Monday, October 16, 2006
Fair warning
It may not be deep, thoughtful, or even theological, but it's the freakin' truth... A man can only sit in a deer stand so long, not seeing a thing, before something has to pay for his frustration...
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Augustus Part III (for the three people interested in seeing how the story ends)
The entire time, I'm envisioning my emminent death, seeing as how that was the gelding who just went nuts, and all it needed was a self-shutting gate. I had to go and pick a stud, balls and all, and I couldn't shut the rear gate without 4 hail mary's and a lucky rabbit's foot. But I couldn't turn back now, after this big event, everyone had gathered around to see the next circus. So, armed with my crowbar and newfound peace with my maker, I sat atop the fence, ready to take a hoof in the face, my own proverbial polo ball if you will.They looked at me and asked if I was ready, and with all the confidence of a lamb before the slaughter I forced out a very weak "y..y..yeah." ...
With all the authority of the previous horse they popped open the chute gate, and out came my man. That is where the similarity ended. Slowly, yet deliberately he stuck his head out, looked to the left, then to the right, like a five year old who just learned how to look both ways before crossing the street. Confidently he walked with a slow authority to the trailer, where he casually stepped in, turned sideways, placed his butt against the side wall and assumed the position to ride home. We all just kind of stood there, waiting for something to happen. I was standing with the rear gate, not moving an inch, more hoping not to die than worrying about getting the thing shut. He turned his head and looked at me like "Well partner, were you planning on shutting that thing or do you want me to do it myself." I decided it would probably be best if I did it myself, but I did appreciate the offer. He quietly and patiently waited for me to complete the difficult task, while Will's horse is kicking the trailer, discontent with his current accomidations.
Off we went, down the road, stopping at Cracker Barrell, a precious commodity to poor country boys trapped on Long Island, where we sat down and decided what to name these two gentlemen. Selfishly you would love to name the animals, that's a given, after all we were the one's who picked them up, nearly dying in the process. But, they are for the boys, that's the real reason we're there, maybe we should let the boys name them we thought. It was settled, we'll leave it to the boys. We sat down for a well deserved meal.
After some good conversation, and a long anticipated Chicken Fried Steak, we reflected on the events of the morning. Two horses, two very different personalities, two names. Two characters, one hard nosed, unwilling to take direction or crap from anyone, the other more than willing to calmly, steadily do just what he needs to do and nothing more. Two hearty slices of Americana needed two healthy names to reflect their personalities, and ultimately rationalizing the fact that we couldn't have two horses named Cinnamon or Tupac, we decided then and there to take the matter into our own hands. What names would do these two justice? What names would help paint their picture? What two names would carry the sense of meaning these two drastically different yet similar characters? It was never so clear...
With all the authority of the previous horse they popped open the chute gate, and out came my man. That is where the similarity ended. Slowly, yet deliberately he stuck his head out, looked to the left, then to the right, like a five year old who just learned how to look both ways before crossing the street. Confidently he walked with a slow authority to the trailer, where he casually stepped in, turned sideways, placed his butt against the side wall and assumed the position to ride home. We all just kind of stood there, waiting for something to happen. I was standing with the rear gate, not moving an inch, more hoping not to die than worrying about getting the thing shut. He turned his head and looked at me like "Well partner, were you planning on shutting that thing or do you want me to do it myself." I decided it would probably be best if I did it myself, but I did appreciate the offer. He quietly and patiently waited for me to complete the difficult task, while Will's horse is kicking the trailer, discontent with his current accomidations.
Off we went, down the road, stopping at Cracker Barrell, a precious commodity to poor country boys trapped on Long Island, where we sat down and decided what to name these two gentlemen. Selfishly you would love to name the animals, that's a given, after all we were the one's who picked them up, nearly dying in the process. But, they are for the boys, that's the real reason we're there, maybe we should let the boys name them we thought. It was settled, we'll leave it to the boys. We sat down for a well deserved meal.
After some good conversation, and a long anticipated Chicken Fried Steak, we reflected on the events of the morning. Two horses, two very different personalities, two names. Two characters, one hard nosed, unwilling to take direction or crap from anyone, the other more than willing to calmly, steadily do just what he needs to do and nothing more. Two hearty slices of Americana needed two healthy names to reflect their personalities, and ultimately rationalizing the fact that we couldn't have two horses named Cinnamon or Tupac, we decided then and there to take the matter into our own hands. What names would do these two justice? What names would help paint their picture? What two names would carry the sense of meaning these two drastically different yet similar characters? It was never so clear...
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Augustus continued
It wasn't until 1971 that Congress passed the Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act which "prohibits anyone other than an authorized agent of the Secretaries of the Interior and Agriculture from removing wild horses or burros from the public lands." Before that, these beautiful creatures were rounded up and sold to meat markets and glue factories, for no overhead. Contrary to popular belief, there are still, thanks to the Act, free-roaming horses in America, over 30,000 according to their last count. We were hellbent on making it 29,998.
The Bureau of Land Management offers a strict adoption program where they skim off the existing herds through round ups and gather the extraneous animals together and auction them off starting at $150. They were holding an auction in Ithaca, NY -- home of Cornell University. I didn't know that much about Cornell, I did know that it had a good agricultural program, but let's not get crazy and start comparing it to Angelo State or WT A&M, it's an Ivy League School.
So there we were, Nate, Will and I -- two cowboys and a redneck -- driving over bridges, through the city, off the island, and all the way upstate to an Ivy League school insearch of Mustangs. We pull into town that evening, arrive on campus at their polo stadium, yes I said it, stadium. We walked through the doors, and their they were, well over a hundred of them, wild as the day is long. They had them separated according to gender and age, in different pens in the middle of the arena, and you could walk around the outside and see them all. They weren't like normal horses penned, they all stood in the back of the pens, as far away from the humans an possible. They didn't come up to you, begging for attention or food, they just stood there, looking at you, looking at the fence, confused. Some broke down and ate, some walked around the back, none came up to the fence. Still there were some that refused to let it go, they still sat there, confused. It was a different confusion, not of frustration, but of critical thinking, almost staring at the fences like "there has to be a way to get out of this." They had a depth to their eyes that you didn't see in a tame horse.
Each horse had a make-shift collar around their neck with a plate which had a number for each of them. This was for the purpose of auctioning, identification was already taken care of. Branded into the left neck of every mustang is an identification number, arranged in symbols
that wouldn't make sense to the average person. 
Within those symbols are sets of numbers informing you of the mustangs identification number, which lets you know what herd he/she was in, in what county,
in which state, and so on. You can also tell the year that the horse was foaled, and finally, on the far left, the US gov't brand. Every horse had it, and, obviously, every horse's was different.
We spent the better part of three hours just taking it all in. The horses, the burros, talking with BLM workers, trying to learn everything we could. We each walked around alone with a pad and pen, writing down our recommendations based on demeanor, confirmation, age, and aesthetics. It must have been a sight to the New Yorkers, we were the only three cowboy hats in the place, walking around checking every horse out up and down, like I knew what I was doing. The locals were there to see the wild horses, like it was an exhibit at the zoo. There were the little kids asking if they could take one home, the others wanting to pet them. The local news was their to cover the whole event, the third string rookie field reporter covering the wild horses then moving over to the mall to get the cat fashion show. I guess I have to appreciate that they saw some value in it, but all I could think was about how they were missing the point. Before there very eyes were animals that literally ran free, this was the first time they'd seen a human, the first time they'd seen a fence. They were standing within feet of an American Icon since 1964 and a half, and it wasn't much more than a dirty pony to them.
They shut the joint down for the afternoon, we registered, then did what any good redneck stuck on Long Island would do, went to Tractor Supply Company. After paying homage we noticed a game of polo being played in a field down the way. If you've never watched a polo match in person, it's a pretty impressive thing. The ball is hard, and a lot bigger and heavier than I thought. They knock that joker around like it's nothing, they hit it up in the air, and pretty high too. We watched one polo pony take it straight in the face, and he was out like a light. Straight to the ground like David Spade in the ring with Mike Tyson. Mid run the horse just crumpled up and went down, then laid there for a couple of seconds and tried to get back up. Not happening. Back down again. If you were just arriving, and came upon this scene, you would have bet some pretty good money that he would easily fail the breathalizer. And may I say that a half-conscious, bewildered and confused horse attempting to stand is one of the funnier things you can ever hope to see, it's a long, humorous ordeal, only compunded by the fact that the jockey was on his back the entire time. I wouldn't recommend kncking 'em out on your own, but if you get in a polo match and your horse takes one in the noggin, do him a favor, just get off. That's my lone advice.
The only way to top that experience was with a good steak, so away we went. After polishing that off, we headed back to the polo grounds at Cornell, where in the parking lot outside the arena where hundreds of mustangs attempted to become acclimated with their fences, we parked the stock trailer and spread the bed rolls, attempting to become acclimated with the woodchips on the floorboard. That's right, we spent the night in sleeping bags and bed rolls in a trailer on an Ivy League Campus.
We woke up the next morning unable to contain the excitement or get the wood chips out of our matted hair. We rushed over to the Burger King for breakfast and shower in a sink, then headed back to Cornell to get the 'stangs. The arena was a little more crowded today, finally other people there to actually bid on some horses; still no other cowboy hats. Armed with our pads and pens, and a day's advantage on the competition, we narrowed our selections.
There were two that caught my eye, both blue roans. What can I say, I'm a sucker for good color. One was a very pretty horse, she actually looked good, pretty face, good confirmation, and what not. Nate had one problem with her -- four white feet. It's an old wive's tale that says white feet are weaker, plus it's not good luck. Bla bla bla. But he's the boss, and knows a heck of a lot mroe than I do, so I went to #2. He was the same color, but that's where the similarities end. He wasn't particularly attractive from a horse standpoint, in fact you could say ugly. He had a huge head, almost unproportional to his body, a big muzzle that made him look like a mule, all in all, not that impressive. But he did something that few others did... nothing. While every other horse nervously moved around the pen, he sat there, stoic. There was that depth in his eyes, something about him that was different, unique. I'm not one to claim that all animals have feelings, but he was either dumber than a bag of hammers and couldn't even muster the mental capacity to move, or something else was going on, almost like the wheels were turning -- and you could see it in his eyes.
Sure enough, ugly as he was, he flew beneath the radar, and we got him without any competition, the flat $150. Suckers.
Will picked out the other horse. He has an eye for a quality animal. Hands down Will picked the most magnificent horse there. Huge chest, great face, huge butt, solid legs -- if it were a women we'd all been drooling. Will's horse had everything going for it, sound feet, great confirmation, it was even gelded already, which meant not only did we not have to cut them off, but we didn't have to deal with his attitude or excessive testosterone. I, on the other hand, picked an ugly faced stud. Smooth move.
The sale was over, time to take the projects home and get started.
There are certain things you take for granted until you are without them. Indoor plumbing, sliced bread, good toilet paper. A broke horse definitely falls under that category. I was under no disalusions when we went, I knew we weren't picking up a calm, gentled horse that needs a little instruction on how to let people sit on its back. It just never clicked with me that they've never really seen humans or fences, that they were forced into a trailer against their will and huddled like cattle all the way up here. I didn't think we were going to walk up to them and put the halter on and walk them into the trailer, but I never really stopped to wonder exactly how we were supposed to get the wild horse from the pen to the trailer.
The BLM spent a good 6 minutes attempting to put a halter on Will's horse, who went ape nuts just at the idea. He hadn't even seen the trailer yet. In a chute 8 ft. tall, a horse barely taller than 4 and a half feet at the shoulder was jumping out the top. It was not his idea of fun. We backed the trailer up to the chute and tied panels to the edge, a good 10 feet from the chute gate. Will opened the trailer, which has a gate in the middle to divide the trailer in half, got out of the way, and then they opened the chute... and the adventure began.
First, I have to explain the trailer. Working for a non-profit agency, you're not always apt to have the newest or nicest of equipment, and this poor stock trailer would qualify under that catgory. We had to cover the floor in wood chips to cover all the rust spots and gaps between the floor and wall. The divider in the middle was the only part that was easy to operate, you only had to reach through the slats in the side and push it shut, and it would latch on its own. The back gate was another story, too long to describe, all I will say is that it involved a crowbar, leverage, solid concentration, and about 35 seconds without any mistakes.
Will's crazy horse went first. BAM!!! The second they opened the chute gate his horse took off running full steam ahead, having nowhere to go and only 10 feet til the trailer. He ran right into the trailer and smacked square into the front, pissed as all get out. He kicked twice, then ran straight back out. Will didn't have a shot at shutting the middle gate. Crazy is all over the place, in the trailer, out of the trailer, then back in again, literally kicking and screaming the whole time. He made it in the trailer the fourth time and threw himself to the ground and rolled over, an amazing feat considering the amount of space it took place in. He got up quicker than any horse I've ever seen. For that quick second he stood there in the front of the trailer where he needed to be. Will reached through the slats of the trailer and shoved the middle gate shut as quick as he could. Twice as fast Will sent the gate forward, that horse sent it back at him, nearly breaking Will's arm. This process would repeat itself a lot, until eventually crazy wore himself down, and Will was able to quickly shut the gate before the horse could kick it back.
The entire time, I'm envisioning my emminent death, seeing as how that was the gelding who just went nuts, and all it needed was a self-shutting gate. I had to go and pick a stud, balls and all, and I couldn't shut the rear gate without 4 hail mary's and a lucky rabbit's foot. But I couldn't turn back now, after this big event, everyone had gathered around to see the next circus. So, armed with my crowbar and newfound peace with my maker, I sat atop the fence, ready to take a hoof in the face, my own proverbial polo ball if you will.
They looked at me and asked if I was ready, and with all the confidence of a lamb before the slaughter I forced out a very weak "y..y..yeah." They popped open the chute gate with all the authority as they did the horse before, and out came my man.
The Bureau of Land Management offers a strict adoption program where they skim off the existing herds through round ups and gather the extraneous animals together and auction them off starting at $150. They were holding an auction in Ithaca, NY -- home of Cornell University. I didn't know that much about Cornell, I did know that it had a good agricultural program, but let's not get crazy and start comparing it to Angelo State or WT A&M, it's an Ivy League School.
So there we were, Nate, Will and I -- two cowboys and a redneck -- driving over bridges, through the city, off the island, and all the way upstate to an Ivy League school insearch of Mustangs. We pull into town that evening, arrive on campus at their polo stadium, yes I said it, stadium. We walked through the doors, and their they were, well over a hundred of them, wild as the day is long. They had them separated according to gender and age, in different pens in the middle of the arena, and you could walk around the outside and see them all. They weren't like normal horses penned, they all stood in the back of the pens, as far away from the humans an possible. They didn't come up to you, begging for attention or food, they just stood there, looking at you, looking at the fence, confused. Some broke down and ate, some walked around the back, none came up to the fence. Still there were some that refused to let it go, they still sat there, confused. It was a different confusion, not of frustration, but of critical thinking, almost staring at the fences like "there has to be a way to get out of this." They had a depth to their eyes that you didn't see in a tame horse.
Each horse had a make-shift collar around their neck with a plate which had a number for each of them. This was for the purpose of auctioning, identification was already taken care of. Branded into the left neck of every mustang is an identification number, arranged in symbols
that wouldn't make sense to the average person. 
Within those symbols are sets of numbers informing you of the mustangs identification number, which lets you know what herd he/she was in, in what county,
in which state, and so on. You can also tell the year that the horse was foaled, and finally, on the far left, the US gov't brand. Every horse had it, and, obviously, every horse's was different.
We spent the better part of three hours just taking it all in. The horses, the burros, talking with BLM workers, trying to learn everything we could. We each walked around alone with a pad and pen, writing down our recommendations based on demeanor, confirmation, age, and aesthetics. It must have been a sight to the New Yorkers, we were the only three cowboy hats in the place, walking around checking every horse out up and down, like I knew what I was doing. The locals were there to see the wild horses, like it was an exhibit at the zoo. There were the little kids asking if they could take one home, the others wanting to pet them. The local news was their to cover the whole event, the third string rookie field reporter covering the wild horses then moving over to the mall to get the cat fashion show. I guess I have to appreciate that they saw some value in it, but all I could think was about how they were missing the point. Before there very eyes were animals that literally ran free, this was the first time they'd seen a human, the first time they'd seen a fence. They were standing within feet of an American Icon since 1964 and a half, and it wasn't much more than a dirty pony to them.
They shut the joint down for the afternoon, we registered, then did what any good redneck stuck on Long Island would do, went to Tractor Supply Company. After paying homage we noticed a game of polo being played in a field down the way. If you've never watched a polo match in person, it's a pretty impressive thing. The ball is hard, and a lot bigger and heavier than I thought. They knock that joker around like it's nothing, they hit it up in the air, and pretty high too. We watched one polo pony take it straight in the face, and he was out like a light. Straight to the ground like David Spade in the ring with Mike Tyson. Mid run the horse just crumpled up and went down, then laid there for a couple of seconds and tried to get back up. Not happening. Back down again. If you were just arriving, and came upon this scene, you would have bet some pretty good money that he would easily fail the breathalizer. And may I say that a half-conscious, bewildered and confused horse attempting to stand is one of the funnier things you can ever hope to see, it's a long, humorous ordeal, only compunded by the fact that the jockey was on his back the entire time. I wouldn't recommend kncking 'em out on your own, but if you get in a polo match and your horse takes one in the noggin, do him a favor, just get off. That's my lone advice.
The only way to top that experience was with a good steak, so away we went. After polishing that off, we headed back to the polo grounds at Cornell, where in the parking lot outside the arena where hundreds of mustangs attempted to become acclimated with their fences, we parked the stock trailer and spread the bed rolls, attempting to become acclimated with the woodchips on the floorboard. That's right, we spent the night in sleeping bags and bed rolls in a trailer on an Ivy League Campus.
We woke up the next morning unable to contain the excitement or get the wood chips out of our matted hair. We rushed over to the Burger King for breakfast and shower in a sink, then headed back to Cornell to get the 'stangs. The arena was a little more crowded today, finally other people there to actually bid on some horses; still no other cowboy hats. Armed with our pads and pens, and a day's advantage on the competition, we narrowed our selections.
There were two that caught my eye, both blue roans. What can I say, I'm a sucker for good color. One was a very pretty horse, she actually looked good, pretty face, good confirmation, and what not. Nate had one problem with her -- four white feet. It's an old wive's tale that says white feet are weaker, plus it's not good luck. Bla bla bla. But he's the boss, and knows a heck of a lot mroe than I do, so I went to #2. He was the same color, but that's where the similarities end. He wasn't particularly attractive from a horse standpoint, in fact you could say ugly. He had a huge head, almost unproportional to his body, a big muzzle that made him look like a mule, all in all, not that impressive. But he did something that few others did... nothing. While every other horse nervously moved around the pen, he sat there, stoic. There was that depth in his eyes, something about him that was different, unique. I'm not one to claim that all animals have feelings, but he was either dumber than a bag of hammers and couldn't even muster the mental capacity to move, or something else was going on, almost like the wheels were turning -- and you could see it in his eyes.
Sure enough, ugly as he was, he flew beneath the radar, and we got him without any competition, the flat $150. Suckers.
Will picked out the other horse. He has an eye for a quality animal. Hands down Will picked the most magnificent horse there. Huge chest, great face, huge butt, solid legs -- if it were a women we'd all been drooling. Will's horse had everything going for it, sound feet, great confirmation, it was even gelded already, which meant not only did we not have to cut them off, but we didn't have to deal with his attitude or excessive testosterone. I, on the other hand, picked an ugly faced stud. Smooth move.
The sale was over, time to take the projects home and get started.
There are certain things you take for granted until you are without them. Indoor plumbing, sliced bread, good toilet paper. A broke horse definitely falls under that category. I was under no disalusions when we went, I knew we weren't picking up a calm, gentled horse that needs a little instruction on how to let people sit on its back. It just never clicked with me that they've never really seen humans or fences, that they were forced into a trailer against their will and huddled like cattle all the way up here. I didn't think we were going to walk up to them and put the halter on and walk them into the trailer, but I never really stopped to wonder exactly how we were supposed to get the wild horse from the pen to the trailer.
The BLM spent a good 6 minutes attempting to put a halter on Will's horse, who went ape nuts just at the idea. He hadn't even seen the trailer yet. In a chute 8 ft. tall, a horse barely taller than 4 and a half feet at the shoulder was jumping out the top. It was not his idea of fun. We backed the trailer up to the chute and tied panels to the edge, a good 10 feet from the chute gate. Will opened the trailer, which has a gate in the middle to divide the trailer in half, got out of the way, and then they opened the chute... and the adventure began.
First, I have to explain the trailer. Working for a non-profit agency, you're not always apt to have the newest or nicest of equipment, and this poor stock trailer would qualify under that catgory. We had to cover the floor in wood chips to cover all the rust spots and gaps between the floor and wall. The divider in the middle was the only part that was easy to operate, you only had to reach through the slats in the side and push it shut, and it would latch on its own. The back gate was another story, too long to describe, all I will say is that it involved a crowbar, leverage, solid concentration, and about 35 seconds without any mistakes.
Will's crazy horse went first. BAM!!! The second they opened the chute gate his horse took off running full steam ahead, having nowhere to go and only 10 feet til the trailer. He ran right into the trailer and smacked square into the front, pissed as all get out. He kicked twice, then ran straight back out. Will didn't have a shot at shutting the middle gate. Crazy is all over the place, in the trailer, out of the trailer, then back in again, literally kicking and screaming the whole time. He made it in the trailer the fourth time and threw himself to the ground and rolled over, an amazing feat considering the amount of space it took place in. He got up quicker than any horse I've ever seen. For that quick second he stood there in the front of the trailer where he needed to be. Will reached through the slats of the trailer and shoved the middle gate shut as quick as he could. Twice as fast Will sent the gate forward, that horse sent it back at him, nearly breaking Will's arm. This process would repeat itself a lot, until eventually crazy wore himself down, and Will was able to quickly shut the gate before the horse could kick it back.
The entire time, I'm envisioning my emminent death, seeing as how that was the gelding who just went nuts, and all it needed was a self-shutting gate. I had to go and pick a stud, balls and all, and I couldn't shut the rear gate without 4 hail mary's and a lucky rabbit's foot. But I couldn't turn back now, after this big event, everyone had gathered around to see the next circus. So, armed with my crowbar and newfound peace with my maker, I sat atop the fence, ready to take a hoof in the face, my own proverbial polo ball if you will.
They looked at me and asked if I was ready, and with all the confidence of a lamb before the slaughter I forced out a very weak "y..y..yeah." They popped open the chute gate with all the authority as they did the horse before, and out came my man.
Augustus McCrae
In honor of a good friend's engagement, and because it's been a while, I offer you a little insight into what God has laid out for me -- see if you can't untangle the mess...
Before I get crazy, before I start attempting to wield fanciful words in an attempt to inspire the slightest insightfulness, I must first acknowledge the complete lack of knowledge I might have in any and every subject I may be prone to rant and rave about. I have always known that fact, whether I chose to express it or not is a different issue, yet lately, it has never been more poignently expressed than through a quote from Kierkegaard that I have been chewing on for a while now: Speaking to would-be ministers he said: "be on their guard lest by beginning to soon to preach they rather chatter themselves into Christianity than live themselves into it and find themselves at home there." (Journal, July 11, 1838) Before we venture any further, please know that all I have to offer is not a sermon, not advice, neither knowledge or philosophy, rather what little insight I have been afforded by the grace of God through trying my best to do my own little share of what He's asked.
There are 3 things currently on my office wall (excepting the clock and gotesquely placed vent), a corkboard full of quotes, cards and pictures; my ACU diploma; and finally an autographed photo of one Robert Duvall as Augustus McCrae. Before you few fans get too excited, it's really a cheap photocopy blown up, placed on carboard and wrapped in cellophane. I purchased it for $3 in San Antonio last Christmas. Yet, there he stands, with that spry look in his eye, reminding me to enjoy the little things in life. Perched high on my office wall, in it's original, frameless, cellophane wrapped state, his legacy of wit, wisdom, weakness and compassion set a standard for my interaction with the young men I work with here in New York, and it's one I've vowed never to forget.
Truthfully it started a long time ago, but we'll skip those details and move to the summer of 2004. It was around 3:30 am, I'd had just finished arguing with the Intensive Care Nurse about whether or not she could release the status of a patient to me, and having waited through Ryan's 6 hour reconstructive plastic surgery, hyped up on a mix of a little caffeine, some adrenaline and a whole lot of worry, I was not in the mood to argue. Hyped up on the good stuff himself, Ryan permitted the very unprofessional and extremely unkind nurse to release his information to me. Having failed to share the "complete truth" with Nancy and Mary Beth, as well as being the closest thing to a family member within a thousand mile radius, there was a sense of responsibility that had to be satisfied. I don't know why, it just did.
I was instructed that he would regain the complete use of his arm, and feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, sat down on the couch to allow reality to synchronize itself with the present. I felt calm and relaxed finally, but still had this nagging sensation that something was missing. I looked at the clock -- then it hit me, I had to be up in an hour and a half, no, an hour now... arguing with early morning hosptial staff helps you lose track of time. It was the event I was looking forward to from the moment I was invited, and it completely slipped my mind.
It was my first extended period of time on Long Island, I had spent my Spring Break there a couple years earlier, but what can you really find out about a place is a week? I wasn't aware how rural it actually was, especially out on the east end. All along the eastern end of the island there are vineyards and farms, doing their best to capitalize on the rampant tourism during the summer and fall. Along with open space and farms comes a pretty lucrative horse industry; people pay a great deal for horses, and then pay a great deal more for someone to break and train them so they can use the finished project. There are horse sales in Jersey, been there, there's even a really fun one in Lancaster PA, where you can mingle with Mennonites and acquire Amish arts and crafts, not to mention a fantastic (and literal, might I add) Smorgesbord--Miller's Smorgesbord--to wet your whistle and quench that appetite. I ate, in one meal, every barnyard animal available on the mass-produced, common market. And Emu. That, friends was a fantastic trip, but it ranks nothing compared to this one.
This trip revolved around the horse industry, but on the completely opposite spectrum. There was no great deal of money switching hands here... and there certainly weren't any well trained horses. We were after horses, true, but the kind that no one wanted, the kind the government had to protect, the kind that our ancestors used to round up and sell, the kind the spaniards left behind, the kind of outcast, disenfranchised, underdog, discount, no-count horse that has been and will be the symbol of the spirit of America. In the words of Nathan Dahlstrom, we were after a hearty, healthy "slice of Americana" -- we were after the American Mustang.
To be continued...
Before I get crazy, before I start attempting to wield fanciful words in an attempt to inspire the slightest insightfulness, I must first acknowledge the complete lack of knowledge I might have in any and every subject I may be prone to rant and rave about. I have always known that fact, whether I chose to express it or not is a different issue, yet lately, it has never been more poignently expressed than through a quote from Kierkegaard that I have been chewing on for a while now: Speaking to would-be ministers he said: "be on their guard lest by beginning to soon to preach they rather chatter themselves into Christianity than live themselves into it and find themselves at home there." (Journal, July 11, 1838) Before we venture any further, please know that all I have to offer is not a sermon, not advice, neither knowledge or philosophy, rather what little insight I have been afforded by the grace of God through trying my best to do my own little share of what He's asked.
There are 3 things currently on my office wall (excepting the clock and gotesquely placed vent), a corkboard full of quotes, cards and pictures; my ACU diploma; and finally an autographed photo of one Robert Duvall as Augustus McCrae. Before you few fans get too excited, it's really a cheap photocopy blown up, placed on carboard and wrapped in cellophane. I purchased it for $3 in San Antonio last Christmas. Yet, there he stands, with that spry look in his eye, reminding me to enjoy the little things in life. Perched high on my office wall, in it's original, frameless, cellophane wrapped state, his legacy of wit, wisdom, weakness and compassion set a standard for my interaction with the young men I work with here in New York, and it's one I've vowed never to forget.
Truthfully it started a long time ago, but we'll skip those details and move to the summer of 2004. It was around 3:30 am, I'd had just finished arguing with the Intensive Care Nurse about whether or not she could release the status of a patient to me, and having waited through Ryan's 6 hour reconstructive plastic surgery, hyped up on a mix of a little caffeine, some adrenaline and a whole lot of worry, I was not in the mood to argue. Hyped up on the good stuff himself, Ryan permitted the very unprofessional and extremely unkind nurse to release his information to me. Having failed to share the "complete truth" with Nancy and Mary Beth, as well as being the closest thing to a family member within a thousand mile radius, there was a sense of responsibility that had to be satisfied. I don't know why, it just did.
I was instructed that he would regain the complete use of his arm, and feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, sat down on the couch to allow reality to synchronize itself with the present. I felt calm and relaxed finally, but still had this nagging sensation that something was missing. I looked at the clock -- then it hit me, I had to be up in an hour and a half, no, an hour now... arguing with early morning hosptial staff helps you lose track of time. It was the event I was looking forward to from the moment I was invited, and it completely slipped my mind.
It was my first extended period of time on Long Island, I had spent my Spring Break there a couple years earlier, but what can you really find out about a place is a week? I wasn't aware how rural it actually was, especially out on the east end. All along the eastern end of the island there are vineyards and farms, doing their best to capitalize on the rampant tourism during the summer and fall. Along with open space and farms comes a pretty lucrative horse industry; people pay a great deal for horses, and then pay a great deal more for someone to break and train them so they can use the finished project. There are horse sales in Jersey, been there, there's even a really fun one in Lancaster PA, where you can mingle with Mennonites and acquire Amish arts and crafts, not to mention a fantastic (and literal, might I add) Smorgesbord--Miller's Smorgesbord--to wet your whistle and quench that appetite. I ate, in one meal, every barnyard animal available on the mass-produced, common market. And Emu. That, friends was a fantastic trip, but it ranks nothing compared to this one.
This trip revolved around the horse industry, but on the completely opposite spectrum. There was no great deal of money switching hands here... and there certainly weren't any well trained horses. We were after horses, true, but the kind that no one wanted, the kind the government had to protect, the kind that our ancestors used to round up and sell, the kind the spaniards left behind, the kind of outcast, disenfranchised, underdog, discount, no-count horse that has been and will be the symbol of the spirit of America. In the words of Nathan Dahlstrom, we were after a hearty, healthy "slice of Americana" -- we were after the American Mustang.
To be continued...
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