I was told this afternoon that my recent musings here have seemed like I’m searching for something, some kind of sign. And then, on the way home, there it was, the sign. Ironically, it’s a sign viewed by thousands of travellers each day, for whom it undoubtedly has a far different meaning than it did for me.
I may be risking eternal damnation for this egregious breach of faith. But I need to ponder a question which has frequently bothered me in the past, because it became personal this weekend. I have long been amused by the tendency of believers who have suffered some tragic mishap to thank the deity of their choice that it was not worse. “It’s too bad the still exploded and killed Grampa, but thank God a few gallons of shine survived.” Why does the Almighty always get the credit for the good parts, but not the blame for the bad? If he was really intervening, why couldn’t he save the whole still instead of just a couple of gallons? Saturday, as Crossbo and I galloped through the woods with a freshly-blessed St. Hubert’s medal hanging around my neck, a catastrophe occurred which left me wondering whether there was any mojo in that medal at all.
For the last few days, it seems that the infamous Murphy has been hell-bent to complicate my life with his unbreakable law. It’s been said that Murphy couldn’t have been a horseman, because he was too optimistic. And, as I’ve pointed out before, he really wasn’t a horseman. He was an Air Force flight test engineer, aka rocket scientist. Now I think I may have managed to prove that, even though Murphy’s law has a firm foundation in rocket science, it can at least be bent, if not broken.
Yeah, I realize October started a while ago. This is the third Wednesday that I’ve been faced with the tough decision of whether to get up at 5:00 AM to go hunting, or sleep until 6:00 and go to work. Looking at it from that perspective, that extra hour of sleep doesn’t seem much like a bargain, and I’ve made the right decision each time. But now, unlike previous weeks that the calendar insisted were October, the weather finally seems to agree.
The photographic evidence isn’t very clear, because I wasn’t expecting today to be a photo-op and wasn’t well equipped. But Crossbo had yet another encounter with a celebrity surrogate rider. Like last year’s experience with the Mounties, I once again entrusted Crossbo to the hands of someone who was frustrated with my inability to achieve his full potential. What do you say when the next First Lady of Kentucky asks to ride your horse? Since she’s an eventer who rides at a level way out of my league, and has provided me with some valuable coaching in the past, and was once again offering assistance, the only reasonable response was to dismount and hand her the reins.
Apparently, I’ve been a negligent cad, so I’ll attempt to belatedly atone for my sin of omission. The weekend before last, Crossbo and I joined some of our buddies at Masterson Station Park for a romp around the cross-country course. It was recently brought to my attention that I had dissed him by failing to muse here about how wonderful he was. So I’ll try to give him the credit he well deserves.
Once again, it’s the first Saturday in May, when the whole world turns its eyes towards Kentucky for that overly hyped two-minute sprint in Louisvile, aka the Kentucky Derby. Even the Queen of England was here this year (which may or may not be a step up from the usual assortment of Hollywood has-beens who show up in hopes for one last bit of attention from the fawning media who might otherwise have to work for a living). And once again, I paid absolutely no attention to the race because I’m more interested in horses than celebrities, which means the real event to watch was last weekend. And even though I’m not really a fan of overpriced watches that cost more than a good horse, I do think a Rolex watch woud be a nicer prize than a friggin blanket of roses that will wilt in a couple of days. And once again, this entry is going to be just a reference to my Rolex website where I feebly attempt to document this year’s event.
I realize there has been a shortage of horseplay topics here recently. That hasn’t been dure to a shortage of horseplay. Although January and February basically sucked, March was a pretty good month. But if I had written about each hunt, they all would have been about the same: “Crossbo was awesome. We had fun.” But now that the season has ended, I guess a summary is due.
The lesson for today was obviously “Do the right thing”. And now, at the end of the day, the right thing was obviously hunting. But earlier in the day, if I had been superstitious, I might have wondered if I was being set up for a different lesson about priorites or tempting fate.
The entire long Thanksgiving weekend was blessed with beautiful weather, and I was able to maintain tradition with a Thanksgiving day hunt. Unfortunately, there was no opportunity to cut anybody’s clothes off (a tradition which has probably never been explained here, since it dates back to the pre-blog era), but other traditions were appropriately honored. And I managed to continue my amazing feats of manual dexterity, with not just two flasks, but three.