I think on this, then that pops up. Next thing I know, I've gone from a brownie recipe to last year's Memorial Day with the Aunt and Cousins.
Of course, to get there I wandered through the Social Security problem, the argument that mosquitos were created AFTER the Fall, the String Theory of the Universe, and the 2010 Packer season.
And from Memorial Day with the Aunt & Cousins my mind turns to...
Lucky.
Lucky. The little horse that tried to kill me.
Lucky. The Pony from South of Purgatory.
You'll need context to appreciate an animal such as Lucky.
And my 3rd morning cup of the Elixir of Knowledge has the context flowin'.
I was 12. Sister Here (who lives about 1/2 mile away) was 10. Sister There (who lives on the East Coast) was 8. We were the Happy Herd that went to the farm of my dad's brother and wife.
We called their Happy Herd "cousins". And the oldest cousin had a greyish Shetland pony.
Grey.
Like an impending storm of devastation and debris.
Yeah. That kind of grey.
And its name was "Lucky".
As in:
"Wow!! You're lucky to be alive!!!"
I was a Jr. Hi kid trying to find my "style". We didn't have many choices back then.
No Goth, punk, grunge, and steamer.
So I went with "white".
White t-shirt.
White windbreaker.
White jeans.
White socks.
And white shoes.
I looked like a Charter member of the Mr. Clean Fan Club.
The adults went inside and immediately the Happy Herds merged to surge toward the barn and its plethora of adventures.
Or disasters.
Potatoe. Potahto.
"Hey," said Oldest Cousin, "Ya wanna ride my horse?"
"Sure. Where's the saddle?"
"Ya don't need one.
Just hold onto the reins and grip with your knees."
Oldest Cousin handed me the reins then smiled at the other cousins.
Like there's a private joke.
It's the same kind of smile that Tonto gave the Lone Ranger before the Masked Man's untimely demise.
"Jump on, Kemosabe.
No saddle. Ride free.
Just use your knees."
So I hopped on, my legs only a foot off the ground, and Lucky looked back to see who's riding.
And that's when Lucky smiled.
I gave him the kick-start and he slowly strolled out of the barn, across the barnyard to the open gate by the little pasture.
Once we made the pasture, I began clucking and kicking in earnest, assuming the "Roy-Rogers-leaning-over-Trigger's-flowing-mane" position.
Lucky went into a bone-jarring, pelvic-denting trot.
And I discovered I was no longer Roy Rogers.
I'm was a Jr Hi kid straddling a picket fence that was chugging down a washboard road.
We reached the far end of the little pasture, stopped ("Thank you, Lord!") and turned back towards the barn.
That's when Lucky found his inner Trigger.
We flew back to the barn.
The ride was painlessly smooth as I reassumed the Roy position, clucking like a hen off her pharmaceuticals, and shouting cowboy encouragements.
Then I noticed we were coming in at a hot 90-degree angle to the gate.
Uh-oh.
My "go-go-go" morphed to "whoa-whoa-whoa".
No slowing.
And lottsa going.
I sat up and pulled back on the reins. Lucky's head went down a little.
I reefed back on the reins with all the adrenaline-soaked adolescence I possessed.
Lucky's head bent down and back, his nose touching his chest.
And he never broke stride.
Once we were about 10 yards from the gate, a few things happened that proved to be fairly relevant when viewed in retrospect.
Sitting up had moved my center of gravity higher which had an immediate and somewhat dramatic impact on balance.
Lucky, with his head now pinned against his left shoulder, went into a very rapid trot.
And that's when I noticed he was smiling. Again.
I was bouncing across Lucky's back when he began the initial turn into the barnyard.
Lucky was going left.
I was rapidly going right, moving from a 12 o'clock vertical position to a 2.
When I hit 2:36, Lucky threw himself into the turn.
He trotted vertically and riderless toward the barn.
I flew horizontally and horseless toward the fence.
The fence where certain contents were deposited during a daily exercise called "mucking out the barn".
Thaaaat's right.
It didn't hit the fan.
It hit me, Mr. Clean's protege.
At about 15 miles an hour.
Lying there somewhat stunned, encased in a pungent and surprisingly soft farm experience, I found I was perfectly divided from head to toe.
My port side was still white.
My starboard was a rather disturbing green.
My left glass lens, eye, and ear still worked, their counterparts temporarily inoperable.
I raised my head to see Lucky at the barn's entrance.
He stopped and looked back.
I still think he raised his eyebrows and his tail before sauntering into the barn.
Since I was using the one eye at the time, I could be wrong.
My only functioning ear, however, definitely picked up the raucous laughter of the Happy Herd.
Sitting here now some fifty years later in the relatively sanitized and odor-free environment of the Chair, I try to fit that experience into something meaningful.
Two more cups of the Elixir gives me this. It's the best I can do -
Wait for Him to give you a pony to ride, that special job only you can do.
If you try to ride somebody else's pony, you won't be any good and it.
And you'll stink.
Happy Trails, eh?