First Science, Then the Ever Dreadful...License.

A Licensing Primer for Horseshoers:

The other day I was musing over the dangers associated with too much science in a litigious world.  That naturally instigated another discussion, that being the long-argued issue of the licensing of farriers in the United States.  And yes, as always it invoked a lot of opinion, a certain degree of hysteria and like rats dropped out of a sack, a wild scramble to the outreaches of imaginative argument.  But...first things first. Before everybody turns into self-righteous barn burners, consider the following as a primer to any discussion on the topic.  It will be better for your blood pressure.

1)  Nobody in government is particularly interested in licensing you anyway.  First off, licensing needs to be cost-effective to a government entity.  If the cost of administering a program exceeds the financial benefit to the state, forget it.  Only exceptions are public safety and public outrage.  As one writer stated the other day, you would definitely want the FAA looking over a pilot's shoulder, but somebody's horse?  Unlikely.  And if you have trouble with this argument, you haven't flown in the Third World lately.  Considering the number of farriers operating above the radar, the numbers do not jive. 

2)  What about the racetracks you say?  Well, horse racing operates under a broader headline called, "the rules of racing."  Vague at best, but necessary because gambling is involved; public money and public trust.  That is why all professions associated with racing must be licensed.  This process has far more to do with integrity and criminal intent than shoeing or plating.  Licensing of platers was initiated to 1) try to remove the variable over individual skills and 2), assure the same level of scrutiny for all who have access to the horse.  All licenses issued must address the issue of 'qualified.'  That means everybody.  

3)  And while we're at the track -- consider jurisdiction for a minute.  Only practical approach is on a state level. Not county, not federal...the US never quite finished the Civil War.  As such, we are heavily burdened by the concept of 'states' rights.'  Any licensing considered would have to be at this level.  Now, what can occur and would be deemed 'enlightened thinking,' is a federal minimum standard, conceivably created by an organization (such as the AFA), that could prove its worthiness in maintaining such a standard.  Of course, they would have to get the individual state chapters to agree.  Lots of luck there.  The 'enlightened' part can be distilled out of the current jurisdictional quagmire that best describes the current state of American racing:  38 different sets of rules for the sport.  One for every state that conducts racing within its borders.  It is a ludicrous system, based more on jurisdictional greed than good clean fun. 

4)  Forget the European systems.  Europe has a very long (historical/political) relationship with its guilds and unions.  They are part of the culture.  Some critics have also accused them of being cumbersome, as well as non-viable economically.  Yes, the education is quite good, though comparing it to the costs and investment in time, these programs cannot compare favorably with formal education in the arena of financial return.  That can be answered in some ways by, "So what?"  Life is about choices really, and everybody does their own math in that department.  That grant aside,  the European programs do have one huge advantage, that found in the realm of 'accepted credibility,' over and above the current American reliance on self-accreditation -- good will and air mostly.        

5)  But how you say?  First off, study some union charters.  Most unions (electrical, sheet metal workers, etc.), have an existing charter with the state they are licensing within.  These could be seen as both a structural template and perhaps of greater use, identifying the nature of the current relationship.  Is it even applicable?  Probably not.  All government jurisdictions have strict codes to insure the proper use of materials and skills as they apply to public safety concerns; further to discourage or prevent fraudulent practices.  The question that arises here, and it is an important one, is whether or not farriery, as currently practiced, poses any such reasonable concern in the public sector.  Doubtful at best.  Bad shoeing, however you dare define it, is primarily a civil matter between practitioner and client.  There is no third-party offense involved.  And forget the horse.  He is legally chattel. 

6)  Okay, so why even bother?  That question is the sticky wicket as I like to call it.  And that is why I ask the reader to think in reverse.  Any type of licensing, regulation or restrictive trade arrangement  is not meant to control, chastise or hinder the professional.  It is to protect the trade, your economic standard and most importantly...keep the idiots out!  I notice a whole bunch of pissing, moaning and sulking about these barefoot imposter's running amuck and until members of this profession make the hard decisions, that's all you've got.  My suggestion is to shut the fudah up or do something about it.  You have a national association (sort of), and that last question is directed at the leadership.  And too, at all members and non-members of this profession...if it cares to be a profession.  A great deal of American culture (unlike our European counterparts), is based on a sense of freedom and individuality -- okay, the honest definition:  we're all a bunch of outliers.  Horseshoers somewhere near the top of that list.  In some ways, it is admirable.  But, you can't have it both ways in a society that doesn't always share in your enthusiastic disregard for the rule book.  Protect yourself and use the system to your advantage.  Before you discover the real price in maintaining that independence.

Having said way too much, all comments can

 be sent to my PO box in Panama.

Thank you.       

Careful with the Test Tubes, Folks. Ol' Dagget's Lurking About....

Science or Art in Farriery:

 Are They Really Compatible in a Litigious World

Kirk Adkins (in his distinctive hat), Resident farrier: UC/Davis, circa 1993
[image: ajuell -horsetrionics.com]

Seems to be a lot of discussion of late in farriery circles concerning certification, therapeutic principles and techniques -- maps, charts, blueprints on what might or might not constitute competency; proper medical protocol, liaison with other professionals, consistent nomenclature in the workplace...hell, whether it is ethical to warm up a burrito in a gas forge. You know, cross-contamination issues.  Science on the march once again.  Now don't get me wrong.  Science is good.  Research is good.  Cooperation among professionals is good.  Thorny sometimes, but still good.

Part of these debates surround the age-old search for standardization in a business that has few rules and probably doesn't need that many anyway.  That does of course fly in the face of the declared premise behind these trade certification programs, but concurrently may also represent the Achilles heel of any such program.  To be clear, it is a system of self-certification based on what can best be described as an educational system that runs the gauntlet from good to sub-standard, most, if not all offering no accepted mainstream credentials to the student/graduate.  Yes, there are exceptions.  And before you start yelling heresy, let me also say that today's system is a vast improvement over what the previous decades were able to offer.  Better, but still lacking.  And no, not on the day to day skills necessary to shoe a horse adequately or even exceptionally, but the overall reality needed to confront those assumptions accompanying that simple piece of paper:  the certificate.  These are rarely taught and often not even acknowledged.  Why?  Because the ground beneath these issues tends to liquefy in the presence of our legal system. 

Academic medicine (the veterinary variety), is an excellent place to begin a discussion.  Our mutual professions very often rub elbows, perhaps more than we should at times, but we still run in the same circles.  Having some experience in a teaching college (both UC/Davis & WSU) the former in the capacity as a resident farrier (interim), I have observed the development of that profession first hand.  It is long, difficult, complicated and as thorough as possible -- and accredited by the state.  My point here is not to argue the merits of a superior educational system.  That is obvious and not under debate.  My point instead is the nature of the work I performed under the auspices and protection of a teaching hospital in the university system.  Which means I performed very complicated tasks, aided or implemented procedures, conducted surgery (sorry, but if it bleeds, that's surgery), and a host of activities well beyond my job description or personal comfort zone; ethically speaking here, and in relation to the outside, real world.  A world where the only protection you have is common sense and integrity.  Or maybe a lawyer of your own.  The key word here is protection.  I operated under the umbrella of the Veterinary Department.  That allowed a certain degree of perceived (another tricky word), immunity.  It should also be noted here that most teaching hospitals are also the institutions of last resort.  Meaning we get more hopeless cases than hopeful ones and are bound (ethically and legally) to treat these cases.  I'm sure your imagination can extrapolate that sorry scenario into what it was like some days. 

I also worked extensively under both ASHA and FEI rules and additionally was licensed to work on the tracks.  Not terribly important, but different rules and jurisdictions can and will dictate the parameters of how you conduct your business.  This is because these rules, limitations and forced adaptations are your responsibility when it comes to compliance.  And in the end, you are the ultimate insurer of certain potential outcomes you might not even be aware of at the time.  A few examples:  I once contaminated a horse on race day with Lidocaine.  Casual transfer.  Another time I refused to work on a jumper at a show. I was called into the Steward as I was listed as the 'official farrier.'  I had the ability to make the horse visually sound, but I also knew if I did, this would be the horse's last show. And finally, perhaps fittingly to this discussion, just about any laminitic horse you care to point out.  All too often they are the victims of wishful thinking and accepting such a case with little or no veterinary supervision leaves you, the farrier, completely exposed.  And forget about what a nice lady the owner was.  Dead horses tend to change people's persona pretty damn fast.

Now, I've shared a bunch of my dirty laundry for hopefully a good reason.  As I said earlier, science is good...blah, blah, but for all our good intentions, humanitarian principles, our pursuit of continuing education and that pile of expensive and time-consuming certificates -- we are no match for a university education when ol' lawyer Daggett has our sorry ass in the witness chair.  Game over.  I have had some experience in litigation cases involving farriers:  wrongful death, [in]competency claims, property damage or loss of use (do remember that horses represent chattel), and one fascinating case where a farrier was shot by mistake.  And here you thought this job wasn't too complicated.  In some of these cases, I was scheduled to give 'expert testimony' on certain aspects of the trade.  Never saw the court room.  Once the attorneys looked over the (our) accreditation system, education and other aspects of the trade, the trial was over.  Now this certainly isn't always the case, but perhaps it is here where the common sense has to live.  Our perception of what we do and how we do it has absolutely nothing to do with how we are perceived by a jury of our peers.  Because the truth is, they are not our peers.

Where is the line drawn?  I'm sure everyone has an opinion, perhaps worse, an experience, but it would seem to me that given these realities one needs to err toward caution, particularly when emotion or ego start matching strides with common sense.  And that is difficult to determine at times, as very often these decisions are made in the moment, without due consideration on the potential outcome, good or bad.  This can indeed be the point where a person clearly outruns their credentials and no amount of science, good intentions or that hard-earned certificate will save you from the consequences of overstepping your limitations -- such limits decided by a norm not of your making.  Perhaps the best example can be found in the veterinary profession.  Pre-purchase exams in the late 1970's, early 80's had somehow evolved into the realm of soothsaying.  Technology played a role here -- portable radiographic equipment, ultra-sound, etc., and veterinarians were competing heavily in this arena.  You know how it goes.  Buy a new wire welder  and you need to make it pay.  Many veterinarians crossed the ethical line in trying to appease the buyer or seller, the end result, numerous and costly lawsuits.  The backlash was that over the ensuing years, most vets would cover a pre-purchase exam in one sentence:  "Yeah, he's breathing today." 

The solution?  At present, not much.  This profession is a work in progress and many of the pitfalls can only be avoided through personal diligence.  However, schools need to focus a great deal more on the rather intrinsic elements of this 'business,' the under-belly really, that has little to do with the horse, but a great deal to to say about day to day survival.  And associations, or professional groups need to be careful about what they promote, care to certify, or outwardly endorse.  They too can be brought before a judge.  What's to stop an individual from suing an agency or association that certifies your competency?  Nothing really.  But I do think as this profession continues to evolve, maybe gaining greater credibility in the public eye, and perhaps a more well-rounded educational system, staying a little below the radar is not such a bad idea.  And focus on the art by minimizing the value (and inherent risk), associated with scientific standards.  Hell folks, nobody ever sued Van Gogh.

 

  

                                                

Essays on the seasons...fall

Short Essays on Seasons...

I've often used this quote in the marketing of my book.  Marketing?  I actually hate marketing, even though the business scholars insist you can sell hot coffee in Hell with the right approach.  That aside, the quote does have a lot of meaning for me personally.  See, I have always been an escapist of sorts, one of those people that stations their bed next to an open window.  Childhood training of sorts.  Danger always wandered in through the door, so the window was always a better choice.

Eventually we do become adults -- well, that's the plan anyway, but we don't discard the child within as a simple matter of chronology or maturity, however one cares to define that transition.  It lurks within, seemingly protected and shielded by the wisdom or strength of age.  Or perhaps an equality measured in muscle, sinew and bone.  But the mind...well, it never forgets the child, for the child was the cognitive foundation of all knowledge to come.  The open door to what will constitute another human being, or more accurately the nature of being human.

Farming seemed to hold some appeal for me that was not terribly obvious at first.  Dirt, water, air, seasons...the seed:  a miracle in itself it would seem.  Replication wrapped in wonderment and awe.  The flower, a simple and easily understood lesson in the value of patience...even persistence in a process that by all accounts, must cripple logic.  Yet, there it is in the spring warmth.  Defiant in its coming, humble in its demands.  And we look down at this flower, from the great heights of our towering intellect and marvel at it  -- privately of course, for we have learned somehow that the only real miracle on Earth is achieved through our singularly unique presence.  Hmm.

Farming tends to correct that thinking though, and return us to the world of small marvels.  Of course, we pay the price of admission.  The work is hard, the hours long, the elements, at times, most unfriendly. The financial return -- not a matter likely to generate great swarms of envy.  Ridicule and scorn, the unspoken words of a casual observer, those who have long since lost the ability of appreciation, that gentle dose of awareness that lives on the outskirts of all things chaotic and unsure.

I suppose I failed in some ways at being a farmer, my crop walking the earth instead of being cradled by it, but after two-and-some decades, I realized that the earth under my feet had remained the same --I had done no harm to the ground.  The horses merely fed the soil, the rain washed it clean and the winds gently swept away the remnants of each season.  And every year we welcomed new life, had our moments of joy and sorrow, and awaited the coming of spring.  The gentle coming of a distant horizon.  Not so bad, really.
 

And then there is fall....

[image: pestcontrol.com]

Fall.  Pictures of the Vermont countryside splashed on the cover of an LL Bean catalog.  Hills ablaze in the amber cloak of vanishing youth, wind rustling the tattered edges of an orange and violet kaleidoscope, caught, perhaps trapped, by the passing of an omnipotent God, bent on delivering warmth and renewal to a more deserving hemisphere, one that has sickened from the cold and withered in the twilight of an ambivalent season.  The sun feebly threatens warmth for the northern latitudes, but only delivers winter.

Cold beer is shelved in favor of Irish whiskey.  Everyone you know wears a turtleneck from Eddie Bauer.  Hornets leave their nests to gorge on the fermented nectar of rotting pears, once a fragile flower given a mission to bear future life -- its only mission -- severed from from the root, cast to the cold ground by a branch grown weak by the migration of a planet on a timeless, predetermined path.

Still, this small venomous creature of the same oval prison rejoices.  A hated little beast, yellow and black with a painful sting and the arrogance, or perhaps the detachment of a prehistoric shark -- creatures frozen by an evolutionary system that, contrary to human desires, sought and somehow achieved perfection.  No, we don't necessarily agree that the final product is one of God's better efforts.  After 200,000 years of flexing our gray matter, losing an abundance of body hair and turning in our rocks, clubs and swords for nuclear triggers, we still sit scared and alone -- genetic anomalies that admire the hornet for its undeniable tenacity, yet try to to kill the bastard because it represents what we cannot comprehend, control, or perhaps ever be.  It acts, we think.  The hornet eats the fermented fruit, flies upside down, attacks the occasional interloper and after two-weeks of drunken fury, dies a sudden, rather unremarkable death.  A few guts on the pavement, nothing more.

Death comes in winter, but the illness shows up in the fall.  Leaves rot and decay, salmon enter the streams to quickly reproduce, their century's old clock stubborn in its need to meet the next hour.  Lifeless bodies, once the great ocean-going Coho, gentle in their passing, are carried headlong into the deep and silent cradle of the Pacific Ocean.  Yet the seed, hibernating quietly in a shallow, nameless estuary awaits the warmth of spring, a million-to-one risk that begins with life and culminates in death.  And we worry about the price of gas.....

[image: wikicommons]

September in Washington is rarely less than an Indian summer.  Warm days, creeping toward cold nights and the random storm.  The leaves do turn yellow and red, but unlike Vermont, the incessant showers hurl them to the ground where they become a great slippery mass ready for consumption by slugs and snails, those grandstand janitors that show up for dying summers or the last out of the last game of the final series.  Walking is treacherous, sweeping endless.

Fall marks the end of many things.  Chores become less critical, less practical in the declining weather.  The days are shorter and darker, ambition less fired, sights more defined, as if the northerly wind causes the eyes to squint for more than protection -- as if they speak quietly to a distant, vague, unknown, but critically important subtlety.  We came, we conquered; the cat tortured and ate another wrong-way pheasant.  Feathers.  Like leaves falling I guess.  We're only cold in the fall if we've lost our protective cover, if we have surrendered to a pending winter storm.  In the half-light of early evening you can almost hear the earth repossessing the gifts of life.  A band of noisy gravediggers that mark your every step with their distinctive sigh.  A private apocalypse in a fog shrouded forest that is both bed and crypt.  Grief and renewal.  The salmon know.

Okay.  People also pass at dusk, as they should.  It is their dusk.  It is why we sit on the beach and witness the sun surrendering to water and time.  It is reassuring in that it offers continuity as a defense against our personal confusion -- sanctuary dismantling intelligence, swallowing our grief and uncertainty in the fond embrace of memory.  A rare time to honestly choose the nature of our forgiveness, or to simply cry in peace.

From: Mares, Foals & Ferraris, copyright 2011 

Time In! Medical notes and Gilligan's Island.

[image: contentusatoday.com]


Meanwhile, America wants to know!  What does Gilligan's Island have to do with Thoroughbred breeding?

Actually nothing.  Has to do with the girl in the story.  By now you should know that I don't always do commerce with the truth, the whole truth and whatever is left at the end.

Before I wander into that department, I want to take a moment to congratulate my surgical team on their skill and daring with claw hammer, chainsaw and most importantly, catheter removal.  Especially the latter.  That will remain as one of my more 'remarkable' experiences.  I came to believe, about midway through this process, that if doctors are going to insist on rummaging around inside our bodies in later life, then perhaps they should install zippers early in life.  About the time they cut the cord.  Since we're still working on cognitive function, I doubt we'd notice the intrusion.  Ah, that night nurse!  "We're going to remove the catheter now." 

"We?"

When she was done, the first thought that came to mind was:  halibut fishing.

Now, as far as Gilligan's Island is concerned, you first have to appreciate what a remarkable TV show this really was.  A Greek masterpiece in the finest tradition.  Every human foible explored and re-explored in a mere thirty minutes by a group of actors that never got dirty, never ran out clothes, food, liquor, visitors or the wild assumption that anybody really wanted to fix the damn boat.  On a farm, Gilligan's Island is late 1970's state of the art therapy.  It starts when the string [dis]organizer on the weed-eater runs dry.  Takes a year for that to happen.  Coincidentally, it also takes a year to lose the instructions.  Since it is Seattle, it is raining.  All repairs take place in the living room since the barn still leaks.  When you are faced with a complex task, the first thing most farm managers do is head for the medicine cabinet for some pharmaceutical support.  I prefer the little pink ones with the 'V' on them.  I think it stands for vigilance or something.

While I'm waiting for pills to get vigilant, I flip on Channel 4.  Sure enough, Gilligan is waiting for me.  Let the therapy begin:


"In situations such as this (any situation is good here), I try to focus on people with bigger problems than my own.  That leads me directly to the 3rd-season of Gilligans Island.  It has been three-years on the island now and nobody has hooked up yet.  You'd think that either The Professor or Gilligan would have made a move on the Movie Star.  Or fixed the boat.  We've already figured out that The Skipper is gay since he's always hitting on Gilligan.  You know, the 'little buddy' thing.  Real touchy/feely.  Then there's Mary Ann.  She's pretty uptight, more than likely a Baptist, but probably leaning toward The Professor, who's a little sexually stunted anyway, but even so, if they don't get off this damn island then he loses tenure and the big house on campus.  She's not going back to waiting tables.  Then again, he is a little quirky.  Could be a Ted Bundy behind those glasses.  The Millionaire has certainly run out of alcohol by now, so The Wife has gone from enabler to intensive-care nurse.  The Movie Star is getting some action somewhere, but nobody is quite sure, leading to speculation that something is going on during the commercials.  Rumor has it that midway through the fourth season, Erica Kane washes up on the beach with three members of the Brazilian soccer squad.  Oliver Stone takes over directing the series, leading to more speculation on who really killed Kennedy.  The Skipper? 

With the medication kicking in and a couple hours of re-runs, the possibilities are as endless as the project.  The celibates of Fantasy Island begin to beg certain questions about other similar relationships, involving people of a familiar nature marooned on another island by an unfriendly body of water, watched over by a hippopotamus and a serial duck killer.  Yes, the string is finally organized, but not much else.  Every time optimism surfaces, a single sentence seems to drown it.

"I'll come by later with the $4 million and the tickets to New Zealand."  Checking to see if she's actually listening.

Jesse pauses on the line.  "No, not tonight.  I've gotta clean some tack."

Now you know.  Oh, the hippopotamus and the serial duck killer?  They're in the book.  Yeah, you have to buy it.  And no, that's pretty much the end of the catheter stories.  I might use it as a metaphor in a medical novel I'm working on.

Ever heard this speech...

[image: ajuell]

"He bought a stallion..."

Farm managers hate this sentence.  Life is so simple on the ol' farm without turning the place into one of those Motel 6's down by the airport.  Not that I've ever been down that way.  Still, horse sex is one of those things best viewed from a distance.  Ten-miles or more.  That's because when expensive horses are involved, tradition dictates that humans join in on the fun and to be honest, that's a few too many bodies thrashing around under the sheets for me.  By now, you've probably ascertained that our farm didn't specialize in expensive horses.  This was designed to keep our insurance premiums about on par with our egos.  But, we still had to keep up appearances and trust me, 'appearances' and 'ego' are not mutually inclusive.  Just watch the guy with the $10,000 hand-crafted Scottish golf clubs.  Yeah, they call that a 'hook.'

Then, there's the other problem.  The one in Chapter 12. (No real clues here.  You have to buy the book.  I got a truck payment due.)  See, about this point in the book, the farm manager begins stalking his future girlfriend.  She's already figured out that it's more about sex than marriage, so she's taken the usual precautions:  moved twice, changed her phone number three times...grew a beard.  But farm managers are an optimistic sort.  See, we work for people that see something positive even though they haven't won a race in nine years.  Kind of like stomach flu -- extremely contagious.  But sometimes cataclysm can be turned into opportunity.  So you phone the girl with a different kind of proposition:  

"Look, you only call this time of day when you want something."

"I called the other night."  That was the three-beer buzz call.  No, I don't share everything in this book.

"Right, and you wanted something else then."

"I just wanted to show you what I bought.  Come on."

"Three pairs of silk boxers at a quarter to midnight?"  She was working her way toward sarcasm.  Disgust was just around the corner.

"Well, they were on sale.  You told me I needed some new clothes."

"What'd you get me?  A wet T-shirt?"

Hadn't thought about that.  Maybe I should have been a little more subtle.  I guess the pair with the detachable ribbon and the printing about 'Guess what's Inside?' was a little too direct.  The sales woman assured me that they were the most popular.  She didn't explain why they were 75% off.  "Okay, okay.  Bad idea.  I was just thinking..."

"Don't.  What do you want?"     

"Well, er, might, maybe need some, well, I was wondering if..."

"God, now what?"  [Another case of...well, you've got to read the whole sorry story!]

"Doc bought a stallion."  That had the immediate impact of making me feel that my call had been re-routed to Pakistan.  "Hello?  Jesse, hello?"

"He bought a stallion?" 

I never knew that sarcasm was visceral.  "Yeah, that explains the boxer shorts.  They were for him."  Humor wasn't working.

"And let me guess, you want my help to breed his mares?"  I think I felt a little toothpaste in my left ear.

"Sure.  Doc says he's a cupcake.  Just need somebody to hold the mare.  Thought we'd see what he was like with Boo Boo tomorrow.  You know Boo, she likes everything."

"We?  As in you and me?  And the cupcake thing?  What's that about?  And Boo liking everything?  That's a cereal commercial, not a horse.  And what the hell is that noise?!"

"Just a little remodeling, no big deal."

"Look, I don't think so.  Let Doc...no...okay, maybe.  I'll stop by in the morning, but no promises.  Understand?"

"Sure, it'll be no big deal.  Bye."  Panic attacks are like hurricanes.  They have that moment of calm right before your house disappears.

I had some planning to do.  Elephant tranquilizer, I needed some elephant tranquilizer!  Maybe I could break one of his legs, stick an ice-pick in one ear, maybe drain out five or six gallons of blood.  What would James Bond do?  Nah, Jesse wouldn't go for that.  I snuck down to the barn to see what was going on.  He'd moved from ripping plywood apart to the studs. (Okay, that's another pun -- construction based.)  Doesn't he ever sleep?  I went out and caught Boo and threw her into the adjoining stall.  Figured the best way to appease a cannibal was to find him a meal.  Instead, he just cocked a hind leg and went to sleep.  Where's Freud when you need him?



Children of the storms...

From the Preface:

"I was born in 1951.  Cold War, Korea -- no cable TV.  Really, no TV at all unless you considered our neighbor down the street.  He had the the only one on the block and mostly it was like staring at a washing machine on spin cycle.  He'd fiddle with the rabbit ears for hours, never realizing that the attention span of an eight-year old boy is under ten seconds.  I guess if they'd had Ritalin in those days I might have caught a couple of good Westerns.  Instead, we'd wander down to the swamp (our favorite hang-out), and have a rock fight or something.

I lived in a north Seattle neighborhood called Ridgecrest.  It was a grimy, working-class suburb of another suburb.  The houses were all two-bedroom ramblers of no distinction.  Our house sat on a corner, with two intersecting streets that lacked a stop sign.  So every few days a couple of cars would make a bad assumption about the right-of-way law and end up all smashed to pieces in our side yard.  Sometimes it was a little gory, but a lot more entertaining than opening a Kool-Aid stand.

As neighborhoods go, it was probably okay for a kid that spent most of his free time in the woods or the big swamp.  A few blocks away we had an old movie theater that seemed to go broke a lot and an ice cream parlor that tolerated us on those frequent days when real customers were in short supply.  Probably the biggest event in those early days was the construction of Interstate 5 -- they ran it right through our swamp.  I'm sure we protested loudly -- mostly to each other, but nobody seemed to be listening anyway.  Looking back, it seemed that the only thing the neighborhood really needed was a higher divorce rate and maybe a few more stop signs.  Might have made the place a little less prone to a whole assortment of accidents and misunderstandings.

Most of the adult men on the block participated in the second big war -- World War II.  Those that didn't weren't likely to talk to those that did, and us kids always knew who was who by the tattoos.  Or by the loud voices, the smell of alcohol or the arrival of the police.  It didn't seem that anybody ever went to jail and that was probably because most of the cops had the same tattoos.  So like old war buddies seem to do, they'd just stand around outside next to the patrol car, drinking beer and smoking a lot of cigarettes.  I would just watch carefully through a crack in my bedroom curtains.  When you're scared, it's a good idea to keep your eye on the source of all the excitement.

In school, we had nuclear war drills.  They were a bit like earthquake drills, but much stupider.  It was like, "Right, crawling under my desk is going to stop an A-bomb."  Only later, alone with a friend or two, did we talk about getting killed in a nuclear war.  We'd seen dead animals on the road, but that seemed to be a different kind of dead.  Ours needed to be more like television.  When somebody died on television, it was always at the end of the show, or off-camera in another room.  And if it was re-run season, then they were alive again right after the commercial.  Death was always an assumption unless it was lying in the street.  Television made the whole thing seem pretty painless and a lot more appealing than the truth.

During the Cuban Missile Crisis, a bunch of us (we called ourselves the Rat Gang), crawled into a large sewer pipe near the swamp.  We figured we were toast.  Typically, we brought the necessary supplies:  model airplane collections, favorite yo-yo's, baseball mitts.  One kid brought his dog, but it ran off anyway.  I guess the dog hadn't read a newspaper lately.  We were well-trained:  don't look at the flash, get ready for the shock wave, figure out where you are in relation to the twelve-mile radius, that silly piece of geographical nonsense that was supposed to separate the annihilated from the merely deep-fried.  We sat in that pipe for over fifteen hours.  Finally, we got hungry and went home.  The world didn't end after all.  Too bad.  I had to go to the dentist the next day.  Khruschev or Novocain?  Tough call.  History is not always fair.  But I suppose somebody had to feed my dog.

I guess that's where it began.  A dog that needed feeding whether the world cared or not.  A world where parents espoused love but practiced something else, where political ideology, prejudice and personal agendas overwhelmed the gentle faith we held -- or tried to grasp in a world that had apparently lost its mind..."

 

From: "Mares, Foals & Ferraris"

Copyright, 2011  A. Allan Juell

All rights reserved, [image: AEC]

Shoein' for a Livin:' Part II of a Miserable Assignment

The Recession is Over, But Nothing Else has Really Changed:

[Anvil archives: anvilmag.com] Rob Edwards, publisher.

LAMPASAS, TEXAS: August 10, 2000 -  Just to bring you up to speed, I work for the San Francisco Business Review, a beat-up old rag that tried to make the best out of a rather extended recession under the Carter administration.  At that time, the publisher was scouring the country looking for anybody that wasn't collecting food stamps.  It seemed that farriers were virtually recession-proof, making all kinds of money when most people were eating Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.  That's how I ended up in Natchez, Mississippi, at the Three Fingers Motel, interviewing Harlan Ginder and his sociopathic sidekick, Emmet.  (He was the guy who collected human hair and ear wax. -- see ANVIL Magazine March 1995, "Shoein' for a Livin'  Part I.)

Well, the newspaper somehow survived.  In fact, we found our own little niche.  Mostly we quit writing about business (unless it was absurd or illegal), and instead focused on smut, pornography and personal smear campaigns.  Our advertising revenues increased three-fold, which meant we didn't have to pawn the computers again.  We were also able to renegotiate our bank loans once we got enough dirt on the board of directors.  Hell, we got it down to 1% annually with no late penalties and an option to defer the whole mess for ten years.  These bankers obviously had some pretty quirky habits since they'd sign-off on most any ludicrous idea we came up with.  Probably explains why I'm driving a BMW registered to some guy that's doing five-to-ten for selling junk bonds to people who never quite figured out why junk is called junk.

Anyway, my publisher, Eddie-Bob Edwards (cute name, huh?), a Texas ex-patriot himself, figured it was about time we got back to business news.  The real issue was that his oldest son had entered puberty at a dead run and was spending too much time with the pictorial section of the newspaper.  You know, those beaches in Brazil?  So he decided to send me to Texas to re-examine the horseshoeing business while the economy was still breathing.

Some things hadn't changed though:  economy class to Houston with a ten-hour layover in Pittsburgh.  They didn't name the place Pittsburgh because it was a scenic getaway.

7:15 AM:  I'm in the wrong town.  I'm supposed to be in Lampasas, Texas.

7:30 AM:  Still in the wrong town.

8:15 AM:  On a Greyhound bus heading west.  The temperature is 102 degrees; the driver says the air-conditioning is busted and the scenery looks like Mars on a bad day.  I think the woman next to me is in labor, but her English is a little rusty or nonexistent.  I hope it's not twins for god's sake!

1:30 PM:  The bus stops.  I've dozing with my mouth open, so I take a moment to spit out a few flies.  I'm not sure if the bus ran out of oil, the driver passed out, or if we just ran out of Texas, which didn't seem likely.  The woman next to me pointed out the window.  "Lampasas," she said.  Turned out it was twins, a boy and a girl -- Louisa and Antonio.  She thanked me for my help.  What help?  I was asleep.  I do think she broke water in my shoes though, and the diapers on the new arrivals bore an uncanny resemblance to my favorite Hawaiian shirt.  My shoes squeaked as I stumbled out of the bus into the brightest, brownest place I'd ever seen.

The glare of the sun almost knocked me down.  It was white-hot, like an A-bomb test that promised to last all day.  Sunglasses helped me to realize that four or five lizards and a hairy spider didn't constitute a town.  "Hey!" I yelled to the driver.  "I don't see Lampasas or anything else around here!"

He smiled a little wickedly.  "They didn't tell ya, huh?"  See, we don't go to Lampasas.  See that thar dirt road?  About seventeen miles due west.  Maybe ya can hitch a ride.  Adios!"  The door slammed shut, leaving me in the middle of nuclear summer.  Iced-tea sure sounded good.  Bad beer even better. 

3:35 PM:  Yeah, hitch a ride.  With who?  The Libyan Army?  I trudged along the dusty road, the lizards staring from the scrub along the shoulders of this no-account excuse for a thoroughfare.  I thought I saw them laughing.  Any minute, the vultures would start circling, drawing straws to see who would get to peck out my eyeballs.  In the distance, I saw a dust cloud racing toward me, an undulating mirage piercing the endless horizon.  Closer and closer it came, revealing a bright blue convertible, a massive chrome grill, an over sized straw hat, and a great bunch of blond hair waving in the wind.  The car's brakes screeched to a halt next to me; a whirlwind of dust coating my eyes and throat.

The air suddenly cleared like it does after a shell blast.  The blond was busy re-arranging her hair in the visor mirror.  A big guy in a white pearl-snap shirt and a cowboy hat was slowly moving his lips.

"You that journalist from San Francisco?" he drawled.

"Yeah.  Why didn't you tell me that the bus didn't..."

"Bus?  Hell man, I got my own airport just down the road.  Couple of Lears, a Cessna or two; shoot my cousin Floyd's got a damn 727, but that sucker just eats up the runway.  He's tryin' to con me into adding 5000 feet to it so's he can trade it in on somethin' bigger.  Crazy son of a bitch wants to buy a Concorde.  Can you imagine?  Hey, you look dry.  How about a beer?"

The blond opened a big cooler in the back seat and pulled out three icy Buds.  The cowboy hat handed me one and we all took a long draw.  His name was Hack Johnson, and from what I understood he was a thrice-removed cousin of LBJ and rather tight with the Hunt brothers up in Dallas.  He introduced the blond as "Misty," but she was still busy with the mirror.  "Hi y'all," she said to nobody in particular.

"Jump in," Hack offered, "and have another beer.  I'll take 'ya up to the ranch.  We'll have some steaks.  I got this Frenchy chef that can cook up a storm.  Finally got him trained Texas-style and got him to stop makin' them funny little vegetable things and arranging things on a plate like a damn Monopoly board!  Think he's a little light in the loafers myself!"  Hack slapped me the back.  "But you'd know fer sure, being from San Francisco and all."

"Hack, he's not a faggooo."  Misty was finally done with the mirror.

"That's faggot and quit tryin' to sound like a Hungarian countess.  Bad enough when he lolls that shit on.  And how the hell would you know?  Miss Chevrolet Pick-Up Truck of 1973?    Sure as hell ain't Buckin'ham Palace...hell, wasn't even even a good year for Chevrolet."

"Sounds great folks," I said.  Actually it did.  "Maybe we can talk about your business after dinner?"  Seemed like nobody was listening, then...

"He stares at my boobs all the time.  That's a pretty good indicator don't ya think?" Misty was feigning a kind of indignant pout.

Hack tossed the empty beer can out on to the road, twisted around in his seat toward me and kind of winked.  "Them boobs store-bought ya know.  Cost me $25 big ones.  Damn things are bigger than her brain most days, but this here is Texas.  Nothin' done small around here.  Now, what were you sayin' son?"

"Your business.  Maybe we could talk a little..."

"Oh, that.  Well, sure, I guess.  I don't know why you guys from California care about what I'm doin'.  I mean, I just play around at stuff and manage to make a few bucks.  Hell, it's no big deal.  What about them Silicon Valley guys you got out there?"

"A net worth of $16.5 billion dollars is kind of a big deal, especially when nobody can quite figure out where it came from."

"Well, shoot!  Is that what I'm worth?  I'll be gosh-darned!  Would've figured $14 tops  Somethin' musta happened.  That damn lawyer of mine never tells me nothin.'"

The blond broke in again.  "That reminds me, honey bunch.  I can't do anything with my hair.  I'm so depressed about it."

"Well, what about that Maurice guy up in Houston?  That swishy kind of guy that talks through his nose.  I thought you liked him?"

"Honey bundles, he's so expensive."

"Ah, hell.  Here, take a few thousand and give Pepper a call and tell him to flight-check the Lear.  Go shoppin,' it'll do 'ya some good.  And get me some of those chocolate-covered espresso beans when you're there.  I love those suckers!"

I cut into the conversation.  "Nice car."  Kind of lame, but maybe it was an ice-breaker.

"Ya like that, huh?  '69 Coupe de Ville.  It's like a flame-thrower on wheels.  Takes two of my oil wells to keep this thing in gas, but what the hell.  It's nothin' like those European cars that yabber at ya all the time."

About that moment a large jet roared overhead, too low for comfort.  Looked remarkably like a 727.

"Well, looky that!  Floyd must be comin' for dinner.  Sure hope he got those infernal brakes fixed.  Last time he rolled right through the fence and killed a couple of my best heifers.  Cheffy had a heck of a time figurin' out what was a steak and what was just a damn mess."

We pulled into a long driveway that snaked around some trees for a half-mile or more before we stopped at a large iron gate, topped by a set of longhorns with the head still attached.  Hack pressed a couple of buttons and while the gate swung open, a Texas state flag shot up the flag pole.  A few more turns and we entered a large courtyard, back-dropped by a house that would have looked better somewhere in France.

"Let's eat," Hack said enthusiastically, as we piled out of the Cadillac.  "I think we're havin' lobster ala something or other, but Cheffy always throws on a few rib-eyes just the same.  Personally, I think lobsters are nothin' but over sized toilet bugs, and God knows we got enough of them around here as it is!"

"Toilet bugs?"  No, I didn't really want to know.  Figured maybe I would need some local color, but that probably wasn't it.

"Hell, scorpions.  They come in for water and fall in the toilet.  Next thing ya know, your ass gets a wake-up call."

We traversed a long hallway, entering a dining room through two massive doors.  The kitchen was to the left; a large stainless steel barbecue billowing smoke up to a ceiling that seemed to be missing, along with the roof.  Hack noticed my visual inquiry.  "Yeah, I gotta fix that before winter.  Teachin' Cheffy there Texas-style cookin.'"  The dining room table looked to be about 18-feet long surrounded by an eclectic collection of chairs.  None of the good ones matched and the rest were cheap patio versions.  In the middle of the table sat a large silver punch bowl, filled with ice and at least a case of Bud.  Cheffy was scurrying back and forth between the table and the kitchen and there appeared to be a ladder next to the hole in the roof with a fire extinguisher perched on top of it.  The dining room walls were adorned with the heads of various dead animals, including at least six armadillos over the mantel of a fake fireplace.  Seemed the taxidermist had managed to adorn the whole collection with sort of wry smiles, like the joke was really on somebody else.  Floyd emerged through a side door.  He looked more like a Wall Street investment banker...until you panned down to his boots.  Yeah, more dead armadillos. 

"Well, how many head of my cattle ya kill this time?" Hack queried.

"We gotta talk," Floyd stated bluntly, pointing to a door that was obviously meant for privacy.  Hack looked irritated, but ushered Floyd into the room just the same.  I was stuck with Misty and Cheffy, both engrossed in either primping or cooking.  I grabbed a beer, twisted  off the cap and sank into an over-stuffed chair.  In the kitchen, a collection of lobsters went for their final swim.

9:30 PM:  Hack and Floyd emerged from their private sanctuary.  Hack was laughing, Floyd offered me a weak apology and explained that he had to get to Washington DC that very night and though he'd love to chat, etc., he had to 'git.'  A few minutes later, the 727 roared over the house.  It so rattled the building that one of the smiling armadillo heads fell off the mantel and rolled into another room.  Hack kind of watched it disappear from sight.  "You know, sometimes we take those heads to the bowling alley.  Boy it pisses off some folks."

10:15 PM:  Cheffy started piling platters on the table:  four-inch thick steaks, six lobsters, a big bowl of mashed potatoes, cowboy beans and a giant shrimp salad.  He also brought in some steamed artichokes and about 20 different sauces and dressings, two baskets of biscuits and about five-pounds of butter.  Cheffy brought me what looked like a pair of pull-offs and  Hack threw a four-pound lobster on my plate along with a claw hammer.  "Have at that sucker, son!"  The steak came with a knife that only Jim Bowie could love.

11:15 PM:  Out came the toothpicks and Jack Daniels.  The table was a pile of post-mortem debris:  dismembered crustaceans and steak bones.  Cheffy was asleep in a chair and Misty had disappeared, no doubt gassing up the jet.  "Tell me Hack," I started.  "I thought you started out as a horseshoer?"

"Oh that.  Well son, I've been a horseshoer for 25-years.  Still am, sort of.  Can't really remember how to do it, but that's why I've got the boys."

"The boys?"

"Yeah, ten of 'em...well, nine.  One, he sort of escaped."

"Escaped?"

"Yeah, well, they're on work-release from the state prison.  My cousin Earl is the Attorney General, lives in a big ol' place up in Austin.  He got me these guys -- robbers, a couple of murderers and what not, that kinda needed some parental guidance.  So we bring 'em up to the ranch and make horseshoers out of them.  Most of these boys work out pretty good, except Maylon, the guy that escaped.  He's what they call a 'predator-type.'  I guess he can't figure out how to ask a woman on a date without locking her in the trunk of his car.  I don't think he's gonna work out.  Never could figure out why he bought so damn much duct tape, until now."

"This doesn't sound quite legal."

"Well, hell no!  Call it kidnappin' I believe."

"Uh, no Hack, the other...hiring prisoners."

"Oh that.  Legal?  Heck son, this is Texas!  The only law around these parts is whatever yer checkbook can tolerate.  How do ya think I got that airport?  I own the zoning commission.  Have 'em over here once a month for a barbecue.  They love me -- I put some of their kids through college at A & M."

"Horseshoeing?"

"That was my lawyer's idea.  Ol' Dagget.  He said I had to have a 'real' business, somethin' the Feds would buy into.  Otherwise, they'd think I was a hot-shot Miami drug lord or somethin'.  Hell, I wouldn't know marijuana from loco weed."

"Well, what about the money?  I mean, you don't make a few billion shoeing horses."

"Well, couple of things.  First off, I list my occupation as 'farrier.'  Folks at the IRS don't know what the hell that means and are too lazy to look it up.  Second one's a little tricky.  My daddy never liked me much, so I left home and took up horseshoeing.  Figured he'd leave everything to my sister.  She ran off to some commune in the 70's and became a hippie.  You know, givin' out free love and stuff.  Next thing, she started votin' for Democrats.  so she was out and I was back in.  Kind of persona non somethin' I suppose.  The money originally came from my great-great grandfather who got all this land from a Mexican Count, way back when Mexico belonged to Spain.  It gets a little contagious here because he didn't exactly buy it, legal-like anyhow."

"Contagious?  You mean contentious."

  "Well, that too.  He kinda popped the Count with a chunk of lead in a disagreement over a horse, or maybe a woman...not sure which.  As luck would have it, about the same time, General Sam Houston decided to kick that little prick Santa Ana, and his boys the hell out of Texas...you know, the Alamo and all that stuff.  Well, the family ended up with 680,000 acres of land, a whole shit-load of cattle and close to 40,000 horses.  Then there was the oil, the deed to the whole town of Lampasas and all the water-rights for a hundred-square miles.  My Pappy added another 300,000 acres, a uranium mine, the hydro-electric project that sells electricity for all them swimmin' pools in California and a fat contract with the biggest meat packer in Chicago.  Those 'billions and billions' McDonalds keeps harpin' on?  Yep.  The whole thing just keeps multiplying."

"My publisher mentioned the Hunt brothers."

"You mean Bunky, and all that silver nonsense in the 1980's?  That was nothin.'  Bunky had this bet goin' with John Wayne on who could collect the most of something.  Bunky picked silver.  Wayne went for friends.  Cost Bunky a bundle.  I never laughed so hard in my life.  And those damn idiots in Congress never did figure out that it was a big joke."

"When was the last time you actually shod a horse?"

"Well, let's see.  I think it was around 1987.  Reagan came down to the ranch to ride his horse, some gift from a King or somethin'...his horse was a little long in the toe.  The boys were gone, so Ron and I put some iron on him.  Took all damn mornin' and Reagan was pissin' sweat, but never gave up."

"Reagan was here?" I exclaimed, somewhat incredulously.  

"Sure.  A lot of Republicans wander in.  I even had Clinton down once 'cause he can sling bull better than any Texan.  Had to hide all the women though."  Hack laughed.  "The man can lie to 200,000,000 people and his ratings go up.  Ya gotta love the guy!  Worst part was figurin' out what to do with all those Secret Service guys.  Couldn't even take a leak without somebody inspecting the toilet."

"Look Hack, I gotta have something to write about.  Next thing you're going to tell me is Jimmy Hoffa's buried out back."

"Tell ya what.  Let's not talk about Jimmy.  I'll give ya a bigger story instead, since you're all wound up in horses.  You know that Count I talked about?  Well, like I said, he had about 40,000 horses.  My pappy just turned 'em all loose...studs, mares...everything.  We still do.  I don't know a pedigree from a poodle, so we just let 'em breed and then sell off the youngsters to most anybody with $500.  We produce about 150,000 young-uns' a year.  We sort of invented the Grade Horse.  It's a mixed-up cross that keeps 4-H goin' strong all over the west.  The thing is, nobody knows where these mongrels come from.  Well, guess what?  Hack Johnson owns the biggest unregistered registry in the United States, and the funny part is that it's startin' to catch on in Europe.  A Warmblood?  That's one of our franchises.  I sort of invented those big stupid things and if you give 'em a foreign name, they sell like hotcakes!"

"I think I've got a headache."  I felt dizzy.

"Ah, that's just the heat and the Jack Daniels, partner.  They got your suite ready upstairs.  Come down about 8:00.  Cheffy's gonna make eggs Benedict or some such thing...bunch of cheese on a pooched egg or something.  I'll make sure he throws a couple of steaks on.  If you like, you can hitch a ride to Houston with Misty.  I just hope Pepper isn't hung over again.  Last time...well, you don't want to know about that." 

Adios from Lampasas....