The sages always advise you to enjoy the journey. The trip is more significant than the destination, say they, and it’s difficult to argue the point. Take Christmas, for example: anticipation of the holiday—the buying of presents in the hustle-bustle atmosphere of shopping, the ubiquitous carols and jaunty Christmas tunes, the long preparation of the feast, the visits with family and friends, the mailed exchange of greetings—is colossal in comparison to the shockingly brief time it takes to slam open the gift wrapping and inhale the dinner. I can remember my mother and grandmother cranking away for two arduous days to insure that the Christmas table was perfect. And then it’s all gone in an instant, with only the mountainous collection of dishes to wash and leftover food to somehow fit into the shrunken refrigerator. The people who perform these honorable duties on a consistent basis deserve uncompromised plaudits, if not sainthood, so let’s all stand and give them a rousing round of applause. It’s possible some day we’ll get an encore.
Christmas was quiet here on the old homestead, unless you want to consider a small pinhole leak in some recently installed copper tubing which eventually required turning off the hot water. Or a computer gift from Siobhan to Bill, which was damaged in shipping. Or Siobhan’s eyeglasses, which fell apart Christmas morning, when all the repairfolk were closed. Or the sudden realization that we were missing a box of stuffing mix, requiring a quick trip to the Williston Dollar Store. All matters easily resolved with good cheer, even on the part of the good-natured plumber. Siobhan’s is happy with her incongruous gifts of yoga wear and black spiked heels and Bill is thrilled with his Flying Pie columns bound into separate books for each of the years published. Some fine day, we will take twenty or thirty of the best columns and bind them into a book for several of our most faithful followers. You know who you are.
Long-time readers are aware that Christmas is also movie night around here. This year’s selection was American Hustle, a David Russell film which tells the story of brilliant con man Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale) and his equally cunning and seductive partner Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), who are forced to work for maniac FBI agent Richie DeMaso, who pushes them into a world of Jersey powerbrokers and mafia that is as dangerous as it is enchanting. Irving’s wacky wife Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence) is exceptional as the thread who threatens to bring the whole house of cards crashing down. Siobhan and Bill give the movie two big thumbs up. Miss it at your own peril.
And finally, since you always ask, Bugs the donkey is alive and growing, teeth and feet equally attended to, having finally dispatched his earlier ailments. His prognosis is excellent. His goat compadres are also thriving and one of them is due to be transferred to another front via the specific instructions of Pete The Goat Man, major domo of the local caprine operations, leaving Bugs with but a single pal. We’re certain Bugs (and the goat) will persevere.
So it’s onward, ever onward, to the new year. But not without a pause for reflection.
The Year That Was
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Almost before we could catch our breath, my first wife, the beautiful and exceptional Marilyn Todd, succumbed to a nefarious cancer, surrounded by family in Austin Texas. Her life was celebrated in one of my best pieces, The Girls Of Summer, written on January 31st and available to all by simple scrolling.
Next man down was our 87-year-old neighbor, Allen (“don’t spell it ‘Alan’”) Morgan, companion extraordinaire, purveyor of film, the theater and opera, a civilized man with advanced knowledge of wine and other potables. An aficionado of women’s softball and volleyball (maybe it’s the costumes), hale fellow-well-met, endowed with the good manners and polite practices of landed gentry, Allen was a delight to cavort with and a lingering reminder of a generation almost gone.
On the happier side, January brought the initial winner of The First Perhaps Annual Internet Man Of The Year Award, who turned out to be….well….twins. The honors going to Court Lewis, of Johnson City, Tennessee and Harry Dodds, of Austin, Texas for their contributions to humanity and, of course, to me. Long live their fame and long live their glory and long may their story be told, just like Wyatt Earp.
Siobhan’s business, Pathogenes, Inc., expanded by leaps and bounds in 2013, requiring the employment of several new people discussed in recent columns. Delivery persons representing the United States Post Office, Fedex and United Parcel Service, visiting each day as they do, have practically become members of the family. Despite this fact, Lila the Rottweiler still insists on jumping into their vehicles each day to inspect for inappropriate contraband. If she finds any, she eats it.
The early excitement over Cosmic Flash’s impossibly fast workouts and maiden-breaking win in his first start waned with the onset of nagging injuries which put him on the shelf time and again. Currently, he is readying himself for another go at it over at Eisaman Equine. Also galloping is our soon-to-be-two-year-old, Bull Ensign, scheduled to depart for Gulfstream sometime in March. Cosmic Flash should precede him there by a month or more.
Last year’s Kentucky Derby was won by the consistent Orb, who was on the board for all the Triple Crown races but will probably be edged for the three-year-old championship by the late-rising Will Take Charge, who won three of his last four races, including the influential Travers Stakes at Saratoga and the Pennsylvania Derby, before placing second in the Breeders’ Cup Classic against older horses, beaten an eyelash by Mucho Macho Man, a mammoth accomplishment for the horse and his 77-year-old trainer, Wayne Lukas.
Department Of Health And Welfare
Bill continued his neverending battle with stomach issues in 2013. Doctors peeked in through little tubes, finding nothing, watched a radioactive egg disintegrate, finding nothing and tried a virtual colonoscopy, finding nothing. Apparently, Bill’s stomach is one of the healthiest places in the world and he has the images to prove it. It took a couple of experiences during our summer vacation in Colorado to point out the major villain—Bill could not tolerate the amount of sugar he was ingesting. A big sugar cutback and the addition of ginger supplements to his diet assuaged much, if not all, of the problem. Detective work continues on the remnants of the issue.
Marty Jourard, Gainesville expatriate and celebrated Seattle music instructor, visited the farm in January. Any excuse to get out of Washington state in the winter months. Marty learned to drive a tractor and feed the horses. Eschewing F. Scott Fitzgerald’s opinion (“There are no second acts in American life”), Marty is considering a second career in agriculture, although not very hard. He particularly dislikes the stall-cleaning part, but he is raising a couple of kids who might be put to good use.
We got two new foals in the spring, a colt named Norm and a filly, Serena. Siobhan is responsible for these names. Norm is an athletic looking chestnut, Serena a muscular bay. Both are doing well, playing around cavalierly in the north paddock with no idea of what comes next. The fun ends in September when the Great Silver Van rolls in sucks them inside for a five minute trip down the road to Eisaman’s to begin their true calling. We hope it’s their true calling, anyway. We used to have a horse named Super Chief (Wilson, to you), who has gone through several incarnations and is now in Calgary, Alberta where he is readying to become a Chuckwagon racer. Oh, you think we jest? Google “Chuckwagonracing” and you’ll see we’re not kidding. These guys are serious. We’re looking for a Chuckwagon Breeder of the Year Award one of these days. Wilson’s career begins this year, at five. They don’t just let young puny little horses haul those chuckwagons.
We got Lila, the Rottweiler this year after our old dog, China, went to the big kennel in the sky. We are not absolutely sure this is a good thing. Lila vacillates between being (“the laziest dog in the world”)—a true quote from Stuart Ellison, who took care of her during vacation week in August—to a rampaging maniac who will not leave any visitor alone. It’s strangely remindful of docile old Clark Kent who instantly revs up his engines as soon as he changes into Superman. We attribute it to bad training. Our old dog trainer, Jim Glenney, also went to the big kennel in the sky and we had to break in a new lady who seemed to think all training should be done with food treats. No sitee, no hot dog. We don’t think this is such a good idea. If you have to feed the dog every time you want her to do something, she will quickly balloon up to 300 pounds, not a good weight for any puppy. This whole affair may require retraining, not a happy thought. Meanwhile, Lila is racing around the property, moving around very large tree limbs.
Previews Of Coming Attractions
The most exciting thing coming up for us in January is the return to working by Cosmic Flash. We’re going to keep him at Eisaman’s as long as possible, it being a little less risky there than at the track (everybody, in unison, please knock on wood). Once we get past three-eighths of a mile, however, the configuration of the track makes it tough to go any further. We might try to ship and work at a track down the road or just bite the bullet and move him down to Gulfstream. The latter is usually in top shape this time of year, what with the arrival of the better horses from all over the country for the winter. This is one of those times we would prefer to believe in the power of prayer, but you can’t have it both ways. Keep your fingers crossed.
Vacation this year will be along the California coast, traveling from San Francisco down through Big Sur to L.A. and beyond, perhaps to Laguna if old pal Jack Gordon is still around in July. We get to see my sister, Alice (the Republican), and visit with her right-wing movie star pals, Bruce Willis and Clint Eastwood. Alice says to hurry up if we want to see Clint. We missed Charlton Heston by miles, which is regrettable. We were looking forward to prying that weapon loose from his cold, dead hands.
That’s all, folks….
