Give me a few minutes to come around. I need my caffeine.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
If I Don't Get My Coffee In The Morning...
Give me a few minutes to come around. I need my caffeine.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
If You're Keeping Score in The Hurricane Count...
Florida 2
Alabama 1
Bland County, Virginia 2
What's up with that?!
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
NASCAR Drivers Have Nothing On Us
I'm blogging this morning from Atlanta, GA. Windy. Could Hurricane Ivan be this close already?
Stuck in traffic on I-85 southbound heading into Atlanta. Five lanes of expressway and we're averaging about five miles an hour. I think I make better time on my tractor at home. This gives me the opportunity to offer up my impressions of Americans and their driving habits. I have the time; I hear there is an accident down near Jimmy Carter Blvd.
Everyone complains about the crazed drivers on the nation's highways. And believe me, nobody has used words directed at others that I have not used when I'm out here. I have developed the kind of temper that you read about on "News-at-Eleven."
But I have to say, everything considered, I've always been impressed with how it is that millions of people can pull out every morning onto the nations highways and 99.9% of them get to their destination - on time and unharmed. Much is made of the fact that so many drivers lack the basic skills to be on the road. I disagree. I'm always amazed at how most everyone deftly navigates our roads with few mishaps.
**Time out. We are moving. OK.
I've driven many if not most of our city streets and highways. Los Angeles, Dallas, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Detroit, San Antonio, Orlando, Miami, Cleveland, Charlotte, Chicago, and many, many more. Even Washington D.C. (my least favorite). And Atlanta (my second least favorite).
Paula and I lived north of Detroit for a number of years. I learned a good way to beat the daily traffic jams on southbound I-75 there was to leave for work at 6:00am. If I left then, I could make it into Auburn Hills in 45 minutes. If I left any later, though, traffic was backed up. But the drive was fascinating, in some ways scenic. Imagine yourself driving a highway in total darkness and all you can see for miles in front of you are red taillights - thousands of them - snaking, meandering their way toward the big city. Sparse oncoming traffic. Everyone moving in a southerly direction.
And I passed few accidents on my daily commute. Of course when there was one, it was always ugly. After all, average speed in the far left lanewas - I would guess - 80 miles an hour. Even in the far right lane you were in the way if you were not exceeding the speed limit. But except for those moments when two (or more) vehicles suddenly rearranged themselves and each other, most all of us got where we wanted to go. It was spectacular.
**Looks like a fender bender up ahead causing the slow-down, although an ambulance just went by.
Anyway, drivers amaze me (with the possible exception of the big rig drivers who don't seem to be as skilled as they once were).
We're about to accelerate. It's pedal-to-the-metal time.
** I should note: "You should not try this at home." I did not type this while in motion. And if you're wondering, I don't have some exotic wireless setup that allowed for me to post this in real time. I saved it in the form of a draft and uploaded it when I got to my destination in Jonesboro.
Stuck in traffic on I-85 southbound heading into Atlanta. Five lanes of expressway and we're averaging about five miles an hour. I think I make better time on my tractor at home. This gives me the opportunity to offer up my impressions of Americans and their driving habits. I have the time; I hear there is an accident down near Jimmy Carter Blvd.
Everyone complains about the crazed drivers on the nation's highways. And believe me, nobody has used words directed at others that I have not used when I'm out here. I have developed the kind of temper that you read about on "News-at-Eleven."
But I have to say, everything considered, I've always been impressed with how it is that millions of people can pull out every morning onto the nations highways and 99.9% of them get to their destination - on time and unharmed. Much is made of the fact that so many drivers lack the basic skills to be on the road. I disagree. I'm always amazed at how most everyone deftly navigates our roads with few mishaps.
**Time out. We are moving. OK.
I've driven many if not most of our city streets and highways. Los Angeles, Dallas, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Detroit, San Antonio, Orlando, Miami, Cleveland, Charlotte, Chicago, and many, many more. Even Washington D.C. (my least favorite). And Atlanta (my second least favorite).
Paula and I lived north of Detroit for a number of years. I learned a good way to beat the daily traffic jams on southbound I-75 there was to leave for work at 6:00am. If I left then, I could make it into Auburn Hills in 45 minutes. If I left any later, though, traffic was backed up. But the drive was fascinating, in some ways scenic. Imagine yourself driving a highway in total darkness and all you can see for miles in front of you are red taillights - thousands of them - snaking, meandering their way toward the big city. Sparse oncoming traffic. Everyone moving in a southerly direction.
And I passed few accidents on my daily commute. Of course when there was one, it was always ugly. After all, average speed in the far left lanewas - I would guess - 80 miles an hour. Even in the far right lane you were in the way if you were not exceeding the speed limit. But except for those moments when two (or more) vehicles suddenly rearranged themselves and each other, most all of us got where we wanted to go. It was spectacular.
**Looks like a fender bender up ahead causing the slow-down, although an ambulance just went by.
Anyway, drivers amaze me (with the possible exception of the big rig drivers who don't seem to be as skilled as they once were).
We're about to accelerate. It's pedal-to-the-metal time.
** I should note: "You should not try this at home." I did not type this while in motion. And if you're wondering, I don't have some exotic wireless setup that allowed for me to post this in real time. I saved it in the form of a draft and uploaded it when I got to my destination in Jonesboro.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
All In A Day's Work
Well, I just finished shoveling and wheelbarrowing eight tons of gravel. On my day off. Some thoughts:
Update: Boy, am I in trouble. Paula read this post and somehow sees it as reflecting negatively on her. So I feel the need to retract points 2 through 4.
- God, every part of my body aches. But it is not a girlie-man ache; it's that pleasurable ache one feels after having done back-breaking work in the hot sun, sweated as only real men can, and completed that which needed to be accomplished by end of day.
- You want to know why I didn't use my backhoe. I'm married. I don't have one.
- You want to know why I didn't use my front-loader. I'm married. I'm not allowed to buy one.
- You want to know why I don't have a cute little woman from the Philippines who is illegally in this country and knows that I know it. Me too.
Update: Boy, am I in trouble. Paula read this post and somehow sees it as reflecting negatively on her. So I feel the need to retract points 2 through 4.
Red Hats Are in Short Supply
My work took me to Crown, West Virginia yesterday, a place you'll never see; a place that doesn't even get enough respect to be on any maps. It is just down the road (if you have the intestinal fortitude to drive it) from Man and a little further away from the largest metropolis in the area, Logan, where they even have a Wal-Mart, thank you very much. Crown is wedged into the mountainous region of southern West Virginia, just a few ridges east of South Williamson, Kentucky. In the heart of coal country.
This part of West Virginia has never been conquered. For two centuries, people have tried but failed. When you work your way into the area, you are overwhelmed by the steep, towering, forested, mountains rising on either side of the road that somehow allow just enough space in between for (almost) two lanes of traffic. There is very little level ground.
What homes there are in the area are plastered to the sides of the hills and mounted atop the jagged ridges that dominate the landscape. As I was driving through the backstreets of Crown (the backstreet anyway), I was forced to slow to a crawl to allow time for the chickens to scurry out of the way.
And there is just enough space in Crown for a customer of mine to operate a hardware, building supply, architectural products, plumbing, heating, agricultural, summer/winter/work clothing, and etcetera store. A place where you can purchase most anything imaginable and obtain, free of charge, the latest news and gossip. It is a place where the locals meet in passing, exchange pleasantries, and move on.
Recent times have been particularly hard on the area. West Virginia has been losing population, a problem that is most prevalent in the south of the state. What brought people to this area in large numbers (after all the population of Man is 770) are the mines. This area is blessed - and at the same time cursed - by having vast deposits of bituminous coal.
Cursed these days because of its perceived environmental baggage. Though it is clean burning, West Virginia coal, unlike that found out west, is higher in sulfur, a bugaboo for the environmentalist crowd. The save-the-earth bunch exert great influence in far-off Washington D.C. and have done great damage to the economy in this area, though nobody from "60 Minutes" has ever been sent here to explore the subject. So people here have, for years now, been packing up their worldly belongings and moving "up north." Robert Byrd, the legendary United States Senator from West Virginia, has done his best to pump federal dollars into the area to help stimulate growth. His efforts are reflected in the marvelous highway system that has been carved out of this rugged region. But the local humorists around here will tell you that Byrd only had the roads built so that West Virginians could get the hell out of the state more quickly. The only state in the United States, by the way, that lost population in the last census.
But I learned something yesterday. Red hats are hard to come by at the supply store. Local folk know what that means, though I'm sure none of you do. Part of the standard uniform worn by miners is the hard hat. Rookie miners, in training if you will, wear red colored hard hats to signify the fact that they are untrained and need to be looked after. And there has been a run on red hats of late. Why? Coal is selling again. The mines are hiring. I'm told that coal has sold recently for as much as $125 a ton. That may not sound like much to you but that's a whole lot better than the $25 the mine operaters were getting a few years ago.
The reason that the red hats are in such short supply is because it has been a long, long time since any of the mines have brought in new workers. For many years the available work force has consisted of experienced miners that have been thrown out of work as a result of the closing of other mines. But most of them are gone now - or are dead. So new blood is being sent down into the mines. Times are about to be...better.
This part of West Virginia has never been conquered. For two centuries, people have tried but failed. When you work your way into the area, you are overwhelmed by the steep, towering, forested, mountains rising on either side of the road that somehow allow just enough space in between for (almost) two lanes of traffic. There is very little level ground.
What homes there are in the area are plastered to the sides of the hills and mounted atop the jagged ridges that dominate the landscape. As I was driving through the backstreets of Crown (the backstreet anyway), I was forced to slow to a crawl to allow time for the chickens to scurry out of the way.
And there is just enough space in Crown for a customer of mine to operate a hardware, building supply, architectural products, plumbing, heating, agricultural, summer/winter/work clothing, and etcetera store. A place where you can purchase most anything imaginable and obtain, free of charge, the latest news and gossip. It is a place where the locals meet in passing, exchange pleasantries, and move on.
Recent times have been particularly hard on the area. West Virginia has been losing population, a problem that is most prevalent in the south of the state. What brought people to this area in large numbers (after all the population of Man is 770) are the mines. This area is blessed - and at the same time cursed - by having vast deposits of bituminous coal.
Cursed these days because of its perceived environmental baggage. Though it is clean burning, West Virginia coal, unlike that found out west, is higher in sulfur, a bugaboo for the environmentalist crowd. The save-the-earth bunch exert great influence in far-off Washington D.C. and have done great damage to the economy in this area, though nobody from "60 Minutes" has ever been sent here to explore the subject. So people here have, for years now, been packing up their worldly belongings and moving "up north." Robert Byrd, the legendary United States Senator from West Virginia, has done his best to pump federal dollars into the area to help stimulate growth. His efforts are reflected in the marvelous highway system that has been carved out of this rugged region. But the local humorists around here will tell you that Byrd only had the roads built so that West Virginians could get the hell out of the state more quickly. The only state in the United States, by the way, that lost population in the last census.
But I learned something yesterday. Red hats are hard to come by at the supply store. Local folk know what that means, though I'm sure none of you do. Part of the standard uniform worn by miners is the hard hat. Rookie miners, in training if you will, wear red colored hard hats to signify the fact that they are untrained and need to be looked after. And there has been a run on red hats of late. Why? Coal is selling again. The mines are hiring. I'm told that coal has sold recently for as much as $125 a ton. That may not sound like much to you but that's a whole lot better than the $25 the mine operaters were getting a few years ago.
The reason that the red hats are in such short supply is because it has been a long, long time since any of the mines have brought in new workers. For many years the available work force has consisted of experienced miners that have been thrown out of work as a result of the closing of other mines. But most of them are gone now - or are dead. So new blood is being sent down into the mines. Times are about to be...better.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
You Know You're in Kitty Cat Hell When...
...your wife gets a volume discount on spaying and neutering.
...your wife fixes scrambled eggs for said feral cats and delivers their piping hot meal to the abandoned home under which they live.
...your wife takes a plush padded cat bed to said cats for them to sleep in underneath said abandoned home.
...your wife keeps a litter box in your barn for the cats that live there, despite the fact that the barn has a dirt floor. Despite the fact that the stalls in the barn are deeply lined with wood shavings. Despite the fact that the barn holds heaping piles of hay. Despite the fact that you own 22 acres of earth in which they can poop. Despite the fact that your property abuts hundreds of thousands of acres of the Jefferson National Forest that they can poop in. No. You have to buy kitty litter for them.
...your wife continues to buy cat toys – for your barn cats.
...your wife won’t allow the garage door to be closed (ever) because another stray cat – yet to be snared – visits the garage at night and expects his Kit & Kaboodle and fresh water to be there.
...you walk into your office and there is a kitty playhouse in each corner, two cat towers near the door, two kitty boxes for them to sleep in and three litter boxes under the stairs!
...your wife runs out of Lord of the Rings characters after which to name all your new cats.
...you know that the next time you drive down the gravel road and come upon more cute and cuddly little kitties that some lowlife (who will rot in hell) has dumped there, that your family is about to be enlarged – forever.
*** Yeah, that photo is of Paula and six of her cats sleeping in my bed.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Top Ten Movies of All Time
Listed below in order of greatness are the top ten movies of all time as chronicled by...me. It is a work in progress (hey, I've still got a few years left on this earth).
I notice, by the way, that five of my top ten picks are from the 70's. That probably means something but I'm not sure what.
- Shakespeare in Love (1998), directed by John Madden
- The Godfather (1972), directed by Francis Ford Coppola
- Casablanca (1942), directed by Michael Curtiz
- The Godfather: Part II (1974), directed by Francis Ford Coppola
- Doctor Zhivago (1965), directed by David Lean
- Titanic (1997), directed by James Cameron
- Jaws (1975), directed by Steven Spielberg
- Schindler's List (1993), directed by Steven Spielberg
- Patton (1970), directed by Franklin J. Schaffner
- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), directed by Milos Forman
- Saving Private Ryan
- The King's Speech
- O Brother, Where Art Thou?
- Finding Nemo
- High Noon
- Raising Arizona
- Fargo
- The Terminator
- The Exorcist
- The Lion in Winter
- Network
- The Secret Garden
- Heidi
- Wizard of Oz
- Lord of the Rings
- Star Wars
- Jurassic Park
- Shrek
- The Lion King
- Men in Black
- Gone with the Wind
- Top Gun
- Beverly Hills Cop
- Chicago
- Ghost Busters
- Jerry Maguire
- The Green Mile
- Forrest Gump
- Ghost
- Gladiator
- Ocean's Eleven
- Dances with Wolves
- Rain Man
- There's Something About Mary
- Fatal Attraction
- American Beauty
- Apollo 13
- The Perfect Storm
- Speed
- The Blair Witch Project
- Out of Africa
- The English Patient
- Pulp Fiction
- JFK
- Philadelphia
I notice, by the way, that five of my top ten picks are from the 70's. That probably means something but I'm not sure what.
What Labor Day Means to Me
Today is Labor Day. What does it signify? Apparently it is a day set aside for America's labor force to honor itself by... sitting on their butts and doing nothing. I know I'm not the first person who has ever brought this up but shouldn't America's unions try to showcase the contribution made by their membership in some fashion other than taking the day off, participating in meaningless parades, and going to the park to drink to excess?
As for me, I intend to celebrate the day by...doing what I do EVERY OTHER DAY - working.
As for me, I intend to celebrate the day by...doing what I do EVERY OTHER DAY - working.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Wily Horses and Designer Tee Shirts
I remember the day, a number of years ago now, when Paula pulled up in front of the barn in the Chevy pickup, horse trailer in tow. We had a farm in Bullitt County, Kentucky at the time and she was returning from an auction at which she had made a purchase that was to have a profound effect on our lives for many years to come. She was high bidder on two horses. Or more accurately, she had bought a mare with foal. I'll never forget the moment she led Susie down the ramp - with tiny Sally at her side. Susie was (to this day) the most beautiful Arabian I had ever seen.
For those not familiar with the breed, the Arabian has various strains. The classic Arabian is of "Egyptian" bloodstock. Egyptians are relatively small with slight, less pronounced features. We owned no Egyptians. The horses Paula purchased, raised, bred, trained, and sold were either of "Polish" extraction or were "Russian." Susie was Russian, which meant she was larger, longer, more muscular, with a more pronounced "dished" forehead, chiseled features, more angular neck and body, and she had the largest black eyes I've ever seen on a horse. She was gorgeous.
Sally was a miniature of her mother, both being chestnut in color and having somewhat similar markings. To look at her, Sally would take your breath away too. And the two of them together made you want to stop what you were doing and stare in awe at their beauty. The memory of seeing Susie running across the pasture with little Sally at her side is seared forever in my mind.
I should mention at this point that "Sally" and "Susie" were not their pedigree names. They had official sounding names that I don't remember, but you could imagine. Being an Arabian, Susie's name was probably something like Abdullah Bin Quanza al Dubaba. That was the way you were supposed to name them - in Arabic fashion.
Sally had only one attribute that her mother did not possess. Susie had the best disposition of any horse we ever owned. Sally was a man-hater. At least I'm sure she was a Jerry-hater. I swear from the day we met, she hated me. And the feeling became mutual. By the way, Paula and I never agreed on what we were going to call her. All the time we owned her, Paula called her Sassie; I called her Sally. Had I known, I would have called her "you wench," because that is (sort of) the name I most often used when around her.
As I remember now, it began when we were giving her her shots. Foals, like human babies, have to go through a vaccination process. Paula's role in that process was to administer the dose; my role was to control the animal. Or in Sally's case - to hang on for dear life as she threw me against stall walls, as she collapsed to the floor, as she tried to leap into the air and gallop off to God knows where, as she tried to reach around and take a chunk out of me with her teeth. Now I feel the need to say that I was very good at my assigned task. I dealt with horses a lot bigger than Sally and not one ever got away from me. But Sally was the worst - by far - at getting her shots. And she weighed all of a few hundred pounds.
Personally, I don't understand to this day why she hated me. After all, Paula was the one who stuck her with the needle. All I did was grasp her halter with one hand and her tail with the other and to try to stop her from hurting herself - or us. I wouldn't ever wish Paula any harm but, come on. The thought, God help me, went through my mind more than once, bite her for Christ's sake! Stomp on her, why don't you?! Every time we administered shots, I came away bruised, covered with stall shavings, sweating profusely, and mad as hell. And she always had this look that told me, "I'm still growing. Next time I'm going to make you bleed."
That was her attitude the whole time she was with us. I'd walk past her stall and she would look at me and flatten her ears. For you non-horse persons, that is what you might call a red flag. The flattening of ears is a signal to you that what is about to happen, if the horse gets its way, is going to be unpleasant in the extreme. And if I went into her stall to feed her, I had to always be sure that we had some distance between us. Paula blamed me for Sally's attitude - I didn't give off the right vibes. And she was misunderstood. I needed to be more calm and non-threatening around the little darling. I don't think so. I had only one life and I was not going to sacrifice it - or any portion thereof - to this horse. So we had a relationship that was much like that between the U.S.A. and Soviet Russia in those days. Call it peaceful coexistence. We tolerated one another, knowing that at any moment, our worlds could collide.
And then one day, a few years after Sally came to torment us, joy came to the Fuhrman farm. Paula had found a buyer for Sally. I'll not get into the details regarding how open she was with the new owner when it came to explaining Sally's disposition. In fact, I didn't even ask if she had told the man that Sally was a she-devil. All I knew was that Sally was leaving and that the beer was going to taste mighty good that day.
Shortly thereafter the time came to load her up in the trailer and take her to her new home in Indiana. Now, Paula and I had, with a great deal of effort, trained Sally to "trailer." We had done this because we had decided to take her on the show circuit and, therefore, had to haul her around in our horse trailer. Loading and unloading horses are sometimes a problem, especially for the more nervous and excitable horses (that would be Sally). But she eventually got used to it and didn't give us much of a problem loading and unloading. But it had been many months since we had worked with her on walking up the ramp and into the trailer and, on this day, Sally decided that she was not going to go easily.
It started out well enough. Paula had let the ramp down and had armed herself with a handful of carrots - bribery works on most horses. But not Sally. Not this day. Paula was up in the trailer and held the lead rope while I was off to the horse's side so as to keep her from breaking loose from Paula's grip or from doing something stupid that would get her injured. Paula is very patient with her animals and on this day she worked for the longest time trying to coax Sally up into the trailer. The horse would put her two front hooves on the ramp but, on every occasion, she would freeze and ultimately back down and off the ramp.
I don't have Paula's patience. I started gently nudging the horse, thinking that that would convince her to scoot on up the ramp. Not. I stepped up the pressure by putting my weight into her and pushing, but she was far too big for me to move on my own. So, purely out of exasperation, I did something that Sally didn't appreciate. And that she would make me regret. I swatted her on the butt. With the open palm of my hand. As hard as I could.
Oh, I should introduce another term that you may never have heard before. It's called "cow kick." Experts will tell you that horses have two ways of kicking the stuffing out of you. As follow:
Paula showed her normal sensitivity to my injury. She was still holding the horse and saw me struggling for air and aimlessly crawling across the lawn. Quickly evaluating the situation, she shouted, "get the whip!" My ribs are broken. My lungs are broken. My heart had to be broken. I had only moments to live and she says, "get the whip." The thought crossed my mind that I wanted to reassign my pet name for Sally to Paula but instead I simply replied, "aghgrrauhg," which, translated, meant, "you get the goddam whip!"
So Paula placed the lead rope in my hand, strolled into the barn, and emerged with the whip. As was her wont, Sally took one look at the whip heading her way and said, "OK. Time to go." And she lumbered up the ramp and into the trailer. By then I had recovered to the point where I could breathe and even stand. I staggered over and raised the ramp behind her and secured the trailer.
My thoughts of Sally, now that a few years have elapsed, revolve around glue factories, Jimmy Dean sausage, and dog food. Comforting thoughts they are. Bye Bye, uh...wench.
For those not familiar with the breed, the Arabian has various strains. The classic Arabian is of "Egyptian" bloodstock. Egyptians are relatively small with slight, less pronounced features. We owned no Egyptians. The horses Paula purchased, raised, bred, trained, and sold were either of "Polish" extraction or were "Russian." Susie was Russian, which meant she was larger, longer, more muscular, with a more pronounced "dished" forehead, chiseled features, more angular neck and body, and she had the largest black eyes I've ever seen on a horse. She was gorgeous.
Sally was a miniature of her mother, both being chestnut in color and having somewhat similar markings. To look at her, Sally would take your breath away too. And the two of them together made you want to stop what you were doing and stare in awe at their beauty. The memory of seeing Susie running across the pasture with little Sally at her side is seared forever in my mind.
I should mention at this point that "Sally" and "Susie" were not their pedigree names. They had official sounding names that I don't remember, but you could imagine. Being an Arabian, Susie's name was probably something like Abdullah Bin Quanza al Dubaba. That was the way you were supposed to name them - in Arabic fashion.
Sally had only one attribute that her mother did not possess. Susie had the best disposition of any horse we ever owned. Sally was a man-hater. At least I'm sure she was a Jerry-hater. I swear from the day we met, she hated me. And the feeling became mutual. By the way, Paula and I never agreed on what we were going to call her. All the time we owned her, Paula called her Sassie; I called her Sally. Had I known, I would have called her "you wench," because that is (sort of) the name I most often used when around her.
As I remember now, it began when we were giving her her shots. Foals, like human babies, have to go through a vaccination process. Paula's role in that process was to administer the dose; my role was to control the animal. Or in Sally's case - to hang on for dear life as she threw me against stall walls, as she collapsed to the floor, as she tried to leap into the air and gallop off to God knows where, as she tried to reach around and take a chunk out of me with her teeth. Now I feel the need to say that I was very good at my assigned task. I dealt with horses a lot bigger than Sally and not one ever got away from me. But Sally was the worst - by far - at getting her shots. And she weighed all of a few hundred pounds.
Personally, I don't understand to this day why she hated me. After all, Paula was the one who stuck her with the needle. All I did was grasp her halter with one hand and her tail with the other and to try to stop her from hurting herself - or us. I wouldn't ever wish Paula any harm but, come on. The thought, God help me, went through my mind more than once, bite her for Christ's sake! Stomp on her, why don't you?! Every time we administered shots, I came away bruised, covered with stall shavings, sweating profusely, and mad as hell. And she always had this look that told me, "I'm still growing. Next time I'm going to make you bleed."
That was her attitude the whole time she was with us. I'd walk past her stall and she would look at me and flatten her ears. For you non-horse persons, that is what you might call a red flag. The flattening of ears is a signal to you that what is about to happen, if the horse gets its way, is going to be unpleasant in the extreme. And if I went into her stall to feed her, I had to always be sure that we had some distance between us. Paula blamed me for Sally's attitude - I didn't give off the right vibes. And she was misunderstood. I needed to be more calm and non-threatening around the little darling. I don't think so. I had only one life and I was not going to sacrifice it - or any portion thereof - to this horse. So we had a relationship that was much like that between the U.S.A. and Soviet Russia in those days. Call it peaceful coexistence. We tolerated one another, knowing that at any moment, our worlds could collide.
And then one day, a few years after Sally came to torment us, joy came to the Fuhrman farm. Paula had found a buyer for Sally. I'll not get into the details regarding how open she was with the new owner when it came to explaining Sally's disposition. In fact, I didn't even ask if she had told the man that Sally was a she-devil. All I knew was that Sally was leaving and that the beer was going to taste mighty good that day.
Shortly thereafter the time came to load her up in the trailer and take her to her new home in Indiana. Now, Paula and I had, with a great deal of effort, trained Sally to "trailer." We had done this because we had decided to take her on the show circuit and, therefore, had to haul her around in our horse trailer. Loading and unloading horses are sometimes a problem, especially for the more nervous and excitable horses (that would be Sally). But she eventually got used to it and didn't give us much of a problem loading and unloading. But it had been many months since we had worked with her on walking up the ramp and into the trailer and, on this day, Sally decided that she was not going to go easily.
It started out well enough. Paula had let the ramp down and had armed herself with a handful of carrots - bribery works on most horses. But not Sally. Not this day. Paula was up in the trailer and held the lead rope while I was off to the horse's side so as to keep her from breaking loose from Paula's grip or from doing something stupid that would get her injured. Paula is very patient with her animals and on this day she worked for the longest time trying to coax Sally up into the trailer. The horse would put her two front hooves on the ramp but, on every occasion, she would freeze and ultimately back down and off the ramp.
I don't have Paula's patience. I started gently nudging the horse, thinking that that would convince her to scoot on up the ramp. Not. I stepped up the pressure by putting my weight into her and pushing, but she was far too big for me to move on my own. So, purely out of exasperation, I did something that Sally didn't appreciate. And that she would make me regret. I swatted her on the butt. With the open palm of my hand. As hard as I could.
Oh, I should introduce another term that you may never have heard before. It's called "cow kick." Experts will tell you that horses have two ways of kicking the stuffing out of you. As follow:
Kicks can generally be classified in two ways, the rear kick and the "cow kick." The rear kick is self evident. The cow kick is a strike forward with the hind leg. If you are behind the horse you could receive a rear kick. If you were standing alongside him at the rib cage, you could receive a cow kick.I had myself covered when it came to the "rear kick." And I thought I was well enough to her side that I was safe from the aforementioned "cow kick." Wrong. So very wrong. Her left rear hoof caught me square in the chest and sent me flying. It happened so quickly, I never saw it coming. Or at least I don't have much of a recollection of it. I do remember though that all the wind had been violently expelled from my lungs and I found myself on all fours gasping for breath. I wanted to shout, "you wench (or something close to that)!" But all I could say was "hguhgg."
Paula showed her normal sensitivity to my injury. She was still holding the horse and saw me struggling for air and aimlessly crawling across the lawn. Quickly evaluating the situation, she shouted, "get the whip!" My ribs are broken. My lungs are broken. My heart had to be broken. I had only moments to live and she says, "get the whip." The thought crossed my mind that I wanted to reassign my pet name for Sally to Paula but instead I simply replied, "aghgrrauhg," which, translated, meant, "you get the goddam whip!"
So Paula placed the lead rope in my hand, strolled into the barn, and emerged with the whip. As was her wont, Sally took one look at the whip heading her way and said, "OK. Time to go." And she lumbered up the ramp and into the trailer. By then I had recovered to the point where I could breathe and even stand. I staggered over and raised the ramp behind her and secured the trailer.
My thoughts of Sally, now that a few years have elapsed, revolve around glue factories, Jimmy Dean sausage, and dog food. Comforting thoughts they are. Bye Bye, uh...wench.
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