If I may make a confession, I’d like to say that I have purposely neglected everything but the ranch and the horses and the dogs all summer long. I haven’t checked my email since sometime in May.
I have been daily training pups, helping them learn the ‘dry commands’ like ‘come’ and ‘down’ and ‘heel’ while helping my parents keep things up. And I have been doing things like halter breaking my filly, riding my own and my sisters’ horses since she has been gone most of the time, and helping my grandfather with his cattle. I saw it hot and dry here until the very tail end of June. Then it started raining. About 3 weeks ago, we got four inches in one day, and the house flooded. We had to sweep the water out the door with brooms.
I went with a small documentary film crew last week to Colorado and Wyoming. We rode up in the Rockies on mules and filmed the Oliver Ranch crew driving their cattle to summer country. That was Colorado. Further down the road we met and interviewed Miss Rodeo Wyoming and spent a whole day observing three different bands of wild Mustangs in the Great Divide Basin. The week finished out with getting some footage and photographs of the Cheyenne Frontier Days in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
This week, I found out that my sister Karah is engaged (yippee!) and that my brother, Kile, is finally coming home. My other sister, Callie, turned 17 yesterday. I was given a Border Collie-Cattahoula cross pup as an early Birthday present around the 4th of July. Her name is Beque (pronounced ‘Bek’). She’s a tiny thing, but she’s been a welcome source of joy and amusement as I contemplate returning to Virginia.
I must be honest. The prospect of heading east is truly depressing. I wonder-again-if this is what God really wants me to do. When I hear nothing from Him, by way of signs and wonders, I ask, “Father, is that your final answer?” Silence from God is ok when the question belongs on the shelf. ‘God, will I live to be 80?’ No answer. ‘Ah. No big deal.’ But the urgent questions, like, “Should I transfer to a different school?”-inquiries of this type make me anxious when I don’t hear from God. I find myself thinking about how I can get an answer out of Him. While I’m at it, I may as well get the answer I want. But herein is another difficulty. I want a PHC education. I want the diploma, too. I know that may be solely because so many people told me I couldn’t do it. But is it right to shut the windows of my soul, coil up my dreams and my natural gifts and live in a stuffy back east town? Am I going the wrong way?
I do not even know my own mind. How can I manipulate God, the Universe Maker? Confession again: I’m wrong to try. I’m selfish. I’m…scared. The bottom line is that I need to draw a deep breath and trust Him one more time. Whatever He says, I need to be ready to hear it.
To those of you who will, please pray for me to be ready for the answer that I know is coming. Thank you all for your patience with me.
25.7.08
Hank the Cowhorse
The horses we use on a ranch are not all special. Some of them are just horses. Some of them are outlaws. But some of them have a way of warming your heart with a good character and an honest willingness to please. Believe it or not, character counts for horses, too.
On a dry spring about 14 years ago, I met Hank for the first time. The one broodmare we had, a buckskin named Jenny, had been turned out on the Robinson ranch all winter. I remember rattling out in the feed truck to the Buzzard Well, searching the brushy hillside for a glimpse of Jenny. It was about time for her to foal, and we needed to find her.
Mom was driving, and although I now know it’s not a good idea, I was using the binoculars out the truck window. (Looking through binoculars from a moving truck makes you sick…trust me.) Mom honked the horn and sure enough, Jenny topped out over a ridge. Clinging tightly beside her was a flickering red flame. As they came closer, I realized that it wasn’t fire-it was a coppery sorrel colt. Solid red from nose to tail, he only had a little white marking on his left hind leg. I was impressed with him at the time, thinking he would someday become a famous halter horse or race horse or something like that. When you’re little you don’t realize that there are limits to things. No ranch raised Quarter Horse has ever won the Triple Crown. But I was happy with my dreaming and christened the little fella ‘Hank’.
I got to help halter break him, and he made me proud. He wasn’t the gentlest, but he didn’t throw many fits. When he was a weanling, it became clear he wouldn’t be a world champion halter horse-his big head and Roman nose made him look like a little red pumpjack. So much for pretty. And he wasn’t very big yet-he kinda had short legs. So much for the Triple Crown. I figured he would prove to be the smartest horse anyone had ever seen, so I had my hopes up for him to become a famous cutting horse. Dreams are resilient things when you’re young.
But life interrupted my dreaming, and Hank was sold so we could have enough money to move to my dad’s new job. I was so busy growing up and learning how to be myself in a new place that I let go of Hank completely. It wasn’t until years later that I caught up with him again. I’d had a rough few years but I was still dreaming. By then I was a teenager and had finally gotten the chance to rodeo in the New Mexico High School Rodeo Association. I went looking for a roping horse and lo and behold, I wound up buying back my very own Hank.
Now a full-grown horse, he was stout and muscular with a thin wiry tail and not much of a mane (which made his oversized ears look even more oversized). He had been ridden on ranches and sent to a roping horse trainer. If horses had GPA’s, I reckon his would have been below a 2.0. Luckily, I graded on a curve and took him home.
I hauled Hank for two years to rodeos all around New Mexico. I soon learned his quirks, not the least of which was his claustrophobia, his love of Dr. Pepper, and his uncanny knack for getting hurt. But there was nothing he loved more than roping calves, and nothing he hated more than speed events. Calf roping was his niche. We were often outrun, so both of us finally learned to break quicker and swing quicker-before that calf left us in the dust.
Hank wasn’t just a rodeo horse. That was as much his weekend hobby as it was mine. Dad, Mom, and my sister and I used him for ranch work. He was ridden hard some weeks during spring and fall works and still got dragged to rodeos on weekends. He was also the horse we gave dudes to ride, because he was gentle and tolerant. That’s not to say he was patient-he would take advantage of their ignorance in any way he could. But we knew we could always count on Hank for whatever job we had to do.
There was a time in high school when both my mom and I were day working on some of the bigger outfits around where I live. Between the two of us we had one pickup and trailer and three horses. And Hank picked up the slack, sometimes working two days back-to-back during gathering time. He may have been really tired, but it didn’t keep him from trying.
Last spring, Mom was checking heifers and rode down the canyon. I guess there was a boggy spot at the crossing, and Hank sunk to his belly in black mud. He didn’t panic, he just got out as fast as he could. I was surprised, as accident-prone as he is, that he didn’t really hurt himself. That makes the first time he’s gotten into a jam that didn’t require 10 days of doctoring and a vet bill in the aftermath.
Last summer we jumped a coyote down in the Big Pasture. Mom was riding Hank again, and all I heard was “Get out of the way,” just as Hank thundered by. Mom had her rope down and they caught up to that ol’ coyote; Mom threw but that sly dog just ran right through. We chased him for the better part of 20 minutes until he disappeared into a hole. On the way home, Hank was strutting like a peacock. He had tracked that coyote at a blistering pace and rated it perfect. He knew it, too.
This January, I left Hank behind for college and dreams of a different kind. Hank never won a single halter class; never won a race. In fact, I don’t think Hank can be credited for a single trophy buckle. He never did become a great cutting horse, either.
Today, Hank stands in the corral with the younger generation of cowhorses here on the ranch. He still does the same things he always did-at the same steady pace. He hasn’t gotten any prettier, either. Now, my little sister hauls him to rodeos on the weekends, and my Dad still drags calves off of him in the spring. We still put dudes on him, too. And he is the same horse he has always been. I think in a way Hank the cowhorse not only lived up to my dreams, he exceeded them. Looking back on Hank’s life, it seems to me there is greater value in being dependable than in being a champion. I hope we can all take that lesson to heart.
On a dry spring about 14 years ago, I met Hank for the first time. The one broodmare we had, a buckskin named Jenny, had been turned out on the Robinson ranch all winter. I remember rattling out in the feed truck to the Buzzard Well, searching the brushy hillside for a glimpse of Jenny. It was about time for her to foal, and we needed to find her.
Mom was driving, and although I now know it’s not a good idea, I was using the binoculars out the truck window. (Looking through binoculars from a moving truck makes you sick…trust me.) Mom honked the horn and sure enough, Jenny topped out over a ridge. Clinging tightly beside her was a flickering red flame. As they came closer, I realized that it wasn’t fire-it was a coppery sorrel colt. Solid red from nose to tail, he only had a little white marking on his left hind leg. I was impressed with him at the time, thinking he would someday become a famous halter horse or race horse or something like that. When you’re little you don’t realize that there are limits to things. No ranch raised Quarter Horse has ever won the Triple Crown. But I was happy with my dreaming and christened the little fella ‘Hank’.
I got to help halter break him, and he made me proud. He wasn’t the gentlest, but he didn’t throw many fits. When he was a weanling, it became clear he wouldn’t be a world champion halter horse-his big head and Roman nose made him look like a little red pumpjack. So much for pretty. And he wasn’t very big yet-he kinda had short legs. So much for the Triple Crown. I figured he would prove to be the smartest horse anyone had ever seen, so I had my hopes up for him to become a famous cutting horse. Dreams are resilient things when you’re young.
But life interrupted my dreaming, and Hank was sold so we could have enough money to move to my dad’s new job. I was so busy growing up and learning how to be myself in a new place that I let go of Hank completely. It wasn’t until years later that I caught up with him again. I’d had a rough few years but I was still dreaming. By then I was a teenager and had finally gotten the chance to rodeo in the New Mexico High School Rodeo Association. I went looking for a roping horse and lo and behold, I wound up buying back my very own Hank.
Now a full-grown horse, he was stout and muscular with a thin wiry tail and not much of a mane (which made his oversized ears look even more oversized). He had been ridden on ranches and sent to a roping horse trainer. If horses had GPA’s, I reckon his would have been below a 2.0. Luckily, I graded on a curve and took him home.
I hauled Hank for two years to rodeos all around New Mexico. I soon learned his quirks, not the least of which was his claustrophobia, his love of Dr. Pepper, and his uncanny knack for getting hurt. But there was nothing he loved more than roping calves, and nothing he hated more than speed events. Calf roping was his niche. We were often outrun, so both of us finally learned to break quicker and swing quicker-before that calf left us in the dust.
Hank wasn’t just a rodeo horse. That was as much his weekend hobby as it was mine. Dad, Mom, and my sister and I used him for ranch work. He was ridden hard some weeks during spring and fall works and still got dragged to rodeos on weekends. He was also the horse we gave dudes to ride, because he was gentle and tolerant. That’s not to say he was patient-he would take advantage of their ignorance in any way he could. But we knew we could always count on Hank for whatever job we had to do.
There was a time in high school when both my mom and I were day working on some of the bigger outfits around where I live. Between the two of us we had one pickup and trailer and three horses. And Hank picked up the slack, sometimes working two days back-to-back during gathering time. He may have been really tired, but it didn’t keep him from trying.
Last spring, Mom was checking heifers and rode down the canyon. I guess there was a boggy spot at the crossing, and Hank sunk to his belly in black mud. He didn’t panic, he just got out as fast as he could. I was surprised, as accident-prone as he is, that he didn’t really hurt himself. That makes the first time he’s gotten into a jam that didn’t require 10 days of doctoring and a vet bill in the aftermath.
Last summer we jumped a coyote down in the Big Pasture. Mom was riding Hank again, and all I heard was “Get out of the way,” just as Hank thundered by. Mom had her rope down and they caught up to that ol’ coyote; Mom threw but that sly dog just ran right through. We chased him for the better part of 20 minutes until he disappeared into a hole. On the way home, Hank was strutting like a peacock. He had tracked that coyote at a blistering pace and rated it perfect. He knew it, too.
This January, I left Hank behind for college and dreams of a different kind. Hank never won a single halter class; never won a race. In fact, I don’t think Hank can be credited for a single trophy buckle. He never did become a great cutting horse, either.
Today, Hank stands in the corral with the younger generation of cowhorses here on the ranch. He still does the same things he always did-at the same steady pace. He hasn’t gotten any prettier, either. Now, my little sister hauls him to rodeos on the weekends, and my Dad still drags calves off of him in the spring. We still put dudes on him, too. And he is the same horse he has always been. I think in a way Hank the cowhorse not only lived up to my dreams, he exceeded them. Looking back on Hank’s life, it seems to me there is greater value in being dependable than in being a champion. I hope we can all take that lesson to heart.
30.4.08
The Heart of a Lion, Part IV
Finally, part four.
Nine months after the colic surgery, Macho paces up and down in the little pasture he used to rest in. The dull roar of the Bobcat backhoe is the only thing breaking the routine serenity of another Mesa Ranch day. Cindy stands by the gate, her hat hiding her face. She's crying. Wes is beside her. Macho is only a scarecrow now. It's finally the end of the trail. His kind eyes still glitter with determination, but that is the only thing that is the same about him.
Immediately following his surgery, the incision became infected. Macho spent several more days at the clinic, and was given a high powered antibiotic to fight it. Less than a month after returning home, Macho was still weak and still losing weight. When Dr. Franklin examined him, the news was ominous. His kidneys were failing. Thorough research revealed that the kidney failure was caused by a reaction to the antibiotic.
His coat, once brilliant now looks like an old penny. The magnificent, sculpted body is now jagged and bony. His head, so keen and alert, barely clears the ground. He paces like a big cat, but it is taking all the strength left in him to keep from folding into a heap on the ground. This is goodbye to the horse whose destiny didn't wait for him. No amount of try could delay death.
Macho was put down and buried in the paddock that he always used be turned out to run in.
The pacing figure is now nowhere to be seen. The pasture is empty, except for Cindy and Wes, walking together away from a fresh mound of soil. Macho is gone.
Sherry Evans' heart sank when she learned Sadie was not carrying Macho's foal. Sherry had been given a free breeding to Macho as a birthday present. The colt out of her mare, Poco Peppy Concetta (Sadie) would have been able to do anything, be anything. Tears stream down her face as she stands with one hand resting on Sadie's pale, cream colored back. "I knew better than to hope for too much," she says slowly. "It was a great hope and dream to have a colt out of such a classy horse as Macho Little Lena, but it wasn't God's will at the time," Sherry says. "I felt like he had a heart that was out of the ordinary. If I had a colt out of him that had a heart like him, then I'd have a once in a lifetime horse."
"It's heartbreaking," says Walt Evans, Sherry's husband. "Macho was an exceptional cutting horse, exceptionally athletic, exceptionally talented at reading cattle. He had a future in front of him."
The loper stirs and reaches for his pocket where his cell phone is ringing. The nap's over, it's back to the whirlpool on another blue-blooded cowpony. The crackle of the microphone prepares its audience for the announcer's voice, "Thank you, boys. We're gonna pick up with Little Blue Tutu owned by Janet Keller, A Lil Tachita and Albert Rolwing Jr. be ready please."
There is a hush in the coliseum while the sounds of the warm up pen continue in a monotonous flow. The cutting world goes on spinning today just as it did when Macho was a rising star. New faces and new horses make the headlines now. But if you were to mention the name of the bright colored cowhorse, you can be sure someone would remember him. In Wes's words, "Macho, he goes down in the books. He'd been dealt a terrible hand. Sometimes things aren't fair. But he had the heart of a lion."
Nine months after the colic surgery, Macho paces up and down in the little pasture he used to rest in. The dull roar of the Bobcat backhoe is the only thing breaking the routine serenity of another Mesa Ranch day. Cindy stands by the gate, her hat hiding her face. She's crying. Wes is beside her. Macho is only a scarecrow now. It's finally the end of the trail. His kind eyes still glitter with determination, but that is the only thing that is the same about him.
Immediately following his surgery, the incision became infected. Macho spent several more days at the clinic, and was given a high powered antibiotic to fight it. Less than a month after returning home, Macho was still weak and still losing weight. When Dr. Franklin examined him, the news was ominous. His kidneys were failing. Thorough research revealed that the kidney failure was caused by a reaction to the antibiotic.
His coat, once brilliant now looks like an old penny. The magnificent, sculpted body is now jagged and bony. His head, so keen and alert, barely clears the ground. He paces like a big cat, but it is taking all the strength left in him to keep from folding into a heap on the ground. This is goodbye to the horse whose destiny didn't wait for him. No amount of try could delay death.
Macho was put down and buried in the paddock that he always used be turned out to run in.
The pacing figure is now nowhere to be seen. The pasture is empty, except for Cindy and Wes, walking together away from a fresh mound of soil. Macho is gone.
Sherry Evans' heart sank when she learned Sadie was not carrying Macho's foal. Sherry had been given a free breeding to Macho as a birthday present. The colt out of her mare, Poco Peppy Concetta (Sadie) would have been able to do anything, be anything. Tears stream down her face as she stands with one hand resting on Sadie's pale, cream colored back. "I knew better than to hope for too much," she says slowly. "It was a great hope and dream to have a colt out of such a classy horse as Macho Little Lena, but it wasn't God's will at the time," Sherry says. "I felt like he had a heart that was out of the ordinary. If I had a colt out of him that had a heart like him, then I'd have a once in a lifetime horse."
"It's heartbreaking," says Walt Evans, Sherry's husband. "Macho was an exceptional cutting horse, exceptionally athletic, exceptionally talented at reading cattle. He had a future in front of him."
The loper stirs and reaches for his pocket where his cell phone is ringing. The nap's over, it's back to the whirlpool on another blue-blooded cowpony. The crackle of the microphone prepares its audience for the announcer's voice, "Thank you, boys. We're gonna pick up with Little Blue Tutu owned by Janet Keller, A Lil Tachita and Albert Rolwing Jr. be ready please."
There is a hush in the coliseum while the sounds of the warm up pen continue in a monotonous flow. The cutting world goes on spinning today just as it did when Macho was a rising star. New faces and new horses make the headlines now. But if you were to mention the name of the bright colored cowhorse, you can be sure someone would remember him. In Wes's words, "Macho, he goes down in the books. He'd been dealt a terrible hand. Sometimes things aren't fair. But he had the heart of a lion."
20.4.08
A Little Out Of Hand
Dear PHC folks,
It won’t be long before we all part ways for the summer. But before we get to that, every one of us is staring down a couple of weeks of difficult reading, writing and test taking. If you’ve got the stomach read through the rest of my letter, I hope you’ll notice that though it is true that all good things come to an end, it’s also true that all bad things come to an end, too. Allow me to illustrate this point by telling a true tale that took place in western New Mexico in the winter of 1999.
My family lived in a one-room cabin in the Gila National Forest. We were taking care of cattle on the Cox Canyon lease, which is about 7,000 feet elevation. We didn’t have running water or electricity, and the only way to get water was by hauling it in a 250 gallon tank from a spring-fed water trough about seven miles away. Usually, mom and I would use five gallon buckets and dip the water out of the trough. But dad figured it was time to stop working so hard and start working smart.
The day before the ‘catastrophe’ happened, my dad went in to town and purchased a small water pump-complete with a rubber intake hose. He also bought a nice, long cloth hose (like a fire hose without a nozzle) for the output end.
The ice was five or six inches thick on the trough that morning, and the wind was cruel and sharp. Mom and dad took the feed truck-loaded with the tank and the pump-and went off to get water first thing. About two hours later, they pulled up to the cabin and mom got out, appearing an unusual shade of blue. When I got closer, I noticed the 250 gallon tank was empty…and mom was soaking wet. Dad had a ridiculous grin on his face that only flashed when mom’s back was turned. Here’s what happened:
They arrived at the trough and backed the pickup close enough for the hoses to reach, lowered the tail gate, and primed the pump. Once the ice was broken, they were ready to fill the tank. Dad stayed on the ground to man the pump and the intake hose, while moms only job was to make sure the output hose didn’t kink and the water went in like it was supposed to. The pump started. The stiff intake hose jerked as water was drawn in to it. Water filled the cloth hose and travelled quickly down it to the opening at the end. The pump sputtered, so dad reached over and adjusted the choke. The pump sped up and began drawing more water faster. Suddenly, the cloth hose was endowed with a crazed intelligence. It leapt out of the tank and slapped mom across the face. She reacted too late, and fell backward into the snow. The crazy hose proceeded to flop and writhe all around mom, who didn’t lay there long. She jumped up to lay hold of the wild hose, but her efforts were futile. She chased it only to get close enough to be blasted with ice cold water. She dived for it only to be smacked in the back of the head by it. Somewhere in the fray she lost a glove and her glasses. This violent escapade lasted for several minutes, amidst her shrill protests and shocked exclamations each time she was doused with icy spring water. After the initial panic reaction wore off, she received an epiphany: she could escape. So she hid around the other side of the truck only to have it reach underneath and soak her snow boots through. Eventually, she made it to the tailgate and shut off the pump.
And where was the would-be hero of this errand-gone-wrong? He was laughing- twitching and convulsing on the tailgate of the pickup, only an arm’s length away from the switch that could have prevented the disaster entirely. Dad was laughing so hard he couldn’t even lift the intake hose out of the trough. Mom was miserable. She was dripping wet in temperatures around 15 degrees (don’t forget the wind chill factor!). And like every feed truck on every ranch I’ve ever been on, the heater didn’t work. Mom suffered all the way home. Dad suffered too-from having to hold laughter in the whole way.
Well, I hope that story makes you chuckle. I figure it was worth telling if made you smile. Here in the next few weeks, when your assignments and tests seem to be treating you like that hose treated my mom, don’t let it dampen your spirits. It won’t be long before you’ll be able to look back and laugh about it.
Your friend,
Cheyenne
16.4.08
Readers Thinking Out Loud
Here are some readers remarks that I thought everyone might like to read. Both of these ladies live and work with horses today, and both of them have their share of stories. After reading through this blog, they shared with me some of their thoughts.
Charity comments on ranch life:
“I have to tell you, being raised on a ranch gives you a certain amount of appreciation for the land and the hard work that goes along with it. It's just that when you're out there pushing cattle or working in a branding pen, you have a stronger connection to how God wanted us to live, you appreciate the environment and the animals and the weather and the people that are with you more. Unless someone has lived like that, I think they just don't get it and we may come across as a bit arrogant sometimes, but that's not the deal, it's just that we know it's a better way of life. I remember hating having to get up and go feed or get up and go throw hay when the snow was blowing so hard you couldn't see, and I hated not being able to hang out with my friends in town, but now that I'm grown, I can understand the desire to be away from everything in town and the drama that goes along with it.” - Charity Underwood
Cindy talks about technology:
“Not too sure what a blog is, I guess…I’m assuming it’s what you like and what goes on in your mind and you put it out there for all to see. Sure is different from when I was your age. I just saddled up and rode off into the wide open spaces, looking for a wild yearling to rope and tie down; a good horse to ride; and to live as far away from civilization as I could. Didn’t even have a phone-never dreamed there would be a cell phone and for sure a computer and what they can do now! Even my mother and father can use one. I’m sure if they thought about it, they would’ve felt like they’d been thrown into a science fiction movie, or something like it. Imagine growing up in the 1940’s like they did, WWII, with the Great Depression just over and seeing all that has transpired since.
Even my generation has been exposed to ‘speed-of-light’ transitions. Text messaging??!! It works for me-if I have glasses and lots of time. I like it better than holding a cell phone next to my ear while I’m trying to get work done. My days of squishing a phone between my chin and shoulder are over. The neck is done in. Besides, when you talk on a cell phone that way, the other party hears this muffled sound. You can’t hear a thing, and the horse you are trying to blanket just boogered, whirled and almost killed you.
Other times the dang cell phone falls out of your pocket (which you forgot to snap) because your reins were in your hands and the horse was jumping away from a cow, so you just slipped it in your pocket without even hitting the end button. This fragile piece of wondrous technology sometimes lands in the water trough. Either way, it’s pretty hard on the little critter you can’t live without, and at the same time you just absolutely hate! You have to grab that little rascal as quick as you can, shake it, disassemble it, hurry! Stick it and it’s battery in the refrigerator (of all places!) to dry. How long can you live without it? One hour perhaps? Put it back together and check for messages!! I noticed a lot of young folks wear their pockets out pulling that cell phone out just to look to see if they have a had a call. Slaves to a cell phone, all of us.” -Cindy Smith
Thank you, ladies, for letting me post your comments up here. And thanks for reading, too.
Charity comments on ranch life:
“I have to tell you, being raised on a ranch gives you a certain amount of appreciation for the land and the hard work that goes along with it. It's just that when you're out there pushing cattle or working in a branding pen, you have a stronger connection to how God wanted us to live, you appreciate the environment and the animals and the weather and the people that are with you more. Unless someone has lived like that, I think they just don't get it and we may come across as a bit arrogant sometimes, but that's not the deal, it's just that we know it's a better way of life. I remember hating having to get up and go feed or get up and go throw hay when the snow was blowing so hard you couldn't see, and I hated not being able to hang out with my friends in town, but now that I'm grown, I can understand the desire to be away from everything in town and the drama that goes along with it.” - Charity Underwood
Cindy talks about technology:
“Not too sure what a blog is, I guess…I’m assuming it’s what you like and what goes on in your mind and you put it out there for all to see. Sure is different from when I was your age. I just saddled up and rode off into the wide open spaces, looking for a wild yearling to rope and tie down; a good horse to ride; and to live as far away from civilization as I could. Didn’t even have a phone-never dreamed there would be a cell phone and for sure a computer and what they can do now! Even my mother and father can use one. I’m sure if they thought about it, they would’ve felt like they’d been thrown into a science fiction movie, or something like it. Imagine growing up in the 1940’s like they did, WWII, with the Great Depression just over and seeing all that has transpired since.
Even my generation has been exposed to ‘speed-of-light’ transitions. Text messaging??!! It works for me-if I have glasses and lots of time. I like it better than holding a cell phone next to my ear while I’m trying to get work done. My days of squishing a phone between my chin and shoulder are over. The neck is done in. Besides, when you talk on a cell phone that way, the other party hears this muffled sound. You can’t hear a thing, and the horse you are trying to blanket just boogered, whirled and almost killed you.
Other times the dang cell phone falls out of your pocket (which you forgot to snap) because your reins were in your hands and the horse was jumping away from a cow, so you just slipped it in your pocket without even hitting the end button. This fragile piece of wondrous technology sometimes lands in the water trough. Either way, it’s pretty hard on the little critter you can’t live without, and at the same time you just absolutely hate! You have to grab that little rascal as quick as you can, shake it, disassemble it, hurry! Stick it and it’s battery in the refrigerator (of all places!) to dry. How long can you live without it? One hour perhaps? Put it back together and check for messages!! I noticed a lot of young folks wear their pockets out pulling that cell phone out just to look to see if they have a had a call. Slaves to a cell phone, all of us.” -Cindy Smith
Thank you, ladies, for letting me post your comments up here. And thanks for reading, too.
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Windsome Belle
Filly, born April 30, 2008
