We Have All Been There

I remember when, I remember

I remember when I lost my mind

There was something so pleasant about that place

Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you're out there without care

Yeah, I was out of touch

But it wasn't because I didn't know enough

I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Possibly

And I hope that you are

Having the time of your life

But think twice

That's my only advice

Come on now, who do you

Who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?

Ha ha ha, bless your soul

You really think you're in control?

Well, I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

Just like me

My heroes had the heart

To lose their lives out on a limb

And all I remember

Is thinking, I want to be like them

Ever since I was little

Ever since I was little

It looked like fun

And it's no coincidence I've come

And I can die when I'm done

But maybe I'm crazy

Maybe you're crazy

Maybe we're crazy

Probably

Songwriters: Brian Burton; Thomas Callaway; Gianfranco Reverberi; Gian Reverberi

Mare is gone, but not forgotten

The distracting mare is gone. He udder is dried up, she no longer thinks she should nurse her year-old filly, and she has taken the exit invite.

Cruz is frantic. He put two miles on, screaming and running over every square inch of the six+ acre pasture, and has whinnied long into the evening (it is 11:11 pm now). Good heavens, work it out, man.

I hate to be cruel, but he was acting this was after one day with her. So, it's not like they are life-mates. I have to figure into his consciousness, or he is worthless to me. If he cannot concentrate on me, he will be a danger to me. On the trail, in the trailer, in camp.

Sorry, buddy, this is when being a human trumps being a horse. I get to lead and train and demand to be #1. Otherwise, you can go to a new home and be a lawn ornament...

Horse prints on my heart, and my foot

Not my foot, Google image, but this is what my left foot looks like after Cruz rushed the gate to return to 'his' mare. And he's a gelding!

So, I have a horse. And I love my horse. And I got him a pasture buddy so that he would not be lonely, being new to our home and ownership. I had my niece bring over the horse of her choice. She did, a little mare.

So, I did not realize the influence some mares can have on some geldings. This turned out to be the worst combination in the world... for me, not for them. They seem to like one another, but they can't bear to be seperated. After only two days they we like this.

Now, I can't even ride my horse. He is a snorting, screaming, stomping, sweating bundle of nerves, as the mare screams and runs the fence line, calling him back. What idiots. What drama...

Well, a couple days ago, he stepped on my foot. It hurt like hell, which is what I gave him.

It has gone from black to scarlet to blue. It doesn't hurt all that much, didn't swell much, thanks to ice and elevation. But, man, is it pretty. And looks terrible. This is the same foot I sprained and broke the toes on two and a half months ago. Ouch.

So, the girl goes. I am the only girl for Cruz right now. No room for two. He will be alone, with me for his best company, and we will refocus his attention on each other. As it should be.

Back from the craziness

I am back from the craziness that is the Reno Air Races. Each year, George and I take a long weekend and head south to the Biggest Little City in the World. We end up at Stead-Reno Air Field, at my brother's hangar, a huge edifice smack in the middle of the pit area where the big planes, crews and pilots work on the planes, sign autographs, and are stared at by hundreds of thousands of passing fans like zoo animals.

It is a celebration of the fuel powered aviation engine, speed, courage, and history. It is the early morning smell of aviation fuel exhaust accompanied by the whap-whap-whap of decades old propellers turning over for the first time that day. It is the deafening roar of jet engines screaming overhead at less than five hundred feet, heating upturned faces with blue flame. It is the tears and tight throat that come with the national anthem being played as our flag descends from the sky with a skydiver.

We get to see historical war planes lovingly tended. We get to see gorgeous young women dressed like porn stars on the arms of paunchy homely old millionaires, hanging on like he's a 401k. We see folks at their best and their worst, both stages often involving alcohol.

We learn that karaoke is nondiscriminatory; the brightest, richest or most beautiful can produce wincingly terrible vocals. (We secretly delight that the brightest, richest and most beautiful are not also blessed with the voice of an angel...)

We laugh until our faces and sides hurt, we cry when we see a rickety and ancient man wearing his WWII military uniform proudly. We return home exhausted and full of stories to last a year, proud to live in the U.S.

Pictures, top to bottom: Daft Wench, the knarly crew of the good ship Bucket o' Blood (can you find the author in the crowd?), Keelhaul Kayser, mechanics hands on the engine of Strega, Strega in the hangar with onlookers. (Black Mackster, photo credit)