Disillusioned in Yellowstone: The Cartwrights Led Me Astray

As a child of two working parents in the mid-1970’s, I was what would later be called a “latch-key child.”  Left unsupervised after school, I was subjected to the ever-increasing evils of television.  My daily diet of syndicated Bonanza episodes led to a variety of unsavory behaviors.  I began to covet the neighbor girl’s western action figure known as Johnny West and his amazing assortment of plastic trail gear.  Santa never brought me so much as a miniature plastic canteen.  I also made unreasonable demands of both the universe and its Creator, alternately wishing upon a star and praying that a horse would appear in my backyard.  Neither approach worked.  I had to settle for naming my bike Gus and petting it when I thought no one was looking.  The most detrimental effect came nearly forty years later when a good friend, apparently as mal-educated by television as I, suggested that we go on a four-day pack trip in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming.  

After those impressionable years of being indoctrinated by Michael Landon, I actually thought this was a great idea.  Of course, I’d been camping many times but this would involve horses.  And maybe even canteens.  I could no more pass up this opportunity than Hoss could pass up a meal .  However, the differences between my decades-old Bonanza fantasy and my eventual pack trip experience turned out to be numerous.  For one thing, none of the other participants revealed himself to be a disgruntled, psychotic former ranch hand bent on revenge.  So I never had the opportunity to save the group using my quick wits.  Actually, this was probably a good thing as my wits aren’t known to be all that quick.  Other than that, though, the differences were fairly disconcerting.

The Campsite and the Confused Campers:  "Where the heck is the ranch house?"

One startling difference was first realized when I suddenly remembered that, other than tending to Gus, my banana-seated bicycle, I had no horse experience.  Years of television viewing and daydreaming offered no great wisdom to draw from when I found myself in the driver’s seat of a large animal, crossing streams and climbing mountain paths, with no brake pedal, seat belt or airbags. The most intense moment came when one of our trail guides thought it best not to scare us and chose not to mention the treacherous conditions of the path ahead.  Our group of twelve had just wound through pine trees, across an open field with wildflowers and then onto a path wrapping around a mountain, just steep enough to be thrilling.  We looked at the rocks a short distance below and made some jokes about the possibility of plunging to our deaths. Everyone was jovial until, turning the next bend, we found ourselves on a narrow, hard, gravelly path no wider than a horse’s backside, carved into the side of a steep mountain.  

This was the fun, easy part of the ride.

In my memory, it was a straight drop off one side.  Maybe my memory is wrong but it is not an exaggeration to say that if my horse had slid from the path, he and I both would have died.  It was too late to pull a Pernell Roberts and quit. So I stared hard at the back of the rider ahead of me and attempted to comfort myself.  “We’re not going to die.  We’re not going to die.  The outfitters would never be foolish enough to take us on this trail if there were a chance we could die.”  Then, listening to the loose gravel scraping and sliding under my horse’s hooves as he strained to lug me up the steep path, I remembered - I had signed a waiver acknowledging that I could die on this trip and couldn’t blame the outfitters if I did.  The terror of this realization left me spewing cuss words, such as Pa Cartwright was never known to use, until my horse reached stable ground.

Another unpleasant difference reality presented was the possibility of running into a bear.  The biggest threat on the Ponderosa were righteously angry Indians played by white actors.  Obviously, that would not be a concern in Yellowstone.  So with no Bonanza episodes concerning bears in my memory, I took the threat of grizzlies just about as seriously.  While still anticipating the pack trip, I made all sorts of quips about my “fear” of being eaten by a bear. I thought it was hilarious up until that moment at the trailhead when, surrounded by snow covered mountain tops, the lead trail guide instructed us in his authoritative cowboy accent on how to behave if confronted by a grizzly as opposed to a black bear.  “If it’s a grizzly, your best bet is to play dead.  Now if it’s a black bear, folks, you need to be prepared to fight.  Try to hit ‘em in the snout.”  It was up to us to distinguish between the two.

Not only did Hoss and Little Joe never have to fight a black bear, they also never had to deal with menopause.  “How the heck is this relevant?” you might ask.  Oh, believe me.  It’s very relevant when you, newly-perimenopausal, have had a completely off-schedule pop-in visit from your period and you’re watching the trail guide use a rope and pulley to hoist “bear boxes” up twelve feet into the air. These boxes have been loaded with everyone’s snack food, toothpaste, deodorant...ANYTHING with an odor, because apparently bears can detect human-related scent from a million miles away.  Do you ask the trail guide, in his vest, fringed gloves and leather chaps, to lower a bear box so you can add to its contents what you normally go to great lengths to disguise in giant wads of toilet paper, bury at the bottom of wastebaskets and generally pretend, at least to the world’s male population, doesn’t exist? No, you do not.  Instead, you stuff the giant wad of t.p. into a plastic bag and shove it into the deepest corner of your purse.  Then you spend three sleepless nights, your eyelids frozen wide open, body stiff, ears straining to hear any sounds indicative of a flat-footed animal lumbering outside your tent. You are wracked with the guilt of a coward, knowing you’re risking eleven lives because you are still just an awkward teenager in gym class.  In the pitch black of the tent, you devise a plan to save the others in the event of a bear attack by running toward the treeline.  Suddenly, your body tenses up again at the sound of a snuffling low to the ground.

Take a deep breath.  It turned out to be the guy from Texas snoring in the next tent. You are safe. And, miraculously, so am I. I have lived to declare that I will never participate in a pack trip again. I made that vow to myself while answering the Call of Nature in nature. Sure, I can place this adventure alongside my dusty Bonanza memories in that little cigar box-turned-“treasure chest” in my mind.  And yes, now I know why women visiting the Ponderosa stayed so briefly.  Apparently, they needed to be flung onto that buckboard and rushed back to Virginia City before they drew grizzlies to the ranch with their confounded periods.  However, television ultimately betrayed me. The medium left me misguided and filled with unreasonable expectations. In response, I have made a life-changing decision and have cut way down on television viewing. Instead, I have taken up reading romance novels to seek out the truths of life.

Thanks to Srae for an amazing, fun, but never-to-be-repeated adventure!  <3

My Celebrity Boyfriends on Parade: Celluloid Crushes Through the Decades

As promised, I am hoisting the dork banner up the flag pole and letting it wave freely above The Crooked Clothesline.  This way, you'll be aware right up front of the high level of goofiness you're subjecting yourself to when you stop in here.

We're all a little weird, each in our own way.  So what sets the Deeply Dorky apart from the rest of typically-weird humanity?  I'd say one sure indicator is a strangely eclectic collection of pretend boyfriends. No, you say? We all have our celebrity crushes. Well, you have yet to see THIS list, my friend.  I never limited myself to the typical celebrity dream lover.  I went so far as to have crushes on fake TV characters and...well, it gets worse.  Scroll on.



First Grade:

  Little Joe and Hoss Cartwright from Bonanza

I look just like Hoss.                                                                                             

Six years old and juggling two guys?  I was a first grade Scarlet O'Hara and they were my Tarleton twins.

Actually, I was torn between Hoss and Little Joe (one was so nice and one was so cute.)  I have hazy memories of pretending that the Cartwrights would come visit me, along with Batman, Robin and The Monkees. Apparently, I was quite popular.










Fourth Grade:

Barnabas Collins, middle-aged bloodsucker from the 60's gothic soap opera, Dark Shadows

I don't know which picture is more frightening.

I just don't know what to say about this. My heart went out to this baddy.  Apparently, I developed my penchant for liking the wrong guy extremely early. (note: If you're reading this and thinking, "Hey, is that a reference to me?"...No, certainly not you.)

Fifth Grade:

Johnny Mathis, recording artist

Other girls were listening to David Cassidy or Donny Osmond.  I was locked in my bedroom listening to my mother's Johnny Mathis albums.  Who could blame me?  I'm guessing my amor for Johnny was well-known in our house because one of my younger siblings drew a word bubble onto the album cover, making Johnny say, "Aandy + me." 

Tim or Jo-el, your misspelled attempt to humiliate and enrage me backfired. I treasured it.  

Note the drawn-on lip prints on Johnny's cheek.

Seventh Grade (and forever): 

Clark Gable

1930's Beefcake: I wanted you to enjoy this one school picture free.  You are welcome.

Again, other girls my age had the hots for pop singer Leif Garrett or the guys from Starsky and Hutch.  That left lucky me with Clark all to myself.  This was long before the Internet or even video rental stores, so our meetings were few and far between.  I had to scour The TV Guide to set up the occasional late night rendezvous.









Ninth Grade:  

Johnny Gage of Emergency!

Full Disclosure:  I couldn't find a 9th grade pic.  This is 8th grade.

I rushed home from school to watch this in syndication.  I apparently took my celebrity crushes very seriously because - embarrassing fact - I actually said to my little sister, "I live for this show."  A couple years later, she tried to remind me of this conversation and by then I was so embarrassed by my dumbness, I flat out lied and pretended I had no memory of what she was talking about.  Sorry, Jo-el.  I did remember. I was trying to forget.







Tenth Grade: 

Hawkeye Pierce of  M*A*S*H

I loved this character because he was funny and flawed.  At least, this time, even as a 15-year-old, I recognized that Hawkeye in real life would be a difficult person to be around and a terrible boyfriend.  Now that I think about it, I went on to date some real life versions of him.










Throughout High School and beyond:  

Billy Joel

"Sometimes a Fantasy" is all you have left of your hair.                                    
(note: my crummy hair/reference #2)                                                         

I wasn't as clear-headed on this one. I really thought Billy and I had a chance.  I stopped buying his albums for a while when he betrayed me by marrying Christie Brinkley.




Right after High School: 

Pete Townshend   

When I discovered Pete Townshend, I immediately started two-timing Billy Joel. 

It's pretty funny that the prudish teenager who in high school was anti-drugs, anti-booze and anti-premarital sex would pick The Who to be her favorite band.  

Clearly, I wasn't anti-talent.  Pete, like Billy, won my heart with his lyrics.

Community College (a grown woman!):

Cocky Confederate Prisoner of War in
Prisoners from the Front by Winslow Homer

Johnny Reb, I hardly knew ye...
BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T REAL!!!

I don't know what to say.  I'm sure it was the long hair and cocky stance....and maybe that partially unbuttoned Confederate uniform. Gosh, I'm beginning to suspect that in addition to working as a war correspondent, Winslow Homer was moonlighting as a cover illustrator for 19th century Harlequin Romances. Anyway, my canvas crush was short-lived, lasting only through that particular chapter in my American History class. 








Middle-aged Weirdo:

Sawyer from Lost

This kind of looks like I had a crush on myself -
 the hair, the glasses, the eyebrow furrows.

                                
A TV character created through the combination of good writing and good looks...what more could a girl want in a fake boyfriend?




At last, we have reached the end of a long, (but by no means comprehensive) list of my faux beaus. After reviewing this ridiculous tendency of mine, the first thought that comes to my mind is, "Wow, idol worship much, Andrea?"  I've heard it said that humans were created to worship.  It's also been said that even if we don't worship a god, we will fulfill that desire with the worship of something whether it's money, beauty, power, or talent, etc.  As a kid, was I following an instinctive urge to worship or was I just a goofy little girl with a soft heart and a huge imagination?  Maybe both.

And now, what about you?  I suspect the dork flag blows both ways.  Feel free to share your embarrassing celeb crushes in the comments below.

My Promise to You

You know how some people hate seeing photos of themselves? Not you, I'm sure, because you're gorgeous, but you know the kind of people I mean. We photophobes avoid pictures of ourselves at all costs because we don't want to accept the truth. We want to see something different than what's there in that glossy print... dewy, fresh skin instead of wrinkles, one chin instead of two, luxurious shining hair instead of a scalp full of scarecrow straw.  (note: my crummy hair/reference number one)

I used to have a similar problem when it came to keeping a journal.

I first tried keeping a diary when I was fourteen. I was bent on filling my little clasped diary with deep thoughts and poetic musings. My first page, an attempt to describe the Arizona sunset outside my bedroom window, was a big disappointment and had to be ripped out the very next day. It wasn't good enough. Subsequent pages mentioning boys were shredded within hours because I might actually have been wrong about who was the cutest boy at school. Entries about music and art also had to be immediately destroyed as they lacked any signs of sophistication. I wanted to appear eloquent but the best I could squeeze out was dorky, I wanted to see poetic on the page but I was stuck with corny. Deep and meaningful....I just couldn't muster it. This scenario repeated itself throughout the decades. Friends presented me with pretty little journals. I left them all empty and blank because I was afraid of filling them with my flaws.  I would dip my toes in the pages of cheap spiral notebooks but even those I quickly abandoned. It wasn't them I was rejecting but me.  I didn't approve of the me I saw on paper.

One day - thank God for aging -  I finally just gave up trying to leave a paper trail that would some day trick posterity into believing that I was some insightful, sophisticated clever-pants.  I gave myself permission to spill out onto the pages of a brand new journal everything that I am....a total nerd, a lopsided jar of clay, an overgrown 14-year-old, sometimes silly, sinfully self-obsessed, a whiner and complainer with an out-of-control sense of humor, a hamper full of insecurities and possibly some as-of-yet undiagnosed mental health issues.  I have accepted the ugly and beautiful truth.  In these six years since, I have filled four super cute journals with my flaws.  And I gotta' say, fabulously flawed is way better than empty and blank.

As I pour my quirks and faults out on paper and accept who I am as God has fully accepted me, I feel the need to be more accepting of the flaws of others and  to see other people, even the ones who are somehow more annoying than me, as God's handiwork.

And isn't this what we all owe each other, my dear bloggettes? Acceptance of our own and each other's imperfections? In that spirit, I hereby commit to being completely open and honest with you in this blog.

This doesn't mean that I'm going to subject you to every embarrassing or awful thing I've ever done. When you drop by The Crooked Clothesline, I'll have the unmentionables folded up and tucked away in the underwear drawer.  What it does mean is that I won't  pretend to be smarter than I am.  I ain't gonna get all uptight about grammar.  And I won't act as if I have any answers about education or religion or politics or what's up with Miley Cyrus. I'm just going to be my genuine, goofy, creative, clueless, slightly obnoxious self.   I'm gonna wave my dork flag high.

This is my Gold Standard promise to you. To seal this solemn promise, it seems fitting (and really, so meaningful and intimate) to humbly share with you right up front the very pinnacle of my dorkiness.  In my next blog, I shall present ~

                  My Celebrity Boyfriends on Parade:                          Celluloid Crushes through the Decades