At Odds
Hubby's boss asked him to attend a live meeting at the corporate headquarters today. He left dark and early --before dawn-- this morning. As I have listened to him make his plans to accomodate this week, I've felt a wistful wish to do grand time at the Urban Homestead this weekend. That gentle gee has a 4 middle-aged child hurdle to jump and. . . Been there. Tried that enough times to feel it appropriate to ply my favorite definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Middle aged children sure can take the fun out of childhood. Again I wonder if "Young at Heart" can be translated as "Irresponsible in Life." Depends on the philosopher, I s'pose.
The big for sure is that, as a lover of the great outdoors who often chooses to sleep in the dirt when the finest of beds are available, there are still places I won't ask my grandchildren to lay their heads. The dirt in my campsites isnae the same stuff as the industrial dander on a badly kept building floor. Not even close. Proof available. I ain't volunteering to remediate that toxic mess again, not even for grand-time. Even if I was willing, in previous go-rounds I needed several days to get from the middle aged child standards to an environment I consider fit for diaper changing. This from a woman who has changed quite a few diapers in wilderness camp sites. I've already shipped myself off to the Toxic People Landfill for the crime. It's cleaner here. Clean enough to be healthy, dirty enough to be happy. Middle aged children welcome for as long as they can be respectful guests. Leave your figuratively non-toxic people standards in your hoard piles.
Hubs and I are still discussing the possibility of selling out of that insanely inflated tourist boom market and rolling the investment over to a more serene market. I doesn't know but this morning I wonder if, over the course of the dialog, Hubs has gone from the domination techniques he learned from his parents to considering the possibility that our middle-aged children can handle the job of getting the place ready for market. Remember how hard our first time was, Babe? It wasn't anywhere near my first time setting up a new household, but it was my first time attempting to do so with executive muckety mucks harrumphing over my shoulder and? ? ? Ouch. Not my favorite memory of your parents, to be sure. You, either, Babe. Can we work out some new dance steps for that egg shell waltz?
Dunno. . . Sorting. . .
Addendum:
As I typed today's sorting, it occured to me that the acronym for "Middle Aged Children" is MAC. Don't ask me how, but it has me reviewing the drunken tales my father used to tell about our anscestors leaving Northern Ireland under a curse for selling out to the Anglos. Weaving Wild Magics?
Replies
Weave those “wild magics” this morning, Arfie, weave away.
I used to be a rough and tumble girl like you and I envy that you still possess that comfortably with resting you body on the earth, the wild land around you and the skies above open to see the horizon.
When we still had our horse ranch in the Gordon Creek, we had 20,000 acres of untouched high desert to explore and I sometimes still miss jumping on my horse with my saddle bags filled with supplies, a blanket roll tied to the back, my rifle and my faithful dog Bailey at my side. I’d head up the Frost Draw up onto the high plateaus with just my horse Cavallini or Hwyn or Sugar, or there’s too many of them to name, and Bailey to the second draw by myself for a day or two spent in the high desert without fear. I remember watching the elks herds run along the plateaus, watch the deer stripping the sage brush bare before setting out to repair the fences those bastards who kept cutting our rusty old barbed wire fence that separated us from the BLM land to let their sheep in to strip our private property.
Sometimes I miss those days dearly. On the way down the back of Second Draw you could find petroglyphs left behind if you knew where to look.
Unfortately those days are lost to me. My sun allergy hit when I was thirteen and that was the end of enjoying the exploration of the high deserts.
As a child I was fearless and my parents had faith in letting me roam where I willed on the ranch. As an adult I’ve lost that fearlessness and although I still enjoy the wild world and a few days of the serenity of wilderness my sun allergy and health issues make it harder to tolerate such excursions.
Sorry. Your words of wandering and preferring a bed of earth brought back those happier memories of childhood and the freedom to explore.
I really like your reasoning of “young at heart” possibly meaning “irresponsible in life”. You may be onto something there with the younger generation.
Hugs, love and support, Arfie.
Maybe you can help me understand why "Horse People" are so scary to me, Vltava. I do well with horses and have often wished for a horse in my wilderness wanders. Alas, I have to go through Horse People to get to the horses and ? ? ? I feel like I understand Robert Redford's political correction in, "The Horse Whisperer" when he tells his co-star, "No lady, I don't help people with horse problems. I help horses with people problems."
I know the root of the fear is the meanest of my 10 siblings, the sister I call, "Pimp Sis" here in my journal. It is entirely possible she is the first person I ever heard call themselves, "A Horse Person." At every one of the family base camps we shared, she made contact with any and all stables she could find and pimped out my mucking services for riding time. I didn't mind the muck shoveling and adored the riding, but her supervisory skills sucked horse apples.
As for the "Young at Heart" wonder. . . The original version of that came out in 1953, the year before I was born and was a beloved classic among the Kiddie Whorehouse patrons of the 60's. It provides soundtrack for nearly ALL of the related trauma I am still recovering from. In my strictly personal herstorical fact, it's the traditional rape anthem.
Sha-ba-doo-ba-da-doo
Sha-ba-doo-ba-doo
It's all about me
My spouse is on strike
So you must do your part
To keep me young and hard
Traumatized children have no respect for the classics. . .
Triple hugs arfie. Wouldn’t that be something if the grand kids were to help get the place ready.
Maybe some day, Nancy. At newborn, 3 and 5, I don't believe they are ready for cleaning up after middle aged adults, however great the need, but they are, indeed, far easier to work with. At least they have a sense of humor about Gammy's eccentric priorities and schedules. Their eye rolls are far cuter than middle aged eye rolls.
Hahaha yes indeed! Much much cuter ~
I have two classifications of “Horse People” and one is good and the others are only worth less than all the manure I shoveled over my years as a professional rider.
I started out in dressage but briefly as my trainer moved and my mom brought in my foster sister (not true foster sister but it’s the best description). That took me into the not so lovely world of western riding and horse racing on the bush tracks in Utah, Wyoming, Arizona and New Mexico. You need to either be deaf or develop an extreme ability beyond most humans to ignore everything else going on around you to be part of that world. No 8-12 year old girl should be discussed as a fine filly that’s going to make a love brood mare when she hits 15/16 and have those cowboys arguing who gets to break her. For years I despised all cowboys because of my years on the bush track except for a precious few who weren’t from out west but were raised right by they’re mommas on how to treat a lady.
Out west there’s a lot of disrespect for both women and horses. I’ve never seen so much abuse towards animals that today I still get nightmares of how those cowboys treated their horses.
Luckily, when I was twelve we moved to California then to Salt Lake City and I went back to dressage, with trainers only from Europe. I’m a natural rider and for a time had a promising career that had me up for tryouts with the US Equestrian team. Two weeks prior, I had one horse accident too many that resulted in TBI, and two left shoulder reconstructions and the end of any hopes of being an equestrian again.
Being were you are and having met some of the cowboys down that way..., it’s really hit or miss if you find a genuine cowboy or the typical assholes that run rampant out west.
Probably not much help. But that’s been the simplest summary of my experiences as a horse person.
Hugs & love Arfie
Not too much help, Vltava but a neat share. Thank you.
Perhaps my biggest problem is getting horses into the proper slots for the various ? ? ? horse people costumes ? ? ? saddles? ? ? political parties ? ? ? clubs ? ? ? churches? ? ? Pretty please, give me a name for ^it^. My personal sensory input puts "Horse People" and "Music People" in the same psycho ward, right next to Capital Hill on LSD. I buy the occasional ticket, but I'll pass on the backstage party and I certainly don't want one of my own. Music People can get as testy as Horse People about their particulars. Even *I* know not to ask a fellow with a nose ring to play me a Hank Williams tune or to ask a woman in spandex how many broncos she's ridden.
But that's the Horse People. . . Horses are a whole different species. I have room for horses here at the farm. I wonder sometimes if it is possible to live with a horse without those pesky horse people. When I was a kid I used to keep lonely horses company in their pastures. I preferred bareback for obvious reasons. Owners sure got ownery when they caught me.
For what it's worth, this farm is in cattle country. Cowboys are common here. We rent our pastures to one. Not too many of them look like a cigarette commercial and they use trucks and ATVs to herd the cattle far more often than horses.
I wish I had an answer for you about horse people but I don’t. I love horses, always have and always will. But I don’t know that I fit in the “horse people” group. But it’s possible to have horses and avoid the “horse people”. I’ve managed it many times.
I’ve owned over a hundred horses I my life as we used to work with traders and I’d do all the training and breaking horses to the saddle. For a few years, when my dad had a near fatal ATV accident and couldn’t work, it was my young career riding that help keep food on the table and pay the bills. I apparently was a gifted rider, rare talent according to Major Carlos Monsero who was the head of the Lippizaner Viennese Riding School for 27 years. Horses were my life. I spent at least 8-12 hours every day on the back of a horse from age 7-15. I lived in stables. I was up at 3 am to be at the barn by 4 and didn’t return home until midnight at earliest. Sometimes I even slept at the stables. I was a working student from 12-15 and homeschooled starting around 7 so I did my school work while in the saddle.
It was an unusual childhood but it did protect me somewhat from the constant persecution from a community that sided with my abuser.
Anyhow. Sorry. Another detour down memory lane.
I think I’ll call it an early night.
Hugs & keep sorting. When I’m not so worn out maybe we can find the answer.
Hugs & love, Arfie
Love the detours, Vltava, though I confess to finding this one intimidating.
For now, I reckon I'll keep on keeping my distance from the equestrian world. When I dare to trust the memories of my time with the lonely horses who loved me, I wonder if. . . but. . . I donae believe I am housebroken enough to make sense of that world. You and the Major Fancy Pants alumni can have it. If the cosmos disagree, the cosmos will provide.