I guess even then I was afflicted with some seasonal depression (SAD) but given the sorry state of the family and overall situation at that time, I had more than enough to be despondent over. At times I felt I was confined in a Cloister--poverty, chastity and obedience were the order or rule I must live under! Not meaning to be irreverent but actual-factual!
Nov 20, 1965 Sat
Got up rather late. I was just tired and overslept. Fed my pets and did some small repair jobs. We ate late and then had to talk awhile so it was after 10:00 before we left for the pasture. Did the chores and came home. I patched a saddle pad and made two feedbags while munching on the last of Dusty's chocolate. Did the noon chores quite late. Mom went to keep the appointment with the Mental Health Clinic. That stuff is ridic, really. I rode out on Annie after leading Rico. Powwow had a colic so I hastened thru my chores and came home. We went back out and gave her an enema. Doubt that it did much good. Afterwards I read the December Western Horseman and glanced through the Reader's Digest. I had meant to write some letters but didn't get to. I am just too tired. I'm so discouraged that it seems impossible to do everything and do it right. I wish I'd just sleep for infinity.
I think I was perpetually tired at this point. Some days I just did not respond to my internal clock and get up at the right time. But a half hour or so made little difference. And an 'early' start on the day's major chores was almost an idle dream. Talks--God, but I hated that word and that idea! It shadowed most of my days.
Does anyone remember those chunks of solid chocolate wrapped in saran wrap that were sometimes in bins at the grocery store? They were real Hershey's and it was stamped in them. They were really good! Dusty was a chocoholic too and occasionally pulled one out of the ice box in his camp car (we both used that term though it was a refrigerator) and gave it to me. I squirreled it away in a safe place and made it last, sometimes breaking off a bit to share with Charlie Mike.
I guess I was not riding a lot that day so put in some time on the rough sewing which was one of my regular tasks. Scraps of worn out jeans patched fabric saddle pads and empty grain bags of burlap were cut and stitched into feed bags. They wore out fast as they were not all that sturdy.
Mom had apparently decided that we all could profit from some "family counselling" when a so-called Mental Health Clinic opened under county or state auspices. The one who needed 'help' the most went only once and then pitched a hell of a hissy fit (guess who) but she went off and on anyway and I did a few times. I have never been a fan of counselling although I know it can help and does for many. Our overall situation was just so bloody weird I never felt I could make it understandable and realistic to where anyone could truly give me valid and applicable advice. But later I did get some benefit.
Powwow and Rico were both weaned now. She was a yearling having been born in fall of the prior year and he in April of this year. Little Dusty, Twinkles and "Sass Box" were also 1965 foals. I exercised them as we rotated them between the pasture and corrals in the canyon. Colics were still common even between the several big bouts of sickness. I always felt it was the poor quality hay I often had to feed, sorting out the worst as best I could. But it was often termed my fault for somehow not caring or paying attention as needed. Whatever!! Yes, there were times when death looked pretty inviting--peace and quiet, blessed silence... Once or twice I came close to seeking it. One of those was about two weeks away.
Kinda dull photos: . (In reverse order) Powwow at about a year old. Mares with some of my homemade feedbags (first Bunny with Little Dusty and then Peppy with 'Sass Box') and a patchy saddle pad, under a saddle on Leo. Aboard was Alex, then about 6 years old.
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