True story. Happy to see you're reading.
Up coming stories..."donkeys", "kitties", "big dumb bass"...I've spent a lifetime with gaining lessons...just sharing.
DTS

Clowns

I'll get back to donkeys, kitties, and bass later.

Today I'm talking clowns. There are lots of them.
They make me laugh so much!
Do you remember Emit Kelly? Bozo? Soupy? There are so many! Clarabell?
Gosh, I could go on and on.
Clowns keep showing up all the time.
I like the act when they keep coming out of the car, or the ones that have a little dog that tries to cheer up his master. How about the pail of water chase?
Some of the best are silent.
The really funny (or pathetic) ones, also laugh worthy, get me going to the floor when they open their mouths (or keyboards).
Can we have a press conference please?
In a strange way, some clowns try to be funny with intent. The ones that aren't really trying, the ones that make serious gaffs, are the ones that really make me roar. If only they'd keep their mouths shut. Then they'd realize the absurdity they present might not be funny at all...at least not worth dying for.
All in good humor, nuck, nuck. Huff ha huh.
Clowns have been around for quite a while.
Some clowns don't even realize that they're clowns, so it seems.
Can you say Chaplin? Costello? Gracie? Curly? Laurel?
Ha Ha! I bet you were just thinking I was going to name somebody else!
Now there's a joke right there. I didn't.
It's part of a good delivery. Like launching a "smart bomb" out of nowhere that hits its mark. Unexpected. Hits you in the gut, and pretty soon you're rolling on the floor, peeing in your pants.
It's like some things I've heard lately..."civilized war", "army intelligence", gaffaw, gaffaw!
Clowns are all around. I sure love them all.
The ones that try to be funny, and those that don't.
Laughter seems the correct response.
So in the famous words of the psychiatrist on MASH, "Ladies and gents, take my advice. Drop your pants, and slide on the ice."
LMFAO!!!

Lies

I'll start by saying that I don't like them. Lies are lies, no matter how they're dressed. Some can see through them, some can't. Sorry for them.
Raise your hand if you like being lied to.
I thought so...me neither.
In the early 1870's the Kwahadis were fighting a guerilla war against cavalry troops led by Ranalds Mackenzie, the tough young colonel who had lost a finger in the Civil War. The insurgents called him Three Fingers.
Mackenzie and his cavalry men chased their opposition across the Staked Plains of the Texas panhandle, yet found that they were as much the hunted as the hunters. Quanah, their leader would not relent. He, afterall was trying to safeguard his lands and the buffalo they depended on from the encroachment of usurpers. Mackenzie was never able to defeat them, though he came close to death when they put an arrow into him.
Mackenzie was on a mission and used any and all excuse to justify his actions.
There was one lie after another.
The Kwahadis were free and untamed on the Staked Plains for many years. They would not negotiate with a liar, a butcher that tried to paint them as butchers. Kill them... disrespect and denegrate.
Sadly, once the buffalo had been killed off in Kansas, the US Cavalry found an ally, the white buffalo hide hunters that came south to find their slaughter, taking the great beasts for their hides and leaving the meat to rot on the wasted carcasses in the sun.
Though the Medicine Lodge treaty had been agreed to, which forbade the white hunters from continuing their slaughter in the panhandle, the Army did nothing to stop them.
A new white leader came. his name was General Philip Sheridan. He said, "Let them kill, skin, and sell until the buffalo are exterminated, as it is the only way to bring lasting peace and allow civilization to advance."
The whitemen's thinking was to take away the source of food from those that were in need, they would submit and go to reservations.
In response, other tribes, the Comanches, the Kiowas, the Cheyennes, and the Arapahos didn't see it that way. The battle of Adobe Walls was the result. The battle was fierce. Quanah had his horse shot from beneath him. The result was three whites killed, tweny-seven Indians.
After the warriors left, the remaining whites chopped off the heads of the warriors and stuck them on posts in the corral.
There was no end for many years. The actions of the invaders only inflamed the resistance.
Despite starvation, tattered tipis, and the real threat of having their old people, their children and infants, their women, slaughtered, the warriors lead a chase for many years across the plains, relying on their scrawny ponies.
In 1875, Quanah surrendered. Though he had never lived in a house, eaten at a table, or slept in a bed, he finally found that on the day of June 2, 1875, at
Fort Sill, he and those he led could go no further.
For the next twenty years, he learned from the liars he hated, those that had broken their treaty with him. He became a wealthy rancher, a major stockholder in the railroad, a friend of two presidents and many congressmen.
In the early 20th century, President Theodore Roosevelt established the first National Park, Yellowstone, to protect the few remaining buffalo.
Quanah remained critical of the whitemen's ways. He spoke against wasteful farming and ranching practices, the carnage that turned the grasslands to mesquite-scrub prairie. His words remain, "This was a pretty country you took away from us, but you see how dry it is now. It is only good for red ants, coyotes, and cattlemen."
Quanah died on Feb. 22, 1911.
The "dust bowl" raged for many years on his once sacred lands during the 1930's, the Great Depression.
Seems that the whitemen saw the wisdom in their lies while others see the truth that Quanah spoke.
RIP Great Warrior, Quanah. Truth can only be seen by those that wish to see. Lies are easily seen.

Two Horses That Survived After Their Battles

I love horses, especially those that survive their battles.
One that comes to mind is the warrior named Barbaro. He captured many hearts, many admirers. He continues to fight despite his set backs.
Barbaro, many are continuing to root for you, including me. Your courage despite the pain and agony shows what a gallant warrior you have established yourself as, whatever your outcome. Fight on!

Here's another gallant horse that you might be interested in. He was owned by Capt Miles W Keogh who led him into battle in 1876. His name was Comanche. Keogh died with his hands holding his reins, though Comanche had been wounded nineteen times, he was the sole survivor of the battle.
The battle set up when a military leader was sent to secure the Bozeman Trail so that supplies could be sent to goldminers to the west. Despite treaties that had been previously signed and broken that stated the buffalo on which they depended would no longer be slaughtered, the Sioux were not believing the rhetoric. Red Cloud, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull had heard enough.
So on the fateful morning when General Custer led his 7th Cavalry to defeat the insurgents near the Little Big Horn, Comanche brought his master, Capt. Keogh, to the conflict. Though Custer had been proclaimed as the all American hero, the real hero of that battle was Comanche. Keogh hid behind him. Comanche took the arrows that were not intended for him but rather for his master. And after the slaughter, Comanche was the only survivor.
The Indians resepected his courage, protecting his rider against all attacks.
For his remaining seventeen years, he was not ridden again. His preserved remains can be seen at the University of Kansas.
http://www.custerslaststand.org/source/comanche.html

Barbaro and Comanche, may your courage serve to remind us all.

The Apiary

For those that don't know about what it's about, suffice it to say I've said a lot about the birds in this thread. Now I'll talk about the bees. That's where they live, in the apiary.
You might know that there are many varieties of bees. Some are very aggressive, tough to handle, but produce more honey. Those that are a bit less productive but easier to be around were my choice. They were called "midnights".
The queen and her six workers were sent in a tiny cage. On arrival, a little barrier was removed so the workers could release her to begin her hive.
A hive is made of "supers". There are frames in each with foundation (precast bee's wax) for the production of comb. In a heathy hive, the bottom two are for the hive. It's where the workers (immature females) build comb, store food, and raise the young. A fertile queen will lay her eggs anywhere she can. The workers will care for them from larvae to pupae.
The queen needs to be prevented from going to the upper parts of the hive, or she'll lay eggs there too. So a wire mesh called a queen excluder is put between the bottom two and the top ones. Otherwise, you'll get no honey, just a lot more bees.
Once the hive is established, one super at a time is added. As long as the queen is kept out, the workers will fill it with honey. Sad to say, at the height of the summer season, a worker will only live for three weeks to produce her tablespoon of honey before her death, dancing a dance to tell others where the nectar and pollen treasure is located. Who needs GPS when you can dance?
As the season cycles, different types of honey are made. I like red clover and wildflower. Early season honey like willow is a bit strong to my taste.
So, how do you get the bees to allow you to take away their honey you might wonder? Well, first off, I already told you about the different varieties of bees. Some get very angry. That's why I like the midnights. When they're working on a bright sunny day, they hardly notice. They're too busy gathering.
Pull off the super and scrape the propalis (wax-like stuff to seal the hive), and shoot a little smoke (they think they're having a forest fire), and it calms them down.
Then the caps (top of the comb) is cut off and the frame is put into a device that spins out the honey like a centerfuge (think blender).
The caps are great to chew, especially if you have allergies or a sore throat.
The honey can be filtered and bottled. The frames left in the yard and the bees will collect back anything that was missed. back to the hive to be stored as honey again. Pretty neat if you ask me.
Taking away their food but leaving their home and enough in their pantry seems ok.
Now about the drones. Those lazy male bees that just hang around the hive all summer long, eating the honey and watching baseball games on those tiny plasma tv's. Heck, all they ever were expected to do was to fly high enough to mate with a reluctant new queen so that one of them could have magical sex high in the sky. One lucky drone, the strongest flier...the rest are just bums I tell you! Having the girls get their food while they play poker with those little cards.
Well, come the first hard frost in October, guess what happens. Those hard working females set their lazy as ses straight. No divorce in the bee world is allowed. They kick them out of the hive and post guards at the entrance so they can't come back in. No wall stretching from California to Texas....get out and stay out, bee boys! Freeze your lazy self off! There's only enough honey for us doncha know?
Go get em girls!
Now, if I could only find a better way to protect you all from black bears.
Chain link fence that's eight feet high doesn't seem to have had an effect.
As Gilda R (rip) said, "It's always something"!
Sweet.

Lost

I must admit that there was a time that I was lost. I was going down the wrong road trying very hard to get to my destination, stomping my foot harder on the accelerator in my hurry to get there, but it wasn't getting me there.
The boyscouts were buckled in the back seat, three of them. They were looking forward to getting more merit badges, nice campfires, marshmallows, and everything else that awaited their two weeks at camp. Their duffle was packed, and the tents awaited.
I was to be their leader, if I could only find the way to get them there.
But somehow, I was given the wrong directions. I must have taken a right turn when I should have gone straight, or something else. I missed the turn.
I admit it.
So after barreling down that dirt road for about a half an hour, going nowhere closer to where I thought we were going, I stopped.
I was lost. So were the three eager boy scouts in the backseat, all nicely dressed in their pressed uniforms. They just didn't know it yet.
After I turned off the ignition, I turned to them in the backseat and admitted that I had made a mistake, or someone else had made a mistake when they wrote the directions, and the reality of the situation, boys, is that we're lost, very lost.
So guys, what do you think we should do?
Well, for being young they provided some good insight.
One said that if we're going in the wrong direction, going further in that direction wouldn't get us closer to where we were hoping to go.
Good point.
And trying to get there faster won't get there either.
OK...
So, what do you think I should do, guys?
One said, how about turning around, going back a while, finding someone that might know how to get there, and asking for new directions.
That was good advice!
So, about an hour later, I came upon a logger that was climbing off his skidder.
He knew exactly where we wanted to go and gave new directions. The new way was complicated and tough to follow, and in all honesty, I wish I'd listened better. Unfortunately, I didn't.
So after another hour and a half of turning here and watching for this sign post, we were even more lost than before. Go figure.
The boy scouts had stopped their "are we there yet?" long enough to realize that we weren't.
I was a bit more than frustrated by now. I asked the three of them, well guys, what do you think. Two of the three said we were definitely going in the wrong direction. The other one said he didn't know, but it didn't matter to him. He said we should just keep going the way we were going and maybe, hopefully we'd get there.
Thankfully, I went with the advice of the two-thirds polling. We turned around and a little while later, there was a highway. A half mile later, an ice cream place came up. We all had triple scoop cones, any flavors, and the nice gal behind the counter gave me a new map.
Ten minutes later, we arrived in camp, ten minutes after that, we were unpacked, and five minutes later, we were all swimming in the cool waters of that beautiful lake. Splish, splash.
No longer lost!

Today I feature a writer that also uses mataphor...much better than myself.
Garrison Keillor, "A Whale of a Challenge".
Thanks Mr. K. Guest author, truth speaker. "Whales"...welcome to the farm.
http://www.commondreams.org/views07/0118-22.htm

Well...I see the "rest" didn't do you any good! So..did you travel awhile??

Timm,
I'm well rested. Also pretty good. What did you mean?
Travel is limited...roads are snowy and icy.
On a side note, I don't have a problem at all with intelligent disagreement on
current topics, but there have been a few (not you) that rather than pursue
polite discourse, chose personal belittling comments. Unacceptable in my humble view.
DTS

You were gone for a few, so I thought maybe you took a little trip with friends! I figured your neck of the woods was frigid...so maybe you flew to warmer weather for a respite.

Timm,
Nice to know I was missed.
Actually, there's something very nice about the winter woods.
If you've never strapped on a pair of snow shoes or bucked up some cross country skis, well, I just can't tell ya. Nicer than the snowmobile, and I've been riding that too.
Two AM in the woods, stars, coyotes howling...about as good as it gets. Snowshoes are the way to go.
Unless...the ice will finally be thick enough to drill some holes and put in some tip-ups.
To everything, there is a season....
and a time to every purpose.

The image of me on skis running into a tree is enough to keep me in the lodge,lol

Timm,
Downhill skiing is way different than crosscountry. It's like horseshoes and bocci. I'll take snow shoes on a quiet night, anytime.
Tip-ups...fine with me....THERE'S a FLAG!! Adrenalin city!

Believe it or not, this time I'm not posting anything about politics.
Lately, I've had more than enough. Hagel is the only guy that seems sensible lately, maybe Webb, and a couple of others.
But that's really not what I want to talk about.
Today is about...drum roll....

"How to Hug a Horse"

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I've been called a tree hugger, and I admit that I've done that. I've had some very nice times with my favorite maple, a cute cherry, and a golden delicious that was the apple of my eye. Heck, those trees didn't respond nor seemed to share my enthusiasm. Good for me though.
But the truth of the matter is that there's absolutely nothing like hugging a horse.
Today went like this. I went to Shot o' Bourbon's stall. Her head was out, and i'm guessing that she was hoping I'd toss her a flake of hay or give her a mint, or maybe a carrot. Nope, Shot o' B...just me coming to say hi.
So, I petted the big white blaze that runs from the top of her beautiful face, down between her chestnut muzzle, and reached with my other hand to stroke her feminine elegant neck. She melted. When she rested her head on my shoulder as I stoked her muzzle, I knew I'd been hugged back.
There's something nice that happens when a horse knows your smell, shares some trust, and knows that you're not going to hurt her. Breaking will wait until the weather warms, though the bonding will continue.
Next I walked a few stalls down to where Ciel Bonne lives. She's Shot o' Bourbon's half sister. A yearling filly by Stanislavsky (High Cliff @ nybreds).
What a beauty she's growing to be! Shot is a chestnut, but Ciel B is a grey,
very dark right now, with a crescent moon on her forehead.
So I put my hand near, so she could get a sniff. I reached up with my other hand to stroke her neck, and guess what...she also put her head right on my shoulder. Ahh the love!
She stayed there for over a minute, just as calm and nice as a pretty filly could be. More sniffs, muzzle in my jacket arm, petting her neck and rubbing that spot under her jowls that some horses like so much, like petting a dog behind the ears.
So, there you have it. No politics today. Just a lot of horse hugging.
If you ever get the chance, give it a try. It's nice for the horse, and even nicer for the human.
Now, if Darlin' by Day would just calm down enough for me to touch her mane, maybe...maybe.
Fillies are so different.
Whispers and carrots next time for her.

Awww.... I like this one! I had a nice riding lesson last week on a big chestnut gelding named Oberon- we took to each other right away, and after the lesson, as I was telling him what a good boy he was, he tucked his head right under my arm and rested his nose on my stomach. I just about bawled, it was so sweet. :)

Hey Genuine Risk,
I'm happy you liked it. It's really true.
Nice that you and Oberon are friends too.
I don't advise going up to any horse and trying to do what I did today.
Heck, there are some that will bite your fingers off faster than you could react. There are a few at the farm that I'm very careful around.
To me, it takes time for a horse to get to know you. Even then, things can go badly in a blink. So be careful.
But the "hugs" are really nice. It's not something to try on the first "date".
All of 'em are so different.

Today's news about Barbaro did something inside of me, reminded me of something I should have remembered. It's called:

Letting Go

The first time I came across the difficult decision to let go was when my little female dashund, Ginger, was too sick to get off the couch. She was eleven at the time, and I'd had her since she was a pup, and I was in kindergarten.
All the fun of growing up with her seemd to disappear when I came home from school that day, and my Mom said that she had been to the vet with Ginger, and there wasn't any hope of prolonging her life without a lot of suffering from an old dog that had done her best throughout her life.
She had been loved. Now she was humanely put down.
My brother and I sat on the back porch for hours, crying our eyes out.
Only later did I realize that this was the best decision...to let her go.
Many years later, when my father didn't come out of heart surgery without having a clot hit his brain, and that he was on life support for a week, and the outcome was that the best that could be hoped for was that he'd regain consciousness, but never walk, nor think, nor even know who came to visit him in a nursing home...well, we had a "family meeting", and agreed that he would never want to "live" that way, and Mom called the hospital and got through to the ICU, told them to disconnect the life support. Let go.
The crying lasted a lot longer this time. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him.
Since then, there have been far too many, ones that I've held out so much hope for, so many prayers.
What comes to me is that there really isn't a way to completely let go.
Even when they pass, a part lives on in my memory, a gift that doesn't let go.
A friend of mine, who now is going through Alzheimers, told me this before things started going badly for him. Here are his words, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is the present. Treat it like a gift, cause that's what it is." There's no letting go of that.

Kudos! well said!

Thanks Timm.

Don't get 'gushy' on me!:)

Timm,
I'm not getting "gushy". Actually, there are some words I didn't say.
My bird dog, Winchester, is 14 now. He's a brittany, and we've shared some memorable October days together. Lately, he's been showing signs that I don't want to see.
Might be time to let go of him too, but as long as he's not in pain, I'll do my best for him. It's only fair. He always did his best for me.
DTS

DTS: just joshing you...that sucks about your dog....it's hard to make that decision!

Timm,
Yes, it's going to be tough.
The way I look at it is that if I had decided to not include him in my life, I wouldn't have had all those good times. The bad ones...well, if I put them on a scale, the good would be more than the bad.
That's about as much as can be hoped for in any life, right?