Memoir Monday, July 1, 1966

This is the last of the "really bad stuff." It feels good in some ways to have it in the past, even sharing and discussing it! I can now basically lock it away in a dark box somewhere and call myself free forever more. It is a bad book I read or an ugly show I saw on TV, almost as if it were never real. 

The Final Betrayals

I mentioned the reason for my ceasing to keep a diary or journal in late June 1966. Although in some ways it was less 'damaging' to me than other incidents, I very much felt violated and ...well it seemed akin to being stripped naked and marched around the town with the proverbial scarlet letter painted on me. True,.I suppose only Mom and Dad read my private words and thoughts, but they had no reason and no right to do that! It would have been iffy if I was twelve or fifteen but I was a grown woman of twenty three. It was very much like tearing open and reading mail sent to another person, which in some cases is actually criminal. At least I am pretty sure they never read any of Dusty's letters for I kept them well stored away. At any rate that was the third betrayal. I will rehash it a bit. They found no clue that I was about to run away to 'live in sin' as I had so often been accused of preparing to do and always vehemently denied.  Still, I am sure that's what they looked for..

A very few days  after Dusty's visit on June 16,  I quit keeping a diary. or journal.  In one ‘talk’, on June 19, Mom and Dad revealed they had been reading my diary/journal while  I was out. With a smirk and a sneer, Dad blatantly quoted phrases and terms I had used. If that was the was the worst he found, it was pretty damn mild!! (Things like referring to him as "the Boss" and labeling a difficult day "A bad day at Black Rock"). I was beyond furious. This totally uncalled for invasion and betrayal was over the top. They claimed they were trying to “help” me. If that was help, I’d rather take poison! If trust had not already been mostly shattered, it was now dead, completely erased. I was even too angry and hurt for violence. Defiant, I wrote a day or two in Spanish. Mom knew French and Dad knew German but real Spanish was beyond them. Then I completely stopped, keeping only a few business related notes for the next several weeks. Before August 1, I had gotten a new steno notebook and kept it in the shop yard shed for which Charlie Mike and I had obtained and installed a padlock. Oddly that was never even mentioned nor did it become an issue. Strange, no?. I wrote sporadically then through the rest of the summer. Even now, fifty plus years later, that is the most unforgettable and unforgivable act of all. I felt my privacy and identity  had been completely violated. I might call it rape of the spirit .

 There was one more event. It seems almost anti-climatic but for reasons I cannot unravel even to this day. it marked a major turning point. It was the last betrayal, the last real savage or vicious abuse I suffered. And one time, I did not cave in.

One essentially final act in the abuse and harassment scenario took place during the time I was not recording. Thus I do not have an exact date or any at-the-time details so it has to be just what I recall. It was probably during the last few days of June or the first week of July. The sun was still up so it may have been shortly after supper. I cannot remember the context but Dad was after me--as had become so usual--still trying to force me to forswear Dusty, promise never to see him or contact  him again in any way, and making harsh threats when I would not do so. I stood  at the end of the big table. I’d finally had all I was going to take so I said something like, “Make me.” It was not those words but that was the meaning, the implication anyway.

He jumped up, moving much faster than usual, and hit me in the face with his doubled fist.  Stunned, I fell under the old fashioned kitchen sink as my glasses flew off. When he snarled something like “Get up, chicken” or “Go on, be a coward”, I struggled to my feet, still dizzy. “Go ahead, hit me again,” I managed. About then Mom shrieked. “Stop! You’ll kill her!”

That was when I heard a car drive slowly down the street. I ran as fast as I could to the front door, intending to dash into the street screaming. Dad caught me just inside the screen door, grabbed me and slammed a hand over my mouth. I was past fear, past caring, past accepting anything more. As I tried to move my head to breathe or speak, I felt a finger and bit down as hard as I could. I mean I really bit, like a bulldog. Not sure if I drew blood, but I am sure it hurt like crazy. Needless to say, he let go. If there were any further repercussions or violence that night, I do not retain such memories. I  did not run off to drown myself etc. either. 

The next day I had a prize-fighter’s black eye but fortunately my glasses survived and I went on about my normal business. I do not remember ever being hit or even majorly threatened again. I am not sure why. There were still ‘talks’ but they were relatively mild and it seems "that man" was never mentioned again, even by inference. 

Did Dad think I would go file charges? Did he give it up? I can hardly believe that as he was one determined and stubborn man, always convinced he was right. Did Mom actually take a stand?  I guess I will never know. At any rate, I never got any more of that kind of abuse for which I thank all the Powers. I could not have survived much more. I never told Dusty anything about this; I hate to think how he might have reacted but that was soon moot for some time since he could not do anything to help or avenge me while he was seriously ill.  (More on that later as I continue the next few posts for July.)

I am still mystified. Did my willingness to actually fight back change the dynamic? Did some level of sanity and decency awaken and my father realize he had gone way too far?  Did Mom finally take a stand and say she'd leave or go to the cops or something if it ever happened again? I really cannot dredge up anything to give me a clue but to this day I thank the Source for whatever happened or was done that spared me any more of the same, at least on that level. July and August were not easy, no walk in the park or free ride but the balance had shifted. Then the first week of September, my life took a sudden huge change so it was almost as if I was reborn because things were never the same again. 

I really have no illustrations here. Certainly no photos were taken of these events or during their course. Even a few words did not find anything in the stock photos. I will just use three very different pictures of me, the child who had never known such trauma, the teenager beginning to feel curtailed and mistreated and the cowboy girl who finally got to the point of saying "No more." First is the 'tuff little girl' at about nine; then probably my second junior year when  I no longer smiled in photos, my face was set and stern; finally beside the truck I then drove a lot --edging toward defiance that was building toward the eruption. .My posture reflects that a bit.  

Monday Memoir, June 24, 1966

 A Plague of "Betrayals" 

I will backtrack a bit here. Bear with me. I know I did at least mention this first instance since I wrote about the following day a over a month ago. It was April 1. Here is the actual entry for the date it happened, March 31, 1966 with a bit of discussion.

March 31, 1966

On March 31 one of the rough days had happened. I’d been busy with the horses and when Charlie Mike got home we rode Buzzie and Lyno out around Peck’s Lake to look for the missing mules. We were having a continuous problem with them straying into Tavasci’s which almost became ugly several times. It was a nice ride but when we got home we were in for a shock. 

The old icebox that sat outside the tack shed was tipped over with iron bars sticking out every which way. One might almost imagine the Mau Mau had attacked. The Old Man had thrown a huge tantrum. Charlie Mike later said it was over his collection of liquor bottle labels stowed inside. I had no clue. Anyway,  my treasured little sun-glass pieces lay shattered across the yard. They had been on top and inside the old box. I’d felt lousy all day and at that sight, I pitched a hissy fit.

“I hate you!” I screamed at dad.  “You are trying to destroy every trace of beauty in my life.” Then I began to cry. He came over to me, I thought at first to apologize. Instead he slapped me across the face as hard as he could, twice. One landed across my right ear which went instantly deaf. If I could have, I would have left within five minutes.

Nobody had hit me since I was ten years old.  I was not so hysterical as to require that kind of action.  He was not ever really sorry because I know he had wanted to do that, or worse, for quite awhile. I’m not killed, I said in my journal, but it hurts. My ear was bubbly and odd for weeks. It was the same one I had the infection in when I was six. Somehow my hearing survived.  After we did the chores, I helped Charlie Mike right the box. He could not lift it by himself. It was heavy, even with the pounds of iron bars removed. The next day I had to apologize for my ugly speech before Dad would and I got a very half-baked “I’m sorry” in reply.  In his view, I deserved it, and surely more.

I do not think my sun glass was ever an object or intentional casualty but almost all of it was destroyed. It had a lot of sentimental value to me and one could actually sell whole pieces to some collectors so it was not worthless at all. Charlie Mike says the target was a liquor bottle label collection he had inside the box but I do not know if that was true or not. It was a cruel act to me and difficult to forget, much less forgive. 

The next case I do not think I have alluded to at all previously. It was May 17, 1966 and here is that entry. 

On May 17, one of the cruelest of Dad’s nasty tricks played out. Mom and I got home from the pasture and came in to rest a minute. Almost gleefully, Dad began to relate what he had (allegedly) just heard on the radio. A Santa Fe employee had a domestic violence issue in Kingman, perhaps Sunday, to which the cops were called. The man shot at one cop and took two bullets himself, dying on the spot. I knew to the roots of my soul that was a blatant lie but it began to chew at me. I went on about my business with almost no response and hung on grimly until Charlie Mike got home from school. As we saddled up, I told him. He went up town with me where I called Prescott. B&B 6 and its foreman were there, and the agent I spoke to said he would give Mr Watt my message. I made it something innocuous, going weak with relief. I had not and could not believe the tale, but had still pictured Dusty dead. I can never forgive the senseless blatant cruelty of that incident. I don’t recall any reaction from Mom at all and we never spoke of it. 

If this cannot be termed a betrayal, I do not understand the word! I cannot imagine the fiendish imagination applied to concoct this tale and the only purpose was obviously to hurt and upset me. I kept my cool very well, or think I did, and hardly reacted at all. Did that disappoint the teller? I shall never know. But how could a parent do such a thing to a child, albeit a grown one? How could he have such hate and ugliness to lay this on me?  No, I do not forget; I forgive moderately but forget, NEVER!!

There were two more incidents I considered or labeled betrayals which I will cover next week. Looking back  I can only offer my deepest gratitude to the Source and the Force, as I term the Divine Entity and their energies, for all that took place permitting me finally to make my escape. In early September I was able leave before I ultimately totally lost it and "went postal" one way or another. I was never again truly helpless, at the mercy of contempt, malice, pressure, and abuse from those I had trusted.  From then on I was always on the periphery of family catastrophes with a different degree of duty and responsibility. i was no longer dependent.  I still did not use that sort of language much then but I could at least think if not say "Fuck It. I don't care!"  My brothers were the only "family" I was now concerned about.  That may sound cold, but it was the truth.  I felt my parents had 'divorced' me by their actions.

I found stock photos to illustrate what I had no way to picture. Yes, I was "kicked off the cliff"  ,more than once. 

Philosophical Phriday--June 14, 2024

Prologue: This came to me yesterday. I draft-wrote it then and have since edited slightly. It fits closely with some of the life experiences I have been sharing since the basic building blocks of this spiritual belief pattern were formed during that time. Now I look back over eight decades and still seek more and better understanding. A mass of impressions, preliminary beliefs and understandings have been boiled down to this essence. Many people will be perplexed, some will be offended and some like my parents often felt, may consider it blasphemy and perverse in the extreme. I neither boast nor apologize. For me, it is what it is.  The Truth as I perceive it. 

Philosophical Phriday, June 14, 2024

             I might begin with a rhetorical question: “Am I a “sinner?”  To which I answer unequivocally that I am not. I absolutely do not believe in a harsh, demanding and condemning father figure, much less the concepts of Hell, Heaven or “breaking God’s law.” I honor--and that is not adore, worship, revere or fear--a Divine Entity that is completely feminine. She does not threaten, coerce or condemn anyone. She is the epitome of “Mother” and the sum of her energy and power is Love and “Nature.” Hate and dominance are alien and anathema to Her.  So, no, I am not a “sinner.”

Relationships as “romance” has been a constant driving force in my life, heart over head always. I never had a beloved one who was wholly mine. But did I take anything that truly belonged to anyone else?  I do not think so. If anything I received had been another’s to begin with, I would never have been able to obtain it. Our society is built around “marriages of convenience”, driven by artificial rules and sanctions when the initial flash of lust and “in love” fades if it ever existed.  And in converse, did I take anything away from anyone who had any right to that which I gave? Again, I say no. Even with my husband, he was never wholly mine, for thirty two years of marriage, nor was I his. I think he made an idolized ideal of me, an avatar of something existing only in his mind or spirit. It was imperfect at best. Thus no, again I took nothing from anyone. And again no, I am not a “sinner”.  That concept is not truly applicable.

To “Christians” drivers of the main pattern of our modern society this equation controls family life  “Love” = “intimacy” = “sex”. Marriage is the only acceptable method for these to exist. To me, that last physical act is really the least significant aspect of the connections I live for. More important to me are resonance of energies, the sense of being merged, cherished and valued with and by another spirit, and a level of kinship that transcends all others existing in today’s society. Sex is just part of the clutter that comes along with our present human existence in today’s society, which is mostly structured in a patriarchic model. In matrilineal and matriarchic societies, which a few Native or Indigenous peoples still follow, the notion of fatherhood and primogeniture are insignificant. There is no question from which woman’s body a child emerged.  A stepmother is thus impossible because it is the mother’s closest or favored brother who fills the role of male model and guide for a child.  Thus anything belonging to that man including role, property, duty and authority is normally inherited by a nephew or in some cases, a niece. That is such a key idea and wipes out so much of our restrictive tradition.  

Is all of this important or significant? I cannot fairly say since I do not know, yet in the sphere of my most profound and deeply held beliefs, it is. The LDS doctrine might argue but an evangelical Christian friend once said to me, “There are no husbands and wives in heaven.” Perhaps he was just trying to exonerate the strong but basically platonic relationship we had, both being legally wed to others at that time.  Still I found that very profound. I visualize beyond the Rainbow Bridge, call it Heaven, Valhalla, Tir-Nan-Og , Fiddler’s Green, The Happy Hunting Ground or even Nirvana, it is a most powerful truth. In that realm there are only spirits, “energy entities”, to which resonance of those energies is the only reality. Thus some will resonate and others will not because energy has infinite frequencies of which light, heat and sound are among the very few we actually perceive, know or recognize here. They are among the lowest and most primitive. Perhaps Pure Divine Love is the highest and most perfect. In infinite time, maybe all of us will be there. I hope my awareness of this is an early step in my progress to that point.  That is why I share it.

Monday Memoir--for June 17, 1966

June 17, 1966

On June 17, I did not write. The best I can do is include.the previous day, the next to last real post I made for some time. Why?  Saturday, June 19, I discovered my parents had been reading my journal when I was out .I was furious, distressed almost beyond rationality.Their excuse for this very rank  betrayal was they were “trying to help me." What they needed to do for me was certainly vastly different from underhanded snooping! They found no proof I was about to elope which I believe they expected. Their excuse rang about as hollow as any lie I'd ever heard. If that was “help”, why not  just give me poison? 

 I vowed to write no more except a factual recital of what work was done each  day for a needed record but not one personal word. I first tried to write a day or two in Spanish, knowing they did not read it. Mom knew French and Dad some German but no Spanish for either. That proved too slow and complex although I had a fairly good vocabulary so I just flat stopped.  By  late July I'd bought a steno notebook which I kept in the ‘private stash' shed behind the second house.  Charlie Mike and I used it for our things, and actually purchased and installed a padlock, each keeping a key. (Partly done after the trashed icebox fiasco in March with the loss of my sun glass and his label collection.) I wrote a bit sporadically thru July but will see what I can reconstruct since by August it got a bit more regular and things began to happen worth sharing! FWIW, here is the last full entry.

June 16, 1966, Thursday

Now that it’s over, it has been a nice day. Got up quite early and went out (it really wasn’t necessary). We talked for over an hour when we got home. but I guess that allowed the Boss to get off to Prescott in a fairly good humor. We saddled the red mares and got the mail and then  went to hunt Charley Bryant’ mule who had got away. We trailed him to where he jumped the fence and made for the Bridgeport pasture . We got rained on coming home as we unsaddled about 11:30. I went to work on my cleaning and sorting . It’s a hellacious job, makes me near frantic but I pursued it with a fury and boundless energy. I got most of my ordinary junk sorted with taking a break for lunch and noon chores. At 4:00 I saddled Leo to lead Chief and left a note in the can. We got all our home chores done before The Boss got back. He got all his papers filed anyway. We talked until 7:30 (DST at this time so still “early”) and then hurried off to do the pasture chores. As we crossed the bridge over the ditch  a blue Volkswagen passed us. I knew the driver with absolute certainty, knew before he turned around and passed us the other way and finally stopped when we got to the corrals. I was shocked and shook. Later it turned out he had not gotten my recent upset letter as they returned to Drake from Prescott. When Mom gave him a ‘talking to’, he was a bit disturbed but stayed cool. He said I was “the finest girl he’d ever met” and he would not see me again until…the event not specified. We talked privately for a few minutes before parting. He kept looking at me, long, hard and searching. He said he was worried because I had not written for quite awhile so he had to come check. I held his hand fiercely a minute and gave him a swift, anguished kiss in parting. So that was goodbye for now, for awhile but not forever. I am still sure; he is not that good a liar. He was just a little bit angry at Mom but kept pretty cool. Of course The Boss would fry him--or try to-- but I won’t let that happen.  I’ll be gone far away. I cried a minute and that shook him. If he didn’t love me, he would not have come and wouldn’t care. But now I am anxious to be gone.

In this general period a new and unexpected idea arose in one of the 'talks'. I had even been considering  I enlist in a branch the women's  military. For a day or two I was actually ordered to go talk to the recruiters. I began to pack my most important possessions to ship to Judy Crouch, my pen pal, when I went off to boot camp. Like many 'solutions' to my"problem", this one faded and died before long.  A sequence of events I perceived as betrayals and abuses extended from May--most not really previously covered--into July.  I'll let that recital fill part of the otherwise not written period. starting next week. 

This surprise visit was truly the single bright spot in what devolved into an increasingly ugly and horrible month or more.. Once again I was assured Dusty truly cared for me. As he explained, he had gotten worried when he did not hear from me for an extended period. He had to come and check on me. An interim letter had never reached him as I later found. This comforting and supportive knowledge carried me through the passage of some weeks  when we were  hardly in contact at all as I will later explain.

In some ways it is not easy to either remember or share much of this time. The summer of 1966 was the last part of my 'sentence' during which I still did not know or even dare to hope life could and would change very suddenly.  I might call it the last installment I paid for my pardon or at least parole. There were other hard times and all was not happily-ever-after because life is real, not a fairy tale, but I never had to suffer these exact types of vicissitudes again.

 The eye candy: Not my picture, but the little blue"Bug" looked a lot like this. As I had named two of Dusty's earlier cars, this one I called "Little Bluebird." The other view is the corrals at the pasture.  I have shown them before but this was where we were.  Dusty parked in the road as I recall and walked over. I think he had seen Mom was with Charlie Mike and me but he wanted to see me, regardless. Would he have done so had it been Dad? I cannot guess but suspect he would have. He was not afraid of the Old Man and said so several times.  In a fair fight I think The Boss would have gotten his ass kicked! Dad was then 54 and Dusty was 43 and worked hard daily.  It never happened of course and I am thankful.

Monday Memoir, June 10 1966

This day was at the leading edge of some very  unpleasant times. It was actually the last Friday entry I wrote in any journal for about six weeks. I will explain next time when I put in the Thursday before and some lead-in detail and explanation. 

June 10, 1966, Fri

We didn’t even attempt to ride today. More talks--this time mostly directed at Mom but riles me all the same. Charlie Mike and I started to write “hate sheets" but Mom wouldn’t let us. We staggered through the various chores, went up to the store for some groceries etc. The Boss played an ace card when he wrote Charlie Mike and me ‘farewell letters’ and gave us each a $100 check, worthless, of course. That just pulled the pin with me. I ran down to the canyon and then up the river to the dam scrambling through the brush and waded into the swimming hole up to my midriff.  I stood there a long  time. I backed a bit farther and felt the sand slipping away beneath my feet. Suddenly I did not want to drown. I fought my way back to the shore and wandered up the road weeping. Mom and Charlie Mike came looking for me in the pickup and found  me up by the depot. I doubtlessly gave them both a turn. Even myself, thinking back on it all. I still think of such drama as a bear trap. This suicide threat bit is a damn nasty and sneaky trick and I’m not proud to use it but one must fight fire with fire it seems. 

The damn drama and histrionics were getting very difficult. I am sure Dad was having some kind of mental breakdown at this point. He did improve some over the rest of the summer but essentially got gradually worse over the next year and a half or so. He was institutionalized for a few months; that is another story for later!To this day I cannot pin down the whys or really make anything logical out of this particular event.  True, he had been on my case constantly for weeks about Dusty but now Dusty was nowhere around and it had to be obvious I was not being with or seeing him. I had also said many times, though mainly to Mom, that I was not going to run off and "shack up" with him. I told her we both did not feel that was right. He never urged or asked me to do so. He really was a decent person though they would never believe that. 

"Hate sheets" was the Old Man's term for a written lists of complains and issues we felt needed to be fixed or addressed. He frequently asked us to do them. I guess to explain why we were often surly, grim and cold. However, if we did,  they would only trigger more tantrums and outrage. It was always a lose-lose situation. This day he seemed to be most outraged at Mom for what reason I do not remember if I even knew.  So we kids got "farewell letters". I do not remember what, how or where he intended to do or go. At times we almost wished he was a druggie or drunk as that would at least be understandable to a degree. As for the checks, an alleged inheritance or ??? Maybe we were to leave? It was all too scrambled. About that point I just lost it, in frustration, confusion and helplessness so  I went off with no thought or plan. Just had to get out!

After I climbed out of the river, I sobered up and realized what a cheap trick and nasty emotional blackmail such threats are. I basically vowed to myself I would not do such again and other than one time, a few years later when I was drunk myself and pretty scrambled in a very different situation,  I never  made such a threat or action again. I was in shorts and sandals so my legs were dusty and scratched up. I probably looked a fright.  Certainly I felt one! I guess my overworked Guardian Angel was still trying to take care of me. They always did--and I use that pronoun since they are two or actually both genders in one entity.  

Photos: Marginally relevant? Just two views of the dam on the Verde River at the northern edge of Clarkdale. Once it diverted water to Peck's Lake and I think has recently been removed. These two shots were in 2017 and 2006  I believe. I do not think it was muddy the day I waded in as described above--it would have been a few yards upstream where it was not quite so deep. Having a pathological fear of water, it also fascinated me in some ways. When in that sort of mood, drowning was almost alluring. Mentally unwell? Yes!

Monday Memoir, June 3, 1966

This was a fairly ordinary day for the year and the season. Hardly a sleepy, dusty Delta kind, though. It was not real hot yet but getting there. The work went on as routine but having Dad (The Boss) participate was not really typical. He was absent on 'other business' more often than not. This time it did not turn out well for him...   His judgment was not always right on. (IMO!) 

Jun 3, 1966, Fri

Got up at 7:00 and fed. We visited over the breakfast table a bit so got off to a rather late start on the chores. For Pete’s sake, I’m damned if I am going tp let this become a habit like last summer. That was awful. When we got back from the pasture we saddled the red mares and rode uptown. I got a letter from Shirl which I don’t even think I’ll answer. Charlie Mike had to help The Boss with the mouth spreader so  I led Rico and Twink with Lyno. She was a bit high. We put a flank rope on Rico. He is an ornery little bird. The Boss got on Lyno to haze him for me and she threw a fit with the sharp spurs (Not sure who I was riding now) . She fell in the street and then tossed him again in the alley. He rode it out of her though and about killed her and Rico both in the process I can’t complain that my old man is a coward but he doesn’t seem too have good sense sometimes. He got banged up pretty bad. We had a late lunch and rested briefly. I went up to the library to get Wendell Wilkie’s “One World” and a couple  of paperbacks. Then quickly led Chief with Leo and brought Cindy up with Leo too. He did okay. Drove out to feed and I spent the evening reading til 11:30. The moon was full and lovely and I wanted Dusty so bad I could have cried. So I dreamed about him. He was most likely alone tonight too. Sometimes it is so hard.

Here I called it visiting rather than 'talking"; I think I explained the difference between "talks" and any other verbal exchange  recently. But even if it was not ugly, I refused to delay work when we had so much to do and often weather to work around for just chit-chat. What a waste. I guess Mom and I drove out, maybe Charlie Mike too. 

The mouth spreader is a tool that kind do looks like a medieval torture device but is not too painful to a horse or mule. Has to be used to work on teeth--grinding a broken one or leveling any that are getting uneven and maybe doctoring a sore or problem in the mouth. I am not sure what was done here or even to what animal but that gives an idea. 

That job got done and I was trying to lead Rico, who could get a little ornery. He was not as sweet-natured as Bravo, his one-year-older brother.  We did put a flank rope on him which helped some and then Dad got the bright idea to come behind and "encourage" him--one way or another. So I probably got Buzzie and he got on Lyno. He had recently sharpened his spurs, I think to use on a mule, and forgot that when he gave Lyno a goose. Oooops, big mistake. She leaped, slipped on the pavement and fell. He got her up, got back on and got mad so he was going to "buck her out." She was mad by then too and she put on a good rodeo up and down the alley. He got tossed at least once but finally rode her to a standstill.  I did not laugh, I did not protest, I didn't really do shit. He hobbled into the house to clean up the road rash and likely went to bed. I put the animals away. So much for that effort. Oh Cindy was the new filly called Syn Mas--we gave her that nickname. I was also getting Leo to do leading and he took to it okay. 

The rest of the day was rather dull and ordinary. I do not know why I was going to read "One World." I do not remember anything about it now. Charlie Mike and I were still half-expecting and more than half hoping B&B 6 would be coming back soon. Of course Dusty was much and often on my mind. That hope dimmed slowly over several weeks. 

Photos? Gee, I do not have any good bucking shots. Actually our animals seldom did. The red mares and Leo were three years old now, basically full grown and most of the time very well behaved. So heck, I will steal a nice painting I love--credit to the artist--since I can identify with the scene very well. The artist is well known western painter, Jack Sorenson. I follow that with a shot of Rico--he was a yearling and going to be a big horse. And then Lyno and Buzzie, sharing some hay about a year later. They were together a lot and good friends.