Quite unusual for the south in late August, -is to have such cool, damp mornings. The temperature at the start of day reminds one that autumn is very near and yet a 50 degree morning of dampened grass and glistening dew as the sun rises is a little more indicative of late September rather than the present month. I walk the Yorkies out after their night's sleep and I can see the surprise (nearly alarm) on their faces as each little paw first presses into the cold, moist Kentucky Blue. I've made the mistake of slipping on what I call 'boat shoes' (little, white, flat, slip-on sneakers actually) and found myself as chilled and foot-soaked as the dogs as we've each made our way along the side patio and garden area of the farm. It is darn near 'cold' on these mornings as one turns and watches the amber-orb of the sun making it's slow ascent behind and then above the west-ward tree tops across the dirt road. One can feel the warmth on both neck and shoulders as the sun finally rises into view and takes steady command of the early day. The little dogs are sopped from side and tail to paw pad. Their faces are a matted tangle of wetness as well as they look up at me from the end of a red or blue colored leash. I continue my ritual of stopping before the 'waning' vegetable garden plots and plucking from a particular plant either a ripened 'cherry' size tomato or a dangling bright, green string bean from the poled variety. I taste both a crunchy, fresh bean and then the succulent, juicy meat of a small tomato. The dogs turn and bark reminding me that breakfast is waiting indoors and so we begin our tethered parade back to the house. So, explains a daily sunrise act of sleepy man and dog. It is the country. It is Missouri.
Later that morning after having fed and watered the llamas and my horse I begin the job of clearing out a north-west corner of the barn. It was an old stable area I had used for the sheltering of my large, male llama 'Little Boy' who passed away this last 4th of July. I had always referred to it as the 'Llama Condo'. I have a printed and framed photograph of 'Little Boy' on the barn wall near to his favorite entrance and bedding area. It is my idea now to turn this area (after moving a wooden rail or two) into a storage area for my John Deere lawn mower, cart, tools, and other garden implements. I go about the task of this all until finding the heat of the late morning a little too much. I'd managed to take down a small cement wall, remove a 100 year old barn wood ceiling within, and to back my riding mower into the shelter of the newly created space. It all seems as though it is all going to work very well. It is then I decide to pull from my nearby cooler a cold beer. I lean against the wood rail of the corral fences. My horse ( My Missouri Fox trotter mare 'Molly-Girl'- sorrel in color) has come up behind me as I slug from the can of Coors Light and nudges me in the back of the neck and head. I am taken a little by surprise and my shoulders stoop and I trip forward somewhat. I quickly turn. "You silly girl, you... you big, silly girl." I've said it with a wry smile on my face and then I lift the can up and finish off the rest of the liquid. 'Let's get your halter and lead-rope Molly-Girl, I say aloud to her. I know my horse is gentle and wanting nothing more in this world than a constant stream of attention. So, I make my way into the far end of the barn and retrieve from another storage area (feed bins, feed bags and tools) her partial tack. I return to her and slip on her halter. She stands and bows her head to comply. She just 'lives' for moments like these I can tell. Then, after snapping on the lead rope and bringing it around to her brass-hook-up on the other side of the halter and securing it in a knot so as to create a sort of make-shift reins, I step to the nearby rail and boosting myself up, and taking hold of her mane for a quick moment as a handle to pull with, I sling myself upright onto her for a ride.
Later that morning after having fed and watered the llamas and my horse I begin the job of clearing out a north-west corner of the barn. It was an old stable area I had used for the sheltering of my large, male llama 'Little Boy' who passed away this last 4th of July. I had always referred to it as the 'Llama Condo'. I have a printed and framed photograph of 'Little Boy' on the barn wall near to his favorite entrance and bedding area. It is my idea now to turn this area (after moving a wooden rail or two) into a storage area for my John Deere lawn mower, cart, tools, and other garden implements. I go about the task of this all until finding the heat of the late morning a little too much. I'd managed to take down a small cement wall, remove a 100 year old barn wood ceiling within, and to back my riding mower into the shelter of the newly created space. It all seems as though it is all going to work very well. It is then I decide to pull from my nearby cooler a cold beer. I lean against the wood rail of the corral fences. My horse ( My Missouri Fox trotter mare 'Molly-Girl'- sorrel in color) has come up behind me as I slug from the can of Coors Light and nudges me in the back of the neck and head. I am taken a little by surprise and my shoulders stoop and I trip forward somewhat. I quickly turn. "You silly girl, you... you big, silly girl." I've said it with a wry smile on my face and then I lift the can up and finish off the rest of the liquid. 'Let's get your halter and lead-rope Molly-Girl, I say aloud to her. I know my horse is gentle and wanting nothing more in this world than a constant stream of attention. So, I make my way into the far end of the barn and retrieve from another storage area (feed bins, feed bags and tools) her partial tack. I return to her and slip on her halter. She stands and bows her head to comply. She just 'lives' for moments like these I can tell. Then, after snapping on the lead rope and bringing it around to her brass-hook-up on the other side of the halter and securing it in a knot so as to create a sort of make-shift reins, I step to the nearby rail and boosting myself up, and taking hold of her mane for a quick moment as a handle to pull with, I sling myself upright onto her for a ride.
Molly is off in a gentle 'gait'. We both move on past the opened steel gates and posts and head out towards the creek, I have lately taken to calling 'Cassidy Creek' after my Pyrenees Mountain dog. (I'm just like that, is all) So Molly-Girl and I go for a pleasant ride over and across the creek's waters. We ride along where the rocks and scrub brush begin until we've made our way to the flat of the 'south-pasture' and the green grasses. Her wonderful red-brown silky mane sprays in the slight breeze. The sun feels glorious. I have never owned a horse before and this is always kind of a new experience for me each and every time I ride Molly and take part in all of the 'careful' adventure of it. I am told that she is a 'gaited-horse' (not a Quarter horse at all) and that she is a cross between being a 'Pasa Fino' and 'Missouri Fox trotter' gait of a horse in nature and style. Well that is another novel for a 'horseman' and 'horsewomen' to read. I only know the simple thrill of riding her and the good feeling it is to have her and to take care of her. Life is good this cooler than normal August for the geography of south-central Missouri. Yes, life is good. 'And hey, Molly! Giddy up girl! Giddy it up... we've got all day long to get there and nowhere to go, oh, yea... "
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