The Trail Ride From Hell

 

Carolyn J. Rose

First, let me say that I love all animals. But have a healthy fear of many: wolves, lions, tigers, rogue elephants, snakes loaded with venom, and sharks, to name a few. Back in 1979, I added a horse named Thundercloud to that list.

My experience with horses had been limited to a couple of rides on elderly equines with the speed of sloths. But the organizers of a trail ride in the Arkansas Ozarks assured me that was fine. They had a gentle steed for me.

If only I’d considered that statement with the same skepticism I reserve for claims made by used car dealers. But I didn’t. And thus I found myself confronting Thundercloud.

He was huge. Really huge. Really really hugely huge.

“They say he’s as gentle as a kitten,” his owner, a good old boy of about 50, told me.

Thundercloud snorted the way I do when I hear a politician make a promise. Then he tried to nip my shoulder.

I yelped and jumped back. “Who are they?”

“Uh, um. Well, see, I just bought him. But they told me he’s a teddy bear.”

Of course they did. If you were trying to sell a horse, would you say he’s a killer? Would you express any negative doubts at all about his temperament? Before I could verbalize that question, Thundercloud’s owner tossed me into the saddle and we were off.

​The first half of the ride was fine, slow and easy except for a few anxious moments when we crossed a stream on slippery rocks, thus avoiding a concrete ford with gaps where a hoof could get stuck and cause a horse to stumble.

On the way back, when a boy on a pony passed us at a gallop, Thundercloud took it as a challenge and bolted. I tried to rein him in, but the bridle might as well have been a bit of holiday ribbon. When I pulled, he ran faster. We passed the kid on the pony. Hooves pounded behind us and other riders shouted advice.

Thundercloud ran even faster.

I spotted the stream ahead. The stream with the dangerous ford. I saw myself drowning beneath a thrashing horse with a broken leg.

I threw myself from the saddle. The dirt road came to meet me at an alarming rate. I blanked out.

When I came around Thundercloud was standing over me and a dozen riders were bearing down on us. Forget drowning. Now I’d be trampled to death.

But Thundercloud didn’t move as the riders pulled up, dismounted, and gabbled questions about my condition. Before I could complete a mental inventory, Thundercloud’s owner, who apparently thought worrying about a broken neck was for sissies, jerked me to my feet.

As I gasped in pain, another man stuck a wad of chewing tobacco in my mouth. I gagged. I retched. I threw up my lunch, my breakfast, and several meals I’d eaten the month before. If my tonsils hadn’t been removed when I was five, I would have hurled them as well.

Finally exhibiting good sense, I refused to remount Thundercloud and finished the ride on a calm and gentle mare with a sedate walk. My own walking speed, until my bruised ribs healed, would have made snails snicker.

I never got on a horse again.

​

 

Sing it loud, Sing it proud!

 

A confession

My name is Mike and I am a baritone.

Lest you think you’ve wandered into a 12-step meeting for recovering shower singers, let me explain.

Baritones are the Mookie Wilson of the music world. (New York Mets fans will get this.) None of the glamour or recognition of the swooping aria sopranos like Maria Callas. No wall-vibrating bass a la James Earl Jones. (“Luke, I am your father!!!”) No sky-scraping tenor ring-outs like Luciano Pavarotti. (End the note, Lucky, you’ll hurt yourself!)

Just a pleasant, mid lower range, sing-the well-marked-harmony parts-baritone. Even altos exude more glamour.

I have always sung. Loudly. In my car to the radio or mp3 player. On the stage in community theater musicals. In inappropriate settings like the soup aisle of the supermarket. And, (sigh) yes, in the shower. Soap on a rope can be easily adapted into a fantasy microphone. And you should see me dance a dripping Nae Nae.

My earliest memories are as an eight-year-old warbler. I think I caught the bug after winning a $25 savings bond at the Bandon, Oregon Cranberry Festival talent show with my unforgettable rendition of “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” 

Of course, my roly-poly build provided an vivid visual aid that really sold the lyrics. Later in my career (as a nine- and ten-year old), I sang folk music with my teenaged sister and her friend. In those days I was a soprano, of course. I had to retire when the two of them cruelly insinuated I was “screeching.” That prolonged high E above high F is a bear to maintain.  

 

These days I croon with the Clark College community choir. Not to be confused with the Clark College concert choir which involves people who can actually carry a tune. A mix of students, older people and homeless folks who wandered in off the street, we’re working on holiday tunes with lovely harmonies and uplifting lyrics. My personal favorites are Bach Cantata 61 (far superior to Bach Cantatas 59 and 60), Music in The Night (which we perform with our eyes squeezed tightly shut) and the song that was number one on the Vatican radio station for 17 straight weeks, Verbum Caro Factum Est. Which loosely translated means “God will get you for that.”

 All kidding aside, I’m really enjoying reaching for those magic chords with my other choir members. When we hit the perfect harmony, little bitty fun bumps break out all over my body. It’s a transcendent moment. I have no idea what that means but it’s my word-of-the-day challenge so I had to work it in.

 We had a perfect choir moment at our last rehearsal. One older gentleman stood up and asked us for a favor. “My grandson is turning nine today. If I get him on the phone,” he said, waving his cell around, “could we all sing happy birthday to him?” Who’s going to turn down a request like that? You risk inclusion in the hard-hearted hall of fame if  you do. He punched in the numbers and got his daughter to put grandkid on the line.

 “Jason.” (Disclosure: not his real name. You never know when there’s a lawyer lurking.) “I’m here with some friends and they want to wish you a happy birthday.” After setting the phone down he gave us the high sign and we launched a slightly quavery version of that well-loved American classic. I’m pretty sure several of us struggled to remember the lyrics. When we finished, proud grandfather picked up the phone.

 “So, what did you think?” he asked Jason. (Still not his real name.) “Wasn’t that special?” He listened for a moment, nodded his head, and then ended the call. Very honestly, he looked a little glum.

 “So what did Jason (Still . . . oh, never mind) think?” One of the sopranos asked the grumpy gramps.

 “He said I interrupted his game of prancing pteradacyls on his cell phone.”

 “Nonsense!” exclaimed one of the altos. “It was a moment he’ll remember forever.”

 “Yeah,” mumbled the official choir curmudgeon. “If the therapy proves to be unsuccessful.” Everyone cast stink eyes at me.  

 All in all, my experience with the choir has been rewarding. Under the direction of Doctor Funk (I’m not making this up. His name is Jacob Funk), we’re preparing for two performances in early December. He’s knowledgeable, inspirational and highly supportive. He even reassured me that my reach for the higher notes in the baritone range were not bordering on falsetto. Even though I sometimes feel like I’m on the verge of launching into the intro to The Lion Sleeps Tonight.

 With any luck we’ll negotiate the Verbum, the Bach (to pronounce correctly pretend you’re a cat trying to expel an especially pernicious furball) and the other wonderful music we’ve been practicing. I’m hoping for a full house, perfect harmony, and no life-threatening injuries.

 

 

Designer Water? Really?

Carolyn J. Rose

When I gaze at the hundreds of plastic bottles of water in convenience store coolers, I can almost hear my grandparents exclaiming with a mix of disbelief, dismay, and even disgust.
These were people who came through the Great Depression with tight budgets and tightened belts. They repaired and recycled, made their clothing last or made it into quilts or rag rugs. They planted gardens and preserved food, kept cows and raised chickens for Sunday dinners. They drank water from mountain springs and carried it with them in jugs and canteens.

I doubt they could have imagined that one day people would shell out for water shipped from Iceland or remote islands, from mountaintops or beneath volcanoes, from mineral springs or glacial streams.

If I could go back in time and tell them about the trends to come, I bet they’d laugh and ask who the heck would be crazy enough to pay hard-earned money for those things. They might mention—as they often did—that I shouldn’t let my imagination run away with me. They might even ask whether people in the future would pay for jeans riddled with holes or shoes that cost more than a thousand dollars. And if I told them that would happen, they’d again exclaim with disbelief, dismay, and even disgust.

On the other hand, if I could go back and explain about phones without cords, electric cars, solar power, portable computers, or letters you could write and send with a tap of a button, I think they’d see the value.
But would they “get” designer water?
Nope.