Feeding Horses
Six, or … One?
The Metrics
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
Feeding
horses at 4:15 AM offers perspectives the urban, secular world doesn’t
encounter.
That’s been
the routine this week. The four campaigners here at the house know the game.
The back gate will rattle only the slightest and at least one of them will
greet the tell-tale signal with a soft nicker.
The routine unfolds and it begins by
turning the lights on. When it is cold, the tack room, with its nominal
heating, begs for a lingering pause. Then it is off into the dark to get it
done. Two of the caballos are fed individually and they are close enough to the
pole barn and the stacked hay to walk with a fork full of measured ration. The
measure is the feel on the fork.
The forks deserve description. They
are multiple and there is pride of ownership in the three used. There are two
store bought renditions and the third, the favored one, is a blacksmith built
antique that came out of my grandparents’ tool bin. It was built by an unknown
somebody who had forked hay himself and knew what it was all about. Delicate
tines and an equally refined and slender handle were matched to allow the hay
to slide off the forks without constraint. It is a guarded and special tool. The
second fork is a modern-day rendition that has been modified in the shop to
mimic the antique masterpiece. A cutoff saw was used to take the middle tine
off and a horseshoe rasp was used on the handle to make it at least fit my
hands. The third fork is a new addition and it has only three tines. It doesn’t
yet have the handle shape of preference, but its design is a throwback to an
earlier time when, like the old antique, folks knew what it meant to have a
fork that released thrown hay without a fumbled delivery.
The two other horses, the using
crew, are fed together out of a loaded wheelbarrow. Neither are easy keepers,
and they are fed a lot morning and night and grained in the evening rendition.
One of them doesn’t like to be touched, but his unique affection comes from
being allowed to softly reach out and touch me with his muzzle on his terms.
That is our trade and it is only between him and me. He is the Ramon Villanueva
horse and that alone suggests what he is and what he can be counted on doing.
The final horse is the most recent
addition and our relationship is still being shaped. He came to us much lighter
than he is now, but he has bloomed, and his black color now shows undertones of
golden gruella standing in the sun. He is a big, tall fellow that isn’t in any
form a kid horse. He’s a big mover and is proving to be the preferred outside
horse. He is conceding, too, he likes his belly scratched as we stand together
for a few precious moments communicating in our new relationship.
Then it is time to go to the house
for a cup of coffee to get the day started before it is time to saddle and load
the day’s companion in the trailer for the trip to the ranch and planned work.
The Metrics
The economic news yesterday was certainly
positive.
The stock market hit a historical
high. The unemployment rate fell to another record low. The monthly jobs
creation hit 266,000 iterations. All in all, it should have been a positive
day, but, of course, it wasn’t.
The unrestrained hate overruled
anything and everything.
What many of us have been observing
for too long is being formed into words. The unmitigated hate of the liberal
operators for this president and our vote has become the core of anything and
everything being accomplished in Washington.
Shame is the real byline. Disgust
is the mood. Reciprocal hate is the response.
We are in a dark place, and … it
isn’t the condition of feeding horses before daylight.
Six, or … One?
My uncle sent it to me.
It was supposedly Steve Jobs words
about the summation of life at his dying. It is worth the read. It is his
assessment of the six best doctors of this world and how they play into what
seemingly was a progressive secular and fabulously wealthy existence.
In short, sunlight, rest, exercise,
diet, self-confidence, and friends were Jobs’ suggested best doctors for living
a fulfilling life. Not surprisingly, billions (as in billions of
dollars), wasn’t one of the virtual doctors of his assessment. Millions
(as in millions of dollars) wasn’t mentioned, either. In fact, not a single
dollar was included in his requiem to an apparently parched and seemingly regretful
existence.
Isn’t there something missing in
this, though?
The words are good. There would be oohs
and ahhs if his words were read in a memorial service as those gathered
mourned his passing. No doubt that was the case at Stanford’s Memorial Church
when guests, many of which were reported to be wearing black, arrived at the campus’
main gate for the service back in 2011.
On the surface, though, the six best
doctors seemed to be elevated and stand apart from any overt higher
relationship unless they were equated into that spiritual proxy.
As a Christian, that is
overwhelmingly troubling to me.
It is akin to the simplicity of
equating my modern-day hay fork renditions to the real thing, that thing of beauty
created from the hands of somebody who had lived in a direct relationship with
something that truly worked, forged by doing, and perfected by experience and
outcome.
It seems to me that all six could
and should have been replaced by one … He of greatest importance.
Stephen
L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “The Speaker of the House
needs to reread Phil. 4:8. In fact, we all do.”
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