Best Friends Come in All Shapes and Sizes.....

For the past 13 years, I have enjoyed an important friendship of epic wonder.  One that has borne all manner of changes; location, ended relationships, marriage, birth, death, job loss...and grown deeper.  We have trust, love, compassion and caring that some married couples never develop.

That friendship is with my horse, Whiskey.

Whiskey is 25 years old and we met by chance - if you believe in coincidence.  My friend April and her husband David knew I was looking for a horse.  They called me one June Saturday from a livestock auction; "Kim, there's a horse here that David and I think you should come look at".  I said I would be there.

When I got there, April took me into the barns to where David was standing with a horse-trader we knew.  Behind them was a deep red coated Quarter Horse.  You could tell he was in the "Foundation" style - short and stout of leg, powerful rear-end and then he turned around.  His face was a disaster of scars and his chest was criss-crossed with slashes that were clearly from a cruelly applied whip.  I was astounded because despite the obvious abuse, he didn't pin his ears or slant his eye. His beautiful deep liquid brown eye held mine and it was filled with a consciousness - one that was interested in me and he stuck his head over the bars to be stroked on the velvet nose; ears swiveled to catch my words.

"I'm in a skirt, can David ride him for me?"  So, David trotted him out and put him through his paces.  Not that it mattered, my heart had already claimed him.  April asked what I thought.  "Let's go bid on him, I like him".  No one else was bidding on the horse with the wrecked face - except the meat buyer because he was a stout horse~ about 1200 pounds and that would bring top dollar at the slaughter house. When he finally backed down, I was at my last $50 bucks.....down came the gavel "$800....sold to the red-head in the front".... 

"His name is Charlie Brown" said the trader. "No, his name is Irish Whiskey", I said, "and he is mine"...."let's go boy, you have a family now".

It was a bad back story.  His previous owner was a roper who beat the snot out of him with a 2x4 whenever they had bad times in calf roping.  He was not fond of men.  I spent time with him whenever I could.  Even if it was just to run a brush over him or give him a bath.  I think that first 6 months, he was the cleanest horse in Houston....and it worked magic.  

He knew me and my red car, coming across fields of green grass to greet me and my son.  He watched over 2 year old Marcos like a nurse-maid.  He would keep Marcos right beside him if I had to go to the tack barn or the rest room...never letting the toddler out of his sight or reach of his head.  Marcos would steady his toddler steps by holding the red tail hairs and Whiskey never minded one getting pulled...he was part of the family and we loved him.

People said "he's just a horse, Kim".  But, I know better.  He has saved my life three times in payback for me saving his.  The first time, I wasn't careful - I missed that there was a new gelding in the pasture and I was in my own world walking across 10 acres to where Whiskey was grazing...tremors underfoot made me spin around to see a mammoth black draft horse bearing down on me in full gallop neck snaked, ears pinned.  

I was in big trouble and people were running from the house yelling to get out of there....from the corner of my eye I saw a red streak cut me off from the attacking horse.  It was Whiskey.  He planted himself in front of me and reared up striking out with his powerful front legs hitting the black square in the chest.  The fight was incredible.  Two forces of nature, red and black battled 10 feet from my shaky knees.  Whiskey drove the horse off and walked me to the gates where April was standing apologizing for not quarantining the horse.  

The second time was scarier as it involved an ex-boyfriend with stalking tendencies.  I was riding out one night in the arena, just me and Whiskey.  We were working on side-passes and just spending some time together as Marcos was visiting Grammy in Boston and I had a rare night to myself.  I was loping away from the house toward the back of the arena and got hit hard in the head by a rock.  Then, Whiskey got hit on the rump.  He turned and we saw the ex standing there with a handful of rocks and a drunk's belligerence.  "I'm gonna knock you off that f'ing horse and kick your ass".  Fear bloomed in my stomach.  I knew April and David were out at a rodeo and I was alone on 50 acres with only my horse between me and a serious problem.  My cell phone was locked in my car....

He launched another rock.  Whiskey side-passed away.  Another....Whiskey stepped the other way.  Then, bravado borne of Miller Lite made a miscalculated error.  The gate opened and the drunk stepped into the arena closing the gate behind him.  As he wound up to throw another rock, Whiskey pawed the ground like a stallion about to charge.  I felt the powerful hind-quarters bunch under me and Whiskey lifted his front feet off the ground, crashed down and broke into a lope, snorting and trumpeting a challenge to the night, he ran at the man he knew was a threat to us both.  1200 pounds of muscle bearing down and gathering momentum.  He wouldn't stop no matter my pulling on the reins, but he also never went faster than he knew I could ride.  No full gallop ~ of which he is so capable ~ as he knew (and still knows to this day) that I am not comfortable at his full speed.

Inexorably, Whiskey closed the space and I started to see the bully crumble as all such bullies will when challenged.  Closer, closer...suddenly the man broke and ran for the gate, climbed the fence and kept running for his truck, cursing at us the whole while.  Then, headlights turned onto the lane as the diesel rumble of a dually broke the night.  April and David were home, the fight was over.  After relating the story to April, she said lightly, "that's a good horse".

The last time he saved my life was much more peaceful.  I had, for many reasons, decided to move to Dallas and take a new job in a new area and make new friends.  One such friend was a nice guy, my age who worked with me.  I wasn't sure if I was interested in trying again at relationships.  Marcos seemed to be fine, but he is one who has always made friends easily as he has an open and loving heart.  

David had generously offered to drive his pickup to Houston with a horse-trailer borrowed from a neighbor to bring Whiskey home.  It had been a LONG month without my horse and I wanted to have him in the backyard finally.  I knew Whiskey would load for me, even though the trailer was a little small for his size.  He will go anywhere I lead him.  When we got there, I told David that Whiskey really doesn't take too easily to men because of his history.  But, Whiskey, the rascal,  made a liar of me.  My horse, that I had missed for weeks, walked right up to this man and let him rub all over his head and chest.  He looked at me as if to say "THIS is a good choice".  I laughed.  My son and my horse had both seen what I was afraid to see....we had a new family member.

Thirteen years have come and gone.  A lot of tears have been shed into the red mane.  A new little boy has learned to stand and steady himself on those red tail hairs. I still have my friend and confidant and he has his forever family....April was right, he is a good horse, and a better friend...

Thank God we found each other...

Fear and (Self) Loathing

Many of my friends have days that may classify as "bad hair days" or days when they just don't feel they look their best - though we on the outside think they look just beautiful.  It is one of those things that can be hard for others to see - that lack of confidence or when your inner voice is your toughest critic.  Sometimes your "self-talk" is very negative.  

I know, you see, because for most of my life I have felt what can hardly be described as anything other than self-loathing.

How does that happen?  How does a girl grow up to hate the very image of herself in a piece of glass?  To hate the thought that someone ~ anyone, somewhere has an (unflattering) picture of her.  In my mind, they are all unflattering - all capturing some large or minute imperfection.

It comes slowly, built on day by day as one listens to those who purport to love her.  They tell her things that they say are "trying to help"...."we only want the best for you"....

"You shouldn't eat that.....don't wear those pants, they make you look fat....no one will love you if you are bigger than a size 10.....you won't keep a man.....your hair looks awful that way...those thighs have got to go.....I think you should just have salad tonight......your stomach is sticking out.....turn around - do you see that bulge....I wouldn't wear shorts if I was you....thank God you are at least smart....don't go sleeveless....you have panty lines.......don't wear knit - it clings to your fat.....you'll never look like  ____ (enter best friend's name)......why would you think to order that......maybe you shouldn't eat tonight...."


I could go on for pages....chapters even and all with the same message - you don't measure up (no pun intended) and so, you are not lovable, not cute, not good enough.  Not even your family loves you....


I'm not sure when it started really.  It seems like Dad was always telling me I needed to diet or Mom was always cooking something "low-fat" for me.  I guess it probably started at puberty when I started to develop curves.  Now, I will be the first to tell you that kids can be mean ~ but they aren't your family and you can go home and get away from them.  I couldn't get away. Ever.


I developed full-fledged bulimia in senior year of High School.  I never did throw up though - I abused laxatives - seemed easier to hide.  Throughout that year, I did anything I could to be a "single-digit" size.  It didn't work.  So, I started eating every other day.  Still no luck.  I would go down to the basement for HOURS each evening to exercise.  I would do 100 leg lifts, 200, 500.....I measured my waist, hips, legs, arms EVERY day....I was so afraid that I would never get a date if I couldn't get thinner.....

What no one ever told me was that I have a body type that tends toward athleticism and an hour-glass figure.  The classic beauty of Marilyn Monroe or Doris Day with feminine curves was in my future, not the androgynous, flat-chested look of a cover model.

Through my twenties and into my thirties, I would obsessively measure body parts and feel sick fear with what the tape measure said.  Pregnancy was pure Hell on earth as I had no control over what was happening to my body.  Though I did stop using laxatives so the baby would be healthy.  I did 30 - 40 minutes of sit ups during my pregnancy with Marcos until the doctor ordered me to stop in the 7th month.

After he was born, both motherhood and the  onset of my auto-immune disease, Progressive Hashimoto's Thyroiditis caused me to step back and take a look at my life.  I started to see things differently and understood that I had some serious baggage in my life.  Part of my journey back was realizing that if I stayed where I was and listened to my "family" tell me how unlovable I was, I would never be the Mom that Marcos deserved.  

That inner resolve to do better for him is part of what drove me to move to Texas.  I was afraid my family would give him his own baggage to carry through life and I wouldn't allow that to happen.  I took the "bull by the horns" and moved to Houston and then to Dallas and made a life for Marcos.


Through the grace of God, I met David and we fell in love and built a family.  I still have fear ~ that I may pass on poor self-esteem to my kids, that others will see through the veneer of self-confidence to what is hiding inside - a scared, shy woman who is afraid no one will like her because she is bigger than a size 10.....

It's been 10 years since I married David.  I still have those feelings of low self-worth - though some days I think my face looks pretty okay for a 43 year old woman.....some days I like my hair...I'm working out again ~ for me.  Not to be a certain size, but to be stronger and more flexible.  


My goal for this anniversary is to go out to dinner with my husband and for me to feel good when we have our picture taken.


I'm gonna reach that goal.

 

The Valley of Haters. NOT! ~~ Reprint from Darrell Ankarlo 5/5/10

“We’ll bring you to your knees!”

“Bigots…haters!”

“We’ll put a million people in the streets.”

“When we’re through with you, Arizona will be bankrupt!”

Just a few of the threats and vicious words I’ve heard from the innocent and loving protesters upset that our state dared to act on an issue that has made one of our cities (Phoenix) the number one kidnap capitol in the country and number two in the world!

We have militia from a foreign country engaged in shootouts with police a few miles from my home and close to a million “undocumented people” shutting down hospitals and nearly collapsing our welfare system. In fact as I write this, five illegal aliens just ambushed a police officer an hour from my home. They used AK47s. Imagine this on your cul du sak…it may be coming.

Arizona is all over the news because finally our state says “enough is enough” and has stopped waiting for the federal government to do something we all know it won’t do. I mean, come on, those supposed “representatives of the people” knew about and allowed Wall Street to come within inches of bankrupting America.

Can we really expect them to address their open door policy to modern day slavery?

In Arizona, for example, a brick layer used to make close to $20 an hour. Now he’s lucky to make $9 or $10 an hour because illegal aliens—usually working in groups—offer to beat any price. Many contractors have been paying illegal laborers $4 or $5 an hour under-the-table which pushes U.S. employees out of their jobs at an alarming rate. And, more often than not, if you’re illegal and complain or get hurt on the job, the boss threatens to call the police so the employer has full control. All of this has been happening in cities across the country as corporate America and Washington say nothing! Keep stock holders and voters happy at any cost.; This is modern day slavery.

Our Legislature decided they would take matters into its own hands. It’s called “state’s rights” kids. We fought a civil war over this very issue. But, instead of being celebrated our state is a pariah as people are calling for boycotts of everything that is Arizona (including Arizona Tea— which is and always has been made in NY!).

Our new state law is similar to a federal law, one that is rarely enforced. It says you CANNOT break into and steal from our resources—or export your criminals to a state already struggling. So why all the marches, cancellations and outcry now? Because our state is the first finally willing to stand and fight.

“But no person is illegal!”

Those are the words I hear whenever immigration comes up. Though I agree that we are all created equal in God’s eyes, I also know many of our military’s servicemen and women, including one of my sons, serve in part to preserve a thing called sovereignty. That’s a big concept – which I don’t have space to go into here. However, you can read more about it in last year’s book Another Man’s Sombrero which describes my trip into Mexico and how I sneaked back into America—without papers. It took me six whole seconds to get back!

So, Ankarlo, what would you do? Obviously, we have an immigration system that needs some major work so let’s demand that Congress put it on the burner along with their health care and Wall Street games. Next, we put 10,000 border patrol and national guardsmen at the key entrances—fully trained and armed. Then, to avoid the “show me your papers” argument we use a passport system.

Everywhere that I have traveled internationally I have not only carried a passport but have been asked to show it multiple times. I guess I should have pulled out a protest sign and yelled “Hater and Bigot!” Carry your passport. If you don’t have it on you, you have 24 hours to produce it. If law enforcement believes that you are here illegally you can be detained until someone can provide it for you. People caught making illegal passports, drivers licenses etc would be treated as terrorists or traitors, depending on citizenship.

“What does an illegal alien look like?” Here in the U.S. there are illegal aliens from at least 51 nations so it can be difficult to tell. However, when a group of people stand at the local Home Depot and none can speak English, you have a bit of a clue that it’s Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the study. Thus, our new law says the police can investigate. Oh, and they can also cite/arrest the guy in the pickup who slows down to ferry his new slaves off for a day’s labor.

Almost one seventh of our state’s population is here illegally and since our state is nearing $2 billion in debt one has to assume the cheap labor and unpaid hospital visits just might be having an impact but Arizona is backwards for daring to do something about it! Bullcrap!

Until a federal government finally realizes what an impact its flaccid response is having on our independent state (and California, New Mexico, the great Republic of Texas and at least 23 other states) we’re going to abide by a system our forefathers built into a national Constitution—we are going to use our State’s Rights to save ourselves!

By the way, just this week three houses were raided in two days here in Phoenix; one had 69 people in it. Two crack downs were done at the same time with almost 100 people arrested, detained or cited—over 90 percent of them were here illegally. You’re smart so do the math and then you’ll understand our anger and confusion. Anger because we’re feeling this open door policy first hand and confusion because so many still don’t get it.

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Darrell Ankarlo is a 32 year broadcast veteran and author of two books:  What Went Wrong with America and How to Fix it and Another Man’s Sombrero.  Find out more at www.ankarlo.net.

My son has been racially profiled!

You know, it is somewhat funny, the story behind this issue.  When my 1st husband and I found out we were having a baby, we wanted to raise him as both a New England-er and a Southwestern-er so that he would know the heritage of the parts of the country that his parents came from.  He was of Mexican and American Indian descent and was born in Arizona and I am Scotch-Irish, Italian and American Indian and was born in the Boston area.

After he was killed and my son was born, the hospital, the Navy, Social Security office and a variety of other bureaucracies were insistent that I racially identify my son. Was he "white"; "Hispanic"; "Indian"....  Well, that got my red-head in an uproar.  I checked "Other" and filled in "Human".  No amount of phone calls would change my mind.  That was it.  He was of the "human" race.  (I can be a little stubborn)

When I moved to Texas, his last name was more common than in New England.  His beautiful skin tone became even more 'coffee-and-cream' colored and his hair, unlike mine, didn't bleach out lighter in the hot Texas sun.  As he has grown up, his features have come to resemble my husband's so much that it takes the breath away from those who knew his father.

When he went to Middle-School, he came home one day with paper-work for me - and he was quite angry.  I asked what was wrong and he slapped the papers down onto the table.  The principal (who has since been replaced) had sent home papers that needed to be filled out in order to exempt my son from ESL classes.  They had (erroneously) assumed due to his name, that he would need to be in ESL classes in order to help him along.  Not only that, I had to explain myself if I wanted him out of those classes!  They also sent home information on getting immigration assistance!! Upon calling the school and identifying myself as "My Son's Mom", I was asked if I needed a bi-lingual speaker on the phone.  ~ You can bet I adjusted their thinking.  :-)

 My oldest son, child of an MIA/KIA US Sailor, had been pigeon-holed and racially profiled as "Hispanic" and potentially illegal or having illegal parents who needed consular aid.  He constantly rails against this assumption and he gets quite irritated that people assume he supports illegals and "Mexican causes".  My son is very conservative - more so than I am when it comes to the illegal issue.  There is no 'gray' for him.  It is black and white - if you are illegal, you need to leave. He has no issue showing his school ID, license or military ID.  He would rather do that than have illegals run rampant in the streets.

Like his father, he is vehemently against illegal immigration as he feels it lowers people's perception of Hispanics, especially those of Mexican descent.  It also causes suffering in the form of human trafficking that is abusive and exploitative of people who, in many cases, can't protect themselves.  Many Hispanics he has crossed paths with have dissed him for his stand, but he does not waver.  He feels being American is a privilege ~ and he is proud of the sacrifice his father made.

Immigration is great.  Immigrants built this great country.  We need immigrants who come here legally to help us grow into the next century and beyond.  We don't need illegal aliens making a mockery of our system and the ethnicity of our people. We don't need liberals who support open borders and 'sanctuary cities' profiling our children. 

My son deserves better than being profiled by the left as 'sympathetic' to their cause.  My husband damned well deserves better than a legacy that requires his son to be harassed by liberals as 'not Hispanic enough'.