An Unexpected Inheritance

Airedale_Terrier_1

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Greetings, good people!  Boots here.  I can’t seem to stay off the trail these days.  The good news?  I’m back in the office saddle again and ready to resume the 3 Rs: (w)riting, reading, and researching coffee hints and tips for you.

I used to work for an old-timer named Dinty at an isolated lake on some old homestead that had been pieced out of the surrounding government land — or guvment land, as Dinty used to say.  Dinty’s cabin was perched on a rocky outcropping high above the lake — a location which increased the view dramatically but which also made the chore of hauling water quite the Olympic-style feat for anyone over the age of old-timer status.   That’s where I came in: Dinty’s Personal Hired Girl.

Dinty was short for Dinsmore and, as you can guess with a name like Dinsmore, you just know that this gentleman was destined to be a character.  And he was.  Dinty lived a spartan life with his  Airedale — the only breed of dog that Dinty would entertain sharing his cabin with.  Dinty named every one of his Airedales Sandy “for that durned dog in the Little Orphan Annie cartoon.”

Dinty called all of the various Airedales Sandy to the dog’s face, back, or rear, but to the rest of us human folk, he would use the Roman numeral system, as if the dogs were the descendant kings and queens of some ill-fated, disinherited canine lineage.  It didn’t matter if the dogs were male or female, as the name Sandy was one of those non-gender names like Chris or Jessie or Terry.

I happened to be working for Dinty the summer that Sandy VI was reigning over the homestead.  For those of you who have long-forgotten the Roman numeral system, that would be #6.  Now I am an epic dog lover, but I would not say that I was Sandy VI’s number one fan.  The first time I met the dog, she bristled at me like a hedgehog and gave me that mean look that dogs give you when they want to mess with your mind.  And maybe take a chomp out of your leg.

You would be playing a mid-afternoon game of backgammon with Dinty and, if you moved your foot just-so under the table, Sandy VI would come at your foot like a terra-firma version of Jaws.  Because of Sandy’s threatening predilection to chomp on people and me being an exceedingly quick learner, I always made it a habit to don my steel-toed Wescos before engaging in any board games, partaking of meals, or drinking with Dinty.  You never knew when that crazy dog was going to wake up from some nutty dream and sink its teeth into your ankle.  It was kind of scary really.

Dinty was a coffee drinker like I was.  There was no messing around when it came to get the pot percolating.  Every morning I would build a fire, grab the water pail, and head down to the lake for water.  Sandy would watch me from the front porch of the cabin with her beady eyes hidden behind her curly mop, all the while eyeing my lower legs while I walked backward down the trail to the lake.  Can I just say it?  I did not harbor any love or affection for Sandy VI.

Returning with the water was a different matter.  I always felt like I had an advantage and that I was carrying protection.  It was evident that some hired girl from a previous year had baptized the dog at least once.

I am surprised to say that that dog actually grew on me in an admiring sort of way.  There was something about the tenacity and fierceness that she directed toward life.  That summer alone, Sandy VI was bitten by a rattle snake, kicked by a horse, and lost for a week on the other side of the ridge.  I watched as some nice person, who must have found her, boated her back to Dinty’s dock and dropped her off without a howdy doo to Dinty.  He probably was so glad to be rid of her that he didn’t wait around for any thanks.

During a thunder and lightning storm, Sandy VI jumped over three ricks of split firewood in the woodshed and then couldn’t jump back over to freedom.  It took an afternoon of taking apart the woodpile and then restacking it to liberate her.  My thanks?  She just went tearing off into the yard, barking at the sky and daring it to throw another lightning bolt her way.

After I figured out that she was just plain loco and not targeting just me, I relaxed a little bit.  After all, what harm did it do me to keep my knee-high, engineer-style Wescos on the for entire blistering summer heat . . . my feet never once having opportunity to receive a single ounce of vitamin D while wearing any of my beloved flip-flops?  And was it really that bad wondering if my hand was going to be snarfed off anytime I went to fill her food bowl?  Or how about those daily chess games when my legs would go to sleep for fear of moving them and having my boots gnawed at?  No, it was all good.  The best summer of my life.

My hired-girl gig was over in late September and I gave Dinty a hug on the front porch, the walk down to the dock to see me off being a bit of a chore for the old guy.  In spite of my relationship with his beloved Sandy VI, you couldn’t help but love Dinty.  His was a personality that you don’t see much of anymore.  A man who kept to himself, chose solitude over the madding crowd, and lived the life he had chosen for himself without complaint.  I felt some tears roll down my cheeks as I gave him one last hug.

As I was backing down the driveway, one eye on Sandy VI, with my gear, Dinty called out, “You know.  You’re the only one who made it through the whole season.”  I think I could have told him why, when I saw Sandy eyeing me with her beady eyes for that one last opportunity to sink her Kujo jaws into my calf.  But . .  through all of this . . . I learned one important lesson.  Never judge a man by the canine company he keeps.  There is disparity all over the world that we don’t understand, and this was one of those moments when I felt as if it all made sense.  Companionship sometimes trumps a little bit of unpleasantness.  We’ve all done it. And we’ll keep doing it.

At that compliment/confession, I dropped my pack and gave Dinty one more hug.  That was the one time that summer when I walked down the road to the dock facing forward. I couldn’t walk backward.  Had I done so, I would have had to witness Dinty standing there  . . . alone for the winter . . . with his Sandy pacing the porch in front of him.  I kept my eyes looking forward to the dock and the pick-up boat that was going to take me back to the land of roads, cars, and grocery stores.

Dinty and I exchanged the occasional letter after that season.  Two years later, I received an official-looking letter that I almost discarded as junk mail.  Turns out it was from a lawyer’s office, Dinty’s lawyer.  The letter instructed me to call the office, as I had been noted as an heir regarding some such item.  I called the office, wondering what the heck, only to learn that I had inherited none other than Sandy VI.  The lawyer read a brief note that Dinty had left saying that I was the one hired girl that Sandy had “loved the most.”

I couldn’t believe it.  So what would you do?  I gassed up my car and drove halfway across the state to the kennel where the poor dog was temporarily incarcerated.  When I took one look at that dejected mess of heart-heavy dog behind that wire cage, I almost started to cry.  All alone.  Missing her only master in the entire world.  Imprisoned.  It was really sad.  That is until the damned dog recognized me or my scent or something and she came out of her depressed state like a rattlesnake to lunge at the wire gate with her teeth showing.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, Sandy VI and I came to an understanding.  She came home with me.  I was living in a dinky cabin on some national forest land at the time and Sandy VI had acres where she could run and be a terror to the territory.  We eventually found an uneasy truce, but I was still pretty careful whenever she was under the kitchen table.  Some habits die hard.

In honor of Sandy and Dinty . . . and my love of boots, shoes, and sandals . . . check out this fabulous footwear.  I still have that same pair of Wescos in the back of my closet.  Yes, I could be considered to be a hoarder, but those boots speak to a time when I was young enough to have the world at my traveling fingertips and dumb enough to think that taking on an inherited dog would include a Hollywood moment or two.

Truth?  There were no Hollywood moments.  But I feel that I did the right thing by rescuing that dog.  There are those times in our lives when we do the right thing and it doesn’t feel like much of a reward at the time.  But I think that this is probably the reward within itself.  Maybe rewards have a way of sneaking up on you.  They hide in cupboards and closets like those Wesco boots.

I think I know why I have kept those boots.

Wesco Boss 11″ Engineer Boots 7700100

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. . . and what would have been a good summer alternative!
Wesco Men’s Custom Jobmaster Boot BKBE106100F Black/Beige

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. . . and the summer shoes I WANTED to be wearing that summer. . . the favorites that my Sissy always sends me for my birthday.
Teva Women’s Olowahu Flip-Flop

http://amzn.to/2bHDYNv

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Hello again . . . Boots is back in the saddle! Oh, and tip your barista!

Greetings to all of you good people!  I, Boots the Badass Coffee Babe, have been away — out on a trail gig — and have missed our coffee connection!  The past weeks, I’ve been out in the woods, away from any form of Internet communication, and restoring my Inner Outdoors Girl.  It has felt great!  And now I am back, so we can catch up on coffee. Tell me . . . What have I missed?

While out on the trail, I ran into a hiker, Niccolo, who was a self-proclaimed coffee connoisseur from Italy.   We got to chatting about travel, trails, and coffee, and Niccolo said that he was curious about a lot of things in America but, once on the topic of Coffee, he asked why American baristas are so under-paid and under-respected.   Now, I might not speak Italian, but Niccolo was certainly speaking my language when it came to this conversation!

I really didn’t know how to answer to this — this not being one of those common questions that comes up when you start Coffee Talk.   I got to thinking about all of the things that American baristas have to be good at and their many multi-tasking duties.  I mean, just look at them.  They pull shots, steam milk, make eye contact with customers, do foam art, remember to ask about someone’s job interview, call back the next drink order to the register barista, and hand off your drink with a smile.   Impressive!

Now that I am back in town, I went to a busy coffee shop and observed the baristas in action.  Let’s take a look at what they have to do to serve an amazing cup of Joe.   A good barista . . .

  1. grinds coffee beans correctly so that the shots aren’t too long or too short
  2. tamps the grind into the filter perfectly
  3. pulls good shots
  4. times shots for high standards
  5. pumps liquid sugar into cups
  6. steams milk to satisfy requests (absolutely no foam, light foam, shaving-cream foam, dry cappuccino foam, bone-dry cappuccino foam)
  7. connects with the customers
  8. rinses shot glasses
  9. fills the bean hoppers
  10. continually re-adjusts the burr grinder to maintain perfect shots
  11. keeps everything clean and shiny
  12. re-stocks the refrigerators
  13. keeps the queue of drinks marching forward
  14. calls back drink orders
  15. works both the hot bar and the cold bar
  16. draws a cute smiley-face on certain cups
  17. asks about the family to the customers they know well
  18. smiles at you when s/he hands off your drink
  19.  . . . and I know that there are many other things . . .

This is a heck of a lot plates to keep spinning — all while maintaining a pleasant demeanor.   Now that I, Boots the Badass Coffee Babe, am back in town, I want to give a big shout-out to all of you baristas who work so hard to perfect your craft and to serve us fabulous beverages that many of us could never dream of making at home.

Just saying!  It makes me think of when I was young, pretty impressionable, flat broke, and just starting to work for someone who was eking out an existence on a history-laden homestead that he had inherited from someone who was as old as dirt.  The history of the place was pretty amazing and this old guy certainly knew it.  He was cocky and demanding and expected me to be his personal barista.   Well, I tamed that idea right out of him.

Sure, I was willing to haul the water from the lake and start the fire in the cookstove.  And I was even willing to grab a mug from the cupboard and set it to warm on the warming trivet.  But make the coffee?  Nuh-uh.  I knew that once I got roped into that lasso, I was going to be on call every morning at oh-dark-thirty to meet this buckaroo’s caffeine demands.

It’s weird to think that I wasn’t a coffee drinker yet.  I opted for healthful options that involved herbs and botanicals that now don’t even smell that good if I now catch a whiff of them brewing.   And this old-timer used the strangest contraption for making coffee.  He said it operated on a vacuum system  that involved some elaborate siphoning.  He expected me to learn how to use it and produce damned-good coffee, but I feigned ignorance (which was genuine) and confounded his expectations by making the very worst coffee (which was a ruse — I was smart enough to figure it out) that he swore — and I mean swore [#@$&*$$@!] had ever had the first day on the job.  I’ll give it up for the guy for having a colorful vocabulary.

I would call this a Big Life Lesson: There are benefits to Being Inadequate . . . this becoming a carefully-executed skill set of feigned ignorance that I happily applied to other areas of my professional life such as how to un-clog the paper in the copier machine on campus, how to clean the yuck out of the microwave in the break room, and how to sharpen a chain saw.   Some things are simply better left to those who feel more inclined toward responsibility.  And to showing others their higher state of abilities.   Thank God for different personality types is all that I am saying.

You’ve got to check out this old timer’s crazy way to make coffee below.   This gentleman’s contraption looked more Frankenstein-ian than this modern and sleek version, but it is the very same concept.  Who would have thought that you could extract coffee via a siphon?  Weird, right?  Go to Amazon by clicking on the images/links below:


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and how about this lower-priced one . . .

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AND . . . tip your barista.  As Niccolo pointed out, they are under-paid and under-tipped.   Your barista is partly responsible for your morning happiness . . . why not reciprocate with at least a very nice smile and a “Good job!”

Oh, and one more thing.  I am so excited to be back, I can’t stop adding coffee stuff!

Check out this new organic, Arabica coffee I found on Amazon.  I am going to try it out!  The name alone sells me — Happy Belly — let alone that it is organic, sustainably sourced and Fairtrade!


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PREMIUM COFFEE BY HAPPY BELLY

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Life is a darn good event.  Have fun, drink coffee, and tip your barista!!

 

 

 

Milky Way Love of the Galaxies . . . Happy Father’s Day

firewood-pileBoots here.  Your Badass Coffee Babe shooting like a star from the hip today and telling it like it is.  With the advent of Father’s Day, I am reminded of many things . . . memories of life-in-general this past year concerning my own father . . . times that now feel to be long ago and quite far away.  I was thinking back to the summer when my father came to visit me up at my cabin and how, bored out of his gourd with no television for a week, he split enough firewood to last me nearly a month.  I can still see that stack of split wood and that look of satisfaction of a job-well-done on his face, happy he was leaving me, his daughter, with the gift of time away from the woodshed splitting block.

These memories of life, love, firewood, and family have an odd way of percolating to the surface.  During my time of living in that cabin, located on that effortful and toilsome trail, I met my share of fathers who wanted to share their love of the great outdoors with their sons and daughters.   You can tell a lot about human nature by the way a parent introduces adversity and misery to their children regarding clouds of mosquitoes, leaking tents, smoky fires, forgotten necessities, and squirrel-pillaged rations.  One father who stands tall in my memory is a man I  call Caroline-y, a father who came huffing and puffing up the trail with his son Bud on one Especially-Rainy Day.

I was holed up in the cabin and feeling pretty darned certain that no one – and I mean no one – was going to be coming up the trail in all of that rain to ask about fishing, boats, horses, directions, or firewood.  No, it was Flat Out Raining — a classic Pouring-Down-Your-Tin-Pants-Straight-Into-Your-Boots kind of rain.  The kind of rain that says to you that you might as well just forget about the woolly sweater, the slicker, and the rubber poncho and just stay inside.

Anyone who has spent any time working out in the woods knows that, at a certain point, trying to “stay dry” under a steaming, streaming rubber poncho actually feels wetter than just going with the Literal Flow from the Heavens Above and accepting the fact that you are going to be soaked to the skin anyway.  It might as well be God’s good replenishing water, rather than your own poncho-created condensation.  There is some Measure of Liberation in just going with the way Nature is funneling life’s elements your way.  Sometimes life is best if you don’t fight it and you just go with the Flow.

monarch wood stoveSo, there I was.  Rain drumming on the metal roof of the cabin.  My feet propped up on the oven door and sitting just an easy arm’s length from my cup of Joe that was staying nice and hot on the stove-side warming tray.  It was a day for getting caught up on my reading and for thinking about getting started on some chores that were on the list for Needing Doing that day.

I was dreaming my way through a supply catalog when the dogs came barreling out from behind the cookstove.  They went tearing out the woodbox door– setting up a violent ruckus.  I wondered, Who the hell would be out on the trail on a day like today? 

Now the back door of my cabin didn’t set much more than 10 or so yards from the trail – the close proximity of which didn’t bother me much.  I lived on a lake in the middle of a wilderness area surrounded by Absolute Nowhere that was only accessible by float plane or by trail.  The trail to the lake was steep and had a way of winnowing out those who weren’t interested in mastering some serious elevation gain and the general hiking population, at best, was quite sparse.

The back door of the cabin was also my front door, as I never quite finished building the necessary deck and steps that would connect the Hanging Front Door to Terra Firma.  You can bet that I kept the “front door” barricaded and locked from the inside, not wanting Anybody’s Fool to go through it and then ass over teakettle onto the dirt below, mistakenly thinking it was the nearest exit to the Bank.  (The Bank being the Outhouse, thusly named by my illustrious predecessor.)

I suspected that the dogs might be barking at the arrival of the horses.  Now these horses were a wily lot.  They ran loose on the Rarity of Open Pasture – meaning that their only “fences” were purely topographical features – and it was a rip-roaring, two-dog-alarm  when they tried to sneak in to the homestead through the criss-crossing game trails that led to the salt lick from the Bird Meadow.  These horses were smart — smart enough to resort to covert actions, knowing that the odds were good to pretty-damned-great that they would be caught and captured and then put to work packing supplies up the hill from down below.

The sneaky devils generally came stealing in at nighttime for salt – or at least as stealthily as a one-ton animal can manage.   The dogs barked with the same amount of gusto in the wee hours of the night upon their unannounced arrival, but I never felt obligated to go chasing horses at night – beings as their eyes pick up light much better in darker conditions than we humans can.  The odds were certainly with them escaping against me capturing, what with me giving chase and tripping through the understory with a flashlight in one hand and a halter and oat bucket in the other.  It was quite the scene to be certain, me stumbling and cussing and them flicking their tails and horse-laughing their rumps off.

Well, the dogs were barking beyond their usual call of Advance, dear woman!  The evasive equines are noshing up at the salt lick!  (In case you hadn’t surmised, I had some seriously eloquent canines.)  I had no choice but to remove my backside from my place of comfort by the fire and check out the barking brouhaha.

I looked out the window and saw no sign of the Sneaky Devils up at the barn trying to get a nip of salt before bolting back into the forest.  What I did see were two people, one adult and one kid who must have been about 10 years old, standing in the middle of trail looking puzzled by the anomalous sight of the cabin.  They looked more soaked than two otters who just came in off the river for a spot of dry refreshment.  The father was hacking and wheezing like a dedicated smoker and the kid just looked like a miserable human being who was not rightly into this whole idea of male bonding on this particular day of inclement weather.

I grabbed my slicker from the hook on the back of the door and went outside to ask them if they were lost.  They explained that they were camped down below and saw this trail and wanted to see where it led.  I think that their use of the collective pronoun we was a stretch, as the kid just kept his head down – trying to keep the stream of rain that was coming off his yellow-blonde forelock from getting in his eyes.  I knew that feeling of Rain Misery and I felt for the kid.

I heard myself asking them if they wanted to come get warm in the cabin.  The dad started to say Nah so I added, “I have water on to boil.  I can make some cocoa for your wet friend here.”  They came in and crowded around my table-for-one – a slab of wood hinged to the wall of the cabin that I pulled up and set on those rare occasions when I wanted to eat on a flat surface – generally preferring a chair leaned up next to the warmth of the stove.

They took off their wet gear — super-soaked cotton hoodies — and I went outside to give their gear a good shake and a wring before hanging it to dry on the pegs behind the stove.  Having resumed their Station behind the cookstove, the dogs gave me forlorn looks each time one of them got pinged by a drop of water from the soaked hoodies.  Truth: You just have to respect the look that a wronged and faithful dog can give you, so I moved the hoodies down the peg rail to a spot that did not promise future misery for the pups.

I made cocoa-for-two and managed to find a bag of wrinkly-looking marshmallows in the pantry that some long-ago camper had left with me in trade for the use of my ax.  The kid didn’t mind that the marshmallows were old and seasoned.  It was evident that he was simply grateful to be somewhere warm and dry.

The dad did all of the talking – giving up a string of bullshit stories from when he lived in the woods in the good state of North Caroline-y.  That’s how he pronounced it: Caroline-y.  He talked about the wood smoker that his Pap (Yes, he even said Pap) used to cure the venison and how they used to chop wood the same way I did.

It was midway through his yarn spinning that Caroline-y pulled a Milky Way candy bar out of his shirt pocket and started to eat it.  Right there in front of the kid.  The kid spoke aloud — which surprised me — as he hadn’t said a word up until then, and he asked his pap if he could have some.  Caroline-y just gave him an appraising look and kept chawing away on his Milky Way while saying, “Sorry, Bud.  Ate yours, Bud.”

The cabin grew a clumsy feeling – like a low-pressure Cloud of Awkward blowing through.  It could have been the way I froze when I looked at Bud, who was looking mighty embarrassed for taking the chance to ask aloud.  I walked over to Bud and plopped an extra handful of marshmallows into his still-steaming cocoa and said, “You’ve got to help me eat these, Bud.  I’m allergic to marshmallows.”

The story really doesn’t go anywhere beyond this point, other than the rain stopping and me handing their more-dry-than-when-they-arrived hoodies back to them and pointing them back down the trail to their camp.  For some reason that line of Caroline-y’s stayed with me though: Sorry, Bud.  You ate yours, Bud.

In the years since, I have worked my thoughts all the way around that Sorry Bud line.  I understand the concept of Real Life Tough Love and teaching young ones the value of not always being handed every darned thing that they might want or demand.  Truth: the kid had eaten his own Milky Way on the trail.  And just because you opt to consume your portion first, doesn’t mean that you deserve a share of someone else’s Delayed Gratification Efforts.  Justice has a way of prevailing in Life when it comes to this.  And it should.

But still . . .

Life does offer us a whole lot of Extenuating Circumstances as well.  Take a Soaking Rain for example.  Or Going Along with someone else’s Genius Plan to hike up to God-Knows-Where in a Drenching Downpour.  Or not being dressed right for the weather.  Or the thought that floats a little higher than Caroline-y’s brand of Sorry-Bud Justice is the one that says Why not say I love you without saying it out loud?  Just hand over half of the Milky Way and everyone wins.

As you can probably tell, my feelings tip to the side of Extenuating Circumstances and saying I love you without using words.  I think that there are always going to be other ways and times to teach the Real Life stuff to our loved ones.  Why not extend the Magic of the Completely Unexpected . . . the warmth and the dry and the hot cocoa in a stranger’s cabin in the middle of a crazy  downpour . . . just for that extra second longer and cut the damned candy bar in half and hand it over . . . all with a smile that says Ain’t life great?

I don’t know.  Lest you think that I am judging here . . . I’m not.  And I am.  I think of that day and I hope that Bud knows that there are people in the world that will have his back, even if it’s only with past-their-prime desiccated marshmallows.  Life has taught me that there’s a whole heck of a lot of grace to offer.  And to be universally fair, I am hoping that Caroline-y gets his share of grace, too.

51302134So that’s it from me, Boots the Badass Coffee Babe, on the brink of Father’s Day 2016.  This is the first year when I do not have the need to send a greeting card or make a phone call to my father, as he passed away this past December.  I think about the years when my Father’s Day cards were late and when I didn’t call on Sunday.  It makes a part of my heart droop to the sad side, and I hope that my father understands.

That’s the thing about my dad.  Even now in these Days of Loss, he lets me know.  There are days when I can feel him extending me the bigger half of a Milky Way candy bar that isn’t rightly mine to have, and I accept it with a hungry gratitude and a thankfulness in my heart.  If there is anything I have learned this past year it is this: Life turns on a dime.  And it spins on an axis that is provided by our parents who bring us into the world so we can learn about the dizzying gift of extended grace.

ardoch main streetIt feels odd and strangely marvelous to think that I have stood on the same planet all of these years past with my father, streaking through the Milky Way together . . . and I wonder.  Like looking up at a cloudless sky at all of its nightly glory, it’s hard not to wonder.  I stand out under the starlight and I see the faint remnants of our galaxy and I send Milky Way love to my father, a man whom I didn’t always understand yet I loved all the same.  And I know he loved me.

For all of those Milky Way moments of grace and love and forgiveness that you extended to me, I thank you, Dad.  From the bottom my heart and to the ends of the Universe.  Truly.  I wish you a Happy Father’s Day.

This song is the BEST.   Please, take a moment of quiet to listen.

Happy Father’s Day to all of you fathers out there.

Remember . . . life is a lively event that will spin on a dime.

Share your candy bar, drink coffee, and get to it.

What’s stopping you?

xoxox from your Badass Coffee Babe, Boots


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Dad, I raise a mug to you.


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Make your own sunshine. Drink some coffee. Be happy. What’s stopping you?

 

make your own sunshineWhat a great way to start a Friday morning — enjoying a cuppa Joe and listening to the fire crackling in the cookstove while the coffee boiler sweetens the air with caffeine molecules.  My kind of morning.

There is nothing like a rainy morning with a fire in the stove and a pot of coffee steaming its richness into the toasty cabin air.  The only thing that could make it more idyllic is a few loaves of bread baking in the oven.  These unassuming, humble pleasures.  They truly are what make for a full present moment.

I love the sound of rain on a tin roof.  The smell of wet wool sweaters.  Heck, I even like the smell of wet dog.  There is something just so comforting about being tucked inside on an unseasonably-cool, late spring morning.  The kind of morning that gives me the inspiration to pause and to appreciate life at its simplest.

cabin window rainAfter this crazy-wet week of wind, rain, and bluster, I made hay and created my own sunshine.  I painted and read and wrote and washed windows on the inside of the cabin.  I made a really good dinner that required more than one pot, and I folded some laundry.   I mucked out the barn, and I replaced the salt lick with a brand-spankin’ new one.  Yes, some days, it just feels good to attend to the quiet things.

enjoyIf it is raining where you are today — or if you feel a little dreary on the inside — create your own sunshine.  Do something out of the ordinary.  Take one step closer to completing that project you have been dreaming about.  Turn off your computer and call a friend.  Pour yourself another cup of coffee and curl up with your journal.  Go for a walk with a giant umbrella.  Rescue a few stranded worms.  Stomp happily and deliberately through a puddle.  When was the last time you intentionally got your pretty boots dirty?  What’s stopping you?

cute cup winking. fridayWhat’s stopping you?  The question that sounds so innocent and easy and, actually, involves a lot more than a one-word answer.  Today, I am pulling on my favorite pair of Wellys and I am going to go hunt some puddles.  Nothing stopping me today!

I couldn’t resist adding these fun and fanciful Wellys for your Friday (below).  Be it raining or shining, these boots are just the ones to have at the ready for some puddle-stomping fun.  And if you do encounter a puddle, do some serious damage!  What’s stopping you?

And are you missing the sound of the rain?   Do you now live in the desert and hearing raindrops?  Click on the video below.  Listen to the rain and relax.  Even better . . . go boot shopping while you listen.  [Yes, I am aiding and abetting.]  Rain boot shopping!  There are so many great styles that combine cuteness with function.  I finally broke down and bought a pair (the pink polka dot pair below) for going into town.  I feel pretty darned fancy and fun when I wear them, too!

Click on the images or the links below and do some daydreaming about what it would feel like to just let loose and have some spontaneous fun.  I am thinking that these boots are the perfect inspiration.  So cute!

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Oh, and attention all Seattle-ites!

Check out these nifty rain-boot socks!  I never cease to be amazed at how clever people are when it comes to thinking things up!

Fashion, function, and FUN!


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Happy muddy, puddle-stompin’ trails!  xox

Boots the Badass Coffee Babe