My Redneck Friends, Kari from Arkansas and Redneck Nerdboy, have been passing around this little word game. So now it's my turn...I have been given the letter L. No time for pictures. Get comfy.
I'm all about love. I love a lot of people and things. Ever noticed how many things can be loved in how many different ways but there's only the one word for it? Like this: I love music. I love pizza. I love beer. I love Jesus. I love Dani California. I love my horse. I love Johnny Depp. I love my piano. I love my family. All different.
In fact just minutes ago, as my Boy was waiting for the bus to take him to the School for the Gifted, we were discussing how the Dog is never really nekkid because he wears a fur coat all the time, but how Daffy Duck often gets his feathers blown off, and then he's really nekkid. I said, I love Daffy, he does all his own stunts. To which the Boy replied, like when his bill gets shot around to the back of his head. And I said, I love that.
I believe in a thing called love. I love what you've done with your hair. All you need is love.
Hey now. Really. And for the most practical reasons. When it comes to tack, only leather will do. Those nylon Cordura saddles are easy to care for but I still like a good leather saddle. If it's well taken care of it will last for ages. I use nylon halters for my horses but they don't wear them all the time. Halters are only for when they have to be tied for grooming or whatever.
I have two pairs of riding boots. The leather ones feel so comfortable. The synthetic ones have never really broken in.
Jethro's Jetta has leather seats. Woo hoo, high falutin! It was Grandpar's idea. He insisted that when we drive down to visit them in Florider (like we'd do that every year. Nuh.) that if the kids barf in the car it'd be easier to clean up. He's got a point. The first time we drove down there we had to put up with a bit of a smell in the old Dodge for the rest of the trip. Besides, the Jetta was the first New Car in my life, and I hate the New Car Smell, but the Jetta just had that New Leather Interior Smell. MMMM. It's 2 1/2 years old now but with a bottle of Leather New I can still get that smell. Like a tack shop on wheels.
When I was around 12 or 13 we had to sell the family farm, and even though my parents still live on the property, even though we still all go there to visit, the loss is felt strongly. I feel it; I can't imagine how hard my dad feels it. I grew up there. As did my Dad. And his mother. And I think her father too.
All of my grandparents have died and I still feel their loss. I miss them at the oddest moments.
I want land. Right now I "own" a 60x120ft patch of suburbia. It's a great lot. Nice little front yard which is gradually turning from lawn to garden, and a huge back yard which is currently a jungle/bike obstacle course. I don't think the town will let me keep a horse back there. Not even a llama, or a goat. Dang.
This whole concept is flawed. First of all, we don't own much of anything because the bank does. Second, we never own a thing. We sort of borrow it until we kick off.
But regardless. I want at least 50 acres, and I want a hay baler, and a crew of young men to run it...uh...I want land. Room for my horses, room for a big fat garden, a hayfield, a bushlot, and a barn. I ask for much, I know. But I want land.
I don't think my face is amazing but I like my lips. They're somewhere in between Catherine Zeta-Jones and Angelina Jolie.
My Jethro has the most beautiful top lip. All curvy. He won't let me post a picture. Sigh.
Every day I put the leash on the dog and walk him, sometimes three times a day. None of the dogs I grew up with got leashed, ever. They never even got tied up. They only left the farm for veterinary reasons. I'm getting used to this town dog/ house dog thing but the picking up of the poop in a plastic bag...nasty but necessary. I spent the first 20 years of my life on a farm and never stepped on as much dog poop as I have in 15 years of living in town.
Oh dear lord I gotta get outta here.
...did I type that out loud? Yeah I did.
A few years ago I had three young riding students. Despite my total lack of official qualifications, these parents thought I'd do a good job of teaching their daughters how to ride. Really what they wanted was for me to teach the girls how to not get killed. They're all alive so I guess I did my job.
I thoroughly enjoyed it. When you take a kid from knowing nothing to being able to cue a horse to walk on her command, that's a buzz. The look on the kid's face! For me, being able to convey the knowledge to the student is empowering. I have taught my own kids to ride and from what I hear, that's tough. A child might not want to take instructions from the parent. But we have really bonded over it. They frustrate me but that's life isn't it.
I plan to do more teaching in the future. I may even attempt to get some of those pieces of paper proclaiming that I'm "qualified" to do it...like the thirty years of riding and getting thrown off aren't enough.
I only know one. English. Specifically Canadian English which is different from both British and American. Being someone who does a lot of writing I'm fascinated with my own language. I don't know nearly enough words.
My regret is that I never learned my parents' language. Here's the weird thing: my parents were born in this country, as were my grandparents and great-grandparents. My many-greats-ago settled in Pennsylvania in the early 1800's (both sides of the family) before moving to Ontario and staying here. Despite all these generations of North Americans, mine is the first generation to not speak German or Pennsylvania Dutch.
My parents often spoke it with my grandparents, who all four had strong accents. When I was a kid I thought they did that so they could talk about us in front of us. Actually, as a kid in the 50's, my Dad was told not to speak German at school. In the one room schoolhouse, all the little Mennonite kids were told that this is an English speaking country, not a German speaking country, and that's what the war was fought for, so speak yer damn German at home. My Mom's school was actually taught by Mennonites as well, so she wasn't quite so abused for it, but by the time I was born in 1970, they decided it wasn't necessary or beneficial in any way for me to learn it. None of my cousins learned it either.
However...it seeps into you. I didn't realize how much until I left my home area and went to college. Little things like "schlep" and "ferhuddled" and "schnell" sneaked into conversations. I don't even know how to spell these things. The jewish kids wondered why I was speaking Yiddish. I got hassled for saying things like "Plug that out" and "The milk is all." Translation: Unplug it and there's no more milk.
My husband, who is the son of English immigrants and a great mimic, says I have an accent. Instead of saying COAT I say COE-ET.
My parents are teaching the kids a little bit of it. For fun. And some of it is coming back to me.
I'm not really technically lonely. My kids are excellent company. And now that I have a puppy I'll never be lonely. Even when the kids and dog go to bed at 9ish, I'm still never alone because I have my Cat and he's been my companion for 15 years. But I'm lonely for my man. Fifteen years of marriage to him and I feel like I've never had enough time with him. I hope he gets a huge hit record and gets royalties on it so he doesn't have to work 16 hour days anymore. Or maybe just three of those days in a week. I miss him.
It only hurts when I laugh. Ha ha! Ow.