancient falling-down barn. 

To complicate things, it was raining cats and dogs the day they came, so everyone had to crowd into our postage-stamp living room as Jerry spun his dream of acres of greenhouses, riding facilities, swimming pools, homes, retreat facilities, chapels, ponds, gardens, and cabins.

But, at the time, like I said: one very small trailer, one ancient falling-down barn.

But...we had a plan.

The Taylor National Guard post had offered cots and tents.  Port-o-potties could be rented. We would extend the porch roof out over the front lawn and eat on picnic tables.

Miss Gay (consummate home-schooler and scrounger) and I began scrounging and planning activities.  We lined up volunteers.  We arranged for fishing at a neighbor's pond.  We planned to take the campers swimming every afternoon in Taylor at the municipal pool in Murphy Park.

And after that summer Miss Gay and I could have gone on to careers as recruiting officers for the military.  Every hunk of young flesh that walked by became fair game to be pressed into service as a counselor.

Undoubtedly against their better judgment, the MARC people signed up to come, along with a group from Houston.

Finally the big day arrived, and with it campers and their hopeful, frightened parents and other caregivers.

We had no idea what we were doing, and I'm sure it showed. 

But our faith in ourselves was vindicated.  We created camp together.  Many of the MARC Center campers have returned year after year, making new memories and friends as they renew old ones.

One of our favorites, Jerry Throckmorton, died several years ago.  The town of Rockdale turned inside out to honor him, from the high school teams he supported, to the neighbors whose trash he hauled out on trash day, to the people he worked with in various jobs around town.  As for us, we'll never forget him standing in front of the mobile home, looking philosophical, and saying, "Yep, you've got a pretty nice little camp here."

We established a permanent scholarship in Jerry's name to help others share an experience he loved.

The facilities are a lot more impressive these days, but that experience is pretty much the same.  If it weren't, Ranch Camp would not keep growing from year to year, from a total of 23  the first year to  about 450 this year. Pretty much everyone who comes once, comes back, and new ones come every year.

We all agreed after that first session that we'd never had so much fun or worked so hard in our entire lives.


  

The Campers Are Here!

The campers are here! The cars came rolling in starting around 3:30 Sunday afternoon. Our staff and friends saddled up to greet the families and entertain them while waiting for the gates to open wide and the wild rumpus begin!

Week 1 is for teenagers and very young adults. It was great fun to see friends who haven’t seen each other in a year fall into each other’s arms.

Despite some rainy days, the fun continues unabated. Every camp director worth his or her salt knows a zillion ways to keep campers entertained indoors, and Denise and her formidable crew of counselors are no exception. Skits, karaoke, line dancing, crafts, games, sharing tables—not to mention mealtimes—are all popular pastimes.

Today, though cloudy, is basically dry, and campers had fun working with the mini horses and donkeys--the ones with four legs, not the stick ones in the dining room used for Western skits!

Tomorrow, incredibly, is their last full day. I say incredibly because camp did not flow so quickly when Miss Gay and I were the ones running it day after day. In fact, we always told the staff to expect Monday to last approximately 72 hours, after which things would move briskly by. Nurse Linda confirmed that yes, Monday was a long one.

Tomorrow evening Ranchers will join campers for the Dance. Oh, how everyone loves the Dance! If you’re ever in the neighborhood drop by. We guarantee you’ll have a great time.

One reason is, you’re required to!

We tolerate NO wallflowers among the staff. Everyone must dance, and everyone discovers that even if they didn’t feel like dancing, glory be—they’re having a great time and now you do.

And when’s the last time you danced to our all-time favorite: Y-M-C-A?

Only nine weeks to go, and lots more tales to tell.

If I Needed You

Whew.

Yesterday was Jerry’s birthday, the end of a long month of family birthdays.

Out of 16 members of our immediate family (Jerry and I, our four daughters, three sons-in-law, six grandkids, and one grandson-in-law) nine of us are blessed with birthdays in the merry month of May.

(Actually, I suspect the really merry month was September, when the kids went back to school. "Another cup of coffee, hon'?")

Whatever, every year it’s like a second Christmas season, except this one doesn’t happen on one day, it’s spread from the third to the 24th, with three on the 15th alone! Generally by the time we get to Jerry’s, everyone is tired of revelry, and broke anyway, so not much attention is paid and then we all feel guilty and have to redeem ourselves on Father’s Day.

You can always count on Kelly, however, to make the day.

Not that she was particularly cooperative this year. Sunday I invited her and Sterling over for the birthday supper Monday night but—egad—Monday night is Wal-Mart night! How could Wal-Mart night have not been foremost in my conciousness!?

“It’s OK, Kel,” I said. “Just wrap your present for Dad and make him a card. Do you want to sing the morning song for him with me?”

“What time?” she asked dubiously.

“About 4:30 would be good,” I teased.

“Mo-om!” she groaned, stamping her foot. “We don’t sing at 4:30 in the morning!”

“Well, as soon as you get here then,” I said.

Monday morning we had important meetings starting at 8:00, so Jer was out the door scarce before I could plant a birthday kiss on the cheek, just as the whippoorwill was ending his morning serenade at Michael’s back window in Barnabas House.

At 6:35 I hear a knock on the door and Kelly is standing there in pajamas and slippers, clutching her present and the card she’d made for Dad.

“Sorry, babe, we missed him, but let me get a picture of you for him,” I said. Kelly balked  at this but the camera was handy so I didn’t detain her for long and soon off she pedaled, up the hill and back to bed.

When I read the card she’d made, I knew we had another masterpiece on our hands.

Kelly’s cards are always very creative, often touching, and each a true original. They usually manage to sum up with a request for the recipient to assist Kelly with managing some important aspect of her life.

Happy Birthday Dad

72 is a cool age

for

a

wonderful

special

dad

I’ve

got

since

1984

and

I

do

love you

very much

with all of

my heart and

my life too

I want my dad to be happy.

Jerry Wayland Horton

May 24th

1938

72 years ago

Your mom my grandma had a miracle is you Dad then you

were my mom’s birthing coach

got me out that

is why

how much Sterling loves

you a lot and so do I

you’re

always

going

to be my Dad forever

when you walk me

down the aisle

on

my wedding day

I want to marry Sterling

can you and Mom give me away to Sterling he will

take care of me I won’t forget to …(can’t make out last word.)

The “birthing coach” part is true. Jerry speaks often and eloquently about how very hard he worked as my birthing coach, fetching cups of ice, rubbing my back and feet, and performing other acts of mercy and kindness over the long hours of labor, which left him completely exhausted and in severe need of liquid refreshment.

But I digress.

Jerry and I went on to have a lovely evening together, just the two of us.

I’d picked blackberries and made a proper pie for him, and it turned out very well indeed. He opened his presents, over which he professed great delight—none more than Kelly’s and her card—and we picked up the guitar and sang a few tunes together just for old time’s sake, and learned a new one—Townes van Zandt’s "If I Needed You."

It was a sweet evening.

We do need each other, so much. We’re glad our girl has her place in the world that we’d dreamed of, and that Monday night is Wal-Mart night, and not to be messed with.

We are secure in her love, and in each other’s, and who could ask for more?

Rebekah's Smile II

Well, I promised Rebekah I'd put a tune to "Rebekah's Smile," the poem I wrote her last year for her 25th birthday.  You might recall she asked me about it after Kelly and I sang to her on her 26th birthday.

But I couldn't come up with a tune, and then Rebekah's dad, Fr. John, told me that some of his parishioners at St. Francis, Janie Stein and Martin Bates, were working on putting the poem to music, so I desisted my efforts to see what came of theirs.

A few Sundays ago they were ready to debut the song, so I trundled over to College Station for the morning service, which was delightful.  (If you ever have a chance to hear Fr. John preach on the gospel according to Charlotte's Web, don't miss it!)

After the service and before falling upon the Second Sunday potluck, Janie and the choir passed out copies of the words to Rebekah's Smile.  Rebekah stood, smiling of course, as they began.

Soon there wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.  By the end of the song, Rebekah had been overcome herself and burst into tears, but they were happy tears and Mom Rita and sister Sarah quickly set things right.

This was Janie and Martin's last Sunday at St. Francis, so the congregation wrapped them in a beautiful woven prayer shawl to comfort and protect them as they make their way to Colorado, where they will visit their kids and love on their grandkids for a few months.

I got the music from Janie for the song, and Rebekah's been asking me to sing it for everybody at the Ranch, which I will do soon.

In the meantime, just in case you're interested, here are the words of the song:

                            Rebekah's Smile

Rebekah's smile lights up the world and seems to say,
That everything that worries you will be okay.
Today her laughter fills the sky with happy song,
And if the storm clouds come, it's not for long.

            Rebekah's smile, I wouldn't trade it for the world,
           Not for diamonds, not for gold, or even pearls.
           It breaks like dawn that comes after the night,
           A blessing setting every trouble somehow right.

She runs to throw her arms around you, glad you're there.
Though other people now and then will stop and stare.
I don't know just what they're thinking when they see
How love can be so simple and so free.

          Rebekah's smile, I wouldn't trade it for the world,
          Not for diamonds, not for gold, or even pearls.
          It breaks like dawn that comes after the night,
         A blessing setting every trouble somehow right

You know, the world could learn a thing or two,
From gentle souls who only care that you are you.
You might never win a prize, or make a fortune big or small,
But if you're Rebekah's friend, you've got it all.

The Campers Are Coming! The Campers Are Coming!

As Denise reminds us every time we see her, there are only 27 days left until Ranch Camp begins. In June the first 50 or so campers of the season will tumble out of cars, vans, and buses, ready for a week of fun, friends, and activities.

Ranch Camp doesn’t get the respect it deserves. Naturally we tend to focus on our Ranchers; this is their year-round home, after all. But camp was our first program, created out of nothing in ’95 because we knew residency was still years away and we desperately longed to begin actively working with those we planned to serve.

Why camp? How important could a few days away from home in the country matter  much in the grand scheme of things?  You'd be surprised.

 I’m the one who pushed for camp, and I can testify to that, because when I was a kid, my camp gave me a vision and saved my life and sanity.

Shortly before my ninth birthday, in April of 1951, my father committed suicide after years of struggling with alcoholism and failure.

Like most such families, we lived in chaos, never knowing what to expect.  My grandmother, concerned about me in the aftermath of this tragedy, asked if I wanted to go to a girls’ camp in the Kerrville area for part of the summer. I don’t recall what I answered, but I wound up going to Camp Arrowhead for 5 ½ weeks, the first of several years I would attend.

What most kids learn in a family, I learned at camp—to trust the people in charge of my well-being, to follow rules in place for my own good, to relax in the company of friends, to be given the resources to learn new things, to know what to expect from day to day.

We ate in the “Filling Station” and got doctored at the “Pill Box.” We drew names to see what tribe we would be in (Pawnee or Kickapoo) and competed throughout the term for points to win a plaque.

We went to vespers on Wednesday evening and chapel services on Sunday. In the evenings we watched movies on the lawn and ate mountains of watermelon. I sang with the Pawnee Chorus and still sing the songs we learned.

I loved camp. I lived for camp. Even today, when I’m feeling stressed out, if I take a few minutes and think back to those warm sunny days spent on the banks of the Guadalupe—my holy river—I calm down.

So I know, deep down, how much camp can mean to a person. Even though we only get our campers for a week at a time, Denise and Don make sure they get the heart of the Ranch Camp experience--the friendships, the silly songs, the comforting routines, the chance to find out what you're really good at.  For a precious week, our campers build memories of happy times.

It’s their special time, their own retreat.  And it deserves all the respect we can give it.

Selena Mania!

In March I chanced to read an article in the Texas Monthly commemorating the 15th anniversary of  the death of Mexican-American singer Selena.  I did remember when she was killed, but had seen her at the time as a minor pop singer in whom mostly young people would be interested.

Needless to say, the article was heartbreaking, but more than that, it piqued my interest anew.

A few days later I took Sterling and Kelly to Wal-Mart, and chanced to pass by the rack featuring Spanish music.  There was a double album of Selena's hits and it wasn't expensive, so I bought it.

Wow!  I fell in love on the first song.  What a voice! What presence! What sureness! What musicianship!  I was hooked.  Soon Selena was booming on my car speakers wherever I went, and the joy of listening to her irrepresible renditions filled my days.

Kelly and Sterling liked it, too.  I told them about Selena and reminded them we had a movie about her in the library, but warned that it ended very sadly.

Kelly watched the movie that night, and asked me lots of questions the next day.  We've played the songs and talked a lot more about things I imagine a lot of people would really like to know: Why did that woman shoot Selena?  Is Selena in heaven now?  How old would she be now?  Is her husband still sad?

The answers I gave her?  "We'll never really know."  "I'm certain she is."  "38 years old."  "Yes, I'm sure he is, but he got married again, and guess what--he has a little boy with Down syndrome just like you!"

Then about two weeks ago I came out of my office and what do I hear but "...'Amor prohibido murmuran por las calles'..."  Selena!

"Who's playing Selena?" I ask.

"Me," says Natalie, "I love her."

Now all the Ranchers can talk about is Selena.  DVD sales are booming, Ranchers are clamoring for me to teach them her songs in Spanish.  We sing, we dance, we boogie to Selena.

Often the Ranchers want to talk about the unbelievable tragedy of her death and our hearts break anew.  How is it even possible that so much aliveness could be taken away? 

But I remind them that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never overcome it.

And we best honor Selena by holding onto that, and by joyfully letting the gifts she left behind fill our lives.



Photo:  Selena, pictured in April 1994, for her Amor Prohibido Tour

Time to Call it a Day

Okay, the party’s over, and it was a grand success.
Were there glitches? Oh, yes.

However, they were not ones that were apparent to the assembled crowd, which overfilled the Parish Hall at St. William, and that’s a mercy.

Within the hall itself magic happened. The food from Southside was wonderful, as always. The sound system was just right—clear as a bell and loud close to the stage but conversation-friendly away from it.

The audio-visuals—a 365 rotation of beautiful slides assembled by our marketing friend Kyle, and a short clip of our Ranchers produced by UT student Michael David were incredibly touching, especially combined with Jerry’s little talk about the mission of Down Home Ranch and what we’re trying to accomplish here.

And the band—oh my gosh! The three impish angels of the Quebe Sisters Band fiddling and singing, guests shuffling and swinging, Ranchers mixed seamlessly among us all…and people actually drove from San Angelo to be there because of the band!

Magic, sheer magic.

Auctioneer Gayle Stallings gave the evening shape and focus, and ensured that all concerned had a fabulous time.

I was so tired at the start of the evening I thought it was something I’d just have to make it through, but as old friends and new filtered into the hall it had the same effect as the campers arriving for Ranch Camp: with each new arrival, my energy came back.

I danced the night away, with friends, with Ranchers, with Jerry, with nobody at all.

I have often said that the most wonderful thing about building Down Home Ranch has been the constant stream of people coming forth to offer the best of who they are and what they have.

Two of them showed up just before the Gala, in response to my blog of March 25, just a trial run to see if it was a match, and it looks like it is.

And the funny thing was, they hadn’t even read it.

Like I said.  Magic.

Today is Epiphany.


As Kelly would say, "It's my favorite."

When all the folderol of the season, sacred and secular, has begun to quiet down, one of the highest holidays of the liturgical churches takes place to commemorate the recognition of the world that new Light has come into it.

Personally, I feel that Epiphany wraps me in light, love, and promise as I say goodbye to the Christmas season. The Ranchers love ceremony, so last year I put together a short one to share with them.

I sent Barry out to buy the roscas--the circular breads studded with candied fruits and nuts traditionally eaten in the Southwest on Three Kings Day, another name for Epiphany.

We found a tiny figure of the Christ child to hide in the rosca. (Tradition holds that the person finding the Christ child in their portion has to give a party for everyone else on the 2nd of February.)

We gathered together in the Pavilion. I gave each person a candle, lighted my own, and turned out the lights. Enveloped in inky darkness except for the small flame I was holding, there were shouts and murmurs and a few wobbly whispers of "I'm scared!"

"Hold on," I said, and lit the candle of the person next to me.

"Oh, I get it," she said, and lit her neighbor's candle.

As the golden light of the candles filled the room, we began to sing "We Three Kings of Orient Are," and processed up the hall to the dining room, where I had placed a creche with the Wise Men (plus Mother Teresa, for good measure) gathered in front of the manger before the Babe.

The Ranchers set their candles on the table and Terry read the scripture passages having to do with the coming of the Magi, the threat from Herod, and the flight into Egypt, by their light.

"Jesus is the Light of the world," I said. "Epiphany is when the world came to know that."

Then we turned on the lights and had our hot chocolate and served our rosca.

Natalie  found the Christ child, which obligated the Teresa House ladies  to give a party on February 2. Much cheering ensued.

Tonight, we'll do it all again.

And may your Epiphany be filled with Light and love.