The "Real" Reason You Shouldn't Look a Gift-Horse in the Mouth!

Is it un-American for a child to NOT want a horse? Well, if it is, then I guess I am un-American! I can't remember ever really having any desire to have a horse. I don't recall even being around a horse until I was fifteen or so. Unless you count Shetland ponies. I think I rode one or two of those at the fair a couple of times, but they were always tied together and just walking in a circle. In other words, as much as I admired Annie Oakley and Dale Evans, I would not have made a very convincing cowgirl! Perhaps all this is why I just couldn't get too excited about the horse that "came with the house."

In 1983 Jim and I had decided we needed a fourth bedroom, and our house on Burnham Road could not easily be added on to. We talked to a real estate agent, Hazel Evans ( no relation to Dale as far as I know), who convinced us to put our house on the market -- just to see "what would happen." Well, what happened was that our house SOLD in about THREE weeks to a couple with CASH who wanted to move in within thirty days!!!

For three weeks Jim and I had been casually looking at open houses, not really considering ourselves potential buyers. We had seen a lot of things we liked. Unfortunately, those things were not all part of the SAME house. One house had an exquisite kitchen, but no closet space. If there were spacious bedrooms, then the backyard was either the size of a postage stamp or straight down a cliff -- neither of which goes well with three active children. If the bathrooms were adequate, there wasn't any garage. In other words, we had NOT found our "dream house."

Jim had, however, seen one house that had caught his attention. It wasn't far from where we lived and had a huge lot with lots of trees. I had called the realtor and she had given me a description -- including the fact that there was a swimming pool. Jim emphatically stated that he did NOT want a pool, so we had put it out of our minds.

With the quick sale of our house, however, we were a little more motivated to find a place to live. Jim had driven back by that same house and could not see a pool. Must have been a mistake, he thought. The realtor must have gotten it mixed up with another house. We made an appointment to see it.

I distinctly remember walking in the back door that cool March evening and being impressed by the large den heated by a cute little Ben Franklin fireplace. It was a good first impression. At least to a couple of inexperienced home-buyers. We took a quick tour of the house, but mostly Jim wanted to see "the yard." It was that two-point-something acres that caught his attention. It wasn't until we were back home that evening that I could really get him to think about the inside of the house.

I commented that the kitchen was awfully small. Jim countered with, "It had the cutest little booth - just like a restaurant. Wouldn't that be handy?" I didn't remember having seen a dishwasher. Jim was sure that it had one. "If it doesn't, we'll put one in." There was only one full-bath -- and it was pretty small and out-dated. The other bathroom was just a toilet and sink off the laundry room. "How many times do we really NEED a second tub or shower?" There was no garage. "Carports are handier, and they don't get filled up with a bunch of junk." There were only three bedrooms -- that WAS the reason for moving in the first place! "The kids are young. When they are older, and really need their own rooms, we can add on. There's plenty of room to do that with this house." But the bedrooms were so tiny! "There was that neat little room right next to the den -- it would make a terrific playroom. With all the toys out of their bedrooms, they won't actually need that much space. And the boys would probably love to have bunkbeds, anyway." And there WAS a pool. "But, you know, it's over to the side of the lot with a privacy fence around it. It'll almost be like not having one."

But the clincher was the horse. "Champ," according to the owner, was a wonderful horse, especially for a family with children. He's really gentle, she said. He's about twelve years old, she said. Too bad I wasn't wired with a hidden tape recorder. It would have come in handy as evidence later on.

"As much as I want to," the lady sighed, "I just can't take him with me. Whoever buys the house will also be the new lucky owners of a wonderful horse! No extra charge."

So, thirty days later we moved all our worldly goods and three children from a spacious three-bedroom house with a very nice kitchen to a cramped three-bedroom house with a tiny nook disguised as a kitchen -- with no dishwasher (and nowhere to put one!), no garbage disposal, and drab-looking yellow-painted cabinets -- at least what few cabinets there were!

But the important thing was -- we had a horse! A gentle, twelve-year-old horse.

So gentle that he went flying across the pasture with our oldest son Casey, heading right into the grove of pine trees in the far corner. Pine trees generally have very low branches. Casey didn't particularly enjoy inspecting those branches so closely! And so gentle that he bucked Tara off, breaking her wrist, and so gentle that he rared up and sent Nathan and our niece Jessica sliding off his back end on to THEIR back ends in the pasture!

Most of the time, though, Champ simply went into slow-motion mode, so slow that you were tempted to put a mirror under his nose to see if he was still breathing. We decided he just didn't like us. Jim told the kids he would sell Champ and buy them another horse -- one more suited to our family. He found a sucker - I mean, buyer - who was experienced with horses and who could probably be more successful in dealing with Champ than we were.

Labor Day weekend -- three months after we moved to our "dream" house -- we awoke on Sunday morning in anticipation of saying good-bye to Champ. The buyer was coming that afternoon from Joplin to pick him up. Our neighbor, Bill, came over to let us know that during the night he had heard our horse making terrible noises, as though he were sick or something. Sure enough, ol' Champ looked like he'd been on the losing end of a violent battle. He was rolling around on the ground, beating himself up. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Did you know that vets will make a house call on Sundays -- for a price?! The diagnosis? Champ was foundering. Was what?! It seems that all that fine newly-mowed grass that Jim had let him have the day before didn't set too well on his tummy! And a dose of horsey-Pepto Bismol wasn't going to be an adequate cure. "Maybe if he wasn't so old..." drawled the vet.

"He's only twelve or so," Jim said. I'm not sure if the look of astonishment on the vet's face was from knowing the truth of Champ's age or from the disbelief that someone could be as gullible as we had obviously been.

"This horse is 20-PLUS, if he's a day!" Now, everything began to make sense. The poor thing wasn't just being ornery when the kids tried to ride him. It was like expecting a 90-year-old man to carry his grandkids piggyback on a mile-long hike!

I guess this meant the "sale" was off. We didn't figure the buyer would be too interested in this worn-out four-legged creature who could now barely stand on those four legs. The vet left instructions for us to keep Champ moving -- walking around, drinking water, etc. This was especially nice since we had invited Jim's entire family over that day for a pool party and cook-out. We explained the situation to them, and they were sympathetic and didn't seem to mind when Jim headed out to the pasture every hour or so to "walk the horse."

Jim's brother John, who owned a wrecker service, made a wisecrack about what we were gonna do if the horse kicked the bucket out there in the pasture. (John would forever regret those prophetic words.)

Monday morning -- Labor Day -- dawned clear. And hot. A 100-degree sunny day and a dead horse in the pasture do not make a good combination. And NOBODY will agree to pick up and dispose of a dead horse on a holiday! Even after a call to the police didn't provide an answer, we phoned Jim's oldest brother Joe. Joe had a farm in Subiaco. If anybody would know how to get rid of a large, dead animal, it would be Joe. Sure enough, Joe knew "the guy at the rendering plant in Paris (Arkansas, not France)." He was willing to come in and open the place up long enough to take ol' Champ off our hands. Just one little hitch. We had to figure out a way to get him there!

Jim's brother John - the one with the wrecker service - tried to pretend he wasn't home when we called. Finally, he relented. He would loan us his wrecker, but he emphatically stated that he would NOT drive it himself to Paris. Brotherhood only counted for so much!

But John did bring the wrecker over to the house, drove it out into the pasture and helped to "hook 'im up." (This is one of those things in life that - at the time - you say you will someday laugh about.) Somehow we had to figure out a way to disguise the "wrecked vehicle" being towed. In the end we wrapped the pool cover around him and held it together with chains. Now, that was a strange sight. But no one would be able to really identify what was under the cover.

Jim, who was driving to Paris accompanied by Casey, had never operated a wrecker before. "What happens if it somehow jars loose and falls off in the road?" he asked John.

John, shaking his head, advised, "If I were you, I'd drive like hell, and plan on buying myself a new pool cover when I got home." Sounded like good advice to me.

Actually, the trip was pretty uneventful. Since he had to drive slowly, Jim watched as cars would pull up behind him on the highway. They'd finally pull out to pass, inching by as they craned their necks to look as passed. "You could tell they were really trying to figure out what in the heck we were hauling," Jim said. The only time the situation got a little edgy was when they got into Paris itself.

Paris is a small town. You know, the kind with a quaint little square right in the middle. And on Labor Day all the local residents gather around that little square for the annual parade and celebration. There are probably people in Paris today STILL asking just WHO was the sponsor of that odd float entry -- the wrecker (that got caught up in the middle of the parade somehow) with that vaguely-familiar shape swaying from the hook. By that time the pool cover had worked itself around just enough for people to get a little glimpse of "something." They just weren't sure WHAT. For that they can be grateful.

Brother Joe's friend showed up and took our dearly-departed Champ off our hands -- AND off the wrecker. Jim and Casey returned home, relieved to have this Labor Day weekend over. And I was convinced that my first instinct about having a horse had been right. I'd rather have had a fourth bedroom.

Crooked Memories

A whisper of wind rustles through the leaves of the "formosa" trees. This gentle breeze, warm from the summer sun, doesn't disturb the sturdy lad up in the branches. He is carefully selecting only the very best "green beans" for his companions on the ground. Dark curls, with just a hint of gold, cascade down the back of a small girl reaching up to receive the bounty. She passes on the flat, slender pods to another member of this diligent crew of cooks. This third child, pushing her chestnut-colored bangs out of her face, balances one of Mam-ma's kitchen pots against her body and collects what will become tonight's "supper." Together, after the harvest, Frankie, Janice and Dee Dee would "snap the beans" just the way they learned from Mam-ma.

It would be years before I would discover that those trees were actually called "mimosa" trees. In fact, I had just moved with my husband and three children into an older ranch-style home that sat at the end of a long driveway lined with those beloved trees. Unfortunately, there had been a drought the previous summer, and the former residents had obviously neglected the thirsty timber. Jim was trying to decide whether the trees would make it, while I gazed on the scene, letting my mind wander back through the years.

Mam-ma's front yard was a vast playground for me and my cousins when we were small. We particularly liked the crooked trees that let us climb endlessly through their branches. They were better than any of today's elaborate playground gadgets. After all, how many teeter-totters and slides have you seen that actually "grow green beans"? One of the largest of those "formosa" trees in Mam-ma's yard stood near the front porch. This was the one that Frankie, Janice and I spent countless hours in and under making memories to last a lifetime.

Frankie and Janice were my first cousins on my dad's side of the family. Frankie's mom and Janice's dad were two of eight siblings in this particular lineage of the Reeds of western Kentucky. There were a lot of cousins, but the three of us were especially close, having been born within a four-month period at the end of 1950.

Harry Truman was President and the Korean Conflict had just begun. Volkswagens had become the largest-selling automobile import just the year before. A Coca-Cola in an ice-cold bottle could be purchased for a nickel. For LESS than a dollar both of my parents could go to a double-feature movie (complete with cartoon and news reels) AND have a Coke and popcorn (provided they could come up with a dollar to start with, of course).

Oblivious to all this history-in-the-making, the three of us kids spent endless hours in Mam-ma's front yard letting our imaginations run free, playing make-believe at what we perhaps thought our futures would hold.

However, I'm certain that I never even pretended that I worked in a junior high school library, directing students with purple hair and nose rings to the card catalog. Or that I would have four children who would be anything less than perfect, super-intelligent, talented, polite and totally obedient.

Janice and I probably pretended to be a "wife and mommy," just like June Cleaver, or perhaps even a successful, have-it-all woman of the '70s like Carol Brady. More than likely Frankie, being a typical boy, never thought much beyond the moment.

It's amazing how imaginative we thought we were as children until we see the realities of what we have become and how the world we live in has evolved since those "Wonder Years" of our childhood.

I'm certain the "perfect, drop-dead gorgeous and wealthy husband" that I fantasized there with me (the "perfect, drop-dead gorgeous and capable-of-spending-all-that-money-wisely wife") did not even begin to parallel the not-so-perfect, not-so-gorgeous (I won't even get into that) couple that Jim and I actually are. I suppose I can't count the wealthy part either -- unless you consider my collection of Gone With the Wind memorabilia and Jim's Chevy pick-up to be representations of great wealth.

As the years have passed, Frankie, Janice and I have scattered to different parts of the country. We see one another now only at an occasional family reunion. It's sometimes the kind of reunion where all these oft-forgotten people from your past gather at the home of some ancient aunt you didn't even know you had. (Did I really know these characters? Worse yet, am I actually related to them?!) You reminisce, laugh and cry together. Historical, and not-so-historical events, are recalled and discussed.

Inevitably, someone always manages to dredge up the most embarrassing moment of your life. And Aunt Prudence is sure to loudly state her opinion that "you look more like Great-Aunt Hortense everyday since you put on all that weight!"

"Thanks for that observation, Aunt Prudence. And I see that you still haven't found a doctor who can do anything about those cauliflower ears of yours, have you?"

Frankie, now the father of two girls, wasn't just a cousin. He was my best friend. He's, also,, the only one of us who still resides in Kentucky. I couldn't say my f's, so I called him "Shrankie," and he answered to it as though that was the name bestowed upon him at birth.

At my fourth birthday party he suggested I practice blowing out my candles by blowing on the half-full ashtray sitting next to my vanilla icing-covered cake! I did. My mom, doing what moms do, rescued the "peppered" icing somehow and the party went on. Frankie's lucky that the wish I made when I blew out the candles didn't come true.

I'm sure that Frankie's memories of the "formosa" trees are not nearly so pleasant as mine. As a teenager he fell from that big one near the front porch and broke his back. The long months in a body cast probably wiped those "fun times" right out of his brain!

Janice and I both moved from Kentucky when we were young: she to a suburb of Chicago and me to Vicksburg, Mississippi. Our summer stays and holidays in Paducah were the only time we had together, and we made the most out of it.

We spent hours cutting out paper dolls, having tea parties, playing house and all those other things that little girls did in the days before little girls knew they should be "more assertive" in their role-playing. We may not have become the "perfect" people we envisioned ourselves becoming, but at least we didn't grow up and give birth to someone we called "the Beaver"!

More often, the reunions that Frankie, Janice and I find ourselves at now are the kind where you say "good-bye" to those you suddenly realize were more a part of you than you ever knew or valued enough. As this type of family gathering becomes more the norm, a sense of urgency often begins to flow through one's blood. Your realize your own immortality, as well as that of others. You want to see everyone again. Talk to them, laugh with them, cry with them. One last time before it's too late.

And I, with all my blessings, need to stop more often to say things like "thank-you," "I care" or simply "I love you"; to give away a smile or a hug - or BOTH ; or to just "be there" for someone who is alone or hurting.

I need to reflect back on a time when everything was so simple. All the three of us had to worry about was getting enough "green beans" for "supper" from the formosa tree in Mam-ma's front yard!

~ written in 1996

Life of a Slumlord - Continued...Pt. 2

Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

One would think that a mere sixteen apartments could not possibly cause SO many problems! One would be wrong.



First of all, you have the guy (in apt. A) who refuses to park in his own spot. His neighbor in apt. B complains. In retaliation tenant A (whom I'll call Buck) sits in his car and turns up the stereo to eardrum-busting decibels. Buck, also, complains that the first complainee in apt. B (I'll call her Tanya) is messing around with a third tenant (upstairs in apt. C, just above apt. A), hereafter known as Chet. Of course, Chet is married - and NOT to Tanya. Then Buck's live-in - who is the actual lessee of apt. A (and the ONLY one who actually has a job - let's call her Tiffany) finds out that Tanya is giving b--- jobs to Buck while she (Tiffany) is out earning the rent!

All of this is learned through a series of late night phone calls -- as though WE care who is doing what to whom! Then Buck gets mad and leaves Tiffany. But, of course, he still has a key. Lo and behold Tiffany comes home one day to discover there has been a "break-in" and her television and other things of value are missing. Gee, I wonder who could have done this terrible deed!? But somehow this must be the fault of the landlord for not protecting his tenants!

So, now, NO ONE is paying their rent. And the so-called eviction process must begin. Several legal notices and unpaid months of rent later, these "upstanding citizens" are gone. Before they leave, though, they must show their dissatisfaction by taking several really-stinky trash bags out of the dumpster and spreading their contents (including dirty diapers, of course) throughout the apartment. A few holes in the walls, ripped blinds and a stolen oven door are just a few of the finishing touches!

Ain't the life of a landlord grand?!

Ugly Men More Fertile

"Ugly Men More Fertile, Produce More Sperm During Sex" ~ this was the headline staring back at me on my computer this morning. According to the article scientists have found attractive males produce less sperm during sex. These researchers think good-looking males are biologically geared to hold back their sperm in each encounter to increase their chance of impregnating more females.

My, my. I had five pregnancies. I personally don't think Jim is at all ugly, so does this mean if I had married someone ugly, I might have had a dozen kids?! My oldest son has three children. Does this mean he is a "tad" better-looking than his dad? Should we start judging a man's attractiveness by the number of children he has produced? Jacob, in the Bible, had twelve sons. Guess we are lucky they didn't have cameras back then!

Actually, after reading further into the article, I realize that these findings (from the University of Oxford and University College London -- at least it wasn't American tax dollars paying for it!) are backed up by studies of chickens and fish!

What I want to know is -- how in the heck do you tell the ugly chickens and fish from the good-looking ones?!

Personally, I think the only good-looking chicken or fish, is the one on the dinner table!

I found this on a old computer disk --

Now that I’m 50…


Whoa! Am I really *fifty * years old ? It seems like my mother should only be 50, certainly not me. So, I’ve probably been around now longer than I’ll be around in the future. And what have I got to show for it ?

All the dreams, all the plans… What happened to them ? Some came about, others didn’t and probably never will. But priorities change as I get older, and many of those dreams and plans don’t seem all that important anymore. I look at life from a completely different perspective now than I did in my teens, in my twenties, thirties, even forties.

One of the biggest differences now is that there isn’t much that is urgent! When I was younger, it was imperative that certain things happen or not happen. I was devastated if plans didn’t pan out like I wanted them to. Now, I finally realize that life is not that urgent. We live the best we can, with what we know, hoping to make a difference somehow, somewhere. It’s the life after this one that is important. This life on earth is just “preparation” – a “test,” if you will.

Love, laugh, cry and cherish each moment now, but look forward with hope of a better time to come.


Diane
December 2, 2000


July 9, 2009 - This was almost nine years ago, but it's pretty much how I feel even today. Except that maybe I didn't put enough emphasis on the spiritual aspect of life then. I said that "we live the best we can, with what we know, hoping to make a difference somehow, somewhere." While all that is true, I failed to point out that, as Christians, we have an obligation to keep learning, keep studying, keep praying, and share the hope and truth of Jesus to those we meet along the way. -- dmk

The Life of a Slumlord

There are aspects of being a slumlord that are amusing and entertaining – unless YOU are the slumlord (or his wife). I think my husband had a brain fart the day he made the decision to delve into this life-changing career. Unfortunately, it’s the kind of “fart” that continues to stink long after the deed is done.

When we took over the 4-plexes I think Jim had grandiose ideas of turning them (and their tenants) into something better. The problem is – Jim has a heart and truly cares for people. But sometimes you can’t help people by “helping” them. There are people who don’t seem capable of bettering themselves. “Helping” becomes “enabling”. And there are people who can never appreciate help because they are too busy “taking” and they don’t understand or want to understand what it is to “give.”

I would like to think we have learned something from this chapter of our lives. But, as one can learn from events in the Bible, human beings are forgetful of the life-lessons they experience along the path toward eternity. In other words, we tend to let our egos get the best of us sometimes and we repeat the same mistakes over and over. Maybe if I chronicle some of the events of the past couple of years – put it here in black and white – where we can refer back to it… well, you know what I mean – maybe, just maybe, we can learn from our mistakes. This time. It’s worth a try anyway.

To be continued...

The "Jackson" Circus

How sad that even in death Michael Jackson is still a circus act. I turned on the television to see a black hearse moving slowly down a Los Angeles freeway and it reminded me of another circus when cameras followed a white Bronco occupied by O.J. Simpson.

Although I was never a big fan of Michael Jackson's, I do acknowledge that he was a musical genius with a talent he shared with the world. His life was a tragic story that ended much like that of Elvis Presley's.

Even sadder, though, is the fact that his family has chosen to create a fiasco that gives a venue of publicity-grabbing by those kinds of people who always manage to "show up" at times like this (i.e. Jesse Jackson (no relation) and Al Sharpton).

Unfortunately, we will be bombarded for weeks or months to come with "news stories" concerning the lawsuits concerning his estate and, worst of all, his children. Those three children are the ultimate victims. They have actually been "victims" since the day they were "conceived" in an attempt to give his life a meaning he could never seem to find.

I don't know what was in his heart. Unlike Elvis, Michael Jackson never openly expressed finding any peace with God, but he could simply have kept that to himself. I hope and pray that he DID find that at some point in his tragic life. Otherwise, there is NO happy ending here even in death.

i say i said

What is it they say?... this is the first day of the rest of my life! ... better late than never!

From the 8th grade on I wanted to be a writer. My 7th grade English teacher, Mrs. Christina Alter, gave me my first taste of writing poetry. She was a POETRY NUT!!! Our class memorized several of her favorite poems (Midnight Ride of Paul Revere is the one I remember the most) and anything by Robert Frost (miles to go before I sleep...). I had a couple of poems that year published in an anthology. They really weren't very good, but I was estatic!

The summer before 8th grade I began to write short stories. They probably weren't that great either, but - hey - you gotta start somewhere! My 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Mildred Knox, was another great influence on me. After that I don't remember ever NOT writing!

I never pursued writing on a professional basis, but it has always been a huge part of who I am. At one time I put together several things I had written and called the collection "i say i said" and that is where the title of this blog came from. I may never be published in any literature books, but writing has added an aspect to my life that I would not have wanted to live without.