My daughter and I got up early this morning for yet another drive to San Diego for another fun-filled day of house hunting.
House hunting in California is interesting to say the least. Houses go on the market one day and have multiple offers ABOVE the asking price the next day. That is not an exaggeration. Not even a little bit. One has to move quickly and be ready to pay a lot of money in order to be a home owner in California.
Needless to say my daughter is pretty tense. Plus she's pregnant and the hormones are running on overtime.
So this morning we were ready to go by 7 a.m. and congratulating ourselves that we had the foresight to fill the gas tank last night. I reminded her we still needed to check the oil to which she replied, "The check engine light is on."
Shit. And she was not impressed with my suggestion we place a piece of black electrical tape over the light.
We stopped and checked the oil. It was fine. I showed her where the coolant was supposed to go and even bought some, but I was not comfortable adding coolant. So we didn't.
By this time she was having a meltdown. "I can't drive to San Diego. I can't buy a house. I can't replace an engine."
My telling her it would all work out in the end did not help. My telling her I knew how she felt because it happens to King and I all the time did not help either.
After learning that automotive stores in California no longer run diagnostics, I suggested we take the car to an oil change place and at least have all the fluid levels checked. It was the best I could come up with without having my head removed.
We pulled into the nearest oil change place and waited the 10 minutes until they opened. We pulled into the bay and the young man servicing her car asked what we needed.
My daughter batted her eyelashes, patted her tummy, pointed to the offending light and said, "I just need to know if this is a check engine light or a service engine soon light. I've Googled it and it says this car has both and I don't know which one this is."
The kid looked at it and said, "It says the air pressure is low in your tires."
He didn't charge us for the air.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The times they are a changin'
When I was growing up small town newspapers often carried small snippets of newsworthy information such as who was hosting a birthday party and who attended said birthday partiy. The articles would read something like this: Carol Joy Schipper celebrated her seventh birthday with a party attended by eight of her elementary school friends. Guests included Mary Wedeven, Twila TenCate, Sandy Heftje, Patricia Hoekje, Louise Grondin,Gwen Eding, Linda Lugten and Phyllis Stehower. The young ladies enjoyed cake and ice cream. A good time was had by all.
---
While I am in California Mom is staying with my sister in Florida. I don't believe a good time is being had by all.
Mom says she wants to go home. Now. My sister has explained to her I'm not at home so she would be alone in the house (Mom is terrified of being alone). Unfortunately Mom doesn't remember who I am, so when my sister tells her "Phyllis isn't home. You are going to stay with me until Phyllis comes home," it means absolutely nothing to Mom. We have a photo album with family members pictures in it, but I don't think Mom can make that connection any longer.
Change is very difficult for Mom. While some of us embrace change, Mom can not. It is just one more thing we are trying to learn to deal with in these uncharted waters.
Change is coming for all of us.
I'm sitting in my daughter's living room, surrounded by boxes as she readies for a move. Big changes are coming to her. No matter how much one thinks they are prepared, becoming a family is life altering.
When King and I were expecting our first child, we were students living in a one-bedroom apartment in university housing. The move to a two bedroom apartment was relatively painless. We loaded up the car with what we could and threw the skis and the remaining odds and ends in the crib and wheeled it down the sidewalk. The skis, we soon learned, could have stayed behind. The next time I skied was when our youngest of four children was in kindergarten. King never skied again. He did, however manage to continue to play golf. A lot. Golf seems to be a bone of contention with our sons and their wives as well.
I know his penchant for golf bothered me when the kids were small. It no longer does. In fact, I will load the car, find his golf shoes and go out and buy extra tees for a day of golf for him and a day of reading with a glass of wine in hand for me.
Ahhhh change. It will most certainly come, and a good time will be had by all.
---
While I am in California Mom is staying with my sister in Florida. I don't believe a good time is being had by all.
Mom says she wants to go home. Now. My sister has explained to her I'm not at home so she would be alone in the house (Mom is terrified of being alone). Unfortunately Mom doesn't remember who I am, so when my sister tells her "Phyllis isn't home. You are going to stay with me until Phyllis comes home," it means absolutely nothing to Mom. We have a photo album with family members pictures in it, but I don't think Mom can make that connection any longer.
Change is very difficult for Mom. While some of us embrace change, Mom can not. It is just one more thing we are trying to learn to deal with in these uncharted waters.
Change is coming for all of us.
I'm sitting in my daughter's living room, surrounded by boxes as she readies for a move. Big changes are coming to her. No matter how much one thinks they are prepared, becoming a family is life altering.
When King and I were expecting our first child, we were students living in a one-bedroom apartment in university housing. The move to a two bedroom apartment was relatively painless. We loaded up the car with what we could and threw the skis and the remaining odds and ends in the crib and wheeled it down the sidewalk. The skis, we soon learned, could have stayed behind. The next time I skied was when our youngest of four children was in kindergarten. King never skied again. He did, however manage to continue to play golf. A lot. Golf seems to be a bone of contention with our sons and their wives as well.
I know his penchant for golf bothered me when the kids were small. It no longer does. In fact, I will load the car, find his golf shoes and go out and buy extra tees for a day of golf for him and a day of reading with a glass of wine in hand for me.
Ahhhh change. It will most certainly come, and a good time will be had by all.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
And now a word about time studies
For the past few days my daughter and I have been enjoying doing things on our own schedule. So far our only time constraints have been to be in San Diego at 10 a.m. yesterday for round one of house hunting and a 10:40 a.m. doctor's appointment today.
I could get used to this.
It is so different from my life as an editor/reporter where deadlines were everything. Despite the long and crazy hours, I loved the freedom of being a reporter -- to be able to come and go as I needed. While I didn't always like the late nights, it was never boring.
This new-found freedom I am enjoying today is a seriously different environment from the quasi-corporate world of being a marketing writer for one of Michigan's large universities. Taken as a whole, I would much prefer the long hours and low pay of a newspaper to that of a marketing writer. But absolutely nothing beats being foot-loose and fancy-free.
For the uninformed, marketing people are hated almost as much as the media. The difference being in the marketing world it's co-workers from other departments who can't stand you rather than the general public. Having a supervisor that was quite adept at setting non-departmental co-workers on edge sometimes made touring the building in search of birthday food a dangerous proposition.
In my five-year tenure as a marketing writer we had to take part in two time studies. These were done basically to justify our existence to the rest of the staff in our corner of the university. I should also mention, for the uninformed, the politics that go with life at a university are unfathomable. The workload for the worker bees is mind-boggling and the ladder climbing for the higher-ups is unbelievable. That's not even touching on the arrogance of those with the alphabet soup behind their names. (Ph.D., Ed.D, Spec. MA, MS, ASPCA, ASAP, etc.)
That said, time studies are taken fairly seriously . . . by most. Since I didn't really care for marching to their drummer, I found them tedious, demeaning, boring and stupid. My thoughts on the matter generally shone through.
A typical time study requires the subject to write down everything that is done throughout the work day. My record looked something like this:
7:50 a.m. - arrive at work, boot up computer, go get coffee
7:58 a.m. - arrive back at cubicle, coffee in hand.
8 a.m. - computer is still booting
8:02 a.m. - start going through mail while waiting for computer to boot up
8:03 a.m. - since all correspondence is done via email, there is no mail. Read flyer regarding concert on campus
8:04 a.m. - check voice mail
8:07 a.m. - computer crashed, called IT, placed on hold
8:10 a.m. - notified by supervisor computers are down campus-wide, will be around 11 a.m. before they are up and running again
8:12 a.m. - dusted cubicle and watered plants
8:15 a.m. - wandered the building looking for birthday party food days
8:30 a.m. - production meeting
9 a.m. - non-smoking cigarette break to complain about production meeting with smokers
9:10 a.m. - write out copy for new brochure long-hand
10:30 a.m. - wander building looking for typewriter
10:37 a.m. - potty break
10:45 a.m. - find old typewriter, start typing copy, realize it still has to be typed into computer system and give up
11 a.m. - notified by IT will be about another two hours before system is fixed.
11:05 a.m.- leave for lunch . . .
And my mother wondered why I did't last long at the university.
I could get used to this.
It is so different from my life as an editor/reporter where deadlines were everything. Despite the long and crazy hours, I loved the freedom of being a reporter -- to be able to come and go as I needed. While I didn't always like the late nights, it was never boring.
This new-found freedom I am enjoying today is a seriously different environment from the quasi-corporate world of being a marketing writer for one of Michigan's large universities. Taken as a whole, I would much prefer the long hours and low pay of a newspaper to that of a marketing writer. But absolutely nothing beats being foot-loose and fancy-free.
For the uninformed, marketing people are hated almost as much as the media. The difference being in the marketing world it's co-workers from other departments who can't stand you rather than the general public. Having a supervisor that was quite adept at setting non-departmental co-workers on edge sometimes made touring the building in search of birthday food a dangerous proposition.
In my five-year tenure as a marketing writer we had to take part in two time studies. These were done basically to justify our existence to the rest of the staff in our corner of the university. I should also mention, for the uninformed, the politics that go with life at a university are unfathomable. The workload for the worker bees is mind-boggling and the ladder climbing for the higher-ups is unbelievable. That's not even touching on the arrogance of those with the alphabet soup behind their names. (Ph.D., Ed.D, Spec. MA, MS, ASPCA, ASAP, etc.)
That said, time studies are taken fairly seriously . . . by most. Since I didn't really care for marching to their drummer, I found them tedious, demeaning, boring and stupid. My thoughts on the matter generally shone through.
A typical time study requires the subject to write down everything that is done throughout the work day. My record looked something like this:
7:50 a.m. - arrive at work, boot up computer, go get coffee
7:58 a.m. - arrive back at cubicle, coffee in hand.
8 a.m. - computer is still booting
8:02 a.m. - start going through mail while waiting for computer to boot up
8:03 a.m. - since all correspondence is done via email, there is no mail. Read flyer regarding concert on campus
8:04 a.m. - check voice mail
8:07 a.m. - computer crashed, called IT, placed on hold
8:10 a.m. - notified by supervisor computers are down campus-wide, will be around 11 a.m. before they are up and running again
8:12 a.m. - dusted cubicle and watered plants
8:15 a.m. - wandered the building looking for birthday party food days
8:30 a.m. - production meeting
9 a.m. - non-smoking cigarette break to complain about production meeting with smokers
9:10 a.m. - write out copy for new brochure long-hand
10:30 a.m. - wander building looking for typewriter
10:37 a.m. - potty break
10:45 a.m. - find old typewriter, start typing copy, realize it still has to be typed into computer system and give up
11 a.m. - notified by IT will be about another two hours before system is fixed.
11:05 a.m.- leave for lunch . . .
And my mother wondered why I did't last long at the university.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
This is the way we decorate our house
I am at my daughter's home in Riverside, California helping her house hunt, get ready for a move AND prepare for new babies. Note, I said babies (plural). Her boys are due the end of September/beginning of October.
I will try to offer her pearls of wisdom, but truth be told every parent has to learn for themselves and when it comes to parenting, new parents have to find their own way.
In the meantime we are sorting baby clothes and doing a little bit of packing. I may not be able to offer great insights to parenting, but I am an expert at moving. I stopped counting the moves when King and I hit number 22. We are a rather nomadic couple but neither of us led a nomadic lifestyle when we were children. Both sets of parents were steeped in the middle-class of the Greatest Generation. They didn't move and they didn't change jobs.
I grew up in a conservative farming community in West Michigan. Dad managed a dog food factory and Mom was a homemaker. Mom had a knack for decorating. She would come across a piece of furniture that would fit nicely with her Early American decor, bring it home and spend the next few weeks stripping, sanding, painting and varnishing. If she could find an inexpensive way to copy something she found in a magazine so much the better.
It was Mom's penchant for decorating and the enjoyment she found in creating that led us to the joys of teasel weed art.
Mom saw a photo in the Christmas issue of some woman's magazine where wreaths and small Christmas trees were made from teasel stuck into Styrofoam forms and then spray painted green. It was the 1960's and an occasional very modern, linear-looking accent was acceptable in her decorating scheme.
Apparently teasel was to become the replacement for pine cones in mod-era of decoration in the 1960's. Mom liked the idea and started on the hunt for a teasel supply, which isn't difficult as it is an invasive species and pretty much an unwanted weed. If area farmers had a low spot in pastures it was almost a certainty teasel would be growing along its edges.
It was a tradition in our family to visit relatives in Grand Rapids on Sunday afternoons. We were on our way home from one such visit when Mom spotted some teasel growing behind a barn near Overisel. The next day while we were in school and Dad was at work she hopped into her little convertible and drove back to the farm to ask permission to cut some of the farmer's teasel.
Mom later related to us that the farmer looked at her as if she were a little odd, but told her to go ahead and take as much as she wanted. So Mom proceeded to start cutting the teasel. It is rather prickly stuff and could not have been much fun, but Mom was determined. Then she saw another, larger patch of the noxious weed a little further out behind the barn. She turned the car around and started driving out to stake her claim. The car sunk into about three feet of mud. Not just a little bit of mud, but large swampy muck that sucked the car down and buried it up to the door handles. Mom waded through the muck and slime to use the phone to call Dad for help. She didn't need to that as the farmer used his tractor to help pull her out. And Mom came home with several large grocery bags of her treasured teasel.
It became a family joke. Every time we saw a patch of teasel someone would comment, "Don't let Mom near it with the car, there's no one around with a tractor to pull her out."
I wish I could find some photos of the wreath and tree she made with the teasel. From shortly after Thanksgiving to a little after New Year's Day the teasel tree graced our dining room table. Mom decided she didn't like the green spray paint so she left it a natural brown color and added a few miniature red ornaments to it. We had it for years and it never lost its ability to leave teasel splinters in fingers if one was not careful when removing it from the box of Christmas decorations.
I think of that tree and the wreath every time I spot patch of teasel growing along the highway. But I have no desire to get out of the car and cut some.
I will try to offer her pearls of wisdom, but truth be told every parent has to learn for themselves and when it comes to parenting, new parents have to find their own way.
In the meantime we are sorting baby clothes and doing a little bit of packing. I may not be able to offer great insights to parenting, but I am an expert at moving. I stopped counting the moves when King and I hit number 22. We are a rather nomadic couple but neither of us led a nomadic lifestyle when we were children. Both sets of parents were steeped in the middle-class of the Greatest Generation. They didn't move and they didn't change jobs.
I grew up in a conservative farming community in West Michigan. Dad managed a dog food factory and Mom was a homemaker. Mom had a knack for decorating. She would come across a piece of furniture that would fit nicely with her Early American decor, bring it home and spend the next few weeks stripping, sanding, painting and varnishing. If she could find an inexpensive way to copy something she found in a magazine so much the better.
 |
| Teasel is a weed that grows mostly in wasteland. |
Mom saw a photo in the Christmas issue of some woman's magazine where wreaths and small Christmas trees were made from teasel stuck into Styrofoam forms and then spray painted green. It was the 1960's and an occasional very modern, linear-looking accent was acceptable in her decorating scheme.
Apparently teasel was to become the replacement for pine cones in mod-era of decoration in the 1960's. Mom liked the idea and started on the hunt for a teasel supply, which isn't difficult as it is an invasive species and pretty much an unwanted weed. If area farmers had a low spot in pastures it was almost a certainty teasel would be growing along its edges.
It was a tradition in our family to visit relatives in Grand Rapids on Sunday afternoons. We were on our way home from one such visit when Mom spotted some teasel growing behind a barn near Overisel. The next day while we were in school and Dad was at work she hopped into her little convertible and drove back to the farm to ask permission to cut some of the farmer's teasel.
Mom later related to us that the farmer looked at her as if she were a little odd, but told her to go ahead and take as much as she wanted. So Mom proceeded to start cutting the teasel. It is rather prickly stuff and could not have been much fun, but Mom was determined. Then she saw another, larger patch of the noxious weed a little further out behind the barn. She turned the car around and started driving out to stake her claim. The car sunk into about three feet of mud. Not just a little bit of mud, but large swampy muck that sucked the car down and buried it up to the door handles. Mom waded through the muck and slime to use the phone to call Dad for help. She didn't need to that as the farmer used his tractor to help pull her out. And Mom came home with several large grocery bags of her treasured teasel.
It became a family joke. Every time we saw a patch of teasel someone would comment, "Don't let Mom near it with the car, there's no one around with a tractor to pull her out."
I wish I could find some photos of the wreath and tree she made with the teasel. From shortly after Thanksgiving to a little after New Year's Day the teasel tree graced our dining room table. Mom decided she didn't like the green spray paint so she left it a natural brown color and added a few miniature red ornaments to it. We had it for years and it never lost its ability to leave teasel splinters in fingers if one was not careful when removing it from the box of Christmas decorations.
I think of that tree and the wreath every time I spot patch of teasel growing along the highway. But I have no desire to get out of the car and cut some.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Luck of the Irish
Every morning Mom and I go for coffee at the Golden Brown Bakery. We have become "regulars" and as soon as we walk in, two cups of coffee are placed on the tray along with a cheese Danish.
The woman behind the counter is someone I knew from my previous life -- the one that involved horses, horse shows, hot dusty weekends and lots of sunburns. Those days are over for me, and to be honest I don't miss them, but this woman is now on her second generation of horse show kids.
Of our four children only my daughter was into horses. Our youngest son did a little bit of the horse show thing, but it took him only one season to realize he could ride along and hang out with the girls, but if he didn't show a horse, he didn't have to do the work that went with it.
One of our biggest shows of the year was the Detroit All Breed Youth Show, held in October of every year at the state fairgrounds in Detroit. For many it was a practice show for the American Quarter Horse Congress -- a huge quarter horse event held in Columbus, Ohio. For us it was a good way to wrap up the show season.
Our daughter started showing at the youth show during her sophomore year of high school. We traveled to the show four times, the final year she won the championship class, but the first trip was certainly the most memorable.
The trip started out badly and went downhill from there.
I was pulling the trailer, our daughter and her friend were following in a car behind me. I have my suspicions as to why they chose to ride separately, but some things are best left unsaid.
We drove from Paw Paw to Kalamazoo when my parents, who had been working on a project at our home, came flying up along side me in their car. Mom was waving a pair of jeans at me. They thought our daughter had left her show jeans behind. Dad pulled around me, onto the shoulder, and slammed on the brakes. Ever try to stop a truck and trailer without banging horses around and jamming into the back of a Ford Tempo? They weren't an important pair of jeans and I didn't hit the back of their car.
It should have been a warning to me. But it didn't register.
The next two hours were the only uneventful ones of the weekend. We got to the Detroit area right around rush hour. Our exit was closed. I drove to the next exit to turn around hoping the west bound exit would be open. It may have been. I never made it. I couldn't manage rush hour traffic with truck, trailer and two teens in a car following me.
I pulled onto a service drive, parked the truck and walked back to the girls.
"I have no idea where to go."
They stood there for a moment and looked at me.
Down the block a huge, scary looking man with wild bushy hair started yelling.
"Hey! Lady!"
The girls and I kept talking.
He became insistent.
"I said lady!"
I turned around, glared at him and screamed, "What!"
"Going to the fairgrounds? Follow me. I can get you there."
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and hair styles.
We arrived at the fairgounds and started unloading the truck and trailer. I was pulling an apple picker (ok, non-horse people, just think about it) out of the back of the truck and rammed the handle through the window of the horse trailer. Duct tape. Not sure why I had duck tape with me, but it came in handy.
At some point during the three-day show I came out of the barn and noticed the trailer was listing terribly to the port side. Ok, I'm a big girl, capable of handling a flat tire. I pulled out the jack and went to work. The jack would not lift the trailer up off the ground high enough for me to pull the tire off. I sat on the ground and stared, willing the jack to extend itself a few more inches. Surprisingly it did. Sort of anyway. Some helpful cowboy came along and suggested I set the jack on some bricks and boards. In fact he helped me find said bricks and boards and proceeded to lift the trailer.
He suggested I set the emergency brake before starting our task.
We got the tired changed. Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with cowboy hats.
And then I tried to release the emergency brake. Shit. We were stuck. In park.
Those were the days before cell phones. I trekked across the fairgrounds and found a payphone and called a tow truck. The driver beat me back to the trailer. He looked at the brake cable and determined it was rusted from disuse. He said he would have to tow us back to the repair shop.
The look of horror on my face must have said it all.
"I could break the cable for you. But you wouldn't be able to use your emergency brake again."
Hmmm, seems to me I didn't use it anyway.
"Break it."
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with heavy pliers.
The blessed day we could finally leave arrived. We loaded the horses in the trailer and our daughter's friend's horse went ballistic. We pulled her out and checked the trailer for bees, protruding hooks, shorted electrical wires . . . whatever. Nothing produced itself.
We loaded the mare back into the trailer and left. The horse bounced the truck and trailer all over the highway. Every jump, every bump, every shifting of the weight sent us swerving all over the road. Finally I pulled off the highway in South Lyon and told the girls we were going to have to find a phone booth with a phone book and call a vet to sedate the horse. I didn't hold out much hope for there being a phone book anywhere within 100 miles of a phone booth, but desperate times call for eternal hope.
Our luck finally turned. I was bouncing down the road and came across a home with a barn, a white fence and horse trailer. No more pride. I went to the door and asked if we could use their phone and could they give me the number for their vet. Despite the fact we looked a lot like the horse show version of the Joads, they were quite obliging.
We pulled the horses from the trailer and discovered the mare had pulled a shoe, raked her pastern (the part of the horse's foot above the hoof) to pieces. The vet came, doped the horse up, stitched her pastern and we were good to go.
Just before we left the vet came to my truck window and handed me a syringe.
"Use this if you need it on your trip home," he said.
I was never sure if he meant it for me or the horse.
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with syringes.
The woman behind the counter is someone I knew from my previous life -- the one that involved horses, horse shows, hot dusty weekends and lots of sunburns. Those days are over for me, and to be honest I don't miss them, but this woman is now on her second generation of horse show kids.
 |
| Our youngest son showed horses for one summer. |
One of our biggest shows of the year was the Detroit All Breed Youth Show, held in October of every year at the state fairgrounds in Detroit. For many it was a practice show for the American Quarter Horse Congress -- a huge quarter horse event held in Columbus, Ohio. For us it was a good way to wrap up the show season.
Our daughter started showing at the youth show during her sophomore year of high school. We traveled to the show four times, the final year she won the championship class, but the first trip was certainly the most memorable.
The trip started out badly and went downhill from there.
I was pulling the trailer, our daughter and her friend were following in a car behind me. I have my suspicions as to why they chose to ride separately, but some things are best left unsaid.
 |
| Our daughter and her horse ParDee Guard |
It should have been a warning to me. But it didn't register.
The next two hours were the only uneventful ones of the weekend. We got to the Detroit area right around rush hour. Our exit was closed. I drove to the next exit to turn around hoping the west bound exit would be open. It may have been. I never made it. I couldn't manage rush hour traffic with truck, trailer and two teens in a car following me.
I pulled onto a service drive, parked the truck and walked back to the girls.
"I have no idea where to go."
They stood there for a moment and looked at me.
Down the block a huge, scary looking man with wild bushy hair started yelling.
"Hey! Lady!"
The girls and I kept talking.
He became insistent.
"I said lady!"
I turned around, glared at him and screamed, "What!"
"Going to the fairgrounds? Follow me. I can get you there."
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and hair styles.
We arrived at the fairgounds and started unloading the truck and trailer. I was pulling an apple picker (ok, non-horse people, just think about it) out of the back of the truck and rammed the handle through the window of the horse trailer. Duct tape. Not sure why I had duck tape with me, but it came in handy.
At some point during the three-day show I came out of the barn and noticed the trailer was listing terribly to the port side. Ok, I'm a big girl, capable of handling a flat tire. I pulled out the jack and went to work. The jack would not lift the trailer up off the ground high enough for me to pull the tire off. I sat on the ground and stared, willing the jack to extend itself a few more inches. Surprisingly it did. Sort of anyway. Some helpful cowboy came along and suggested I set the jack on some bricks and boards. In fact he helped me find said bricks and boards and proceeded to lift the trailer.
He suggested I set the emergency brake before starting our task.
We got the tired changed. Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with cowboy hats.
And then I tried to release the emergency brake. Shit. We were stuck. In park.
Those were the days before cell phones. I trekked across the fairgrounds and found a payphone and called a tow truck. The driver beat me back to the trailer. He looked at the brake cable and determined it was rusted from disuse. He said he would have to tow us back to the repair shop.
The look of horror on my face must have said it all.
"I could break the cable for you. But you wouldn't be able to use your emergency brake again."
Hmmm, seems to me I didn't use it anyway.
"Break it."
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with heavy pliers.
The blessed day we could finally leave arrived. We loaded the horses in the trailer and our daughter's friend's horse went ballistic. We pulled her out and checked the trailer for bees, protruding hooks, shorted electrical wires . . . whatever. Nothing produced itself.
We loaded the mare back into the trailer and left. The horse bounced the truck and trailer all over the highway. Every jump, every bump, every shifting of the weight sent us swerving all over the road. Finally I pulled off the highway in South Lyon and told the girls we were going to have to find a phone booth with a phone book and call a vet to sedate the horse. I didn't hold out much hope for there being a phone book anywhere within 100 miles of a phone booth, but desperate times call for eternal hope.
Our luck finally turned. I was bouncing down the road and came across a home with a barn, a white fence and horse trailer. No more pride. I went to the door and asked if we could use their phone and could they give me the number for their vet. Despite the fact we looked a lot like the horse show version of the Joads, they were quite obliging.
We pulled the horses from the trailer and discovered the mare had pulled a shoe, raked her pastern (the part of the horse's foot above the hoof) to pieces. The vet came, doped the horse up, stitched her pastern and we were good to go.
Just before we left the vet came to my truck window and handed me a syringe.
"Use this if you need it on your trip home," he said.
I was never sure if he meant it for me or the horse.
Heroes come in all shapes, sizes and with syringes.
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