A Little Common Sense about Heat.

This is long but please read it to the end. It’s getting to be summer and looks like a hot one. Why did I bother to write this. Cause you are my friends or at least friendly acquaintances and I want to get Christmas cards from you.
I’m a born and bred 6th generation Texican, 64 years old. In the AF I was in Korea and froze my ass off. In Saudi Arabia I was happy with the 135 degrees. Of course, I wasn’t humping a 60 lb pack either, but I could do everything I was supposed to.

 

The point of my story? You have to be very careful in high heat. Stay hydrated, wear protection of sunscreen, long sleeves and a hat with a brim that’s not touching the top of your head. And stay out of the sun in midday. Siesta is a way of life to us old timers. It’s not a cute custom, its necessary. Did I say drink lots of Water! Coke, beer and coffee don’t do it. Remember, once you get Heat Exhaustion its like malaria, it never quite goes away and you have to be extra careful. My German farmer ancestors would get up at daybreak, do whatever needed to be done, come in at noon, eat a good meal of protein, carbs and veggies, then take a long nap. Then they’d work in the house or barn until 4 PM or so and go out to work to dark. No A/C at all cause it didn’t exist back then.
As a 911 operator I saw two heat-related deaths. Both AF guys in great condition. A pilot and a high ranking officer. Both went out in the midday heat wearing skimpy clothes and ran for exercise. The pilot was literally found in a ditch, no ID so it took fingerprints to tell us who he was. The other gent was running around perimeter road. But they knew him cause of who he was. But his rank didn’t save him.
So, here’s the third tip. When you do decide it’s safe to run, at the very least carry your identification and a list of your medications. That way if they do find you alive its easier to help you.

 

And last but not least, if you run at night, please run in a well-lit area, and wear reflective clothing (or at least white). I was driving out to our old barn along a dark road, no lights whatsoever. All I saw was little flashy things close to the ground but I pulled over as to not hit the bunny. As I passed by I saw it was a young lady in a dark sweat suit running beside the road and in a large grassy field. I went on out to do the horse thing and noticed a very large tractor mowing the grass. This Scared me stupid. On the way back, I passed the gal again. This time I stopped and made her get in the car and took her back to her car. Why? She was running in the dark in a place that had rattlesnakes, coyotes and stray dog packs. But what really scared me was if she had fallen, been bitten by one of the above or passed out, that big ole tractor would not have seen her. She would have been found by someone in the morning all shredded. I still get the shivers.

 
So, here you go. Please, please think of the worst thing possible and move to prevent it. I’m not that smart, but my grandparents and their parents taught me some common sense and self-preservation. I can only hope this tirade of mine might, just maybe prevent some unnecessary injuries or save a life.
I’m through now. Thanks.


A Lady Walks Into A Bar

Rated G, friendship. DC Cinematic Universe.

The bar was dimly lit, the old mahogany wood showing signs of wear with scuffs along the walls and benches. A man sat alone in a booth, nursing a Guiness beer. His blond hair was cut short, his face a pattern of age lines and scars, his clothes those of a working man.

The elegantly dressed woman entered the bar softly, so as to not disturb the ambiance. She approached the bar and slid onto one of the high, vinyl covered stools. The barman took her order. “Red wine, please.”

As she waited for her drink, she looked around the room. There she saw the subject of her search. When she received her wine, she dismounted her seat and eased over to him as if not to startle the man away.

“Good evening, my friend,” She slid in opposite him, depositing her Gucci purse on the hard wooden bench.

“Good evening, Diana,” He nodded with a sad smile. His voice rough from ages of shouted commands.

“And how shall I call you?” she nodded encouragingly. “Khufu, or Carter?”

“Carter for now,” he lifted his empty mug at the waitress who nodded. He put it with a collection already on the table. The young woman came with another beer and a second glass of wine.

“Do you know why I sought you out?”

He shook his head and took a drink. “No, but I can imagine. Another foe to conquer, another enemy at the gate. Sorry, not interested.”

“I’m working with the Batman for now. There is something big coming.”

“Haven’t you learned that working with mortals will break your heart.” He sat the mug down and drew circles in the water rings with a calloused finger. “Making friends, then losing them, is so sad.”

She looked at him with a little smile. “Neither of us is immortal. You more than I know it.”

“But we are both old.” he drew a symbol on the table. “You are hundreds of years old. Me, thousands.”

“I can die by a weapon if I’m not careful.” she said.

“And I will.” He looked at her with his present blue eyes. “Shy’era is already dead. She is calling to me. You know I cannot refuse the curse.”

“Can you not resist it for a little while?”

“No, the time is too close. I would go, and by dying, break your concentration.” he sighed and drained the mug again. “Perhaps in our next incarnations, my wife and I can be of help. But now, I am only tired. My very bones ache. The wings grow heavy and the mace difficult to control.”

Diana looked at her old friend and saw his depression. She was saddened by it.

“Bruce and Arthur will certainly help,” he said. “I don’t know of the others but I’m sure you will prevail…with Clark.”

“Clark is dead.”

“Not so much I think,” He shifted his weight and climbed out of the booth dropping a hundred and a fifty on the table.

She stood up gracefully and faced him. “So you are now a Priest of Apollo with portents for me?”

“Always follow the sun, daughter of Themyscira. Never look to the shadows.”

“I will see you again, my friend.”

“I hope so. But, in the casting of the bones of chance one never knows where he may find himself.”

She reached out to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I pray you find her quickly.”

“May the gods hear your words.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Farewell, daughter of Amazons. Fight well.”

The man turned and walked out of the bar.

The waitress came to collect the glassware and the money. She looked in dismay at the large denominations. “I can’t take these. We don’t take anything bigger than twenties.”

Diana looked at her. “The money is good. Enjoy your tip.”

The girl looked at her doubtfully. “I don’t know. Do you think he’ll be back?”

“No, child.” the woman shook her head as she picked up her purse. “Not in this lifetime.”She gave a sad smile and left the dark room for the sun.

 


What you can do to help prevent Horse Slaughter

Info Dump from Me.  It’s heartbreaking in many ways but scary in others. Some horses are lucky. They live a good life, get retired and loved until they die of natural causes or are humanely euthanized.
Some lead a good life, then are sold off into Hell. Loaded in a cramped trailer, no food or water, driven hundreds of miles then butchered, often inhumanely with knives or clubs.
So who goes to Horse Hell? Surely not anyone I know. Yes, you do. From the parks, the race tracks and the television. In fact ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND American Horses go to slaughter for human consumption in Europe and Asia.
DRAFT HORSES (Belgiums, Clydesdales, Shires, etc.) go to slaughter quite freqently, but so do other types and breeds.  The big horses are ‘preferred’ by Asians and are shipped to Japan to be sold as sushi.
In fact a Budweiser Clydesdale was rescued from a kill pen. It wasn’t Buds fault. The older horse had been placed in a ‘safe home’ but due to circumstances was rehomed twice and then sold at auction. His old trainer stepped up and helped with his rescue.
But most have no such luck. They are work horses and their owners get rid of them when they are too old to work. The AMERICAN MORGAN horse also falls in this catagory because of its popularity as a carriage/ buggy horse. You know, the one you rode in his buggy and fed him carrots. Yeah, that horse.
Did you know that the AMERICAN QUARTER HORSE ASSOCIATION is so interested to breeding their wonder horses to get registry money that on average SEVENTY THOUSAND of their breed, many with papers, go through the Slaughter pipeline to Mexico or Canada either to be killed for human consumption in Europe or Asia?
The AMERICAN THOROUGHBRED Race Horse and STANDARDBREDS are also sold into the Slaughter business when they break down or just don’t perform and win money. Many fantastic beautifly horses are shipped to be eaten by people. They are the next most likely to suffer this inhumane fate.
And the American Mustang, Icon of the freedom of the west, is also vunerable. Initially, the horses that HAD to be removed from their historic homelands according to the Bureau Of Land Management, were held for adoptions. You could buy a wild horse for one hundred and twenty five dollars. Then after a year, you received title to that horse. Then you could sell him to whoever you wanted to. Some of them also go to the slaughter houses.
Now, thanks to the poor management of the BLM, there are over 40,000 wild AMERICAN WILD MUSTANGS in holding pens. There is a new motion in the upper echelons of our government to sell the ‘unadopables’ to slaughter to get rid of them. I’m not blaming the new people in Washington, but the old school who allowed this program to run rampant. They allowed the taking too many horses off their range to lease their homes to Cattlemen, oil men and other companies that want the land for their own benefit. Business wise it may appear like a good idea, but is that good idea worth the American Icon’s disappearance from our country? Surely, we can do better than to murder a vast number of animals  (think Ten Thousand innocent wild horses) that have been living in horse jail for years.
There are many more tragedies committed on purpose, but I would also like to mention horses that are STOLEN from their home pastures. They could be a child’s horse, a therapy horse that is being used to rehabilitate, a show horse walked right off the show’s property or even your pet horse from your barn. These don’t even see another place until they are purchased by a kill buyer and loaded on a huge trailer that is crammed full of horses suffering the fate of the damned.
I want to mention # 11 to these ten ways.  If you are against horse slaughter then call and write your Governor, your Representative, your Senator and your President and express your disapproval for their plans to support horse slaughter. Look up the Safeguard American Food Exports (SAFE) Act.

The Safeguard American Food Exports (SAFE) Act would prohibit the slaughter of horses in the United States for human consumption, as well as the export of live horses for the same purpose.

“The permissive allowance of such horsemeat used for human consumption poses a serious public health risk.”1

If I haven’t lost you yet remember the restaurant that made the news last month for selling horse meat in a major city.  Yes, its illegal here now, but the move is on the way to change that.
Anyway, here’s the original blog from Draft Horse Rescue Resource.
And for more info, join the the american-canadian horse warrior forum on Facebook. Lots more info.
10 Things YOU Can Do To Help Stop Slaughter

Our Princess.

I am very sad. A true Princess has left us. As the child of Eddy Fisher and Debby Reynolds , Carrie Fisher was as close to American Royalty as it comes. She was a girl who made mistakes in her loves and her life, but she was a talented woman who gave us the Galaxy far far away as a strong, vivacious person.

You were one of my heroes, not because you were perfect, but because you accepted your imperfections, fought them and won the battle at the end. Your books took us on a journey of your other talents.  You succeeded in places where many of your peers had failed.You fell into a vortex but then you emerged stronger and an example to many people who loved you.

Rest In Peace, General. May the Force accept you and grow stronger with your presence. You will be missed on our Planet.


Holidays

Holidays are certainly interesting.  You hear from and are visited by your family and you need to be able to deal happily and quietly with them. And this year my family had to look past who was missing in the celebration.

But I am by nature a bit of a loner.  I’m happier at home with my dogs, than going out to visit.

I think we are all this way just a bit.  And unfortunately the one person who was the central cog/linchpin for us was my Mother.  I say that sadly because she left us a year and a half ago.  She knew all our foibles, our preferences and our dislikes.  She knew what to say when we ran to her with skinned knees as children or money problems as adults.

My dad has never been one of those touchy-feeley sorts.  He grew up in the 30s and 40s when men were too busy making money for the family to really be a part of the family. It was always up to the wives to pull everything together and keep the cookies baking and the meat roasting.  And his career in the Air Force kept our Dad often away for a day, a week and sometimes even a year’s deployment.It was her wisdom and determination that held us together. So even now, there is an unmistakable hole in the center of the family when we get together proving once again that though the husband may be the head of the family, the wife and mother are the heart.

So, if you’re one of the lucky ones who, on a holiday trip home, walk into a bright, warm kitchen filled with love, laughter and the wonderful smells of turkey, ham or delivered Chinese Food give that woman (or man for that matter) a big hug,  a loudy smacky kiss and spin them around while laughing together.  Because a house without a wife is only a building with a lonely husband inside.

 

 

 


My Ghost Story

One of my fellow bloggers challenged for a scary story, ghost story or something.  This is one that is true, but not scary so I’m not sure it suits.  But, none the less, here she be.

When I was a little girl, I lived with my grandparents out. My Grandfather grew up in Louisiana and later in life he and my Grandmother had moved to the outskirts of a small town in Texas. Cibolo creek ran through the town and wended its way past their rural home.

One evening, my Grandma had gone into the town for some reason. Grandpa, stuck at home with me, a 6 year old child, didn’t really know how to entertain me. So, for some reason, he decided that we should go frog gigging and cook the bullfrogs that ‘we’ caught over the grill pit.

At almost dark, he took his 10 ft aluminum boat down to the creek and put it in the water. My job was to hold the large flash light and point it in the water. The light would reflect off the frog’s eyes and he would hit them with his home made trident spear. We were out for about an hour and wanted a few more for the grill when it began to get really dark in the overgrown creek

I was flashing the light around the shore like I’d been told, when another light attracted me with its luminosity. I, of course, looked away from my chore and saw a man standing on the bank. He appeared to be glowing dimly against the trees and brush.

The man looked a little older than my uncle who was then 21. He was very pale, with dark hair and large black holes for eyes. He was wearing a raggedy gray ‘suit’ and he had a bloody rag tied around his head. He looked at us out in the boat and raised a hand like he was waving.

I turned around to tell Grandpa to look at the man on the bank. He did turn around but the man was gone. I tried to describe the clothing, but Grandpa never said anything to me about it. He just said we had to go home before Grandma got there. So we paddled and poled home and were cooking frogs over the fire when she got there.

Needless to say she was mad at him for taking me out like that. Later I tried to tell her about the man but she never did believe me. One day at my Great grandma’s house, I told her about him. She got real quiet then told me he was probably a poor soldier from a war who was trying to get home when he died at the creek. I’ve thought about it through the years, and she was a woman who was noted for having ‘the sight’ and she was probably right. Our home was right outside San Antonio, and lots of men had come through the area going to and coming from battles. As I remember the clothing/uniform, he might have been one of Hood’s Texas boys coming back from the War for Southern Independence. He might have been asking for help, or even saying goodbye.

I have seen a few other things, so I may have a touch of the gift, but nothing has ever affected me like that. I wasn’t scared, just terribly sad for him to have died so far away from his home. I don’t remember what day it was, but it was in fall as I was in school at the time, so it may have been in October but not Halloween.


Rats and Jacks in the house.

I write a great deal about dogs.  They usually hanging around in both my fan fiction and in my novels.  I have even been known to write poems and articles about dogs.  They color my view of the world and society. So when you find one in my writing, don’t be surprised.

I determined that for you to understand where my characters come from, you should know a little about me and my dogs.  You can skip this and catch up later, but if you hear barking in the background, look for a wagging tail to show up.

A few days ago, I wrote about my Pits.  They were precious dogs, rare and irreplaceable, but I know wherein my heart lives.

The picture here is myself in childhood with our Rat Terriers.  The two in my arms are Sissy (prick eared) and Spotty (tip-eared). The one next to us is Tiger, these are all offspring from Mitsey, the one in the back from different litters.  These were dogs of my childhood, my companions in exploration and my guardians in my follys.  Tiger was mortally injured by a car, Spot died of a heart attack, but Mitsey lived for about 18 years and Sissy well into her 20s.

When my husband took work as a fishing guide on Falcon Lake after his retirement from the USAF, I determined I needed a dog. We had previously decided that we wanted a long-lived breed, either a terrier or a dachshund. Well he was not there and I was so when I found a Jack Russell Terrier at a flea market I immediately brought her home.  Her great and enthusiastic speed earned her the name Racer or Race.  She was my darling and protector while hubby was gone.  When I suffered a broken ankle she protected me from Pizza delivery men, postmen, my mother and mice.

Race also took on an orphan Pit Bull puppy to raise as her own.  She loved that baby beyond all expectation.  As a humorous none, one of the neighbors complained that my ‘vicious’ Pit Bull would kill my cute little white dog.  Later, she apologized when she evidently saw Race ‘savagely attacking’ my other dog.  Of course, no blood was ever spilt so when i explained their relationship the lady was more comfortable when she heard the play. In fact, the only blood let on the ground was that of possums, snakes, squirrels, some feral cats and unfortunately a 5 foot king snake.

When Bonny died unexpectedly, Race had a nervous breakdown and a possible stroke.  We tried to get another terrier puppy but I swear I couldn’t find one.  Finally, I heard of a wonderful organization called Russell Rescue.  http://www.russellrescue.com/   Two very nice ladies, sisters Sandra and Robyn, are the heart and soul of this organization.  I was advised to get a male and an adult who wouldn’t bother Race too much but would be company to her.  So we got Abbott.

Little Abbott is an interesting dog.  He was very respectful of the aging lady Race.  She was only 13 but she had never recovered from the loss of Bonny.  Mostly blind now, she didn’t really like him, but she accepted him and he was more or less her seeing eye dog.  But they were very different. She’d been raised by us from a puppy. Abbott was 2 or 3 years old already and had suffered abuse at the hands of a man. It took he and my husband a while to declare a truce, but they did, and finally became fast friends.

The best way I can describe the two dogs relationship came about from the final squirrel hunt.I was lucky enough to witness it from the kitchen window so I assure you it is true.  Since Race had gone blind, she didn’t hunt the squirrels any more.  Abbott didn’t really know how.  He could handle mice but not squirrels who were almost as big as him.  Well, one day a huge male squirrel came to earth and was generally ignoring my two terriers who were asleep on the porch. Abbott saw him took a run at him and somehow actually managed to grab the squirrel by the tail.  The squirrel, outraged, turned on him and bit Abbott on the foot, causing him to squeal.  Before I could get to the door, Race leaped up from her chaise lounge and ran towards the combatants.  She couldn’t see the squirrel, but I guess she could see the white form of Abbott.  By the time I got outside, Race had shown Abbott how it is done.  The huge squirrel was at least a foot and a half long with tail and was fighting so never saw her coming.  Race grabbed it and slung it in true terrier style. Then she carried it around the yard, proud of her success and basking in her glory. I took Abbott inside to give him first aide for the bitten paw.  Then I took a hot dog out to trade Race for the squirrel.

Race made it to 15 years.  A decent enough age, but far short of what we had hoped for her. I know the difficulty she had with Bonny’s loss cost her several years.  She suffered a grand mal seizure and we let her go while holding her in our arms. I brought her home and buried her in the back, with Abbott in attendance. When I put the stone down on her grave, he lifted his leg on it.  No one would bother her sleep, by his signature and pledge.

end of part 1.  to be continued.