Women’s work—

First, I have two things to say:

1) I do not like saying goodbye.  Goodbye, Gin.  Goodbye, Max.  I can stand it today, but not yesterday.

2) Here’s a neat little technique: find something at Sam’s club that you know someone you love will really, really want – like, that they couldn’t live without – something very cool that you kind of even like yourself.  Then talk yourself into buying the thing as a present, because money spent on other people doesn’t count.  Then go home and FIND OUT THEY ALREADY HAVE IT!!

Works like a charm.

NOW

Here is a story for you:  Chapter One

Sophie, first day of being in the jail—and suddenly attacked by a goose.

Then

Saturday Morning, before we went to Burgers, I spent three hours working this brave little tractor for the first time in the arena.  (Sorry that there are no pictures of this—hard to take pictures of yourself while you’re actually operating largish equipment.  But I looked GOOOOOD.  Really, I did.)  And the reason why I did all that work was because I saw these—>

(Our twenty five year old snowdrops)

And knew that this—>

(The first spring rain.  Pretend you see it)

was going to start to start falling pretty soon, and I didn’t want this—>

(ewwwww)

to happen in here—>

which, as you see, regardless of the rain, very happily

did not happen.  Mostly.  So you see, my work was not only fun, it was not in vain.  Which is a satisfying thing when it happens.

Here is incontrovertible proof that I am telling the truth about running the tractor ALL BY MYSELF (after G showed me how).

And then I cleaned out this (hint: not Dustin, which I am not qualified to do)—>

But did not clean this—>

the evil, horse attacking goose.  Here is how this goose came to live with us: that rascal of a Dick Beeson brought this thing (you are not going to believe he could be so vile) to the CHRISTMAS PARTY as an ORNAMENT.  He often does this, thinking he is very funny.  Once it was a bowling ball with a cut off cork glued to the top with a hook sticking out of it.  Like anybody has a tree big enough for that.  And the problem with this is that the person who wins these things inevitably decides (in gratitude, I am sure, for my not throwing them off the list every year) to leave their prize hidden somewhere in my house.  Once, it was under my pillow.  I don’t remember where or how this winged thing was stuffed away, but he hung in the garage for years, and has protected our barn against . . . something . . . now for many, many years.  At least four.  Anyway, since we put the barn up and realized we could uninstall the goose from the garage and stick it out here where it will get the horses de-sensitized to swinging, senseless things and Dick’s sense of humor.

I also put up this—>

This is the outside of the jail.  We call it the jail because Guy’s mother called the place where recalcitrant dogs were sent to cool their heels the “dog jail.”  This is actually not for bad horses.  It’s taking them into custody for their own protection.  We put these panels up when we have to shut the horses off the pasture (hooves and soft ground and growing grass=not a productive combination), which means that Sophie and Jetta have to be in the same tiny space 24-7.  Which means that Jetta will eventually lose hide, blood, dignity and all semblance of confidence.  And ultimately, legs, tail and nose.  So the girls have to take turns in here, every other day.  Pffff.  Women.

I carried every one of those panels and even that gate (and that’s no chopped liver, let me tell you) ALL  BY MYSELF.  Including all these—>

Which are on the other side of the barn, and with which I am mounting yet another experiment in small pasture maintenance.  Geneva is rolling her eyes at this point.  Woo-hoo, carrying ALL THOSE GREAT BIG TWELVE FOOTERS BY YOURSELF.  Because SHE hefts these—>

which are eighteen feet, and she does THAT all alone.  These are steel panels, by the way, built to withstand the onslaughts of 1100 pound ravening stud animals who really, really want to get to the other side.  And how do we girls carry them?  You back up to the things, hook your arms through and carry them on your back.  You remember those Buster Keaton movies where the guy’d be carrying a huge long board, and suddenly turn around to look at something, and accidentally knock some poor dude off the building with the tail end of the swinging board? Yeah.  It’s like that.  And the gates are HECK to carry.

But we gladly do it for these—>

Horse Muzzles.  Horse Noses.  Softest things in the world.  And I LOVE ’em.  And I kiss them EVERY DAY, and I have since mid 2001.  Get close enough to smell a horse’s breath, and you smell every green and growing thing.  It’s wonderful.

Here seen in passive mode.

Here in active mode.

Yep.  It’s the life.  Just don’t ever invite me in (especially in early spring) unless I take my boots off first.