Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Ashley Judd - My cousin
I will make this a quick one. On Friday's last episode of "Who Do You Think You Are?", Ashley found out that William Brewster is her 10th Great Grandfather. William Brewster is my 12th great grandfather. Brewster's oldest son Jonathan is also a common ancestor for both of us. I have yet to figure out the exact placement of the connection. A quick guess would be 8th cousin two times removed. I just think it is cool to connect someone like Ashley to my tree. Cool!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Who Do You Think You Are? Entitled That's What.
I'm in a mood this evening, so I'm going to spew, rant, exactly how I feel about all those people who think they are entitled because of who their families are, or are not. Listen closely, Paris Hilton, and everyone else living off their Daddies money, or anyone else's money.
I've been interested in my families history for a long time since I was a pre-teen. I'm just not so sure how common it is to find yourself connected to so many high fluting people. I told my sister the other day that when we set in history class at the teachers talked about our fore fathers they really meant our relatives that came before us, same blood passed through their veins as ours not all that many generations ago.
My relative that is most connected to all this high fluting business is my maternal great grandmother Francis. I did know her. She babysat me on occassion when I was a youngster and lived to be 102 yrs old. She was a ward of the state of Mnnesota. Francis Belle Ellsworth was born to Elmer Wakefield Ellsworth and Katherine Mabel (Kittie) Bassett on November 11, 1892 in Rochester MN. There only child as Kittie went ill shortly after and passed away in Dec of 1894. Elmer being a young farmer didn't exactly now what to do with a young toddler while he was farming. Court records filed in Olmsted county state that he tied her to a tree while he went to work the fields. Elmer gave up custody of Francis to the state with a $100 bond that Francis would receive when she became an adult. In this case when she married Michael Joseph O'Donnell, my great grandfather. MJ and Elmer fostered a deal for them to get married. None of the details were ever known to current relatives, but from that marriage Mike and Francis started a meat market in Rondell South Dakota. They had seven children, four boys, one of which was my grandfather Louis, and three girls. It was an unhappy marriage that ended in divorce. The breaking straw being the death of their middle daughter Laura from diptherea.
I'm taking you in the wrong direction. I want to go back before Francis was born, or even Elmer, and Kittie. The names Elsworth and Bassett were names from Early American history. Could it be possible that I was descended from any of these affluent people of Colonial time?
Um . . . yes! I think I will make a list here and expound on all the greatness that my ancestors have to behold. I've found statistics that say that ten percent of the US population can say they are related to someone who boarded the Mayflower in 1620 on its trip to Plymouth Massachusetts. I'm interested to know if all those people can put together this kind of linkage.
9th Great Grandfather, John Howland. He was the young man who fell overboard into the Atlantic Ocean on their faithful trip to America. Of course he married my 9th great grandmother, Elizabeth Tilley, who was also aboard the Mayflower. She was the only member of her family to survive the first year in Plymouth. John Tilley her father, and Edward Tilley her uncle both signed the Mayflower Compact. They both passed in 1621 the first year in Plymouth.
William Brewster is my 12th great grandfather.
6th Great Grandfather, Lt Fortunatus Bassett, he was a member of the crew of the Brigadine privateer ship the "General Benedict". He was one of the unfortunate who froze to death on Christmas Day 1778. The crew was on its way to the West Indies to retrieve supplies for Washington's Army. A snowstorm trapped them in Plymouth Harbor in sub-zero temperatures. Quite possibly that is why his youngest son Cornelius Bassett moved to Warren PA. Then on to Olmsted County MN where he took several of his sons to start a saw mill. They were wagon builders.
John Trumbull, author, artist. American soldier, diplomat, author, painter
After a military career aiding George Washington, John Trumbull went abroad to paint. His skill as an artist went largely unnoticed until the U.S. Senate commissioned him to paint 4 war paintings which now hang in the U.S. Capitol. He went on to be president of the American Academy of Fine Art.
6th cousin, 7x removed, John Hancock, famous for his beautiful & large signature on the Declaration of Independence.
2nd great grand uncle, John Rozelle Topliff, served in the Wisconsin Infantry during the Civil War in company K. He suffered illness in the first year but returned to service. He was mustered out in Brownsville Texas in August of 1866. Although hardly famous, he should still be remembered as a hero in the same regard as those who have been written about in depthly in the story books.
8th great grandfather, Matthew Mayhew, original owner and namer of Martha's Vineyard.
8th Cousin 2x removed, 41st President George Herbert Walker Bush and his son 43rd President George Walker Bush, who is my 9th cousin, once removed.
6th cousin 5x removed, 19th President Rutherford Birchard Hayes.
38th President, Gerald Ford.
There are lots of Reverends in the list. I find the most intriguing character was Marcia Melissa Bassett Colgrove Goodwin. She was an editor, printer and publisher of women's materials for the Sufferage Movement. She may have even been more famous in history if she wouldn't have died prior to the establishment of the movement.
The next major category of ancestors and descendants are writers.
Geoffery Chaucer, 20th Great Grandfather. (Link between Deacon John Dunham, and Thomas Dunham is debateable and mostly likely not true).
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 5th cousin 6 times removed.
Edgar Lee Masters, 8th cousin 3 times removed.
We should include Doctors as well.
Dr Medad Parsons, Sixth Great Grandfather. Physician in Vermont until his death in 1818.
I will have to tell you more, as there is so much it will not all fit in one post.
I've been interested in my families history for a long time since I was a pre-teen. I'm just not so sure how common it is to find yourself connected to so many high fluting people. I told my sister the other day that when we set in history class at the teachers talked about our fore fathers they really meant our relatives that came before us, same blood passed through their veins as ours not all that many generations ago.
My relative that is most connected to all this high fluting business is my maternal great grandmother Francis. I did know her. She babysat me on occassion when I was a youngster and lived to be 102 yrs old. She was a ward of the state of Mnnesota. Francis Belle Ellsworth was born to Elmer Wakefield Ellsworth and Katherine Mabel (Kittie) Bassett on November 11, 1892 in Rochester MN. There only child as Kittie went ill shortly after and passed away in Dec of 1894. Elmer being a young farmer didn't exactly now what to do with a young toddler while he was farming. Court records filed in Olmsted county state that he tied her to a tree while he went to work the fields. Elmer gave up custody of Francis to the state with a $100 bond that Francis would receive when she became an adult. In this case when she married Michael Joseph O'Donnell, my great grandfather. MJ and Elmer fostered a deal for them to get married. None of the details were ever known to current relatives, but from that marriage Mike and Francis started a meat market in Rondell South Dakota. They had seven children, four boys, one of which was my grandfather Louis, and three girls. It was an unhappy marriage that ended in divorce. The breaking straw being the death of their middle daughter Laura from diptherea.
I'm taking you in the wrong direction. I want to go back before Francis was born, or even Elmer, and Kittie. The names Elsworth and Bassett were names from Early American history. Could it be possible that I was descended from any of these affluent people of Colonial time?
Um . . . yes! I think I will make a list here and expound on all the greatness that my ancestors have to behold. I've found statistics that say that ten percent of the US population can say they are related to someone who boarded the Mayflower in 1620 on its trip to Plymouth Massachusetts. I'm interested to know if all those people can put together this kind of linkage.
9th Great Grandfather, John Howland. He was the young man who fell overboard into the Atlantic Ocean on their faithful trip to America. Of course he married my 9th great grandmother, Elizabeth Tilley, who was also aboard the Mayflower. She was the only member of her family to survive the first year in Plymouth. John Tilley her father, and Edward Tilley her uncle both signed the Mayflower Compact. They both passed in 1621 the first year in Plymouth.
William Brewster is my 12th great grandfather.
6th Great Grandfather, Lt Fortunatus Bassett, he was a member of the crew of the Brigadine privateer ship the "General Benedict". He was one of the unfortunate who froze to death on Christmas Day 1778. The crew was on its way to the West Indies to retrieve supplies for Washington's Army. A snowstorm trapped them in Plymouth Harbor in sub-zero temperatures. Quite possibly that is why his youngest son Cornelius Bassett moved to Warren PA. Then on to Olmsted County MN where he took several of his sons to start a saw mill. They were wagon builders.
John Trumbull, author, artist. American soldier, diplomat, author, painter
After a military career aiding George Washington, John Trumbull went abroad to paint. His skill as an artist went largely unnoticed until the U.S. Senate commissioned him to paint 4 war paintings which now hang in the U.S. Capitol. He went on to be president of the American Academy of Fine Art.
6th cousin, 7x removed, John Hancock, famous for his beautiful & large signature on the Declaration of Independence.
2nd great grand uncle, John Rozelle Topliff, served in the Wisconsin Infantry during the Civil War in company K. He suffered illness in the first year but returned to service. He was mustered out in Brownsville Texas in August of 1866. Although hardly famous, he should still be remembered as a hero in the same regard as those who have been written about in depthly in the story books.
8th great grandfather, Matthew Mayhew, original owner and namer of Martha's Vineyard.
8th Cousin 2x removed, 41st President George Herbert Walker Bush and his son 43rd President George Walker Bush, who is my 9th cousin, once removed.
6th cousin 5x removed, 19th President Rutherford Birchard Hayes.
38th President, Gerald Ford.
There are lots of Reverends in the list. I find the most intriguing character was Marcia Melissa Bassett Colgrove Goodwin. She was an editor, printer and publisher of women's materials for the Sufferage Movement. She may have even been more famous in history if she wouldn't have died prior to the establishment of the movement.
The next major category of ancestors and descendants are writers.
Geoffery Chaucer, 20th Great Grandfather. (Link between Deacon John Dunham, and Thomas Dunham is debateable and mostly likely not true).
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 5th cousin 6 times removed.
Edgar Lee Masters, 8th cousin 3 times removed.
We should include Doctors as well.
Dr Medad Parsons, Sixth Great Grandfather. Physician in Vermont until his death in 1818.
I will have to tell you more, as there is so much it will not all fit in one post.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
My Dear IBM,
Have you been watching Jeopardy this week with Man vs Machine? The human element - I think those words have the technology guru's at IBM on their heads. Maybe they need to knit Watson a cozy, do you suppose that would make Watson more human? Or, on a higher plain, to be human is to practice esoteric existentialism. (If you have to look those words up in the dictionary, it's okay, I had to look them up to make sure I was really saying what I meant.) This may require some serious "outside the box" thinking.
That brings me to this new non-profit program called Code for America. Here is their about statement from their website.
"Code for America enlists the brightest minds of the web industry into public service to use their skills to solve core problems facing our communities. We help talented technologists leverage the power of the internet to make governments more open and efficient, and become civic leaders able to realize transformational change with technology."
Doesn't that sound beneficial for Watson? Checkout their website at codeforamerica.org, and get your city signed up for the evolution.
How many of you actually thought that city, county, and state governments actually shared information, like criminal records. Of course over a number of years governments can access individual databases for information but you have to know which database and some idea of the answer you’re expecting. Imagine, accessing a super-computer filled with all the knowledge of the United States of America from Early American history to what happened yesterday, from the contents of the Library of Congress, to the lastest issue of your local newspaper. That is a ton of data. It is meaningless if you can't find it within your life span, but nearly 3000 servers searching the database for you, you may actually get the knowledge you are seeking. "Watson, can you write a term paper for me about the Civil War while I stand here for 3 seconds breathing?"
There are so many uses for Watson. Like the billions of documents that governments around the world have collected keeping track of their people. I think this would be a lot easier if it could be accessed from a central location. "Watson, summarize everything you know about John G Doe". It goes without saying that there is an element of "Big Brother" here, but all information in the hands of the wrong person can be dangerous.
As a person in the technology industry, I am amazed at the leaps and bounds that have been achieved in my life time. You cannot rest on what you know today there is more to learn, to discover, to invent, to share, to live. Rest and you face obsolescence. (Anyone feeling a little stressed over this? My hand is raised.)
Growing up watching Star Trek the idea of actually carrying around a tricorder, seemed like, (and was) science fiction. It was the creation of a huge imagination. Our smart phones have really closed the gap between science fiction and reality. I always say that I wish someone could figure out teleportation. I want to live in the remote country side, and work in the city. I could have the best of both worlds. I could always see my family and friends on a given notice. Go some place warm and sunny to refresh my Vitamin levels, but just go overnight, or over lunch.
A Tricorder was a communication device, a vital sign reader. What else could it do? Did it really come into play during teleportation? Perhaps it was a GPS locator. Smart phones can communicate, and apps are generated for GPS locations. Also, have you heard of HealthTune 360? It is an app for monitoring 12 vital signs using BlueTooth technology by BostonLabs. Doctor’s actually say it is more useful on an Ipad because they can actually read it. Aren't you glad you supported the creation of satellite's? Bottom-line, smart phones are tricorders.
Now, on to splitting humans into pieces so we can be transported through space.
That brings me to this new non-profit program called Code for America. Here is their about statement from their website.
"Code for America enlists the brightest minds of the web industry into public service to use their skills to solve core problems facing our communities. We help talented technologists leverage the power of the internet to make governments more open and efficient, and become civic leaders able to realize transformational change with technology."
Doesn't that sound beneficial for Watson? Checkout their website at codeforamerica.org, and get your city signed up for the evolution.
How many of you actually thought that city, county, and state governments actually shared information, like criminal records. Of course over a number of years governments can access individual databases for information but you have to know which database and some idea of the answer you’re expecting. Imagine, accessing a super-computer filled with all the knowledge of the United States of America from Early American history to what happened yesterday, from the contents of the Library of Congress, to the lastest issue of your local newspaper. That is a ton of data. It is meaningless if you can't find it within your life span, but nearly 3000 servers searching the database for you, you may actually get the knowledge you are seeking. "Watson, can you write a term paper for me about the Civil War while I stand here for 3 seconds breathing?"
There are so many uses for Watson. Like the billions of documents that governments around the world have collected keeping track of their people. I think this would be a lot easier if it could be accessed from a central location. "Watson, summarize everything you know about John G Doe". It goes without saying that there is an element of "Big Brother" here, but all information in the hands of the wrong person can be dangerous.
As a person in the technology industry, I am amazed at the leaps and bounds that have been achieved in my life time. You cannot rest on what you know today there is more to learn, to discover, to invent, to share, to live. Rest and you face obsolescence. (Anyone feeling a little stressed over this? My hand is raised.)
Growing up watching Star Trek the idea of actually carrying around a tricorder, seemed like, (and was) science fiction. It was the creation of a huge imagination. Our smart phones have really closed the gap between science fiction and reality. I always say that I wish someone could figure out teleportation. I want to live in the remote country side, and work in the city. I could have the best of both worlds. I could always see my family and friends on a given notice. Go some place warm and sunny to refresh my Vitamin levels, but just go overnight, or over lunch.
A Tricorder was a communication device, a vital sign reader. What else could it do? Did it really come into play during teleportation? Perhaps it was a GPS locator. Smart phones can communicate, and apps are generated for GPS locations. Also, have you heard of HealthTune 360? It is an app for monitoring 12 vital signs using BlueTooth technology by BostonLabs. Doctor’s actually say it is more useful on an Ipad because they can actually read it. Aren't you glad you supported the creation of satellite's? Bottom-line, smart phones are tricorders.
Now, on to splitting humans into pieces so we can be transported through space.
Watson, Code for America, IBM, & Jeopardy
Have you been watching Jeopardy this week with Man vs Machine? The human element - I think those words have the technology guru's at IBM on their heads. Maybe they need to knit Watson a cozy, Or, On a higher plain, to be human is to practice esoteric existentialism. (If you have to look those words up in the dictionary it's okay, I had to look them up to make sure I was really saying what I meant.) This may require some serious "outside the box" thinking. I have visions of Matrix in my head where humans are all plugged into pods because humans are the database the super-computer needs.
That brings me to this new non-profit program called Code for America. Here is their about statement from their website.
"Code for America enlists the brightest minds of the web industry into public service to use their skills to solve core problems facing our communities. We help talented technologists leverage the power of the internet to make governments more open and efficient, and become civic leaders able to realize transformational change with technology."
Doesn't that sound beneficial for Watson? Checkout their website at codeforamerica.org.
How many of you actually thought that city, county,and state governments actually shared information, like criminal records. Of course over a number of years governments can access individual databases for information but you have to know which database and some idea of the answer your expecting. Imagine, accessing a super-computer filled with all the knowledge of the United States of America from Early American history to what happened yesterday, from the contents of the Library of Congress, to the lastest issue of your local paper. That is a ton of data. It is meaningless if you can't find it within your life span, but nearly 3000 servers searching the database for you, you may actually get the knowledge you are seeking. "Watson can you write a term paper for me while I stand here for 3 seconds breathing?"
So many uses for Watson. Like the billions of documents that governments around the world have collected keeping track of their people. I think this would be a lot easier if it could be accessed from a central location. "Watson, summarize everything you know about John G Doe". It goes without saying that there is an element of "Big Brother" here, but all information in the hands of the wrong person can be dangerous.
As a person in the technology industry, I am amazed at the leaps and bounds that have been achieved in my life time. You cannot rest on what you know today there is more to learn, to discover, to invent, to share, to live.
Growing up watching Star Trek the idea of actually carrying around a tricorder, seemed like,(and was) science fiction. The creation of a huge imagination. Our smart phones have really closed the gap between science fiction and reality. I always say that I wish someone could figure out teleportation. I want to live in the remote country side, and work in the city. I could have the best of both worlds. I could always see my family and friends on a given notice. Go some place warm and sunny to refresh my Vitamin levels, but just go overnight, or over lunch.
A Tricorder was a communication device, a vital sign reader, what else could it do? Did it really come into play during teleportation? Perhaps it was a GPS locator. Smart phones can communicate, and apps are generated for GPS locations. Also, have you heard of HealthTune 360? It is an app for monitoring 12 vital signs using BlueTooth technology by BostonLabs. Aren't you glad you supported the creation of satellite's? Bottom-line, smart phones are tricorders.
That brings me to this new non-profit program called Code for America. Here is their about statement from their website.
"Code for America enlists the brightest minds of the web industry into public service to use their skills to solve core problems facing our communities. We help talented technologists leverage the power of the internet to make governments more open and efficient, and become civic leaders able to realize transformational change with technology."
Doesn't that sound beneficial for Watson? Checkout their website at codeforamerica.org.
How many of you actually thought that city, county,and state governments actually shared information, like criminal records. Of course over a number of years governments can access individual databases for information but you have to know which database and some idea of the answer your expecting. Imagine, accessing a super-computer filled with all the knowledge of the United States of America from Early American history to what happened yesterday, from the contents of the Library of Congress, to the lastest issue of your local paper. That is a ton of data. It is meaningless if you can't find it within your life span, but nearly 3000 servers searching the database for you, you may actually get the knowledge you are seeking. "Watson can you write a term paper for me while I stand here for 3 seconds breathing?"
So many uses for Watson. Like the billions of documents that governments around the world have collected keeping track of their people. I think this would be a lot easier if it could be accessed from a central location. "Watson, summarize everything you know about John G Doe". It goes without saying that there is an element of "Big Brother" here, but all information in the hands of the wrong person can be dangerous.
As a person in the technology industry, I am amazed at the leaps and bounds that have been achieved in my life time. You cannot rest on what you know today there is more to learn, to discover, to invent, to share, to live.
Growing up watching Star Trek the idea of actually carrying around a tricorder, seemed like,(and was) science fiction. The creation of a huge imagination. Our smart phones have really closed the gap between science fiction and reality. I always say that I wish someone could figure out teleportation. I want to live in the remote country side, and work in the city. I could have the best of both worlds. I could always see my family and friends on a given notice. Go some place warm and sunny to refresh my Vitamin levels, but just go overnight, or over lunch.
A Tricorder was a communication device, a vital sign reader, what else could it do? Did it really come into play during teleportation? Perhaps it was a GPS locator. Smart phones can communicate, and apps are generated for GPS locations. Also, have you heard of HealthTune 360? It is an app for monitoring 12 vital signs using BlueTooth technology by BostonLabs. Aren't you glad you supported the creation of satellite's? Bottom-line, smart phones are tricorders.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Ermie Backus 1810
This name I believe is my fourth great grandmother. This name has officially become a roadblock for me in my genealogy research. I have a birth certificate that claims she is the mother to my third great grandfather Joshua B. Bassett. Ermie(Backus) and John Bassett were the parents to Marcia Melissa Bassett Colgrove Goodwin,my 3rd great grandfather and Fidelia Bassett. I can track back from my Grandfather, Louis, to my great grandmother, Francis, whom I knew as a child. I knew Francis grew up in Rochester MN, and that there were lots of family issues. A fight over land, which to this day I don't believe was resolved legally. Francis' parents Katherine(Kitty)Mabel Bassett and Elmer Ellsworth were married for a very short time. Kitty had health issues, she spent most of her time after her daughter was born in a hospital before dying at a young age. What her health issues were I do not know. I speculate that she was suffering from post partum depression. She never left the hospital after the birth. My gr-grandma Francis was surprised later in life to discover a letter that Kitty had sent from her hospital bed exclaiming how tragic it was that she could not be a mother to her child. Elmer became the soul parent to Francis which didn't work out very well since he was a farmer, and she was a high-spirited toddler. There is documentation in a court hearing that he tied Francis to a tree when he went to work in the fields. At the age of four, Elmer relinquished custody to the State of MN. My gr-grandma became a ward of the state, it cost Elmer $100 that would be given to Francis when she married her husband Michael Joseph O'Donnell.
Kitty was Joshua B Bassett's daughter. Kitty and her parents are buried in Center Grove Cemetery near the old settlement of Genoa MN all under the same stone. John A Bassett, Kitty's grandfather is buried near them as well.
John and his son, Joshua moved from Chardon, Ohio to Genoa, MN to build a saw mill on a north running leg of the Zumbro River. The Olmsted County History states that until the mid 1970's there was still part of the mill standing in that vicinity. After much investigation of the area, and talking to people of the neighborhood the conclusion was that the mill had been torn down in the 80's. It frustrates me to think that it stood while I was alive and never saw it. Ode to have a picture of an ancestors creation.
Ermie Backus stayed behind in Chardon Ohio with her two daughters Marcia and Fedelia. I have no record of divorce. John did not remarry until after 1872 when Ermie Eunice Backus had died. Ermie is apparently a nickname for Eunice sense most of the census data states Eunice in 1850, 1860,and 1870. In the census data her birth place is noted as Tompkins County N.Y. I have not been able to find any information prior to 1850 on Ermie Eunice Backus. I have searched many books about William and John Backus that first settled in Connecticut in the 17th Century, but no Eunice born around 1810. I'm feeling I need to take a trip to Ohio. Ermie Eunice Backus Bassett has a story to tell.
Kitty was Joshua B Bassett's daughter. Kitty and her parents are buried in Center Grove Cemetery near the old settlement of Genoa MN all under the same stone. John A Bassett, Kitty's grandfather is buried near them as well.
John and his son, Joshua moved from Chardon, Ohio to Genoa, MN to build a saw mill on a north running leg of the Zumbro River. The Olmsted County History states that until the mid 1970's there was still part of the mill standing in that vicinity. After much investigation of the area, and talking to people of the neighborhood the conclusion was that the mill had been torn down in the 80's. It frustrates me to think that it stood while I was alive and never saw it. Ode to have a picture of an ancestors creation.
Ermie Backus stayed behind in Chardon Ohio with her two daughters Marcia and Fedelia. I have no record of divorce. John did not remarry until after 1872 when Ermie Eunice Backus had died. Ermie is apparently a nickname for Eunice sense most of the census data states Eunice in 1850, 1860,and 1870. In the census data her birth place is noted as Tompkins County N.Y. I have not been able to find any information prior to 1850 on Ermie Eunice Backus. I have searched many books about William and John Backus that first settled in Connecticut in the 17th Century, but no Eunice born around 1810. I'm feeling I need to take a trip to Ohio. Ermie Eunice Backus Bassett has a story to tell.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Stella on 9/11
I had the occasion to ask my Grandma about her reaction to the 9/11 tragedy in Manhattan and the fields of Pennsylvania, & Washington DC. She had lived through many American tragedies during her life, so I wanted to ask her how this compared to events such as Pearl Harbor, D-day, Kennedy's assassination, and Reagan's attempted assassination.
Just in asking folks what they consider Great American tragedies over the last one hundred years, most of them say 9/11 as their first response, but we also remember Hurricane Katerina, BP oil spill, and the Val dis oil spill, Mt St Helen eruption, plane crashes, wild fires spreading 1000 of acres, the sinking of the Titanic, and one tragedy close to home, the collapse of the 35W bridge in Minneapolis MN.
My grandmother lived through all of these events, but never once doubted the survival, or for that matter the continued success of the nation.
I know for myself, I wondered what was going to happen when President Reagan was shot. What did that mean for us as a Nation? Could we go on from here? It turns out this was nothing new to the country, but for me it was. I was in junior high at the time. School was released early. I remember that, but it turned out that as a whole the country was no worse for wear. Reagan returned to his role, the criminal was sentenced, and some other topic took over the front page of our nation's newspapers.
I visited my grandma about a month after 9/11/2001. She said this event seemed so much closer to home. Why, I asked. She said mainly because it happened right before our eyes on the television. It made it seem so real, so right out our back door when the television was showing each event as it happened. Pearl Harbor happened on the radio, half the world away. The news was delayed. It took a few days to really now what happened, and it was only words on the radio.
Interesting enough, to my mother WWII was part of her youth, she remembers going door to door to gather items for war relief. Everyone took part in gathering the needed items for the war, whereas at home items were rationed like sugar and flour. In my opinion we don't seem to share in the pains of war like we did during the world wars. That is good in one respect that our country is more prepared for crisis, and bad in another that the cruelty of war is somehow overshadowed.
In honor of the men and women for centuries who have defended freedom in this country I salute you. It is because of so many sacrifices that I may express myself so freely here, and I am humbled. I am humbled by you and by the women and men who have paved this path I walk before me. How can I not value life in the USA when it has been fought for so passionately?
Just in asking folks what they consider Great American tragedies over the last one hundred years, most of them say 9/11 as their first response, but we also remember Hurricane Katerina, BP oil spill, and the Val dis oil spill, Mt St Helen eruption, plane crashes, wild fires spreading 1000 of acres, the sinking of the Titanic, and one tragedy close to home, the collapse of the 35W bridge in Minneapolis MN.
My grandmother lived through all of these events, but never once doubted the survival, or for that matter the continued success of the nation.
I know for myself, I wondered what was going to happen when President Reagan was shot. What did that mean for us as a Nation? Could we go on from here? It turns out this was nothing new to the country, but for me it was. I was in junior high at the time. School was released early. I remember that, but it turned out that as a whole the country was no worse for wear. Reagan returned to his role, the criminal was sentenced, and some other topic took over the front page of our nation's newspapers.
I visited my grandma about a month after 9/11/2001. She said this event seemed so much closer to home. Why, I asked. She said mainly because it happened right before our eyes on the television. It made it seem so real, so right out our back door when the television was showing each event as it happened. Pearl Harbor happened on the radio, half the world away. The news was delayed. It took a few days to really now what happened, and it was only words on the radio.
Interesting enough, to my mother WWII was part of her youth, she remembers going door to door to gather items for war relief. Everyone took part in gathering the needed items for the war, whereas at home items were rationed like sugar and flour. In my opinion we don't seem to share in the pains of war like we did during the world wars. That is good in one respect that our country is more prepared for crisis, and bad in another that the cruelty of war is somehow overshadowed.
In honor of the men and women for centuries who have defended freedom in this country I salute you. It is because of so many sacrifices that I may express myself so freely here, and I am humbled. I am humbled by you and by the women and men who have paved this path I walk before me. How can I not value life in the USA when it has been fought for so passionately?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
My Grandparents Legacy - Babe
My grandparents worked hard to earn enough money to buy the farm. Grandpa Louis was an electrician who would work on high lines. He had no fear of high places. Growing up, Grandpa always had a collection of poles, and glass conductors for the repairs that needed to be done at the most inopportune time. Electrical wires are susceptible to the weather. The cold, ice freezing on the lines, just when you want to stay indoors he would head out to climb these tall poles with a thick rope and foot pegs.
My grandmother always reminded us of how often they sacrificed to have the farm. They ate eggs at many meals because it was a cheep protein source.
My mother was no exception in this quest for land. Since she was the oldest with no boys in the family, grandpa recruited her to help with the farm work. I should include my aunt at this point, the youngest. She was always left to stay inside to help grandma with the work in the house. From what I understand today, it was clearly a "grass is greener on the other side scenario". At times the work on the inside was no "piece of cake", there were hired hands to feed, homemade bread, and pies to bake. Life was very fulfilling on the farm, but very hard work. The forty hour work week was a figment of some bureaucrats imagination to this family.
Why do I bring all this up you may ask. I'm getting to the story. Grandpa wanted a farm for many reasons. One was that he always believed owning land was a wise investment. I think he was (and is) right about that. Second, he loved animals. He worked for the Arthurs family from a very young age, breaking horses, sorting cattle, whatever chore that related to animals that needed to be done. The neighbors called my Grandpa, a cowboy, or a horseman. Today they would probably think of him as a horse whisperer. My grandfather looked forward to his time in the evening on the farm when the field work was done, and it was time to visit his horses, Gypsy, Billy Bar, and Chico. All of these horses were pedigreed quarter horse mares through the AQHA. Gypsy was our babysitter at the farm. This started my love affair with horses. She would let all four of my siblings on her back, and take us around the pen. Just a lead rope, no bridle, and sometimes I don't think we had a lead either. Billy Bar was a spirited beautiful dapple grey. Chico was a beautiful chestnut mare. She was the horse that officially made me a horsewoman. Grandpa spent most of his training time with Chico, during the time I was a child. She became a world class western pleasure horse under Grandpa's lead. Unfortunately, Grandpa passed in 1972. I was seven years old. That story alone is probably worth an entire blog, so I will move on to our family moving on with life on the farm.
Dad took over the farm from Grandpa. He soon realized that his girls especially loved horses as much as he did maybe even more. The family set out to develop a Quarter Horse breeding farm. We went to auctions and bought breeding stock. At its peek the farm sustained nearly 40-45 brood mares. They were all registered quarter horses. The whole venture of having such a farm is worth another blog, but again I need to get to the story I want to tell you today.
It was another auction during the summer in Ellendale ND, 1980 I believe. My Dad and I set out through the barns to get a close look at the horses for sale that day. My Mom saved us seats in the sale ring while we scoped it out. My father was checking out the brood mares, while I was patiently waiting to find just the horse that I could ride for 4-H Horse shows. This horse would be my pal all summer every summer for the rest of my life as far as I was concerned. I observed conformation, behavior, I got really good at it. I won a couple of purple ribbons in my day judging horses at the state level. By the time we had viewed all the horses destined for the sale ring I could tell you the gelding or mare that would be sold for the highest price because she/he was the ideal western pleasure horse at the sale. This might be good for purple ribbons, but not so good when the farm had a limited budget to buy brood mares, not geldings.
While I dreamed of an unlimited budget for the purpose of my own enjoyment, there was a ruckus in the barn. Just a few pens from the entrance to the sale ring. A mare had gone balistic. Dad and I drifted towards the commotion. Could we be any help? We better stay out of the way. It was hard to tell anything during the time. The thick board fences were dense and limited any view of the situation. Random slur words and utterances came from the cowboys on the inside line.
"Check to see if there is a vet available" "Damn mare has injured her foal". That got my attention. I hate to see an animal suffer. I kept poking at my Dad. "What is happening" "Is the colt going to be okay". My father is the kind who only speaks when he has something important to say. "I don't know" doesn't count. After awhile the colt is let out of the barn to just wander on its own. His insides are falling out of his tummy and he really can't do anything more then curl up in a ball in the grass near the barn. The mare is still on the docket to be sold, but the crew working think she maybe too wound up to get in the ring. She is not happy about being separated from her baby. Meanwhile, I'm pleading for my Dad to take action. "What is going to happen to that colt?" At that point my Dad tells me to go sit with my mother. I really don't want to do that, but I was never a child to disobey my father at 13-14 yrs of age. I head for the sale ring, head hung down, another example of life farming, and ranching, and overall misery on the prairie. I hear my ancestors chime in my head "Pioneer life is tough on the prairie, kid, suck it up, cowgirl up." Before I get too far away I hear my Dad tell one of the Sale Barkers that he is willing to pay $50 for the injured colt if they can get him in the ring. I'm hopeful at that point.
I tried to explain to my mother what was going on. We never saw the colt, or the mare enter the sale ring, but shortly after that Dad comes up to our seats and says "lets go home".
I'm delirious with questions. "Did you get the colt?"
Dad says "Yep, he is in the trailer."
I had many more questions. I didn't see anything in the horse trailer. I spewed questions, but Dad said nothing apparently at that point there was nothing to say. We had a good hour to go to the farm. I had fallen asleep on the trip, and went to bed as soon as we got back to the farm it was late. Dad insisted that he handle this on his own.
He first called his Nephew who was a large animal vet. I heard Dad's side of the conversation, but I was sure Dad would wait for first light to try any kind of surgical procedure, or maybe Reynold would be over. He lived a couple of hours away, and that would mean a vet bill as well.
The next morning I woke to the sound of my father entering the house with the declaration that he had performed the surgery on his own. Babe, as we called him, is all sewed up. He has been neutered, and a metal plate has been placed in the bottom of his tummy to keep his insides in. He had a stomach hernia, but the gelding was up and moving around. Hooray, I had my gelding that would be my riding horse for life.
We sat down to lunch, and Dad filled us in with a few of the details that he wasn't willing to talk about the night before. He had only payed $25 for the colt. My Dad along with one of the line crew had layed the colt in the horse trailer and secured him with rags and ropes to keep him from moving and doing more damage. When he talked to Reynold he gave him the information he needed to fix the colt up. It would probably be smart to neuter him. Reynold mentioned that they usually stitch up the hernia and put in something to support the stitches while it heals. Dad opted for the metal plate. Now it was a matter of wait and see. He was vulnerable to other horses pulling at his incision, or even himself. Also, infections. Dad had introduced a foreign material to the horses body. There was no way of knowing if this colt would survive.
A lot of work ensued. The next year was a constant check to see if the horse was surviving, or even more so thriving. He was weaned from his mom about a week too soon, so that was a factor as well. He was thriving. He got a lot of attention that first couple of years. He was on a halter and lead early, and he was used to the human attention. I couldn't wait until he was ready for the show ring. As a yearling I took him to the first horse show. I showed him on halter, we got a blue ribbon. That was good, but I was hopeful that next year would be a purple ribbon.
I loved this horse. It was simple. He belonged to me. Babe and I practiced for Western Pleasure, and halter for the next year. I decided that before the show I would take him to the local centennial parade in our hometown. I was already committed to playing in the marching band, but I could still bring up the rear on Babe on horseback. After all the marching band went first. There was plenty of time to change clothes and ride my beautiful Babe in the parade.
He was two years old, he was so nervous about all the people, and things. He held his head up proud. He made me feel like I was riding a graceful Lepazaner Stallion at a fancy horse show. I held him back. He wanted to leap right back to the farm with his other horse buddies. My mother took a picture of us. It was incredible the way he held himself. He would naturally cross over his legs and look like he was performing dressage.
After the parade, my dad and I had decided that Babe needed some formal training which we sent him for six weeks. The report came back that he was a natural for reining. He would stop on a dime, and pivot on his haunches.
Looking back the thing that needed training was me. I had this gifted horse, and his spiritedness challenged my every move and thought. The next horse show I would take Chico, she was more evenly tempered. Again I received a blue ribbon. Chico would not let me trim her ears, and I refused to fight with her. That was the only reason I didn't get a purple the judge told me.
Babe was thriving at that point. We registered him through the AQHA, and his registered name was Reno Coteau. Coteau being the region he came from the Coteau Hills. I was starting to gain more interest in school activities, and there was less time for riding. Babe was still my horse and we went for lots of rides during the summer when school was out. But, I had other life ambitions.
In the fall of 1984, it was time to head to college. There was no more time for riding. It was about school, and summer jobs now. In the fall of my sophomore year my Dad sold Reno. It wasn't good for a gelding to not be "working" all the time, he would say. I never said goodbye to Babe. I asked Dad for information about who he had sold it to, nothing. I had vowed to buy him back when I had the money and a place for him to live.
Life went on. I graduated college, moved farther away to the state of Missouri(Misery, which was what it was to me.) I hung on to my dream, endured hardships, and dreamed of riding again.
I had become a city girl on the outside, but seriously you can never take the country out of a country girl. Every horse I saw reminded me of Babe. I particularly noticed the sorrel horses that had similar markings on them.
Eventually, I had to let the dream go. I was in my forties. Certainly, he was long gone now. Horses don't live much past twenty-five.
A couple of months ago, I got a call from my sister. The therapeutic riding center where her daughter rides has a horse they received that looks like Reno, and the horse is called Reno. Could he be my horse from my youth? I wanted it to be true. I was delighted with the idea that he could still be alive. He would be thirty to thirty-three years old by now.
I made arrangements to go back to see the horse. There before my eyes is an old man of a horse. I'm analyzing his conformation. Two white socks, all white hooves, star and stripe on his head. I don't remember that small white spot on his ear. He was always head shy, but not anymore. The cannon's on his legs are higher up then the average horse just like I remember on Babe. His facial line is deeper then I remember, and he is so skinny. He is not as big a horse as I remember. I doubted this was Reno. I wanted to take a picture of his belly. He had a scar from his surgery, and the metal plate made his tummy the hardest thing about him. The picture didn't turn out that good, and I wanted to compare it to another horses belly. More doubt, more investigation was necessary. The belly was certainly hard by touching it. It certainly could be Reno, but I wanted certainty.
That night we had arranged to see Clay Walker in concert. It was a fabulous concert, with lots of joyous moments. Clay was celebrating his Birthday. At one point I found tears dripping down my face. Nearly eight hours earlier I had seen my horse from my youth, we had pulled him back from the brink of death. Babe would not let my dream die. He would let me visit him every day that week, always being near the front of the pasture where I could pet him. I brought him alfalfa tabs, and he waited for me every morning. He came to me when I called him Babe, and he nudged me on my left side just like he always did.
Yes, there is room for doubt. I continue to search for his registration papers to confirm that he was owned by my father when he was initially registered. We have tried to get into contact with the present owner but no return call has come. She gave him to the center because she had run out of money and hay. I fear that she will not return our calls because of guilt, and fear. I just want her to know that it was a good decision to give him up.
Reno will spend the rest of his life at the therapy center according to the therapy center manager. He will be "working" as a therapy horse. So far they use him for a "walker". The children do exercises on his back while he keeps a steady pace around the arena. He still needs to go through some testing before he is certified for students to ride. My niece is ambitiously hoping that she will get to ride Reno during her riding lessons.
My mother says I willed this to happen. I say it was Reno that willed it. Or, maybe it was my Grandparents wishes from heaven. That we continue to love the country and the animals that they loved and connected with in their own youth.
My Grandparents left a legacy - the farm. They also instilled in all of us a pioneer philosophy. Conservation of the land, love of life, and a priority for survival of all men.
My grandmother always reminded us of how often they sacrificed to have the farm. They ate eggs at many meals because it was a cheep protein source.
My mother was no exception in this quest for land. Since she was the oldest with no boys in the family, grandpa recruited her to help with the farm work. I should include my aunt at this point, the youngest. She was always left to stay inside to help grandma with the work in the house. From what I understand today, it was clearly a "grass is greener on the other side scenario". At times the work on the inside was no "piece of cake", there were hired hands to feed, homemade bread, and pies to bake. Life was very fulfilling on the farm, but very hard work. The forty hour work week was a figment of some bureaucrats imagination to this family.
Why do I bring all this up you may ask. I'm getting to the story. Grandpa wanted a farm for many reasons. One was that he always believed owning land was a wise investment. I think he was (and is) right about that. Second, he loved animals. He worked for the Arthurs family from a very young age, breaking horses, sorting cattle, whatever chore that related to animals that needed to be done. The neighbors called my Grandpa, a cowboy, or a horseman. Today they would probably think of him as a horse whisperer. My grandfather looked forward to his time in the evening on the farm when the field work was done, and it was time to visit his horses, Gypsy, Billy Bar, and Chico. All of these horses were pedigreed quarter horse mares through the AQHA. Gypsy was our babysitter at the farm. This started my love affair with horses. She would let all four of my siblings on her back, and take us around the pen. Just a lead rope, no bridle, and sometimes I don't think we had a lead either. Billy Bar was a spirited beautiful dapple grey. Chico was a beautiful chestnut mare. She was the horse that officially made me a horsewoman. Grandpa spent most of his training time with Chico, during the time I was a child. She became a world class western pleasure horse under Grandpa's lead. Unfortunately, Grandpa passed in 1972. I was seven years old. That story alone is probably worth an entire blog, so I will move on to our family moving on with life on the farm.
Dad took over the farm from Grandpa. He soon realized that his girls especially loved horses as much as he did maybe even more. The family set out to develop a Quarter Horse breeding farm. We went to auctions and bought breeding stock. At its peek the farm sustained nearly 40-45 brood mares. They were all registered quarter horses. The whole venture of having such a farm is worth another blog, but again I need to get to the story I want to tell you today.
It was another auction during the summer in Ellendale ND, 1980 I believe. My Dad and I set out through the barns to get a close look at the horses for sale that day. My Mom saved us seats in the sale ring while we scoped it out. My father was checking out the brood mares, while I was patiently waiting to find just the horse that I could ride for 4-H Horse shows. This horse would be my pal all summer every summer for the rest of my life as far as I was concerned. I observed conformation, behavior, I got really good at it. I won a couple of purple ribbons in my day judging horses at the state level. By the time we had viewed all the horses destined for the sale ring I could tell you the gelding or mare that would be sold for the highest price because she/he was the ideal western pleasure horse at the sale. This might be good for purple ribbons, but not so good when the farm had a limited budget to buy brood mares, not geldings.
While I dreamed of an unlimited budget for the purpose of my own enjoyment, there was a ruckus in the barn. Just a few pens from the entrance to the sale ring. A mare had gone balistic. Dad and I drifted towards the commotion. Could we be any help? We better stay out of the way. It was hard to tell anything during the time. The thick board fences were dense and limited any view of the situation. Random slur words and utterances came from the cowboys on the inside line.
"Check to see if there is a vet available" "Damn mare has injured her foal". That got my attention. I hate to see an animal suffer. I kept poking at my Dad. "What is happening" "Is the colt going to be okay". My father is the kind who only speaks when he has something important to say. "I don't know" doesn't count. After awhile the colt is let out of the barn to just wander on its own. His insides are falling out of his tummy and he really can't do anything more then curl up in a ball in the grass near the barn. The mare is still on the docket to be sold, but the crew working think she maybe too wound up to get in the ring. She is not happy about being separated from her baby. Meanwhile, I'm pleading for my Dad to take action. "What is going to happen to that colt?" At that point my Dad tells me to go sit with my mother. I really don't want to do that, but I was never a child to disobey my father at 13-14 yrs of age. I head for the sale ring, head hung down, another example of life farming, and ranching, and overall misery on the prairie. I hear my ancestors chime in my head "Pioneer life is tough on the prairie, kid, suck it up, cowgirl up." Before I get too far away I hear my Dad tell one of the Sale Barkers that he is willing to pay $50 for the injured colt if they can get him in the ring. I'm hopeful at that point.
I tried to explain to my mother what was going on. We never saw the colt, or the mare enter the sale ring, but shortly after that Dad comes up to our seats and says "lets go home".
I'm delirious with questions. "Did you get the colt?"
Dad says "Yep, he is in the trailer."
I had many more questions. I didn't see anything in the horse trailer. I spewed questions, but Dad said nothing apparently at that point there was nothing to say. We had a good hour to go to the farm. I had fallen asleep on the trip, and went to bed as soon as we got back to the farm it was late. Dad insisted that he handle this on his own.
He first called his Nephew who was a large animal vet. I heard Dad's side of the conversation, but I was sure Dad would wait for first light to try any kind of surgical procedure, or maybe Reynold would be over. He lived a couple of hours away, and that would mean a vet bill as well.
The next morning I woke to the sound of my father entering the house with the declaration that he had performed the surgery on his own. Babe, as we called him, is all sewed up. He has been neutered, and a metal plate has been placed in the bottom of his tummy to keep his insides in. He had a stomach hernia, but the gelding was up and moving around. Hooray, I had my gelding that would be my riding horse for life.
We sat down to lunch, and Dad filled us in with a few of the details that he wasn't willing to talk about the night before. He had only payed $25 for the colt. My Dad along with one of the line crew had layed the colt in the horse trailer and secured him with rags and ropes to keep him from moving and doing more damage. When he talked to Reynold he gave him the information he needed to fix the colt up. It would probably be smart to neuter him. Reynold mentioned that they usually stitch up the hernia and put in something to support the stitches while it heals. Dad opted for the metal plate. Now it was a matter of wait and see. He was vulnerable to other horses pulling at his incision, or even himself. Also, infections. Dad had introduced a foreign material to the horses body. There was no way of knowing if this colt would survive.
A lot of work ensued. The next year was a constant check to see if the horse was surviving, or even more so thriving. He was weaned from his mom about a week too soon, so that was a factor as well. He was thriving. He got a lot of attention that first couple of years. He was on a halter and lead early, and he was used to the human attention. I couldn't wait until he was ready for the show ring. As a yearling I took him to the first horse show. I showed him on halter, we got a blue ribbon. That was good, but I was hopeful that next year would be a purple ribbon.
I loved this horse. It was simple. He belonged to me. Babe and I practiced for Western Pleasure, and halter for the next year. I decided that before the show I would take him to the local centennial parade in our hometown. I was already committed to playing in the marching band, but I could still bring up the rear on Babe on horseback. After all the marching band went first. There was plenty of time to change clothes and ride my beautiful Babe in the parade.
He was two years old, he was so nervous about all the people, and things. He held his head up proud. He made me feel like I was riding a graceful Lepazaner Stallion at a fancy horse show. I held him back. He wanted to leap right back to the farm with his other horse buddies. My mother took a picture of us. It was incredible the way he held himself. He would naturally cross over his legs and look like he was performing dressage.
After the parade, my dad and I had decided that Babe needed some formal training which we sent him for six weeks. The report came back that he was a natural for reining. He would stop on a dime, and pivot on his haunches.
Looking back the thing that needed training was me. I had this gifted horse, and his spiritedness challenged my every move and thought. The next horse show I would take Chico, she was more evenly tempered. Again I received a blue ribbon. Chico would not let me trim her ears, and I refused to fight with her. That was the only reason I didn't get a purple the judge told me.
Babe was thriving at that point. We registered him through the AQHA, and his registered name was Reno Coteau. Coteau being the region he came from the Coteau Hills. I was starting to gain more interest in school activities, and there was less time for riding. Babe was still my horse and we went for lots of rides during the summer when school was out. But, I had other life ambitions.
In the fall of 1984, it was time to head to college. There was no more time for riding. It was about school, and summer jobs now. In the fall of my sophomore year my Dad sold Reno. It wasn't good for a gelding to not be "working" all the time, he would say. I never said goodbye to Babe. I asked Dad for information about who he had sold it to, nothing. I had vowed to buy him back when I had the money and a place for him to live.
Life went on. I graduated college, moved farther away to the state of Missouri(Misery, which was what it was to me.) I hung on to my dream, endured hardships, and dreamed of riding again.
I had become a city girl on the outside, but seriously you can never take the country out of a country girl. Every horse I saw reminded me of Babe. I particularly noticed the sorrel horses that had similar markings on them.
Eventually, I had to let the dream go. I was in my forties. Certainly, he was long gone now. Horses don't live much past twenty-five.
A couple of months ago, I got a call from my sister. The therapeutic riding center where her daughter rides has a horse they received that looks like Reno, and the horse is called Reno. Could he be my horse from my youth? I wanted it to be true. I was delighted with the idea that he could still be alive. He would be thirty to thirty-three years old by now.
I made arrangements to go back to see the horse. There before my eyes is an old man of a horse. I'm analyzing his conformation. Two white socks, all white hooves, star and stripe on his head. I don't remember that small white spot on his ear. He was always head shy, but not anymore. The cannon's on his legs are higher up then the average horse just like I remember on Babe. His facial line is deeper then I remember, and he is so skinny. He is not as big a horse as I remember. I doubted this was Reno. I wanted to take a picture of his belly. He had a scar from his surgery, and the metal plate made his tummy the hardest thing about him. The picture didn't turn out that good, and I wanted to compare it to another horses belly. More doubt, more investigation was necessary. The belly was certainly hard by touching it. It certainly could be Reno, but I wanted certainty.
That night we had arranged to see Clay Walker in concert. It was a fabulous concert, with lots of joyous moments. Clay was celebrating his Birthday. At one point I found tears dripping down my face. Nearly eight hours earlier I had seen my horse from my youth, we had pulled him back from the brink of death. Babe would not let my dream die. He would let me visit him every day that week, always being near the front of the pasture where I could pet him. I brought him alfalfa tabs, and he waited for me every morning. He came to me when I called him Babe, and he nudged me on my left side just like he always did.
Yes, there is room for doubt. I continue to search for his registration papers to confirm that he was owned by my father when he was initially registered. We have tried to get into contact with the present owner but no return call has come. She gave him to the center because she had run out of money and hay. I fear that she will not return our calls because of guilt, and fear. I just want her to know that it was a good decision to give him up.
Reno will spend the rest of his life at the therapy center according to the therapy center manager. He will be "working" as a therapy horse. So far they use him for a "walker". The children do exercises on his back while he keeps a steady pace around the arena. He still needs to go through some testing before he is certified for students to ride. My niece is ambitiously hoping that she will get to ride Reno during her riding lessons.
My mother says I willed this to happen. I say it was Reno that willed it. Or, maybe it was my Grandparents wishes from heaven. That we continue to love the country and the animals that they loved and connected with in their own youth.
My Grandparents left a legacy - the farm. They also instilled in all of us a pioneer philosophy. Conservation of the land, love of life, and a priority for survival of all men.
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