Okay, I'm tickled to death not to be buried up there in Oswego NY. Really. However, the old Poops is ready for some outdoor time, thus this portrait of Trapper. While I was out walkin' the yard the horses noticed that there might be something to eat out of the deal and they are all about food. Trapper and Pride can hear Daddy's truck coming when he leaves the driveway a mile down the road. Their ornery horse asses know he's gonna come give 'em some sweet feed on a regular basis.
We moved into this place eighteen years ago this coming April. BabyGirl was four years old and Trapper was just a colt when we first made the move to country life. I remember the first time I woke up to find a horse in the pasture outside my window and thinkin' how odd and wonderful that was. It still is. These two nags have it made and they know it. Every now and then they'll knock down an ancient section of barbed wire and wander out into a crop field just to keep Daddy on his toes.
It was my dream as a parent to raise my child in the same sort of paradise that I grew up around. Thanks to Big Ernie, it happened. There were those who thought I was crazy for selling an affordable house close to work just for the privilege of paying out the wazoo on utility bills, and my ex was one of them. BG has something that nobody can ever take away from her in the legacy that is this farm. It could be sold on a whim to developers or destroyed by an earthquake or a Forked Deere tsunami, but her childhood is here, as is mine. I wouldn't trade that for a kazillion bucks and five SugarDaddies.
My co-favorite thing besides growing shit is burning shit. We've got wood-in-the-hood all over Pecan Lane, and a good start on a firepile out there. Follow the smoke signals.
flushed by poopie on Saturday, February 10, 2007
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| | Poop Happens