Merry Christmas From Our Home to Yours

As I sit here surrounded by opened gifts and shredded wrapping, sipping on hot coffee, I look outside and see my first brown Christmas morning; no snow to blanket the ground.  This is a year of many firsts for our little family, but mostly it is our first Christmas solely on our own.  I think about this and feel a little sad, a little lonely, and just a little blue. But, as I look around me, I see the smiles of my husband and kids and feel the warmth and love from them in the cozy walls of our little rental on 4^th.  Even the dog, Ellie, is excited with holiday spirit over her new tennis balls and chew toys. I know that I have so much to be grateful for, even with miles separating us from our normal and comfortable routine of spending the holidays with our family and friends.  I also realize that though we are not in the same vicinity of our loved ones, the familiar traditions and memories of days past flood in, and I know I am not really alone.  It is these memories that comfort me.

We spent last evening in a Methodist Christmas service, and the smells and surroundings of the church made me feel as if we are sitting in the pew with my husband’s family on Christmas Eve.  Their little country church in Pasco, Ohio, always felt warm and inviting; the wooden pews, the worn pages of the traditional hymnals, and the friendly smiles of country people. Here, in Havre, I saw the smiles on strangers’ faces and the welcoming handshake of the minister at this small church, and though I didn’t know a soul, I felt at peace and somehow just a little closer to them.

At home, I pull my favorite cookbook from the shelf; the family addition my Grandmother Helen worked lovingly to publish. I see her love for cooking and family shine in each recipe as I turned to the well-used page smudged with sugar, butter, and cinnamon.  It’s my Aunt Belinda’s recipe for Caramel Pull-Apart rolls, a Christmas morning tradition. I think of the family gathering later at the lodge in preparation for a family Christmas, the warm apple cider smell that greets your nose at the door, Uncle Jack’s bear hug and sincere love that you are there sharing in the day, and the laughter that will come later from games played and the silly white elephant gift exchange.

As the Elvis Christmas music plays softly in the background, I remember my Grandpa C.B.’s crooked smile as he sings along like he used to when I was a kid.  My Grandpa loved Christmas with family; the perfectly chosen and trimmed tree, the handmade gifts shared in love, and the surrounding of cousins, siblings, aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents.  This is where we learned respect and love and how to think about others and show sincere thanks as we shared around the tree.

I look at the ornaments on my tree; the collection my mom started from the first year I was born. They hang there reminding me of Christmas’ past. The soft silk of the Hallmark bulbs marking years, the collection of favorite horse ornaments, angels, and the hand-painted wooden sleigh. It brings back memories of decorating with my sisters and brothers, while Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s Christmas album, the Statler Brothers Christmas, and other old-time beloved songs played throughout the holidays. I think of sledding in the fresh-fallen snow on Christmas morning, and trudging out to feed the horses on Christmas day, and the welcoming nickers that greeted me. I think of how my parents worked hard to provide for each of us, to make us feel loved and equal, the Christmas morning spread fit for a king, and the family prayer said before the meal. I realize the importance of passing on these memories and traditions to my own children.

Lastly, I think of the familiar verses Luke in the Bible, proclaiming Christ our Savior was born.  Without Him, I would not be sitting here today staring out my window, coffee in hand reflecting on these memories.  I truly am blessed by Him each and every day.  I have truly great friends that have welcomed us here in this new place, a roof over our heads, food in the cupboards, healthy kids, jobs that continue to grow and give, and the gift of love this season, which is the greatest gift of all.

I wish you all the best this Christmas season has to offer and hope that you have loved ones to spend it with.  May you find comfort and love in your traditions and memories and remember to give thanks for those that continue to serve our country. But, most of all, remember the reason for the season. May that bring you true warmth, renewed life and spirit, comfort and hope.

Merry Christmas from our home to yours.

Santa...Baby

As the holidays approach, it becomes very clear to me the difference in how men and women approach the holidays.  A woman’s to do list is long, complicated and distinguished. We have kids’ holiday programs, presents to buy, a house to decorate, goodies to bake, weight to lose, hair to dye, and dysfunctional family gatherings to attend.  A man’s to do list is (wait…they have one?)  As much as I would love to morph into a man during the holiday season, and forgo unwanted stress and chaos brought on by the flurry of holiday shopping, Christmas music, company Christmas parties, and such, it just won’t happen.  So, I wrote you girls a little Christmas tune set to “Santa Baby” to hum while you go a wee bit crazy this holiday season.

“Santa Baby, slip a little wine under the tree, for me.

I’ve been just a little crazy this year.

Santa Baby, please hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa baby, I’d like to be alone for a moment, or two,

Somewhere my kids and husband can’t track? Is that really too much to ask?

Santa baby, so shinny down the chimney tonight.

Just think of all the crap

  I have to do.
Next year I could be just as sweet,
If I could get a massage from some hot Swede.

Santa baby, I want a rockin’ bod and really that's not a lot.
'Cause, I’m sorta tired of parts that sag and drag; Santa baby,
so squeeze on down the chimney tonight.

Santa honey, there's one thing that I really do need,
a beach – with a sweet, cabana boy and an umbrella drink, Santa baby
so send me somewhere warm and sandy tonight.

Santa baby, or how ‘bout a night of netflix and ice cream?
Or even some chocolate will do, Santa cutie,
and pop on down the chimney tonight.

Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some free time and extra sanity;
I think I really do believe in you,
So, let's see if you believe in me,too.

Santa baby, I forgot to mention one little thing, a brain, to remember every little thing,

Santa baby, so hurry your butt down the chimney tonight.

That’s right, I said get your fat butt down the chimney tonight.”

So, get on your fat pants, crank up the holiday classics, pour yourself a glass of red, pink, or white and unwind and enjoy your family and friends.  And remember girls, it’s perfectly normal to consume vast amounts caffeine and alcohol to ring in this holiday season.  You’ve earned every sip!

Old Harness

     Wishing all of you a peaceful Sunday and hoping you have time to reflect on memories of loved ones. It is not always easy for me to write about my grandparents because each one of us, kids and grandkids, have different and unique memories to share, and as with anything, there are always critics. But, I loved the time I spent with my grandpa in the barn, albeit too short at times. I didn't get a chance to learn teaming very well, and the team I speak of in the poem, Ham & Beans, I never knew, so facts may have faded to memories some when I write. But for me, it's the memories that count, and I write from the heart of those memories and the feelings they evoke. Here is a new poem I wrote for him to share with all of you. I am forever grateful to be a part of this amazing family. ~Heather

     My grandpa came from a long line of teamsters.  As he got older, teaming was one of his favorite passions because it allowed him to still feel useful and connected to his horses when he could no longer ride.  He had an eye for paint teams, offered community sleigh rides in the winter, shared his love of teaming to any of those that wanted to learn, and possibly, a few that didn't.  I can remember as a young girl, watching the strength of his hands work the lines of a six, four, or two up hitch with ease and grace.  I can remember feeding the stock with him a few times in the cold winter months with the sleigh; hay bunked high on the bed. The resounding jingle of the bells, the steam rising off the horses' backs, the smell of hay and the sound of them munching on grain in the crisp, winter evenings in the barn are ingrained in my mind.  I loved this time with him.   Years have passed, and now the old harness hangs dusty in the barn, and it saddens me to think of this lost art, the changes in time that have replaced the man and the horse with a purpose for work, with a machine all in the name of convenience...

Old Harness

In the barn alley hangs the old harness,

Its leather lines are worn and cracked.

There's dust gathered on the yolk and hames,

The silver buckles and white stitching have turned a faded black.

You see, it didn't always look this way.

It once hung proudly on a four horse hitch.

A pinto horse team that worked together,

That pulled o'er rock, meadow, snow, and ditch.

The memories flood back when I see it there,

And I can hear him talkin' to his teams,

As he harnessed up the big guys, "Easy there Pat & Mike,

Good boys, Ham & Beans".

The sleigh awaited in a skiff of new snow

In the barnyard's dim winter light.

He lead them out two abreast,

And hitched them to the sleigh just right.

The hired man stood at the head of the team

As Grandpa climbed atop the buckboard

I watched him skillfully take the leather reins in hand,

He called to his team of pintos, "alright boys, get up".

The blowing of noses, the rising of steam

As the hitch worked together in tow.

The sound of the runners and clank of the double trees,

While they trod their way through the snow.

I can remember looking up at him and smiling,

Listening to him sing his favorite tune.

The grin on his face and the twinkle in his eye

As he looked out o'er the harness lines in the light of the moon.

How I miss these days with Grandpa,

The work, the barn, the smiles, and the teams.

As I stare at the dusty old harness that hangs there,

I remember these days with dreams.

I quietly drift back to reality, 

Standing there in the barn alleyway,

A lone tear trickles down my face, I tip my hat to the man and his harness,

And the horses he loved along the way.

Small Minded Politics

“What this country needs is dirtier fingernails and cleaner minds.” ~ Will Rogers

What if our modern day politicians subscribed to this way of thinking and lead our country in such a manner? It seems as though society has gotten to the point where everybody has a right but nobody has a responsibility. Now, I like discussing politics about as much as I like scrubbing a toilet, (and maybe the two are kindred spirits), but I’ve never been too shy when it came to speaking my mind; I don’t suppose this topic is a whole lot different.  I figure if I shared more of what I’m for, there would be less of a need to state what I am against. So, here goes nothin’….

I believe hard work spotlights the character of people; some turn up their sleeves, and some turn up their noses, and some just don’t turn up at all. Hard work never did kill anyone.  I believe in giving a hand up to those that need it most, not for giving a hand out to those that waste their talents and strengths.

 I’m for kids that learn to respect their elders and for adults that respect the voice of a child.  I’m for kindness and respect to animals; they’re a true reflection of ourselves.  I’m for boys that keep their pants pulled up, and girls that show a little less skin and a little more self-respect.  I’m for men that open doors for ladies even though I’m capable of opening my own. 

I’m all for waving at a stranger on a back country road; it’s called being friendly and more people should try it. I'm for more dirt road and less pavement.  I’m for hot coffee in the morning, cold beer on a Friday night, and Sunday supper on the table shared with family and friends.

 I’m all for made in America, but America has to prove she wants to do it.  I’m for a little less Hollywood photo-shopping and a little more all naturel.  I’m for a touch more steel guitar and fiddle in my music, and a lot less disrespectful lyric set to the tone of rap. I’m for balanced use of land and natural resources, because there is both room and need for all. I’m for being less plugged in and being a little more tuned out.

I’m for small town Friday night lights and football games, and showing your community support. I’m for minding your own darn business; if you don’t see or hear it with your own eyes and ears, then don’t make it up with your small mind and open your big mouth.  I’m for a little less judgment of others, and little more for walking a mile in their boots. I’m for a good laugh at something funny, but not at the expense of someone else.

Politics are politics, and I doubt my thoughts or words will ever change that fact.  People will always disagree with one another, but at the end of the day, life is short, and one should live it as such. Success comes with failure, but you have to be willing to try, and the only constant thing in this life is change.  One has to be willing to grow, to work hard, and to change.  The most important things in life haven't changed in this country. It's still best to be honest, truthful, and work hard for a living; to make the most of what you've been given, respect your parents, love your family, and be gracious for all God's given you. And when things go wrong, you sleep on it, and wake up the next day ready to once again give it your all. That's strength, and that's faith. God bless America.

~Happy Trails

Tis the Hunting Season

Well ladies, it’s that time of year again. Your man starts wearing more camo, showering less, growing a mountain man beard, and his neck swells in preparation for his manly adventures into the woods.  Yep, it’s hunting season. And at the rate I clean the toilet bowl in my house, I’m hoping that his aim is better when a bull elk is in his sights.  And at some point, we always end up out there with them. Here’s a little story of hunting and marital bonding for ya…

I decided to spend some quality time with my outdoorsy man and joined him hunting.  Outfitted in his wool pants, 14 layers of polypropylene, wool, cotton, polyester, slick bottom boots, hat, mittens, and hunter’s orange and rifle, I felt more ready for a plus size Cabela's photo shoot than a day of hunting horseback.

We met up with our friend, Jon, at the barn, loaded our horses in the trailer and were on our way. Adding another male to the picture assured me of a very long day in the woods. There was a fresh layer of wet snow on the ground as 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, too many clothes, and short legs which inhibited my swinging up into the saddle.  Four tries later at stabbing the stirrup, I found a stump to assist me in the mounting process.

It started out as a very crisp morning.  The sun glinted off the snow laden trees and hillsides. It was beautiful, and I let my senses take in my surroundings to keep my mind off frozen fingers and toes. This wasn’t so bad after all…

Hunting started out slow showing little sign of the elusive wapiti, and later, the weather turned, and snow was piling up heavy, wet flakes as we rode along steep side hills and ridges. I was feeling soggy, cold, and ready to head toward the truck when the guys cut fresh elk tracks. Men lose their mind over fresh elk tracks, and my gut told me my fun meter was about to be pegged. Time to buck up.  After two hours of chasing, the he-men decided to split up. Little did I know splitting up meant, "Here Heather. Hold our horses. We'll be back in 4 hours."

The guys later reappeared elk-less, it was still snowing, and dark was fast approaching. All the previous chasing left us on top of a steep beargrass ridge. My husband stated he knew a shortcut and my heart sunk.  I knew what "I know a shortcut meant." I 've been on these adventures with him when his testosterone kicks in overdrive. 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. We dismount, because it's too steep to ride.  Trying to lead my horse down the mountain with soggy hunting clothes and slick rubber boots on, I found myself more on my backside than my feet. With every step I took, the further the guys were out of sight with their horses, leaving me with a frantic, snot blowing idiot. I finally reached the bottom and there were no men in sight. My Irish tongue and temper kicked in to overdrive, and I cussed my way down the mountain calling my horse and husband every name in the book.  To top it off, I need a pit stop. Now I get to hold my idiot horse, pull down fourteen layers of clothes, and avoid the inevitable.  I tried getting back on my horse, whom by now is a nervous wreck at being left behind, and tries to run away as I get on. I lost it completely and punched my horse in the face, jerked him down into a ditch to get on to catch up with the guys.  Jon looks back at me, and knows just by one glance, that I hate both of them.  My husband, however, knows as he silently rides along, that my eyes are boring holes through his head.  Jon finally manned up enough to state, "I asked him if we were going to stop and wait for you at the bottom, but he said, 'He** no! Can't you here how mad she is? Do you want to wait for that?"

At this particular moment, I did not possess enough middle fingers to express my love...

The day left us with no elk, no patience, and definitely no marital bonding…

Roots and Wings

Well, as most of you may now know, my family and I have packed up our home in the mountains of western Montana, and moved just a little further east to the farmlands and prairies of the hi-line in Havre.  You may scratch your heads and ask, “Why?” Trust me, I had the same thought, but one can’t spend too much time second guessing these sorts of decisions.

I have an adventurous side. I always have.  It may be my own curiosity, dreams I felt were unfulfilled, wanderlust, or what have you, but I like to think that it’s maybe just touch of my grandparents’ pioneering spirit that sparked my interest when this opportunity arose.  When my grandpa, a cattle rancher from the Billings area, decided to sell the family ranch in Dean, Montana and move his family to the snowbelt of the Swan Range, his family, too, thought he was crazy.  He didn’t care. He relied on his knowledge, strength, and courage to do what he felt was right for his family.  My grandmother, full of quiet grace and strength, humbly followed him in his vision for a different life.  They were pioneers in their own right, building an outfitting business and guest ranch in a land they knew little about.  They drew on each other’s faith, and that of the good Lord above.  They raised five children without the help of family, or the assistance from government.  They worked hard for every penny they had, the callouses on their hands, and the lines on their face.

They fell in love with the mountains, immersed themselves in hard work and building a community, fought through hard winters, and persevered through loss of money, family, and business.  But, they never lost sight of their love and strength of and for their family.  They instilled that in all of us. 

So although this move and change may be difficult, I feel this is truly the beginning of a new chapter of my life, my adventure.  It’s my chance to tap my pioneer spirit, draw on their strength and memories, and make memories of my own with my husband and children.  My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles gave me strong roots that run deep, but they also gave me the wings to fly.  Life is truly what I choose to make it.  With all the wrong turns I’ve made, I’m finally right where I should be, and it’s a new peace of mind.

In closing, don’t forget what you’re made of.  Everyone has the equal opportunity in life to pull themselves up by their boot straps, no matter the situation, and make the most of this life given.  Be grateful for the hard times that carve out your strengths, relish the good times, and most of all, just live.

~Happy Trails~  

Beauty Fades

​I am straying from my usual ramblings this week about horses, mountains, and such, and delving into the unfamiliar territory of women’s obsession with the world of beauty, and being a thirty-something that is easily reeled in due to the first signs of aging.  Trust me, this is still a cowgirl’s feeble approach to finding her own way through this madness.

Women work overtime to keep the aging process at bay these days, and being pretty just ain’t real pretty.  First off, it’s tough to decide which beauty regiment to adhere to.  I found that it takes me so long to follow directions of the night time regimescrubs and lotions, that by the time I finish, it’s time to start the morning one.  And the term “beauty sleep” is just false advertisement.  Usually I need a coma in order to avoid waking up looking like a troll.

        Then there is hair dye. There are two approaches to taming pesky grays:  1. I can pay a professional a steep price, take in a picture of my favorite Hollywood glamour girl, and pray for miraculous results.  (The only way I will look like Ashley Judd is if someone staples the picture to my forehead!) Or… 2.  I can attempt this process myself by guessing what shade of box color to buy from the store. This is usually where I see a young girl with 40 shades of purple, black, and green, and decide walking away from the aisle is money well saved.

​The cosmetics aisle lures me in with promises of fuller lips, longer lashes, whiter teeth, better skin, and less hair in the places I don’t want it.  (This is the place my husband avoids at all cost and says he will be in the sporting goods section if and when I am ever ready.)  I walk out with volumizing shampoo, new tweezers, some sort of smoky shade of eye shadow, and teeth whitening strips, and broke.

Of course there is also exercise to take into consideration.  Long gone are the perky twenties, and I’m facing the falling forties and fifties.  This is when I find myself on the treadmill with bad knees, a popped lung and a skinny blond girl running Mach 1 next to me and wishing I’d given up ice cream and my delicious, morning, foamy lattes.

​I could go on and on about endless beauty options and ideas available these days that promise a youthful, firmer, more glamorous me, but when it comes down to it, I’m working on realizing that youth simply fades, but modesty and grace never grow old. Ladies, take the time to remember who you were before the world told you who you should be.  You can take no credit for your beauty at 20, but when you are still beautiful at 60+, you can thank your beautiful heart and soul.  We are the most beautiful version of ourselves when camping with our kids, smiling at our special guy, sharing time with our parents and grandparents, and just simply being us.

~Happy Trails~

Emmitt

Best of Friends

My brother, Ralph, age 17, was finally on his way home.  For a year and half, he had battled leukemia, and was returning from Seattle where he had received a bone marrow transplant.  We were in the dead heat of summer, guest ranch in full swing, and I was anxiously awaiting my brother and mom's arrival.  Six months earlier, I didn't know if I’d ever see my brother again. But as their car turned the drive, my heart filled.

Ralph stepped from the car and tears rolled down my cheeks.  He was home.  He stood before me pale and weakened from months of chemotherapy, radiation, and medication, but he was there alive, hat crooked sideways and a smile on his face. 

Summer rolled on, and Ralph became restless.  He had strict instructions to be careful in the sunlight; he had a weakened immune system susceptible to infection.  The barnyard was the last place he was supposed to be, but Ralph needed to breathe fresh air and touch a horse again.  During his treatment, his horse had gone lame, and had to be sold.  It was yet another blow, as Ralph loved his horses.

One afternoon lent itself to a car ride to town together.  I had some errands to run for the ranch, and Ralph decided to tag along.  We discussed girls, music, and inevitably...horses.  Our conversations frequently turned to the favorite subject; confirmation, bloodlines, dreams of owning a ranch. Stopping at a gas station, we picked up a paper to glance over horse ads, and one piqued our interest. The errands would have to wait.

 We drove along looking for the correct address.  As we pulled in the drive, two chestnut horses picked their heads up, watching us as we got out.  The older of the two approached us at the gate, the younger observed from a distance.  The owner greeted us, carrying a halter with her.  Catching both horses, I asked questions, and looked them over.  The younger one, "Cruz", caught my eye.  As Ralph pet the younger of the two, he looked at me with that crooked grin.  The horse turned to sniff at him.  At that exact moment, I knew this horse was coming home with my brother.  Cruz had been a college girl's project at Montana State, and she now needed the funds to finish school.  If we weren't sold already on his looks, his disposition had us writing the check.  Cruz came home with us.

Cruz’s name was changed to Emmitt via a long discussion of names on that car-ride home. Emmitt stood for Emmit Smith, Ralph’s favorite childhood football star. And it fit.

 As we pulled in the barnyard, we were welcomed by Mom, Dad, and the whole ranch gang. Everyone knew what it meant to Ralph to have this horse.  I was able to be a part of something special.  I couldn't be there for Ralph during his treatment, but I could be there to start a new chapter of his life. 

It's been years since that day Ralph met Emmitt.  It's still one of my favorite memories with Ralph, and their relationship still grows to this day working cows in Florida.  It’s a partnership built on bull-headedness, heart, understanding and true grit. And it’s my favorite story of a man and his horse.

Ode to Equipause

For my fellow horsewomen…

My Uncle Jack Rich, first introduced me to the term, equipause.  Definition: Noun.  A duration of time from when a girl first discovers she has an intense love for all things horse. It effects women from the age of 1 to 90 and there is no cure. It’s something most men won’t get. Equipause is expensive; it requires several horses, trailers, saddles, riding lessons, and barns.  A woman’s love for her equine pal will leave a guy scratching his butt and winding his watch.  Women may go gaga over puppies, sunsets, babies, and old couples that still hold hands, but there is nothing that quite enthralls a girl like her love for a horse. 

 

 A true horsewoman spends more time thinking about her horse than a man actually spends thinking, I think.  But if a man understood what that horse does for her, he would never question it.  Her horse teaches her lessons that no parent or teacher ever could.  Her horse is her best listener of thoughts and worries, and is the keeper of her secrets.  Her horse gives her wings to fly and makes her smile.  Horses help her see that hard work really does pay off in the end.  Her horse strengthens her soul and helps her face fears she thought she could never overcome.  Her horse is her peace and solitude when nothing else seems right.  The feeling she has when she rides, she can’t explain; all she feels is free.  In her mind, she’s that ten year old girl again riding bareback across the meadow.  Her horse is her travel partner over miles of rough trail in life.

 

In the end, you can’t put a price on that.  It’s worth every nickel ever spent.  A little note to the man that marries a horsewoman with equipause; don’t expect her to change because you knew she was crazy about horses when you met her.  And if you ever can’t find your girl, check the barn.  There’s a pretty good chance you will find her there with her face buried in his mane.  She’s there for the peace it brings her at the end of the day, and for the love she gets in return.

 

So thank you to my horse, Twist for what you give me each day.  I never want to outgrow that “horse phase”, and I pray to God I never do. 

Dude Horse

Dude horses are a special breed of horse.  It takes a special breed to do be a dude horse, and like most animals, they have very distinct personalities.  And they are also dumb like a fox.  Allow me to elaborate…

Dude horse is the one that avoids being caught first thing in the morning by pulling the lame horse trick.  He’s the one that ran in at full speed out of the pasture at the mere mention of a treat, but suddenly can’t walk in the corral when wrangler appears with a halter.  Wrangler, not buying his act, catches and ties him to the hitch rack.  Wrangler approaches with a brush, and dude horse flinches his skin in attempt to convince wrangler he is too sore to be ridden. When Wrangler saddles him, he turns around to bite wrangler in buttocks in order to further convince he’s serious, and upon walking behind him, cocks a hoof and passes gas in wrangler’s face.  Then, the said dude arrives for what will probably proceed to be a very LONG two hours.  This is when dude horse’s charade really kicks in.  The dude approaches to pet the “pretty girl” and dude horse smiles to himself, rolls his eyes back in his head, and proceeds to try to pull the hitch rack out of the ground. Dude screams and asks, “Is he safe to ride?”  Wrangler rolls her eyes, unties dude horse, nods her head yes, asks the dude to follow her to mount up, all the while silently cussing dude horse.  Dude horse then proceeds to hold his breath and bloat in order to keep his cinch loose. This comes in handy when dude tries to mount and the saddle slides clear to the side, further deterring said dude.  Wrangler glares at dude horse, re-centers the saddle, and sucks cinch up snug.  Dude horse adjust stance and smashes wrangler’s foot with his hoof.  Wrangler swears (again) and calls dude horse many, many names and helps dude mount.  Dude horse follows wrangler and lead horse out of the barnyard, barely.  Dude horse stops, and turns around to head back home, convincing dude he’s in charge, which he is.  Wrangler stops, turns dude horse around and proceeds down the trail.  Dude horse gets to water crossing and a little mud and leaps, dislodging dude and leaves dude hanging.  Wrangler re-centers dude, and proceeds down the trail (again).  Dude horse then lags way behind and smirks as the wrangler instructs the dude to give him a kick.  Dude horse kicks into a stiff-legged, short-strided trot and then stops suddenly to plant face in grass, almost jerking dude out of the saddle.  Wrangler swears (again) silently to herself. This cycle repeats until dude horse realizes he’s turned for home.  Dude horse trots more and eats less and almost bursts into dance when the barnyard is once again in sight.   Somehow, wrangler still loves dude horse at the end of all of this, because she can’t help but know he’s too smart for his own good.

Marital Advice

Since both my brothers have decided to get hitched as of recent, I felt the need to bestow upon them my vast wealth of marital knowledge… Ha! Here goes nothing.

Marriage is a relationship in which one of you is always right and the other is the husband.  There are days that she will make about as much sense to you as going to McDonald's for a salad, but deal with it.  She will have endless amounts of beauty supplies sprawled across your side of the bathroom counter.  (The amount of beauty supplies will increase with age.)  She will always find you attractive with a dishrag in your hand and asking her what she would like for dinner.  She will steal covers and put her cold feet on your backside.  Don't ever act like you just cleaned the whole house when all you did was take out the trash.  Compliment her.  She knows she's chunky when she's chunky; love her anyway.  Go to the gym with her. There will be days you feel like poisoning her coffee, and there will be days you wish you would have just drank it instead.  She will not always shave her legs; in fact, this becomes rarer after children.  When she sends you on errands, do it right for goodness sake.  She doesn't need the 3rd string quarterback picking out the wrong peanut butter.  Never count on your furniture being in one place for too long; when left to her own devices, she will change it. Frequently, the middle of your sentence will be interrupted with the beginning of hers.  That’s your cue to stop talking.  Don't ever say you have to use the restroom when she asks you to do dishes.  Don't give her "the look" when she pulls into a parking space like she owns the joint.  When shopping, don't make her feel like you would if you were hunting with the game warden.  She will always worry about money, where you are, why you’re late, and the spot on the carpet she can’t get out.  Her mind is like an internet browser with forty-five tabs open at once.  There will be times you think she is completely crazy, but remember, you wanted to marry her!  Love her more than you do the dog, your truck, and bacon, because there isn't much she wouldn't do for you; after all, she said, “Yes”.  When you look back twenty years from now, remember how much fun you had annoying each other and promise to do it for thirty more.

~Happy Trails