Tales from Date Creek Ranch – Gymkhanas, part 1

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View of Date Creek Mountains

Shortly after I bought Cortez, Mom started taking Kim and me to compete in gymkhanas. And now I’m guessing that you’re wondering what in the heck a gymkhana is. Well, it’s like a rodeo for kids. However, instead of roping or bull riding or any of that dangerous stuff, you have events like barrel racing, pole bending and the keyhole race. They’re all timed races with some pattern you have to get your horse through as quickly as possible.

Surprisingly, I actually did pretty good. Scratch that. We did pretty good. I wouldn’t have done so well without a horse. Cortez wasn’t fast, but she was very responsive to the bit and, not being a big horse, she was quite agile, which really came in handy, especially in pole bending and the keyhole. (Contrary to what you’re thinking, no poles are actually bent or harmed in any way in this event. A half dozen long poles set in buckets are laid out in a line about 8 or 10 feet apart. The idea is to weave through the poles as fast as you can until you make it around the last one in the line, then you run straight back across the finish line. Knocking over a pole gets you penalized. Missing one gets you disqualified.) Continue reading “Tales from Date Creek Ranch – Gymkhanas, part 1”

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Tales from Date Creek Ranch – Time for a real horse, part 2

My lovely wife, Claudia, at the ranch. On her first roundup years ago, she got to go on foot! Why ever did she stick around?

So the first horse I tried out turned out to be a lemon. There was nothing for it but to keep on trying. The right horse just had to be out there.

The next horse that arrived at the ranch was a friendly-looking mare. The initial stages of saddling and mounting all went well enough. I was feeling pretty positive.

As luck would have it, once again I was going to be riding down the creek. I don’t remember the details, but I imagine we’d missed some cattle and we were just checking the pasture again. The difference was that this time Scott would be riding with me. Continue reading “Tales from Date Creek Ranch – Time for a real horse, part 2”

Cuteness attacks!

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Note: picture is not actual size. Ten years on, he’s much larger.

I came across this old picture of my younger son, Daniel, recently, and all I could think was: What the heck is he doing?

Maybe I shouldn’t have let him watch the Exorcist at such a young age?

Whatever he’s doing, it’s clearly frightening his older brother, Dylan, who is obviously cowering in fear in the background.

Then I looked a little further into the folder and I found these. What was going on in our house back then? Was it a new kind of dance? Did he get into the Nyquil?

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I offer these as a public service to the world. If you see your child behaving in this way, be sure and take pictures. You are witnessing an attack of cuteness and believe me, when they become teenagers, there aren’t nearly as many of those.

You have been warned.

A moment to reflect

DSCN1172By 2005 I’d had enough. My custom electronics business, while very successful, was destroying me. I was stressed all the time, I lost weight, I couldn’t sleep, I drank too much.

Worst of all was what it was doing to my family. I was fighting with my wife and neglecting my children, who were 6 and 4 at the time. Even when I was home, I couldn’t leave work.

So I quit. We moved to Tucson and the kids started attending a charter school, named Presidio. They liked it and so, after their first year I applied for and got a job teaching high school English there (the school is K-12).

Continue reading “A moment to reflect”

Tales from Date Creek Ranch – Lady, part horse, part evil

My son, Daniel, a few years ago at the ranch.

By the time I was five or six I was judged old enough to ride my own horse during round up. At last I could begin to earn my keep.

The horse for beginners on Date Creek Ranch was Lady, a horse so ancient she had turned white, speckled with little brown spots, like liver spots. Lady was a good choice for beginners in some ways. One of the things that makes horses so dangerous is they spook easily. Unlike cows, which are pretty placid, horses have a tendency to basically freak out when something pops up that startles them. If you’re in the wrong place when that happens, you can get hurt. You might even lose a body part. (I’ll save that story for another day.)

Here’s how skittish horses can be. I remember as a young adult going to Texas to visit my sister, Kim, and her husband who were managing a ranch in West Texas at the time. We were out in the corrals feeding the horses and she said, watch this. She patted the horses, scratched their ears, then we turned and started walking away. After going about ten steps she grabbed the tails of her jacket in both hands, raised her arms and went batwings with the jacket. Then she turned back to the horses, took a step toward them, and they freaked out. (What is this scary thing that suddenly appeared where that friendly human used to be?) Then she lowered the jacket, they realized who she was and they were okay again. Five seconds later she did it again. Same result.

However, there was no spooking Lady. She was so old and lazy and she’d been around long enough to see it all that nothing fazed her. You could have let off fireworks under her belly and she wouldn’t have twitched her tail. She knew all about humans and their foolish ways and she wasn’t buying any of it.

That made her good for little kids. You could also get off her, anywhere, any time, and just walk away and she’d stand right there, head down, dozing peacefully, until you came back. Not like most horses which might just take the opportunity to run back to the barn and leave you stranded a few miles from nowhere (this also happened to me; I had lots of fun with horses).

What wasn’t so good was that she had a mean streak a mile wide and she was always watching for her chance to get you. At that age, getting on the horse was a big task. I had to take hold of the saddle strings at the front and the back of the saddle (saddle strings are long, narrow pieces of leather attached to roughly the four corners of the saddle and they’re for tying things like ropes and saddle bags to the saddle) and jump in the air until I could get my knee into the stirrup. Which usually took a few tries. From there I had to pull myself laboriously up until I could get a hand on the saddle horn (that thing that sticks up in the front of a Western saddle, where the cowboy traditionally wrapped his rope after roping a cow or some other cowboy-related quadruped). Then I could make it into the saddle itself.

Lady liked this game. If I wasn’t quick enough, if I didn’t get all the steps right on the first try and scurry up into that saddle, she would reach back around and bite me on the ass. It hurt!

I had a pretty bad temper even as a little kid (hmmm, wonder if I learned it from Dad?) and when she did that I’d yelp, drop to the ground and just start punching her wildly (while Dad, if he was nearby, laughed uproariously). Lady liked that part of the game too, since I couldn’t actually hurt her at all.

Compounding my fear was the fact that my wonderful older sister (four years older) at some point fed me this story about how if a horse every really bites you, I mean, breaks the skin, the horse can’t stop biting until its teeth come together. I lived in fear of that, waiting for that damnable horse to tear off half my ass and leave me sitting lopsided for the rest of my life.

Lady had other games too.

Sometimes, when I was standing beside her, trying to get the cinch right or adjusting the stirrups or something, if I wasn’t paying close enough attention she’d pick up her front foot and set it down on mine. Then she’d lean on that foot, putting her weight on it.

I always wore boots when riding, so they protected my feet somewhat, but still, it hurt like hell. I’d scream and start pounding on her and she’d just look at me calmly—I was too small to even reach her face, so all I could do was flail futilely at her shoulder—all the while enjoying my suffering. There wasn’t really anything I could do since I was about thirty pounds or so (I was a terribly small child) and she probably weighed twelve or fifteen hundred pounds. All I could do was screech and pound until she got bored and let me go.

Worse than the hurt was the absolute sense of helplessness. Helplessness would just enrage me.

Lady had one other favorite game she liked to play.

When you’re out gathering cows off the range, most of the time it’s pretty dull. You ride for hours and hours by yourself, no one to talk to, nothing to really pass the time. It’s easy to sort of nod off. Not actually sleeping, but just sort of lulled into a trance-like state by the horse’s steady, rhythmic motion.

When that happened, Lady mentally rubbed her hooves together and cackled with glee. (Yes, I’m sure that horse was capable of cackling. She was an evil, old witch.)

It went like this:

We’re plodding along (and plod was Lady’s only real speed) a few feet from a barbed wire fence or some cactus, I’m half asleep, everything’s calm, and suddenly Lady would just sidestep, running me right into the barbs or filling me with cactus thorns.

I’m not making this up. That lazy, nasty old horse would wait—wait!—until I wasn’t paying close attention, and then she she’d just do this neat little sidestep and jam my leg—and sometimes upper body, if the cactus was big enough—right into something pokey and painful.

Geez, I hated that horse.

I always carried a switch to swat her with to make her go (she didn’t react to my pathetic jabs with the spurs at all and if I let her go her normal speed we’d fall behind the other rides and Dad would yell at me) and after she wounded me I’d just go berserk, smacking her on the hindquarters until I ran out of breath. And you know what?

That didn’t bother her at all. Not even a little bit. She’d just keep plodding (plotting?) on, her head down.

Laughing at me the whole time.

Next post

A moment of gratitude

Inspired by a blog post I read recently, I want to take a moment to be grateful. I’m as guilty as anyone of getting caught up in running always for the next accomplishment, the next purchase, the next thing I don’t have. When I do this, I forget to be grateful for what I already have and how blessed I feel.

I’m grateful for my wife, Claudia. Soon we will have twenty years of marriage. (How we met.) I still can’t believe it sometimes. I grew up surrounded by divorce. I sort of figured it would happen to me. Yet here we are, not just together, but closer than ever. When I think there are no new depths in our relationship, new depths come along.

I’m grateful for my sons, Dylan, 16, and Daniel, 14. They’re teenagers who for some reason still enjoy spending time with me. I’m not sure why. At their age I didn’t want to spend time with my parents. We barely spoke. Each of them is known to give me hugs now and then…sometimes for no reason at all. I took them to a concert last weekend and at one point I was standing there with them flanking me, one already taller than me, one soon to be taller, and all I could think was that surely nothing could be finer than to stand there with them, so proud of the men they are growing up to be.

I’ve got lots more to be grateful for too, like work that fulfills me, a great home, my health, and so on, but I’m going to leave it at this for now. I have so much. And I am grateful.

(Thanks to Theodora Goss and her wonderful post on gratitude.)