God gave Noah the Rainbow Sign,
No more water but the fire next time!
Really? Just another broken promise from the Man in White. We can’t find the Off switch down here in Central Florida. You might as well live in Seattle. Or New England. Or London. We’re still a little better off than the folks around Cherrapunji (India), though, and the natives of Hawaii’s Mount Walaleale, where it rains between 330 and 360 days a year, piling up 450 inches. Don Ho never told us about that one.Still, enough is enough. I don’t know what Mr. Weatherman says but if you ask me this is the most rain we’ve had in any Summer since I’ve been here. We used to get these hour-long thunderstorms every day and that was fine. Rain from three to four o’clock, sun comes out, everybody’s happy. Now it rains morning, noon and even night. The horses are getting decidedly pruney. The paddocks are filling up with water. Pretty soon we’ll need an ark for the pasture animals. Usually, I mow the paddocks every Sunday during the Summer. Go ahead and try that now, Bill. I took the old Kubota out in the south paddock two weeks ago (after an actual dry day) and tried to mow the areas where no water was visible. Guess what? When the weight of the tractor pressed into the mire, the water got visible. I was lucky to get out alive.
The horses can hide out either in stalls, a shedrow or under dense trees, depending where they’re stationed. The little goat tribe Siobhan has assembled hasn’t been so lucky. Their only refuge has been large palm fronds and you know how fickle palm fronds are in a downpour. They’re worse than those female cops in Rookie Blue. Siobhan decided the goats needed a fancy shelter so we built one. It looks like a quonset hut with a tarp roof. If this doesn’t sound too exotic to you, talk to the goats. They immediately took occupancy, got out their harmonicas and started belting out “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Good thing. There’s nothing worse than a disgruntled goat. Oh, and by the way, Siobhan reports that TWO of the goats are pregnant and will be depositing baby goats on our doorstep any old time. Is she kidding? No, that would be the goats.
I guess we Floridians should be grateful we’re not in Colorado, where our pals of August are getting steamrolled by raging floods. On the way to Estes Park, we passed through the tiny town of Lyons, which has been almost completely wiped out. Estes Park, itself, is no bargain but still extant. After days of “all circuits are busy,” we finally got through to Mike Morris at the Stonebrook Resort, where we stayed. Remember that photo of the bridge in our backyard? WHOOSH! Gone. Washed away by the rampaging rapids, ne’er to be seen again. Mike says he was lucky, no horrible damage. The commercial area of Estes Park, sandbagged to the hilt, came through the ordeal relatively intact. The major roads through the town, Rtes. 34 and 36, not so much. Mike says there are miles of each in dire need of repair, hopefully before the Winter snows begin to encroach and make road building impossible. Route 34, also known as Trail Ridge Road, is the only road through Rocky Mountain National Park. BIG detour necessary if they can’t get that job done. Anyway, the townspeople are bonding together, inspired to be present for the virtual historical recreation of their little piece of paradise. They’ll accomplish it, too. We spoke in an earlier column about the amity, the friendliness, of the people we met in Colorado. Turns out nice people can be tough, too, when the need arises. Hang in there, Estes Park. Spring is only six months away.
It’s That Time Again
One of the less pleasant aspects of raising horses is the inevitable Weaning Day, where the poor little foals are ripped from the bosoms of their adoring mothers and forced to make it on their own. Or, in our case, with the aid of our 30-year-old gelding, Shamu, nanny extraordinaire, who calms the waters, soothes jangled nerves and gives the little critters an authority figure to follow. This year, we sent the mares, Dot and Wanda, a few miles down the road to a place called Spirit Praise Farm (hey, we didn’t make up the name), where they will vacation for a month and try to abstain from any sort of religious conversions subtly forced upon them. After a month on their own, the weanlings, Norm and Serena, will be quite full of themselves and their new freedoms and no longer eager to be under the maternal thumb. This is sort of like the post-highschool era for horses, where they get to be independent, travel about Europe and figure out what they wish to do with their lives. When Dot and Wanda return in thirty days to a paddock of their own, nobody will make a big fuss about it. This is the theory anyway. Fortunately, so far all is going well. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, Shamu—who was a stakes-winner, after all—will regale Norm and Serena with exciting tales of the racetrack, priming them for a new life of training twelve months hence. Some youngsters, of course, will opt for divergent careers in advertising or waste removal and these choices must also be honored, though not without a certain degree of sadness. It’s a complex business, this raising of equines, the future ever unknowable. Sometimes, your child comes back a wealthy man, covered with blue ribbons. Other times, she comes back married to Archie Bunker. The wheel spins, and with it the fates of us all. God help us. It would be about time.
Meet The New Boss; Not The Same As The Old Boss
Bon Voyage, Geraldine
When we were talking to our ex-neighbor, Ward Theisen, a short while back, he speculated that his wife of 60 years, Geraldine, would be joining him soon enough in The Land Beyond The Clouds. Call him prescient if you want but certain advantages fall to citizens of Pearlyland (“Those gates look more like abalone to me,” says Ward, who should know) when it comes to knowledge of the future. Anyway, sure enough, Geraldine went and bought the farm the other day, the better to get up there and rein in the old man, who is capable of all sorts of outrageous behavior. She almost made it to 87, one-upping Ward by a couple years, a fact of which she will no doubt remind him during one of his cocky moments, of which there is no dearth. It’s always sad to see the old soldiers fall but probably not so much for the old soldiers, themselves, who have grown tired, infirm and weary of it all. To them, Death is a little bit like grabbing that gold ring on a childhood merry-go-round. Enough, already. So see you later, Gerry, give the old man a slap upside the head for us. And send a picture of it when you can.
A Star Is Born. Possibly.
Last Saturday afternoon at Florida Field, things were taking on the shape of Ugly for the mighty Gators. Starting quarterback, Jeff Driskel, threw an early interception to a Tennessee defender, who ran it all the way to the endzone, giving the Vols an early 7-0 lead. Not only that, but Driskel remained lying on the field, the victim of a fractured fibula. Oh-oh. The days when college football teams were blessed with legions of quarterbacks is long gone, modern players—like the rest of society—wishing to have Instant Gratification. Last year’s backup, Jacoby Brisset, had departed for rosier climes (he hopes) and the current Number Two is a kid named Tyler Murphy, who has been around for three years and has previously performed nothing more than mop-up duty in winning routs. Murphy, however, is an anachronism. He likes it here and decided to stay, whatever his fate, dark as it may appear. The chances that he would ever play were slim, demanding a miracle or a tragedy or a little of each. It’s tough to hang around for three years with little hope of combat. Murphy said he had thought about it, the possibility of never playing. He even thought of moving on once, but his father talked him out of it. The crowd was apprehensive, behind seven and with an untried rookie at the helm. The powerful UF defense nabbed a quick turnover, however, presenting the Gators with an opportunity at the five-yard-line. This was soon mismanaged into a meager field-goal and the crowd moaned.
As the game wore on, however, Murphy grew more comfortable. With the score at 7-3, Murphy threw a simple sideline pass to a very fast receiver named Solomon Patton, who grabbed the ball, slickly evaded a couple of potential tacklers and made off down the sideline all the way to a score. Florida 10, Vols 7. With the lead, the new man in town says he lost the “jitters.” He looked more comfortable in his role, guiding his team up and down the field, slipping in some cute passes, pitching out as the Gators made hash of the Tennessee defense on continued end sweeps, and running with the ball effectively when the need arose. Florida pulled ahead 31-10 and eventually won the game, 31-17. The nonentity, the guy who had never played a significant minute, was now the New Hero. Couldn’t happen to a nicer—or more patient—guy. Which, once again, just goes to show you. Murphy isn’t a giant 6-5, 240-pound guy who can run through walls or throw the length of the field. But he is a smart guy, talented enough, in a game where smart guys are not always in evidence at quarterback.
Last year, at Texas A&M, who the eventual quarterback would be was undecided two weeks before the first game. They eventually decided to go with a skinny white kid, scared that he was only a freshman, but finally convinced of his talents. It would be fair to say, the A&M coaches could just as easily have chosen someone else. What happened next was astonishing. The new kid, named Johnny Manziel, not only led the Aggies to a spectacular season during which they beat otherwise undefeated and Number 1 Alabama in Tuscaloosa, no less, he went on to be the first freshman in history to win the Heisman Friggen Trophy. You never know. Even if you’re the coach.
Tyler Murphy will not be winning any Heisman Trophies, I’m fairly sure, but he will finally get his chance to be as good as he can be. He has an excellent team to help him and talented coaches to guide his progress. Every so often in this life, little miracles happen. Let’s hope this turns out to be one of them.
That’s all, folks….
