I am a ranchhand

Last week we had a sculptor come to Stan's ranch to start sculpting a bust of his son Daniel. I mentioned that I was going to be going to Boulder to do some petsitting soon, and that I was a little tired of living in the tipi, so if she knew of anyone with a spare bedroom somewhere…. And bam! Serendipity strikes again! It just so happened she needed a petsitter this week for her ranch! Which has now turned into me living here through the winter!

Picture this: A small cluster of cabins and barns nestled into a tall, rocky canyon, sweeping yellow fields, red cliffs, emerald pine trees, fresh peppermint growing along the ditch, the swish of a river nearby, chickens clucking, roosters crowing, apples and chokecherries ripening - in other words, paradise!

I walked into the main house and thought I had walked into a movie set! An antique writing table sits in the hall, history books spilled open, notes taken, papers scattered around. To the left is a sitting room, the curtains are pulled to keep out the heat which lends the room a particularly mysterious quality as the dark shadows fall on the giant, stuffed big horned sheep in the corner, and there is just enough light sifting through to notice the tiger skin rug with head attached on the floor, thrown over another animal skin, a large antique couch, wood paneled ceiling, animal heads on the wall. The bedroom is all wood, silk, textiles, animal fur rugs, skeins of Navajo wool spilling out of a basket in the corner, boxed valances at the windows, stenciled in Austria. There is a stairway that leads downstairs, the light from the basement window shines bleakly up the stairway revealing larger than life murals of what seem to be the characters from Alice in Wonderland.

Outside there is a pool, slightly green because it is turned off, flowers spill out over the terraces above, a gorgeous oasis of a picnic area off to the side of the pool complete with teak furniture, antique grill, large candles. Under the main cliffs is a long, glass-enclosed art studio that looks down onto the living area. The "bunkhouse" that I stay in is one-story house with three bedrooms, a living room, a 10' long stone fireplace, a kitchen, dining room, laundry, a lovely bathroom, and many shelves filled with the oddest assortment of books, fossils, and little animal skulls. Everything here feels like it is at least 50 years old if not older.

Nearby is a pond full of white geese. There is a barn with a dairy cow (Blossom) and her baby (Willow), a whole bunch of grey sheep, and four huge horses that like hugs. There are four barn cats, two dogs, a bunch of chickens and roosters, doves, and peacocks - one of which is about to hatch a baby! Across the river is a rustic cabin with an old-fashioned, wood-fired cooking stove, and there are 2 old silvery campers permanently fixed into the ground, complete with quilted beds and wood finishings.

The cliffs that overlook the house are filled with Indian paintings, bits of arrowheads and flints, graves, and more. I can't wait to go exploring! I can't believe I am living here!

Summer Camp

Having just arrived back in Wyoming after a 2-week stint at Mountain Therapy Camp, I realized that not everyone has a good idea of what it is I do there. Mountain Therapy Camp was created for children with disabilities, ranging from cerebral palsy, Down's Syndrome, Autism, and a variety of genetic disorders, and typically ages 4 - 8. The camp was designed as a way for these children to receive a week of intensive therapies, as well as to provide them with some "normal" summer camp activities that they would otherwise never get to experience. At the same time, parents get the day off to attend seminars or take respite, and siblings go to a typical summer camp.

Each therapy team consists of 5 therapists, 5 children, and 2 volunteers. Generally there is a Speech Therapist, Physical Therapist, Occupational Therapist, and Music and Art Therapists, and occasionally behavioral therapists too. For 5 days, each child receives 5 hours of one-on-one therapy and 1 hour of an activity like canoeing or climbing. That means in one week each child receives 25-30 hours of therapy, something that might take them up 6 months or more to receive at public school, plus all their therapists at camp are working on the same exact 3-4 goals the entire time - that is rare in the world of therapy! Which also means that as an art therapist, I need to find ways to use art to help kids learn to speak, learn to walk, control behavior, and other not typically addressed through art kind of goals!

We have 6 sessions a day, which means I have a couple minutes between each kid to document notes, go to the bathroom, and set up for the next child who has completely different goals as to the one before. Snack and lunch are sessions, there are no "breaks." Amidst all the therapy, we also are either changing diapers or toilet-training children that can weigh up to 50 lbs and might not be able to assist at all. Phew! After therapy, the kids go back to their cabins with their parents, the therapists finish notes, take a break, and meet as a team before and after dinner to discuss the day's work and start putting together treatment books, sometimes for 3 - 5 hours per night. On the penultimate evening, we put together the books, which means this day is easily 12 hours long. The last day we have a regular therapy day in addition to 5 hours of meetings with parents to let them know about the work their child did, meaning another 12 hour day.

Does it work? Does it pay off? Last week we had two 5 year-old girls who were only speaking 2 word phrases start using full, correct sentences. A 5 year-old boy who had only taken 3 independent steps in his whole life took 28 steps the second day of therapy, and continued to walk independently through the week. One child participated beautifully in all the sporting activities her parents claimed she never, ever would. A lot can happen in a week!

Make Yourself Comfortable

Northern Arapahoe Tribe

Recently I've received a few comments from visiting Indians at Stan's house that they were struck to see a white woman sitting around "as if she belonged" and looking so comfortable. More often than not, they drive up what I imagine they see is a pale woman in a skirt and a fitted shirt, sitting on a bench on the front porch of a mobile home, wedged between two very large Indians looking even larger because they are wearing oversized, XXL athletic clothing (generally all black), they are smoking, dogs are at our feet, babies crawling dangerously close to the edge of the deck. She is probably bouncing a tiny Indian baby on her knee while shooing off an older Indian child who could win awards with his "Little Brother Mental Torture" skills.

This morning I received a phone call and was asked where I was and what I was doing. My reply: I'm just out lounging on top of the old washing machine out behind the house in the shade. Their reply: "Daaaamn, you have definitely assimilated!" I have to admit, until yesterday I couldn't understand the draw to the washing machine/dryer loungers out back that the kids crawl all over all the time. But my tush was quite comfortable on the cold metal, and the slanted part where the dials are was the perfect incline for my back and elbow. Maybe I should sew some cushions for them because they certainly will never be dragged to the dump. Next thing we know I'll be sleeping on the living room floor without blankets, playing under the deck for entertainment, swimming in the ditch, and those liver and cheese sandwiches on wonder bread will start looking tasty.