Excuse Me, I Need More Gravy

With all this pressure to eat healthy, stay slim, and make smart choices with your diet through the holidays, I feel like I am getting jipped on one of the true enjoyments and pleasures of the season, FOOD.  Now I know the importance of healthy eating and exercise, but these flat belly experts take it a little too far during the holiday season. So skinny bitches, look out.  Here are some tips from a hearty ranch girl on how to enjoy your food through the holidays. 

#1 Drink PLENTY of egg nog. It, like Santa, comes once a year. Might I suggest adding your favorite whiskey?

#2  Test your Christmas candy before you ship it off to your neighbors! Make sure you get your fair share of Almond Roca, Caramels, and Fudge before you send it out the door.  It's ALL about quality controll!

#3  When attending seasonal parties, politely ask if the mashed potatoes are made with skim or whole milk.  If made with skim, be sure to pass over, or at the very least, slap on some butter or gravy! Which brings me to number 4.

#4  Gravy enhances the flavor of many side dishes, and if the main course is turkey, we ALL know gravy is a necessity.  Those mashed potatoes were made to hold at least a 1/2 cup, so for the love of God, eat more gravy!

#5  Homemade dinner rolls are yet another of my favorite.  No whole wheat here.  Straight up white flour dinner rolls, slathered with yes, more butter, and some homemade jelly.  Move over, I need another!

#6  Ooey gooey sticky buns, cinnamon rolls, and other such delicacies need to be eaten fresh out of the oven! Don't wait to see if there is any left over, and then say, 'Ah, I only want a bite.' Dig in, lady, and eat a whole one! Squats and aerobics are for the friggin' birds!

#7  Beef or Bird? If you seriously choose some dried out old bird over beef, something IS wrong with you.  Prime Rib is not meant to have the fat trimmed.  Eat beef.  Horseradish. SALT & pepper. Load it up! It is your duty as a ranch girl to support the beef industry!

#8  No holiday is complete without dessert, and a variety!  The thought makes my corduroys sing with every rub of the thigh.  I love pie. Chocolate with REAL whipped cream. Berry. Apple. I have never met a dessert I didn't like!

So, I'd rather not hear about, "I did so well this year! I didn't eat anything bad for me!" Stuff a dinner roll in it!  Quite frankly, the holidays are meant to be enjoyed, so now that I have given you permission for a guilt-free, holiday smorgus board, eat drink and be merry!  Worry about the weight loss later.  Besides, isn't that what the New Year is for?  Self-loathing, diet, and exercise?  I for one plan on enjoying every minute of it! Hope you do to!

Shopping Made Not So Easy

Shopping during the holidays makes my ass twitch.  Literally.  The mere idea of entering a crowded department store, hearing Taylor Swift's lousy Christmas song, "Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, dah, dah, dah, blah, blah, blah!", and seeing people argue over the one last fugly elf turtleneck blouse on the shelf makes me feel like the screaming, crying three year old on Santa's lap waiting for their picture to be taken.  I can totally identify with that kid!  Shopping is supposed to be fun, right?  I'd rather suffer through a root canal or childbirth.  To make it even worse, we, as women, tend to drag it out over months and months.  "I wonder if Suzie will like this sachel and matching scarf?  Does Joey want an Ipod touch or an IPhone?  I'm sure my husband wants silk boxers with the cute little bow placed directly over his "package"!  This brought the thought to mind, "Why don't more of us women shop like a man?"

Here is how women shop for the holidays:  We spend 6 months on the internet puruising our favorite stores, researching the perfect tool to get your man, planning, scrimping, and saving.  We exchange that sweater 4 times before Christmas, and make sure to include the gift receipt when given.  We enter EVERY store to make sure we get the best deal, and purchase A LOT of extra shit along the way, like matching wrapping paper, bows, and double sided sticky tape.  Christmas ornaments are half off, so we buy them just so we have them next year.  Our shopping is not complete until we have done ALL of these things!

Here is how a man shops:  They start about 5:00 Christmas Eve (in hopes that they can avoid Candlelight Service at church), go to Walmart, buy a case of beer, and a necklace.  They are home by about 6:30, realize they forgot the wrapping paper, grab the nearest paper bag, go to the shop and get their electrical tape, wrap it, and call it good.  They then sit down, crack a beer, and pretend to be asleep in their favorite chair by 9:00.

Men may be on to something, as long as none of us women expect too much.  They don't seem to mind the lack of thought that goes into gift-buying.  I mean really, what woman doesn't love to open a laundry hamper, ironing board, or turkey baster Christmas morning? 

So, in closing, let me sum up my holiday cheer with a little poem:

Don't worry about the past,
You can't change it.
Don't worry about the future,
You can't predict it.
Don't worry about the presents,
You ain't getting none!

Merry Christmas!

Find My Page on Facebook

Ok, so I started a page for my blog on Facebook with the hopes of being able to keep the posts going and reach more people. Hope all of you that follow me here find me there. Here is the link: https://www.facebook.com/CowgirlRamblings Hope to see you there, too!

Dear Lord, Thank You.

As I look out over snow covered meadows, sparkling mountain tops, and my pony, frost-barren, I reflect on the past year and where the trail of life has taken me.  As the holiday season approaches, it seems only fitting.  I am thankful for where I am.  Truly thankful.  There have been big milestones, small stumbles, and some smooth sailing, but all of it worthwhile.  Just for this moment, I want to take the time to dig a little deeper and appreciate the small things that God puts before me; the things, that if I just take a little time to notice, enhance the big.  Here is just a small bit of what I am grateful for...

*The laughter of my children.  Where would I be without that sound?  Lonely, maybe even empty.  It warms me on a cold day. It lets me know that for that moment, the world is right.  Thank you God for my children's laughter.

*A sense of humor.  I may not always be disciplined or tactful, but He made me.  Thank you for the ability to laugh at myself; to find the humor in the darkness; Oh... and to laugh at others.  If you can't laugh at yourself, I am pretty sure I can do the job! Thank you for helping me find life's humor.

*Alpine wildflowers.  I don't have much of a domestic side, but I can name wildflowers.  I love their colors that add to the wild beauty of my home, sprinkled from mountain meadows to mountain passes high.  Thank you to His hands for putting them here.

*A young colt.  I was able to find a piece of me that I had somehow lost to fear and lack of self-confidence.  It has been so long since I have been able to find confidence in my horsemanship skills.  A bit of that was returned with the purchase of a young & willful but kind, colt. Unbroke, he made me earn his trust, and search within myself to come to terms with fear.  In doing so, I found the source of that fear; the affects it has had in other areas of my life.  Thank you to my horse for teaching me.

*The mountains.  I could not live where I can't see a mountain standing on the horizon.  God forbid I ever have to. They are my home; the place I feel closest to my maker.  Their beauty instills tranquility and strength in my soul.  I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; From whence shall my help come? My help comes from the LORD, Who made heaven and earth. ~Psalm 121 vs. 1,2

*The loving memories of those past.  To borrow a line from a song sung by The Judd's, "When I feel troubled, and I don't know what to do, I can hear my grandparents' whispers saying, "Just do your best.  We are proud of you."  They are my guardian angels.  The knowledge they shared lives within me and those around me.  Thank you Noni and Grandpa.

*My sister.  There is nobody on earth like your sister.  I love and admire her strength, beauty, and perseverance.  She inspires me, swaps recipes with me, laughs and cries with me, and has my back.  Thank you God for my sister's unconditional love.

*My husband.  Man, the journey of marriage can be tough and beautiful all in one dose.  I am thankful for his patience with me, the reality check I often need, the courage to go on, the forgiveness, and the love.  Thank you for a best friend.

*Music.  The out-of-key trail tunes, campfire sing-a-longs, my daughter's pure voice, Miranda Lambert's rocking, the strum of the guitar strings.  I love music. Loud and proud. Soft and soulful.  Thank you for music.

*Miracles, big and small.  Little miracles happen everyday that give me the strength to carry on.  Whether it be simple, like enough money at the end of the month, getting back on after getting bucked off, or big, my parents reconnecting, and my brother's cancer being cured, these miracles are the thread of life.  Thank God for all of them.

*My parents.  They have seen it all.  Sickness, love, hurt.  God's grace has given my parents' love the strength and ability to persevere.  I am thankful for their health, love, and happiness.  

*My brothers.  The strength and individuality of them inspire me to be a stronger, better self.  Ralph, headstrong and stubborn, but unselfish and loving.  He teaches me strength daily.  Cory, self sufficient and tender-hearted.  He teaches me to see the beauty in all situations.  I am thankful for a life close-knit with my brothers. 

So, I don't have to look far to find much to be grateful for.  It is present in everyday life and season. I tip my hat to another year of this great life!  Thank you God for letting me live it! 

Spastic Dog Makes for Spastic Owner

I bet all of us at one point or another in our lives have owned a dog that you would rather shoot than look at. I have... More than one, in fact. Currently, I own some inbred species of Blue Heeler whom desperately needs a job.  If you know stock dogs at all, you know that Blue Heelers are amongst the most hard headed breeds.  I don't take him to work with me at the ranch, generally.  Mostly, because he doesn't listen worth a crap.  I chalk this up to several kicks to the head from a well-aimed horse or three.  He only barks at night, chases deer, jumps up on you, grabs your coat sleeves or pant legs wanting to play, frequently drags dead carcasses in the yard to roll in and chew on, and fights with other dogs.  Other than that, he is great! I've often heard that in order to be a horse lover, you must also love dogs. Apparently them whisperin' trainers find training techniques for the two species parallel each other. Who knew? Well, my horse whispering nor dog whispering skills parallel. At all... My horse will usually come around at some point, but it's been 5 years with my dog.  A long, long 5 years.  I have yet to whisper a nicety into his ear, and have him reward me with good behavior.  I think I could get farther with an ornery, barn sour mule.  Somedays, I love my dog, but most days, I want to throw him in a corral full of mules and test his survival skills.  Still, he remains loyal to me, the one who loves him least. My kids hug him, my husband plays with and pets him.  Me? I scold, chase, and yell at the animal.  As a puppy, I thought I could give him a name that would perhaps fit his nature as he grew. Spud.  It has had the opposite effect.  Spud is spastic, uncontrollable, idiotic, neurotic, and lovable all in one dose.  If he could talk, I am sure he would have a strong lisp. His greeting would be something like, "Hey guyths! You're home! Ssshooo what are we'sthh gonna do? Do youth thee what I drug in the yard today?"  Spud, has more than once helped my horse find some interesting dance moves by heeling him, and leaving me grabbing leather.  He makes sure there isn't a bird within a 5 mile radius of the house.  He chases tires on bicycles, but won't ride quietly in a vehicle. There is a short circuit somewhere in that brain of his, but when he is good, I love him. Really love him.  Spastic or not, he is my dog.  Besides, they say your children and pets reflect the person you are... Well... hells bells...

Montana Fem-i-nine

This is for ALL hard-working women that have to endure calving season, haying season, long winters, hauling wood, feeding hay, hunting seasons, raising children, and all the while finding a pretty dress to wear!

Growing up in rural Montana on a guest ranch does not make for raising dainty, soft-spoken, feminine women.  Especially when the girls are the oldest siblings in the bunch, with no boys around to help shoulder the load, literally.  I have been told more than once by the less intelligent species, men, that "Boy, you have big shoulders for a girl!"  Somebody get this Sherlock Holmes a prize!  More often than not, at full maturity, you look like you belong on the football team, not the cheerleading squad. I got these shoulders by carrying hay bales, hauling firewood, and other feminine chores.  Now, I don't have a problem with such things.  It truly is a necessity to have these skills for the western lifestyle.  But just once, I wonder what a day at the spa might feel like?  Nothing screams femininity like your father or husband saying, "Here Honey. Time you learned to run a chainsaw! You never know when you might have to use it!"  Frequently, as moms, we are seen at the bus stop on snowy mornings with a Carhartt jacket nicely matched with our flannel pajama bottoms, and Muck boots. The vehicles, no, make that trucks we drive, are equipped with snow shovels, tire chains, snow plows, and a .22 caliber rifle. Just in case you get stuck, need to shovel or plow your way out, can't, and have to walk 10 miles back to the ranch. On your way, keep your eyes out for that pesky coyote that's been harassing the chickens! Here is a glimpse at the everyday norm for women that grow up cowboy...

*Changing irrigation pipes...How else are you going to work on your tan?
*Driving tractors...Men at least are outside directing you on how they would like the job done. Sweet things.
*Bucking hay bales...Everything always needs fed. Kids, chickens, horses, mules, cows, dogs, men...
*Hauling firewood...Wood heat is cheapest! Get to stacking lady!
*Changing flat tires on the horse trailer...Two of them at a time. We could rival a Nascar pit crew!
*Shoveling crap...This is done inside your house, the barn, and at the post office! Becomes second nature...
*Fixing fencelines...Don't forget your leather gloves. Those cuts sting in the dishwater later.
*Doctoring stock...Have needle & penicillin, will travel. Don't forget the Furacin, iodine, charcoal dust, &  rope.
*Driving trucks & trailers...70% of the vehicles you pass here are just that and driven by a fem-i-nine!
*Big game hunting...Women hunt too! Usually we are better shots!

But don't be fooled by my words. I like to look like a lady, soft and sweet. But my lifestyle doesn't always allow such niceties.  At the end of the day, I am always proud of a job well done, the hard work it took, and I don't plan on changing! I'll take playing cowboy any day over the fancy spas and shopping malls!


Montana Cowgirls by Heather

All the pretty Hollywood ladies
With lacy dresses, high heels, and such
To painted toes and manicured nails
Fancy sunglasses and matching leather clutch.

Beauty salons and shopping malls
Can't hold a candle to this
Because a true Montana cowgirl
Has no use for such bliss.

Have you ever seen a high maintenance cowgirl?
No, and you probably never will.
She has stalls to muck and hay to haul
And cows to bring down from the hill.

She won't ever grace the cover of Vogue
She's best dressed in her boots and jeans
Long-sleeved, cowboy hat and tuff ragged
Is how she will usually be seen.

Guaranteed she can outshoot ya
She can cuss, pray, and love
She knows what's most important
That's grace from the good Lord above.

So don't mess with this Montana feminine
Cause she is always tough to catch
Don't tell her she won't or can't
You might just meet your match!

What? I'm Sharing a Recipe???

Okay, I know am always professing my lack of domestic skills, but I came across this recipe today and felt the need to share it. Of course it has a cowboy flare to it and it's made with whiskey, that is what makes it even better! Hey, I didn't plan on being brilliant today, but shit happens! Hope you enjoy...

Stuffed Roast Beef


5 to 6 lb. boneless beef roast (tenderloin, ribeye, or eye of round)
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 to 2 ounces dried mushrooms
2 cups warm water
1/2 lb. fresh mushrooms, chopped
1/4 cup finely chopped parsley
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
Dash ground nutmeg
1 tsp. Tobasco sauce
1/4 cup finely chopped toasted pecans or pine nuts
1/4 cup finely chopped green onions
AND.... The best part....
1/2 cup or so of whiskey

*In a covered skillet over medium-low heat, cook onion until brown. Soften  dried mushrooms in warm water; drain, reserving water, and chop. Add dried and fresh mushrooms and butter to onions. Cook and stir until mixture is dry. Stir in parsley, salt, lemon juice, nutmeg, Tobasco sauce, and nuts. Cool.
*Make a slit in the underside of the roast. Fill with mushroom mixture. Close and tie securely. Place seam side down in roasting pan. Roast tenderloin 45-60 minutes in a 425 degree oven; ribeye or round 60-90 minutes in a 375 degree oven or until meat thermometer reaches 135-140 degrees. (medium rare)
*Remove from pan; keep warm. Pour off fat. Add green onions, whiskey, 1 1/2 cups mushroom water and any extra mushroom stuffing to pan drippings. Boil rapidly to reduce. Check seasonings. Serve sauce with beef. Serves 10-12 people.

Now if I only had a picture....
Happy Sunday all!

Hunting and Marital Bonding

I always figured if I can't beat 'em, join 'em.  This was my approach with my husband when he asked me to go hunting with him for the hundredth time.  Instead of bitching and whining about his absence, I decided I would spend some quality one on one time with him in the great outdoors.  Besides, wasn't the first thing that attracted me to this brawny man his sense of adventure and rugged handsomeness? Outfitted in my husband's wool pants, 14 layers of polypropylene, wool, cotton, polyester, more wool, big winter barn boots with little traction left, hat, mittens, and don't forget the blaze orange and rifle, I was ready for my plus size Cabela's photo shoot.  Out the door we went for our day of marital bonding in search of the elusive wapiti.

We met up with our friend, Jon, at the barn, loaded our horses and were on our way. (So much for the marital bonding. Adding another male to the picture assured me of a long, long, long, long, long day in the woods.) There was a fresh layer of wet snow on the ground that morning, so we headed for the high country. We unloaded the horses in the dark, tightened cinches, and mounted up. Well, the boys mounted up. Somehow, I ended up with the tallest horse, the most clothing, and the shortest legs which inhibited my swinging up into the saddle.  Four tries later of stabbing the stirrup, grunting like a pig and now sweating like whore in church, I scoped the area in the dark for a stump, or something to assist me in the mounting process.  Finally in the saddle feeling like a weeble wobble on top of my horse, we set out.  The day was already starting out well.

As morning dawned, it appeared it was going to be a beautiful, crisp mountain day. Riding along, I took in the scenery, keeping my eye out for elk or deer. I loved riding, and reminded myself this was the reason I was here. It was cold, I couldn't feel my toes or fingers, and I had frozen snot trails hanging from my nose, but dang, wasn't it pretty! We rode most of the morning, not seeing much, and decided it was time for a lunch fire. Not just any lunch fire, but a "white man" lunch fire. The kind you build so big, you have to stand 100 ft. away just to enjoy.  After the boys snoozed a bit, it was time to head out again.

The weather had turned and it was piling up heavy, wet flakes as we rode along steep sidehills and ridges. I was feeling soggy, cold, and ready to head toward the truck when the guys cut fresh elk tracks. Shit. Off we went chasing elk in the snow on horseback. If you have ever done this, you know this pursuit can last FOREVER.  After two hours of circling and chasing, we decided to split up. Little did I know splitting up meant, "Here Heather. Hold our horses. We'll be back in 4 hours." Waiting, waiting... The guys reappear elkless after their foot pursuit.  It was still snowing, and late afternoon was approaching.  No more elk sign was to be seen, so we decided it was time to start back.  All the previous chasing had left us on top of a steep, rocky beargrass laden ridge. My husband, Mr. Hunting Guide, says he knows a shortcut, and those words uttered from any man are enough to make all women cringe.  I look at him eyeballing his shortcut, which was straight down the mountain.  I felt the urge to deliver a swift kick to his groin. Now, if you have ever tried to walk across wet, snowy beargrass hills, you know what I am up against.  We dismount, figuring it's too steep to ride.  Now I get to try to walk and lead my horse at the same time. All my hunting clothes are still on, only they are 50 pounds heavier with water, and my boots have no traction. Jon and my husband start down the hill, leaving me to slide and waller my way. And slide and waller I did.  Every two steps, I ended up on my ass as my horse is trying to walk over the top of me.  By now, the guys are out of sight with their horses, and mine  begins to nicker and tries to run down the hill, pulling me off my feet yet again. Finally reaching the bottom, the men are no where to be seen. I have cussed my way down the mountain, called my husband every dirty name in the book, and am so mad I can't see straight.  To top it off, I have to pee like a racehorse.  Now I get to hold my idiot horse, pull down fourteen layers of clothes, and avoid pissing on myself.  Damn, this was fun!  Job somewhat finished, I try to get back on my horse, whom by now is a nervous wreck at being left behind, and is trying to run away as I get on.  At this point in time, words can not even describe my lack of good mood, so I punch my horse in the face, jerk him down into a ditch to mount up, and catch up with the guys.  Upon my arrival, Jon looks around at me, and knows just by one glance, that I detest both of them.  My husband however, rides along nonchalantly, not looking back.  Jon pipes up and says, "I asked Justin if we were going to stop and wait for you at the bottom, and he said, 'Hell no! Can't you see how pissed she is? I am not waiting around for that!'"

I think two weeks later I finally spoke to my husband in a civil tone.... Who needs marital bonding when you own a rifle?

Baby, this song is for you...
http://youtu.be/apBPxoM7o9o

Belle Starr's Gift Corral

So along with blogging, I have ventured into the world of "Western Arts & Crafts" by trying to start an online business called Belle Starr's Gift Corral. I am trying to get a website up and running, and that seems to be consuming some of my time and sucking out any creativity I may have, which I am sure has left my readers hanging all week, right? Anyway, this online business will consist of items from the gift shop at the Rich Ranch, www.richranch.com, paintings by my aunt, Belinda Rich , hopefully some photography of my brother's, Cory Cahoon, prints and drawings by my friend, LaNette Moore, my mom, Peggy Cahoon's oil paintings, and some crafty crap I try to put together. So I will leave you with a few pictures and such to give you a taste of what we hope to put together very soon! In the meantime, I am still trying to come up with some new blog posts, so I hope you all have a great weekend!
Happy Trails,

Heather Anne

The Old Mare Heads to the Gym

Dieting and Exercising...ugh... All of us would like to actually weigh what our driver's license says. 130 lbs. Yeah. That may currently be in the lower portion of my posterior. Spring always brings on the self loathing and the "why didn't I just stick to my New Year's resolution thoughts? I could have been Ashley Judd by now!"  Well, no time like the present to get going...Perhaps my horse won't actually run away at the mere sight of me this summer, and when I finally throw a leg over him (without splitting the seams of my jeans), he won't groan and look at me like,  "What in THE heck have you done to yourself all winter, lady? YOU actually want a lift up the mountain?" 

So, the first step is buying workout clothes; preferably something that will not catch fire as my thighs rub together. Let's not forget the super duper sports bra, tank top, and cross trainer, ultra-sculpting shoes to give me a lifted appearance. I probably should buy a gym bag, because my duffel bag from last summer still has a campfire stench. Workout attire...$350 Looking like I ALWAYS go to the gym...priceless.

Next, I purchase a membership. Upon entering the gym, my envy kicks in as I see some blonde pounding it out on the treadmill, and I instantly think, "Crap... You really think you can keep up with barbie running mach 1 on the treadmill at a 42 incline?" Maybe I should start with a one month beginner membership and a yoga class or two. Lord knows, I could learn to be more flexible. Membership purchased, I head to the changing room. Putting on the clothes itself is a workout! All that bending over, holding your breath, and rearranging is exhausting! Out the door I go, sweat already running down unmentionable areas.

Hmmm... where to start? Maybe I should quietly observe how some of this stuff works before I make a fool of myself. (Oh, too late! I'm already AT the gym in exercise attire!) Instantly, I feel inferior as I watch a lady resembling Demi Moore in G.I. Jane, doing one armed push ups. Swell, I can't do two armed without cheating.  Scanning the room, I see someone pedaling away on stationary bike. Maybe, I could handle that. Heading over, I adjust the seat level and start pedaling. However, two minutes into pedaling at a low speed, I feel like I've popped a lung, and my underwear are so far up my rear, I am not sure I will ever be able to retrieve them! Moving on... Maybe some stomach crunches on the pilates ball... Picking out a medium sized ball, I find a dark corner to hide in. I already know how this is going to look. Laying over the ball, trying to balance, I lose it completely, wobble off, and smack the floor. I was always taught to get back on if I get bucked off, so here we go again. Laying over the stability ball, I realize that sports bras may somewhat work for vertical movement restriction, but horizontally is a different story. Suddenly, my bosom is at my chin. Trying to balance them and me, I attempt a few crunches. I am pretty sure I look like somebody off of an old Richard Simmon's "Sweating to the Oldies" tape. No more Pilates ball... What next? How about the Stairclimber? I could handle a few flights, and just to show that I am serious, I will turn up the resistance. The first few flights down! This isn't so bad... But suddenly, my butt cheeks are burning, and my calves cramp so bad, that when I climb off the machine, it looks like I have a stick permanently shoved up my posterior. I can't imagine how it's going to feel tomorrow. Day one and done. Wondering about my sanity, I head home. Ashley Judd may have to wait, because I am starving for a juicy burger, loaded, and I am pretty sure an adult beverage is calling my name...

Thank You

Wow! I am completely blown away from the amount of visitors to my page this last month! I just wanted to say thank you to all of you that have dropped in on my blog, taken the time to read my ramblings, and comment. I hope you have found something to relate to in the content, laughed a little, or connected with it in some way. I am relatively new to blogging, so I am always looking for help, thoughts, constructive criticism, and advice. If you have suggestions, please comment. In the meantime, I am composing new posts, so please stay tuned!
Thanks Again!
Heather Anne

Little Joe

For my daughter and her Little Joe...

When I look out in the corral of horses and mules, I admire each and every one; their honesty, strength, and individuality. But there is one horse in particular whom owns a big piece of my heart... Little Joe.  One of the most difficult things about teaching your children to ride is finding that horse that helps to build their skill sets and confidence simultaneously. It is even tougher when you, the adult, struggles to find that confidence within horses and yourself, to help your child find theirs. Sometimes, you realize that YOU can not teach your child. Sometimes, they simply learn better on their own. And sometimes, well sometimes, it is the animal that teaches them best...

Little Joe came to the ranch at the age of 4 years old, green broke and full of spook and snort. He stood all of 14.3 hands and was about as wide as he was tall. Part Percheron and part Paint, he had stout legs, wide back, and crested neck; he was solid-built, and black & white in color. His face was honest; unsure but kind. Little Joe was full of quirks, but my brother, Cory, loved Joe from the first day. A young boy developing his skills, and a horse developing his, together for several years, they traveled many a mountain trail. They lead strings of pack mules, gathered in horses in the mornings, played around in the corrals, rode bareback, and were pals. They had a strong bond. But as boys do, Cory grew, passing on Little Joe to the next generation. For a couple years, we used him in the string of guest horses. Sometimes he worked well, and other times his quirks would cause people to shy away from him. It left me wondering where Little Joe would fit in the operation from here.

My daughter had a desire to ride horses, to love them, and to braid their manes and tails, but she was intimidated and fearful. Finding a horse that fits your child's personality is difficult. Sometimes, you have to let the horse find you. Little Joe found Kiley. From the first day, Kiley and Little Joe fell in stride together, and just like an old pair of comfortable boots, it was a fit. Starting slow, they rode trails and played in the arena. He carried her over steep mountain passes and streams flooded with spring snowmelt. He built her belief in herself and him, slow and steady. They became inseparable. I could see Kiley's confidence blooming in her horsemanship skills, and that flowed over into other corners of her life. It did my heart wonders, and I knew that he would take care of her. I had no doubts. She spent time grooming and bathing him, riding bareback, and learning to gallop. He tested her when she needed it. Gathering in horses from the meadow, he would frequently crow-hop, causing her boots to occasionally fall off. Anything more than a jog trot, was a waste of energy for Joe. But nothing deterred her from loving Little Joe. 

Even now, years later, with age showing in his sway back and a little gray in his face, her smile is never so bright as when she greets him in the mist of the summer mornings. She calls his name from across the barnyard, and he lifts his head in recognition. I look at the young lady growing in front of me, and I know without Joe, we would be in a different place. Little Joe did more than build her strength and confidence, he made unforgettable memories for me with Kiley. I got to watch her go from a little girl in a big hat, braiding daisies in his mane, to helping guide trail rides and lead guests with the poise of a young woman. There will undoubtedly be other horses that come along, but none will fill the space made for Joe. Little Joe, thank you. You are the best...

Pictures from Home

I love summertime in the high country of Montana. My family owns a guest ranch and outfitting business for whom I work in the summertime. Here are some pictures from this past summer. Hope you enjoy!

Leading the pack string, my brother Ralph

On top of Jumbo Lookout

After the storm

Dead snag tree with Arrow-leaf Balsam-root

View from above the ranch

Manure spreader... You can take a lot of crap in life and keep going!

Sunset from a camp in the Bob Marshall Wilderness

Pyramid Peak...Headed over the pass into the wilderness

 

North Fork of the Blackfoot River

Weathered Hands of an Old Cowboy

*Quick reference: For those of you non-horse people that may read this, a hackamore is an old Spanish bridle used for starting young colts. The reins are called a mecate (me-ca-tee).

This is for my grandpa...

Many thoughts come to mind when I think of my grandpa C.B.  Poet, philosopher, World War II veteran, husband, father, grandfather, and outfitter. But the one that describes him best? Cowboy. He was a hard man, but romantic and nostalgic. He didn't often come into your world, but if you made the effort to know him on his ground, he openly shared his wealth of knowledge on many topics. My memories of my grandpa stem from time in the barn, photos of him on his favored black & white paints, many a road trip looking at old nags and possible prospects, livestock sale rings & auctions, gatherings in the tack room teaching us to tie knots, repair tack, how to medicate horses, and breaking many an ornery colt stories.  But my favorite memory of all time? That would be when he passed on to me his training hackamore.

I had just purchased my first young colt with the help and advice of my mom. I brought him home, and my grandpa, aged but still carrying the spark, came to the barn and looked him over. With a smile on his face, he congratulated me on being the proud owner of  a cow-hocked, split-eared, unbroke 2 year old Quarter Horse gelding, and promptly told me I had my work cut out for me. In my arrogant, nineteen-year-old opinion, the old man didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, and this horse would turn out just fine. So, for the next month, day in and day out, I set out to prove him wrong.  I read every horse training book and magazine article that mentioned how to start a young colt, but I struggled understanding methods and putting them into practice. My stubborn pride would not allow me to walk the distance of the barnyard and ask Grandpa as he  watched from a distance, what was I doing wrong. I feared his criticism and feeling stupid. I had trouble getting the horse to bend, flex, and give. The more I pulled, yanked, and beat, the more resistance I met. Still, Grandpa never said a word and gave no advice. Finally, ready to give up on it all, my head hung, I started  to lead the horse away from the arena back to the barn, when my grandpa called out to me from across the fence. He shuffled his way over to me carrying something. In his outstretched hand, he handed me his training hackamore. It had a perfectly knotted fiador, mecate, and the bosal was of medium thickness. I quietly slipped it on over my horse's nose and ears, and he began to show me how to hold the mecate, how to ask my horse to give to the pressure, and to bend. For the next two hours, my grandpa shared with me his thoughts on colts, training methods, and how to get him started. For the rest of the summer, he met me at the arena every evening after work, and together we worked my colt. Now, I don't profess him to be the best trained horse, (probably mostly due to my help), but the time spent with my grandfather was priceless.  Little did I know that would be the last summer we would spend together, because later that fall, he passed on.

The next spring, it was time for starting the ranch horses, and at the top of my list was my horse, whom sat most of the winter due to heavy snowfalls.  I strongly felt my grandpa's absence, and as I headed out to ride, tears filled my eyes. I couldn't remember his words. I couldn't hear his voice. Everything was jumbled in my mind, and I felt as if I was back to square one. Sadness filled my heart, and I yearned to see him standing there next to me, encouraging me, patting me on the back, or telling me I was wrong. At that moment, I longed for any of it. I dropped my head, sat on my horse and looked at my hands holding the reins, wondering how I could have forgotten. Now, the rest may sound a bit cliche, but just when I was about to dismount, I started to feel strange. Do you ever have those moments when you know you are not alone, or you feel someone with you? I felt that. Strongly. As I looked down at my horse's neck and my hands, I could see my grandpa's weathered hands over the top of mine helping me grip the mecate just so. I swear I heard his gentle voice, and felt the warmth of his smile.

I still feel him every time I mount a fresh horse, climb a mountain pass, or ride a winding trail. He is with me, and I miss him like hell everyday...

My Grandpa, Clarence Rich on the last horse he owned and trained, Teton

The Things a Cowboy's Got

Why do you do it ? somebody asked.
The money doesn't pay.
The work is hard the hours are long.
How can you live this way?

What makes you chose the  cowboy life,
A life of dust and heat.
A life of sittin' on a horse
In cold and wind and sleet?

I pondered on it for a spell,
Then answered that I thought.
I did it cause the things I like
Are the things a cowboy's got.

I like the way a saddle smells.
The way the leather feels
I like the ringin' jingle of
The spurs behind my heels.

I'm kinda fond of wide-brimmed hats.
I like a pair of chaps.
I like to patch up worn-out gear
With saved up leather scraps.

I like a brand new pair of boots.
I like old sheepskin coats.
I like the sound my horse makes when
He's munchin' on his oats.

I really like tight leather gloves.
And ridin' in the spring.
I'd rather hear a bugelin' bull
Than hear a choir sing.

What cowboys are is what I am.
It's all I care to be.
And all the things a cowboy has
Are good enough for me.
~unknown~

Cosmopolitan or Western Horseman?

All women want to feel beautiful, strong, witty, and at times, glamorous.  Whether you work indoors and wear a tailored suit with 3 inch heels all day, teach snot-nosed children and wear a jumper, or like me, your days are spent in blue jeans, t-shirts, ball cap, and boots, all women want to feel feminine. Well, most women. (Maybe not the FED EX driver that just delivered my package. She did resemble a full back and apparently doesn't own tweezers.)  But most of us like to feel pretty.   I'll admit, while waiting in the line at the grocery store, I do get drawn in by the glamorous covers of Cosmo, and their "5 Tips To Finding Your Inner Goddess". (Or maybe it is the "8 New Sex Positions All Women Should Beg For" article. But that is another story for another day. Beauty first!) Between the two above mentioned articles, I purchase the magazine, thinking, "Maybe it's time to step it up a notch. This old girl ain't dead yet, and maybe my spouse will want to watch me instead of the Outdoor Channel."  I take it home, hide it from my husband, and think about putting these tips into action.  Flipping open the page....

Beauty Tip #1:  Waxing away unwanted or unneeded hair always leaves you feeling soft and silky to the touch. 

Heather's Thought: Waxing? Have you noticed that I am a thick haired brunette? Besides, how do you determine the difference between unwanted and unneeded? The wiry, pig whiskers that attack your chin after 30, and the upper lip hair thick enough to give your man a run for his money, definitely qualify as unwanted. Unneeded hair...hmmm...bikini lines and etc... Just thinking about a full Monty wax makes me cringe, not to mention the irritation that comes after. That would be fun riding in a saddle all day with the third day itch coming on, sweating your ass off in the July heat. Skipping #1...

Beauty Tip #2:  Purchasing a beautiful pair of strappy high heels will make your legs look long and elegant.

Heather's Thought: HA! High heels. Shit. I can't walk in regular shoes on a good day! Adding 3 inches to my clumsy ass would surely leave me falling head over heels, literally. Moving on to #3

Beauty Tip #3:  Spoil yourself with a luxurious pedicure.

Heather's Thought:  Hmmm... the last time I showed my toes to anybody on purpose for a pedi, I was laughed out of the salon by the little Asian lady. "You have hairy toes! You feet ugly! You need pedicure!" Me, "Well no shit lady! Why do you think I am here?"  Forget it... Not going back.

Beauty Tip #4:  Treat yourself to a relaxing Swedish massage.

Heather's Thought: I don't get naked in front of my husband at home with the lights on. Do you really think I am going to expose myself to some hot Swedish guy named Bjorn? Or worse, Olga whose size rivals the Green Bay Packers Center? Besides, I didn't adhere to Beauty Tip #1: Waxing. Hot showers will have to do.

Beauty Tip #5:  Every goddess should own a divine red lipstick.

Heather's Thought:  Oh, RED lipstick. Well, since I did not wax, I am face first on the floor because of my strappy high heels, my toes are still hairy and unpainted, and I am not relaxed because of lack of massage, I'm sure that RED lipstick will do the trick in making me feel beautiful.

Why in the heck did I buy this stupid magazine? Oh yeah, it was for the sex article. Maybe next time I should just stick with the Western Horseman instead.

Splittin' the Seams

I am a what's comfortable and functional kind of shopper.  I detest shopping for jeans; not as much as bras or swimming suits, but it definitely ranks right up there with waxing, doing dishes, and talking to my mother-in-law.  But, much to my dismay, I do occasionally have to buy them.  Don't get me wrong; I am definitely a jeans, sweatshirt or t-shirt kind of girl, but the trying on process makes me... how shall I put this?  Uh, well, just bitchy.  I prefer to do my shopping at stores that sell clothing, tack, dog food, footwear, feed, and beer (one- stop shop) so the selection tends to run toward functional. Until lately...

Recently, I was in my favorite store, and a bedazzled pair of ripped out jeans caught my eye.  I thought, "What on God's green earth possesses a woman to want to draw attention to her ass with goth crosses and sparklies?"  Maybe they were comfortable, so I thought before I get too judgmental, perhaps there was something to these jeans that seem to grace the hind parts of just about every girl and woman these days.  Most didn't look terrible, and maybe, just maybe, my ass would look fabulous in these.  So, I grabbed a pair to try on, all the while my stomach turning at the sight of the price tag.  I moseyed around the store a bit more, perusing boots, halters, & dishware, and finally made it to the dressing room.  Shinnying out of my boots and jeans, I pulled on the pants.  Well, I tried to pull on the pants.  What the hell?  Now, I know that fat tends to rearrange itself from time to time, and I did eat ice cream the night before, drank 3 beers, and had sour cream on my potato, but I refused to blame my gluttony on the fact the pants were snug. I had the right size, right?  Tug. Pull. Squat. Thrust. Tug. Wow, who knew it could be such a workout trying on jeans?  Damn things better look hot!  Upon reaching for the button and zipper, (it was there somewhere) it came to mind that not only was my crack hanging out the backside, I might also need to wax the front in order to wear these babies. Really? A 2 inch, no, make that 1 1/2 inch zipper, is supposed to cover the nether region? I think not!  Not only were they "short waisted", the thighs were tight, you could see every dimple, dip, and crevice, and what the heck was that junk hanging out over the top?  I don't think "muffin top" would qualify!  Oh no!  In fact, the idea of removing these pants quickly brought to mind opening a can of Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits. You know, the "PPPAAA" sound you get when you beat the tube against the counter?  Yeah.  It wasn't going to be pretty.  Well, I couldn't get out of them fast enough! I was reminded this is exactly the reason why I don't like shopping for jeans, and to stick with what works!  I might not be in fashion, but I don't think my horse really cares!

Undergarments & Such

Whomever invented bras should be gut shot and left for the coyotes. (Undoubtedly a man!)  I've always felt there would never be true equality for women until men have to wear boxers or jockey shorts with an underwire that lifts and separates, comes apart and pokes the underside.   Bras, booby traps, "sports" bras, underwire, no wire, padded, unpadded, water stuffed, cotton stuffed, barely there, over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, or eyepatches. Although the naked option doesn't sound so appealing, there ain't a one of them that does the job efficiently!  Especially when it comes to equestrian activities.  There have been times when I was certain I blackened both eyes just by my horse stumbling. It doesn't matter if you have fried eggs or watermelons, smooth horse or rough-gated, there is NOTHING comfortable about the jog trot. All riding bras promise to offer compression and restriction of vertical motion. (Refer to above photo) Now tell me that looks attractive and comfortable?! Besides giving you the uniboob (both tatas compacted into one sausage casing that gives the appearance of one, big breast), the sports/riding bra looks tight and difficult to maneuver.  Just look at the 75 cast iron hooks that I am sure entails a good 20 minutes of pulling, stuffing, and rearranging!  Not to mention, what happens when one of those puppies blows?  It may throw you completely off balance, put you out of stride with your horse, and well, the rest ain't such a pretty picture. Flop, flop, flop.  So in short, I am not sure what the answer is for women of any shape and size, when it comes to riding apparel and undergarments.  I prefer to take my chance on Victoria's Secret, with the hopes that at least it looks pretty when standing still.

Dirty House = Clean Barn

I envy domestic goddesses.  Usually most women envy what they are not.  I am NOT domestic, and unfortunately my husband and children know this all too well by the piles of unfolded laundry, unmatched socks, stacks of dirty dishes, and a freezer full of frozen entrees guaranteed to gag a buzzard.  I think I had to refer to a science manual to learn to boil water.  Needless to say, the domestic gene does not flow through my veins.  I don't swap recipes, attend social functions, shop at the mall, and I frequently forget birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays.  I admire my mother, and her mother before, my sister, aunts, and cousins, all of whom at some point, even being ranch-raised, still find their domestic/nesting side.  My sister often points out that I may have more than my allotment of testosterone in my blood, but what can I say?  I like the out-of-doors, the thrill of the hunt, the smell of two-stroke exhaust, big trucks, horse trailers, & Muck boots.  Truth is, this is when I am in my element.  But at some point, I have to come to terms with that word: DOMESTIC.  And Lord knows I'm trying.  Hell, just last week I turned on my oven to actually bake a pie.  Granted... it said Marie Calendar's on the box, but I didn't burn the dang thing!  I also figured out that you have to occasionally change a vacuum's bag in order for it to actually suck. (If they are supposed to suck, why don't they anyway? Can't get the damn thing to suck dirt right in front of you, but God forbid if there happens to be shoelace close by!)  The washing machine and I frequently argue.  To me, an extra large load of laundry means 10 pairs of jeans, 4 sweatshirts, 1 bra (that's all I own), wool socks and white socks, the sheets off my bed, my chap stick with barnyard mung, 13 bath towels, plus the dog's collar, and my Carhartt jacket caked with horse sweat and trail dust.  The dryer then takes 4 hours to dry anything!  (Which reminds, I need to call the Sears repair man...)  So this is why I figure I am more productive outside.  I can muck stalls, drive a tractor, shoot a rifle, vet a horse, dog, or kid with the same medicine, and cuss like a sailor.  The barn is clean, the horses are fed, and my life is full! So, who needs that stupid word: DOMESTIC.  I'll learn to bake someday...

The Mountains of Time

This is one of my all time favorite poems, so I thought I would share it with all of you. Enjoy the beautiful fall day!

When old pony's hair starts getting long,
and the leaves turn golden and red.
When the fox squirrel buries his winter's feed,
and the geese fly south overhead.

When the  evening sun sets west-southwest
in a sky that's the color of wine.
I climb in old memories saddle,
and ride up through the mountains of time.

When the springtime of yesteryear comes into view
with its freshness all green-stemmed, hip deep.
I can still smell the breath of the earth as she woke
from the harshness of past winter's sleep.

I recall each heart-lifting happening,
like each new calf's or colt's dancing rhyme.
But old memories and me, we must get along,
we're still up in the mountains of time.

A shadow of last summer is still lurking up here,
though the flames of old Sol are now dim.
I remember his heat that made my sweat boil
and gave thanks daily when he knelt at earth's rim.

The long endless days are growing faint, through a haze,
their shapes getting hard to define.
And old memories and me, we've slow-loped through the rough
while up in these mountains of time.

Old man winter's still waitin' with icy white teeth
and winds that sing death with a gasp.
But he can slow nature's dance only for a short time
a snow blanket warms her while she naps.

So if memories don't fail and I keep a tight seat
we'll look back on what we've left behind.
Up a trail that we cut, just as true as we could,
me and old memories, through the mountains of time.

By Joe Mingus

Don't Call 'Em Cowboy, 'Til You See Their Underwear

Ranch hands and "cowboys". They're a dime a dozen.  Every summer, some new guy wet behind the ears and all new hat, tight wranglers, and Copenhagen shows up wanting to fulfill his dreams of becoming a cowboy, wrangler, or guide for the ranch.  Some are genuine. Others, well, others take a while to fit, and some never do.  Some are all swag, and are there to draw attention from the ladies. This guy in particular....

Growing up, I worked during the summer helping out around the ranch, taking trail rides, being a youth horsemanship camp counselor, and back country cook.  It left little time for socializing with high school friends or boys.  While girls my age were working on their tan lines at the beach, I worked on mine in the barnyard and on the trails. Only mine consisted of a t-shirt line halfway around the bicep, wristwatch mark, and bronzed neck.  The stark contrast of tanned arms and white chicken legs was startling, but so it went.  Since my social life suffered in the summer because of my busy schedule, it became easy to fall for the guys that wanted to play cowboy.  (Well, that AND being 17 years old!) This summer's guy came with tight jeans, (should have been the first clue), a fancy truck, new hat, and rounded out the picture with a horse, brand new saddle, chaps, and horse trailer. They usually didn't come THIS prepared, so... I was smitten.  Just knew this had to be love, and boy was I in luck this time. He was a REAL cowboy.  At least I thought...until he mounted his horse for the first time.

We were at the barn getting ready for a trail ride one morning, this guy showed up donning extra tight wranglers, a crisply ironed shirt, and hat creased just so, ready for a day of sweaty work.  The horses were caught and saddled, awaiting the guests at the hitch rack.  While waiting for the ride, I cleaned the barn, swept the tack rooms, and mucked stalls, while the Marlboro man, complete with a stem of grass between his pearly whites, held up the hitch rack, let me go busily about the barnyard without so much as lifting a finger.  Well, the guests finally arrived, and wouldn't you know it, it was a bunch of city girls on a manhunt for a Montana cowboy.  Marlboro man was in luck!  He put on his shit-eating grin, and greeted the ladies, paying extra special attention the blond with the perky boobs.  Rolling my eyes, I put the broom away and went out to help adjust the saddles.  Finally, everybody was mounted and ready for the ride except him.  He goes to the barn for his horse, leads him out, checks his cinch, and tries to stab the stirrup with spurred boot.  Now, to give the guy a little credit, his horse was rather tall; about 16 1/2 hands, and cowboy stood all of 5'7".  You can imagine the combination of skin tight jeans, short legs, and tall horse, and the outcome was going to be anything but successful.  So pretty boy misses his stirrup for the 3rd time, and finally makes it the 4th, reaches for the saddle horn to pull himself up and over, when the last little squat-thrust caused the butt of his snug jeans to ripout right across the cheek, exposing BRIGHT red underwear. (I was beginning to wonder if there was any room in those pants for breathing, let alone underwear.)  A gasp was heard from the girls, and Mr. Cowboy's face matched his jockey shorts.  Then and there was the end of infatuation with him, realizing that real cowboys didn't come in a package so neat and tidy.  Thanks be to Jesus for the creation of horses, giving a girl all she'd ever really need anyway.

The Art of Barnyard Cussing

Nothing can stir the soul of man, woman, or child more than an adventure on a Montana dude ranch where one can partake in piece of old west history called cowboy, & blend that with the great outdoors. So, this is the setting of the story to follow...

It was a beautiful, pristine Montana morning with the horses grazing peacefully about the meadow in belly-deep grass; the sun rising up to kiss the mountain peaks with warmth. The morning campfire was crackling away outside the lodge, and awaiting the guests, was a fresh pot of cowboy coffee.  It was what we called "Wrangler Breakfast" morning, which entails your guests consuming their meal of steak, eggs, & camp spuds around the fire while watching the wranglers gather in the stock by horseback.  This was my job, and I loved it.  There is nothing like saddling up on a cool, summer morning and heading out to gather in the horses.  It's just you and your horse working together, and the feeling, well... indescribable.  I was the only wrangler on tap for "Wrangler Breakfast", so I mounted up and headed my horse out the gate. Walk. Trot. Gallop!  The ranch owned about 80 head of horses and mules, and MOST were cooperative, knew the routine of wrangling, and did as they were supposed to, gallop gracefully to the barn displaying their athleticism and grace for the onlookers.  But, there were stragglers; defiant sons of bitches that chose to head the opposite direction or hold their ground in a sweet section of timothy grass.  Well, I worked them back and forth across the meadow, coaxing firmly but gently until they were in front of the lodge where they chose to stop. They would take a few steps toward the corrals and barn, then stop and plant their fat faces in the grass. Any time I came near, they would pin their ears, whirl and kick, or go nowhere at all.  After several minutes of this fun, I'd had enough.  My horse had lost any brain he had, my temper flared, and I opened up and aired out both lungs.  Now, growing up in the barnyard, you learn the importance of which cuss words to string together to get the best bang for your buck, so to speak.  You don't just throw out the usual "Shit!" or "Damn it!". Oh no! You put them all together at one time, so I did. "You G** Damn stupid Sons of Bit*$@! Get your F*$@#%& asses into the F*&$#^& corral, or I'm gonna shoot each and everyone of you stupid Bast$#@*!" I let ropes fly, along with another incoherent stream of foul language, and chased them in with all I had, smacking hind ends all the way.  I don't know if it was my convincing words, or my crazed appearance that convinced them to head directly to the corrals, but they took off like their tails were on fire, bucking & kicking.  I cussed and yelled at the herd all the way to the barnyard, all the while forgetting about the crowd of  adults, children, crew, and most importantly, my uncle & boss, that had now gathered at the edge of the front lawn to watch the show.  Upon reaching the corral, I slammed the gates, and let out one more, "You bunch of dumb asses!"  There!  I'd showed them who was boss!  I stomped my way to the barn, went about unsaddling and caring for my horse, and huffed up the hill for breakfast with the gang.  As I reached the campfire and guests, I noticed it was awfully quiet upon my arrival.  Shit.  It dawned on my that I hadn't given a thought about them hearing EVERY word that came out of my mouth about 10 minutes prior. Double shit.  Me and my big mouth.  Head down, I quickly grabbed a plate of food and SILENTLY ate alone.  Later, with the lump of breakfast souring in my stomach, I was quietly reminded that sometimes, silence is golden.  So, will I ever learn? Hell, no...

Saddle Up

Well, it's been a while since I picked up the reins on blogging. Summer has been busy working at the ranch.www.richranch.com, but it was a much needed busy for all. I was thankful for my time with my family, meeting new people from all walks of life, and riding my pony down the dusty trail. I hope to continue with writing some, and I figure this is as good a place as any to start. So, I hope to bring laughter to your day with deep thoughts from my shallow mind. You can expect short stories, thoughts, and ideas filled with some laughs, joy, & tears, so I hope you saddle up with me and follow along!