Family

Before Christmas, I wasn’t too bummed about spending it away from home for the third year in a row. I survived (and enjoyed) previous Christmases spent skiing in New Mexico and feasting with other journalist orphans in Casper. The actual holiday stretched weeks, brown boxes from friends and relatives arriving weeks before the holiday and into January. I made it home for Thanksgiving both years with some good luck and a one-way ride as far as Colorado from my sister.

Thanksgiving at home didn’t happen this year. Plane tickets were expensive, my sister’s schedule didn’t align with mine and Josh’s dad, stepmom and stepsisters decided to drive to Wyoming for the weekend. I hosted my first Thanksgiving and proved once again I am my mother’s daughter.

Perfect turkey. (Nov. 24)

We served way too many appetizers, including $40 worth of cheese, and enjoyed leftovers for a whole week afterward. We drank wine and played games and watched movies. We were too full for dessert (pumpkin-apple and French silk pies, a la mode) but ate it anyway.

A few weeks before Christmas, I found out family from Virginia that I hadn’t seen in years were driving home. I scrambled to find a plane ticket: $650-800 to fly out of Casper. Flights from Denver were a little cheaper, but I couldn’t afford booking a $350 ticket in the case I-25 closed and I never made my flight. And I didn’t have $800 for a guaranteed flight.

So Christmas at home didn’t happen, again. We ended up driving to New Mexico for a long weekend with Josh’s family. Of course, Nola came with and she behaved so well during the 10ish hour car ride.

Outtake from the Christmas card photo shoot. (Dec. 12)

And when I called my mom’s house where everyone was gathering on Christmas day, no one answered the phone. I called three cell phones before my brother answered, roaring laughter in the background.

They were doing the white elephant gifts, he explained. Apparently, in the Christmases I missed, my family started a new tradition. At that moment, I made a vow to go home next year, no matter what, even if it is only for two days.

Although I’ve done a good job of finding family around the holidays to celebrate with, nothing beats going home.

Nola loves digging in blankets. (Oct. 31)

Two weeks ago, this little one entered my life. It’s hard to imagine life without her.

We named her Nola after New Orleans, something we always agree on. The name seems to suit her well. She’s sweet, loyal and, as demonstrated by more than a few spills, extremely resilient.

She’s part maltese, part poodle — 100 percent love.

We have a lot in common. We both love peanut butter, Motown and falling asleep on the couch to the evening news.

Nola. (Nov. 2, by Joshua A. Bickel)

We searched Wyoming shelters for small dogs all summer. We fell in love with a dachshund, but someone else adopted her before we could. We found dogs in Colorado shelters, but they didn’t adopt out of state.

My mom’s trusted breeder in Illinois happened to have four puppies available when I visited home in September. When I held Nola, she got scared by a sound from another puppy and burrowed her head into my chest with a wimper. I was sold.

My mom drove her as far as South Dakota, and I drove more than 600 miles each way to pick her up. On the ride back, I let her sit in the passenger seat. She climbed into my lap and stayed there until I had to get gas in Rapid City. She felt safe with me. And I didn’t feel so alone driving in the dark.

She’s taught me a few things in the short time she’s been here.

- Patience is something I work on every day. The dog has taken it to new levels. Nola turns into super-hyper puppy for about an hour every morning, and I feel like I’m at mile No. 10 of a half marathon with Josh.

- Confidence is built on a series of experiences. We’re working on her confidence to squat and do her business outside despite barking pitbulls, strong winds and strangers passing by on the sidewalk.

- Sometimes, we need a little help — even when we know we’ll succeed. Nola can get off the couch, but often she will sit on the end and whine for someone to pick her up and put her on the floor.

In the two years I’ve lived next to the North Platte River, I have not gone fishing.

I’ve floated the river (three times). I’ve run past it at least twice a week. I’ve eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner on its banks. I camped next to it and watched friends fish at Miracle Mile.

But I hadn’t fished until Friday.

My dad and brother visited for the weekend and my dad booked a guided fly fishing trip in Alcova, about 20 miles southwest of Casper, for us. We fished from a boat, which was nice because we had lots of room to stow stuff and could sit down and lean back once we found a good seam. The best part: the guide would row us upriver to ride the seam over and over.

My brother had fly fished before, so I think he was disappointed with the seven rainbow trout he caught.

I caught 14.

One of the bigger ones I caught. (Aug. 12)

Not all were big, but wow, they were beautiful.

The new house feels more like home now that we’ve had three visitors.

Yes, we’ve only been here one month. But remember, I had 10 visitors in my first year here. And people say Casper is in the middle of nowhere…

1) My sister who lives in Colorado helped me move in the first weekend. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much time outside of putting away my kitchen and running to Walmart/Menards/Target. We did have enough time to stuff our faces with sushi.

2) Two weeks ago, my brother stayed for a few days after a bachelors’ weekend in Vegas. He spent the first day on my couch, nursing a hangover of the magnitude you’d expect from a group of frat brothers celebrating three upcoming weddings. Once his stomach settled, we ate well and made it up to Casper Mountain for a mini hike.

3) Last Thursday and last night, Eric, a high school friend, stopped in Casper during his 48-state motorcycle trip. Casper was a little out of his way, but I’m glad he stopped in. He’s documenting and reflecting on his travels in a blog worth checking out.

Only after taking him to dinner at the Wonder Bar did I realize I took all three visitors there.

Another high school friend might stop in on the way to the Tetons in July. Who’s next?

My sister graduated college a few weeks ago. I drove to Fort Collins to watch her (and 800 other liberal arts grads) walk across the stage and spend time with my parents and grandparents who flew in for the week.

Another reason to drive to Colorado: My dad found a new car in Wisconsin for me to buy. The price and timing were right, so he drove the 2010 Corolla out and drove my 2001 Corolla back to sell in the Midwest.

Someone in my immediate family has graduated every other year since 2003. We’ve sat through a lot of graduations and graduation speeches.

The graduate, smiling before yet another graduation speech.

The CSU president spoke at the liberal arts ceremony. He warned students not to listen to talking heads, to seek facts and make up their own minds. His concise advice: “Be thoughtful, be reflective and avoid false choices.”

Most of the speeches are fuzzy to me — I spent most of my graduations chatting with friends. (At my college commencement ceremony, we cracked open beers someone hid under their gown.)

I did listen to chunks of my master’s degree ceremony, enough to remember this part from journalist Dorothy Gaiter:
“There are no unimportant assignments just as there are no unimportant people. And while you are out there doing good journalism, don’t forget to get a life. No editor will ever care for you the way your loved ones do. Don’t ever forget that. And if you have a hobby, another passion besides journalism, make time for it. You never know where it will lead.”

The passage is on an index card in my desk. I’ve pulled it out on slow days or during weeks when I feel married to my work, a to make the most of unattractive assignments and make a life outside the newsroom.