Author: Heather Countryman

Montana girl living in Reno, Nevada.

I Am…

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In a world full of  emerging Kardashians, I choose to be just me.  I am finding it ever-more important to be more than just okay with that. We live in a society brimming with people sharing their opinions and demanding we believe and partake in them.  I am not a jean size. I have fat. My teeth are not white. My hair isn’t long enough. My nails aren’t painted. I don’t diet, and I don’t exercise as often as I should. I also don’t give a shit because it has taken me almost thirty-nine years to like just who I am just as I am.

I write this to express feelings, thoughts, and share a piece of me with the rest of you; not to tell you what to think or how to act.  Being vulnerable is the key to being genuine in self-expression, and so I share that when I write the following.  This isn’t a post about horses or cowgirls or mountains, but more along the lines of empowerment and exposure to reality in hopes that you can be okay with whom you see in the mirror every day.

This is a glimpse of the real me, so take it or leave it. To coin a favored phrase from my beautiful grandmother, “It is what it is, sweetheart.”  I encourage those of you that choose to read this to be uniquely you.  Don’t fall for society’s carbon copy version of someone else…

I am Heather. I am almost 39, and a Caucasian, married woman.  I am a full-of-faith sinner; I believe in God, and I am not religious. I am a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a niece, and a girlfriend.  I am quirky and silly and blunt and broken.  I am strong and insecure.  I overthink, and I crave complexity, but I am painfully simple.

I am loud and confident, and I am shy and reserved. I am unconditionally conditional.  I struggle and I endure.  I am not hateful or boastful, and I am self-effacing. I love and I forgive.  I am not normal, nor do I ever care to be. I crave adventure and love the assurance of a daily home routine. I say no and I say yes all in one shot. I yell, I scream, and I fight and bleed.

I know my weaknesses and thrive on my strengths. I hurt and I cry and I feel absolutely everything.  I wonder and I know. I believe, but I don’t always understand. I fall down seven times, and I stand up eight.  I listen to listen, not to respond.  I contemplate and ponder and consider all angles.

I love deeply and sky wide, and I don’t worry about the approval of others any longer; yet, I seek their sense of understanding. I am crazy; fully certifiable bat shit insane, and I am the calm in the storm.  I have patience and perseverance and I push to get my way. And I am stubborn, so very stubborn.  I am ashamed at times, but I am proud.  I am best anchored with my feet ten feet off the ground.

I change with the wind, and I shoulder in to keep that change at bay.  I am almost never sure of what I really want, but always clear on what I don’t want.  I make no excuses about who I am, and I damn sure have no regrets. I am classy and sophisticated, and I wear jeans and have horse shit on my boots.  I cuss too much, and I am brutally honest.

I am not a watered down version of anyone else. I dream big, really fucking big.  And I am strong, worthy, and imperfect. I cry, a lot, and I smile even more. I have bad days, and I try every goddamn day to be a better version of myself than I was the day before.

I just am me, and I won’t apologize for that.  I serve a faithful, loving and forgiving God that allows me to be all of this. I am capable, strong-willed and beautiful. And simply, I am enough.

And you are, too. Be your own brand of beautiful, write your own story, and make your mark on this world. Love your flawed and imperfect self stitched together with good intentions. Just be you, just as you are.

Happy Trails~

Kindred Corral Spirits

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We never grew up owning one, single mare in my entire childhood.  Every male on the ranch preached time and time again about what a pain in the hind parts they were to have on the place.  Of course I was always slightly offended by these nonsensical statements.  Mares, in my opinion, were always far superior in the looks department, and yes, that theory was entirely based on the fact that I was in fact a female.  So naturally, it only seemed right to learn to identify with the female animals that were allowed in the family outfitting business, and that just so happened to be some of our mules.  Mules are a hybrid and are also sterile, which means they are slightly less sensitive to the reproductive nature that horses are.

My uncle owns a jenny mule named Helga, and although she was about 4 years old when he bought her, and her historical details are a little blurry to me, I developed a fondness for Helga, and here’s why… {Side note: Now, I will just say right of the bat that it takes a rather brave woman to compare herself to a mule, and I may have just admitted to a whole new level of insanity, so there is that.}

Like me, I believe Helga must be a Gemini.  No, I don’t buy into all that astrological jazz, but I find it entertaining.  Neither Helga nor I care if you don’t like our personalities, because there are usually several more to choose from.  Paranoia comes easy to both of us; i.e. I don’t like to walk in the woods alone and neither does she because every stump takes on the form of a damn grizzly bear. Both of us require friends with tough skin and a good sense of humor, and we lack the ability to sugar coat our current moods or thoughts, and tend to lash out or freely express our emotions at any given moment.  We both like change, and really hate monotony.  If you don’t change the scenery, we will change it for you.

Helga and I both prefer a shorter walk to the feed bunk. Some things just shouldn’t be so much work.  We both have “curves” and lack the desire to change much about that.  But, if you have a stitch of couth, you will not refer to us as “thick” or “husky”.  Dude, you will get kicked.

Generally, we both like attention and you can reel us in with cookies. We like cookies. But, we also generally like to be left alone by the male species; that is of course unless they are of the handsome horse variety.  We go gaga over good looking and smart horses that lead us safely down the trails and over mountain passes.

Helga works hard and rocks an awesome pack going down the trail, and that’s because Helga loves her job.  More people could learn from Helga’s work ethic and her attitude about it.  And like Helga, I believe in earning your pay honestly.  There’s nothing like a good day’s work of physical labor that leaves you satisfied at the end of the day.

So, thank you, Helga, for giving me another female to whole-heartedly identify with in this life.  I admire the heck  outta ya girl, and you’re beautiful to boot!

~Happy Trails~

Heather

Faith

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I don’t often write about religion, or bestow upon you what some may consider my narrow minded views, mostly because I am not adept at quoting scriptures or leading by example. I am not afraid to voice my belief in Christ, nor am I ashamed of it.   I just often prefer quiet mornings sipping coffee, talking to God in my own ways, because when it comes to faith, I am such a work in progress.  I fail time and time again to believe in something bigger than my own will and power.  But I am never without faith in Him; I just simply need to reprioritize.

I come from a blended family, and my {step}father, Ralph, prior to my knowing him, was a Pentecostal preacher, and this is really where faith started to take hold.  Little did I know that God had placed this man in my life for reasons I was not privy to, but he was the vessel through which faith reached me.  Even though he was no longer a preacher, he walked the walk to the best of any man’s ability showing all of us the importance of a relationship with Christ.

Every Sunday, mama would roll us out bright and early, tell us to get dressed, and join them at the breakfast table for a family meal of hotcakes, bacon, and eggs prior to church.  As a 4th grader, this was not my favorite thing to do on a sunny, summer Sunday morning.  I had horses to ride and country to explore.  {Little did I know that my Sunday morning sermon attendance and my incessant need for equine therapy would later coincide in my life}.

Sunday sermons were attended at a few different denominations over the years, Baptist, Pentecostal, Non-denominational, and Presbyterian mainly.  But never the pagan Catholic church… Haha… {This is just tongue-in-cheek humor! Please don’t get offended yet!}  We were not the front row family. We were not the back row family.  We were somewhere in the middle with a quick exit seat near the aisle where my mom could escape with my wily, younger brothers family. And per usual, we were the late family, but never late enough for my taste.

Now, there are two, yes, only two, particular sermons that stand out in my pea-sized brain from over the years. One was from the 4th row pew of the Baptist church on a hot, summer Sunday.  Pastor Joe was at the pulpit with his screechy, boisterous, and ear-piercing voice preaching at us about gluttony, which he related to eating pecan pie. “Lord, I just wanted to eat that whole PECAN PIE!”  Ok, so maybe I don’t remember the whole sermon, but that man soured my breakfast that morning, and if I could have, I would have turned a deaf ear to him.  As it was, I sat there for what seemed ages listening to him drone on about that stupid pie; I didn’t even like pecan pie, and still don’t to this day.  I rode home in the car that Sunday not knowing a thing more about Jesus, not wanting to be Baptist, remembering Pastor Joe’s sweaty armpits and wondering if anyone had taught him that cleanliness was next to Godliness, and hoping we weren’t eating pecan pie anytime soon.

The other church experience that stands out to me, comes from the first time I really attended a Pentecostal sermon. I was about 9 or 10 years old at the time, and I didn’t know the difference between all of these religions, and really still don’t.  But, this particular sermon started out what seemed really nice, with some music I even knew the words to.  After a few praise and worship songs, we sat down and listened to the pastor deliver his message.  I don’t really remember this message either, but I vividly remember what happened after.  The ‘freak show’ started.  The congregation rose to what I assumed would be to sing the closing hymnal.  Nope. All these people started lifting their hands in the air singing songs with their eyes shut, swaying back and forth.  Not me;  I stood there dumbfounded staring at these nut jobs around me, and then the pastor started speaking in Tongues.  What on earth had my mother brought me to?  I had seen something like this in a movie once, and I was fairly certain that snakes would be let out of a bag soon.  This particular day, I learned the importance of prayer.  Never had I prayed harder that God would get me out of this room, and to the sanctuary of somewhere normal! I would have settled for being delivered to the Presbyterian sermon just down the road!

As it turns out, thankfully, these moments would not discourage me from the importance of finding and having faith in my life.  Because, I found it my freshman year of high school, when I hit an emotional low and thought that leaving this world would be better.  I felt it during times of death and disappointment. I discovered it when I found out I was pregnant for the first time, and out of wedlock.  I knew that I could not prepare for what lie ahead without knowing God.  I found it again when I was told I had cancer, which later was misdiagnosed.  I found it when my brother was healed from his cancer.  I found it in the peace and love of my husband’s arms and the smile and laughter of my children.  I found it on the back of my horse riding a high mountain pass, and watching a red-tail hook a strong breeze.  I found it in my relationships with my siblings, and watching my parents reunite their love and marriage.  And yes, I found it in a small, country church pew filled with selfless souls, worn hymnals, and the  highlighted verses of my bible. I found my faith.

Lately, I’ve forgotten the importance of living by it, and remembering that without it, I really have nothing.  No fall back plan, no forward push or purpose. This is the very definition of faith. Reminders, whether small and minute, or magnanimous and difficult, are there for all of us to seek something bigger than ourselves.  Don’t rest on just your own laurels.  Find your faith somehow. Remember you’re meant to be tested and strengthened by God in ways  you don’t understand.  We may not always see the clear, correct path, or get our prayers answered in the form we think necessary, or get answers to our eternal question of why, but that’s faith; Faith that you are just where God wants you in this old life, and it us up to you how you will come out of your walk on this earth.

So, here’s to finding favor in your Sunday.  Here’s to Sunday sermons gone wrong, but oh so right. I’m wishing you a week full of peaceful Sundays, full of faith and love.

Happy Trails~

Heather

Good Horses To Ride

Heather CountrymanLeave a comment

 

Twist ManeGood Horses to Ride

 

Well my friends, it’s another day, another dollar

Another milestone crossed in this life

I may not be just where I want to be

But, at least I have a good horse to ride.

 

Life was trying at times this past year,

Sometimes it felt like I was trekking the Great Divide

But, you see these were just lessons learned

And I always had a good horse to ride.

 

Tears came and went on the back of my trusty steed,

As I pondered all of life’s crazy strife.

And as we slow-loped through the worries & cares

I was never more thankful for my good horse to ride.

 

The time in the saddle was always well spent

It signified a peaceful state of mind.

Whether climbing mountain trails or pushing cows home

I always had a good horse to ride.

 

I spent time with friends, old & new,

Exploring the wilderness and new countryside

Miles upon miles of trails we trekked,

And all of ‘em on good horses to ride.

 

As this year draws to an end

And I reflect back on it all in stride

I realize I have so much to be grateful for

But I’m most grateful for the good horse I ride.

 

So, may your new trails ahead lead you safely home

May you give it your all in this crazy life.

But above all else, my new year’s wish for you

Is that you always have good horses to ride.

 

Happy Trails~

 

Heather

2015 in Review

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As another year draws to a close in the crazy old life, I hope that you had time to enjoy the holidays in festive style with those you love.  Now, it’s almost time for that “new year, new me” nonsense, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but my new year’s resolutions last about as long as the attention span of my two cocaine-snortin’, squirrel chasin’ border collies.  So, I am going to give up the list making, the lofty weight loss goals, the money saving tips, and just live my life; Simply, just live my life in the year to come, and reflect back on all I was lucky enough to have this past year.

This is a poem that I did not write; it was penned by a man named Joe Mingus called Mountains of Time, but suits me just the same, and it captures my sentiments exactly as I look back on the year.  I hope you enjoy it, too.  May your year ahead be filled with all you need, and you find yourself just where you wish to be doing exactly what you desire to do.

The Mountains of Time

By Joe Mingus

When old pony’s hair starts getting long, and the leaves turn golden and red,

When the fox squirrel buries his winter’s feed and the geese fly south over head.

When the evening sun sets west-southwest in a sky that’s the color of wine,

I climb in old memories saddle, and ride up through the mountains of time.

When the springtime of yesteryear comes into view, with its freshness all green-stemmed, hip deep.

I can still smell the breath of the earth, as she woke from the harshness of past winter’s sleep.

I recall each heart-lifting happening, like each new calf’s or colt’s dancing rhyme.

But old memories and me, we must get along, we’re still up in the mountains of time.

A shadow of last summer is still lurking up here, though the flames of Old Sol are now dim.

I remember his heart that made my sweat boil, and gave thanks daily when he knelt at earth’s rim.

The long, endless days are growing faint, through a haze their shapes are hard to define.

And old memories and me, we’ve slow-loped through the rough while up in these mountains of time.

Old man winter’s still waitin’ with icy white teeth and winds that sing death with a gasp.

But he can slow nature’s dance only for a short time, as a snow blanket warms her while she naps.

So, if memories don’t fail and I keep a tight seat, we’ll look back on what we’ve left behind.

Up a trail that we cut, just as true as we could, me and old memories through the mountains of time.

 

Happy Trails~

Heather

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Cowgirl

Heather Countryman1 Comment

I was recently asked if I’m a real cowgirl on a social media sight I partake in.  The exact question posed to me was “If you don’t have cows, how can you be a cowgirl?”  I pondered that thought, let my hurt feelings stroll over the words, and then I questioned myself.  Maybe I’m really not a tried and true cowgirl?  But I had  the boots, the hat, the horse, spurs, a saddle, and even a pick-up truck?    Accordin’ to good ol’ Webster, the true definition of the word is: noun. a woman who herds and tends cattle on a ranch, especially in the western U.S., and who traditionally goes about most of her work on horseback.

Well, there was the answer…I am technically NOT a cowgirl.  I don’t spend all day in the saddle trailing cows. Hell, I wasn’t even raised with cattle.  I grew up tending to horses and mules, ornery men, and dudes, riding mountain trails and passes, and cooking in dutch ovens, but not a stitch of my time was spent with cattle.

So, I chewed on that thought a while longer, and thought “the he** I’m not a cowgirl!” Being a cowgirl ain’t just about swinging ropes, doctoring cows, calving, and riding horses.  Because, to be a cowgirl means you’ve got the grit in your gut and the attitude to accomplish anything.  You have the ability to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and take life right by the horns.

Deep down, each woman I know has just a touch of cowgirl in her.  She may be hailing a cab on city street headed to a high-rise lawyer’s office.  She’s a doctor or a nurse saving lives.  She’s a teacher expanding horizons and sculpting young minds.    She pours herself into the books and balances the budget.  She’s the mother that just lost a child, and still wakes to face the day.

She’s lipstick, leather, and lace.  She’s weathered hands that slings ropes, trains colts, and pets dogs, and is the lady dressed to the nines to hit the town with her favorite guy.  She fights fires, clears trails, packs mules, and yes, works cows. She’s gypsy- souled and beautiful music and guitar chords.  She’s fighting cancer with all she’s got because she’s a survivor and a winner.

But mostly, she’s you and she’s me.  She’s the fight to win and the calm in the storm.  She’s modern and old-fashioned.  She sips fine wine and chugs a beer with the guys.  She kneels and prays at the end of the day to praise God for all she has and is.

You see, it doesn’t matter what you are. Your job does not define you.  It is your attitude, your heart, and your beautiful mind and soul.  Cowgirl is a title well earned, and I am darn proud to be just that til I draw my last breath.  And don’t ever doubt that you are one, too.

~Happy Trails~

 

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Turn Out the Old Broodmare

Heather Countryman4 Comments

I’ve recently decided that I am fast approaching what I call “broodmare” status.  Nothing center-drives that harsh fact home faster than having a beautiful & elegant seventeen year old daughter. (And possibly the sway back, crabby attitude, and hay belly that is starting to appear) And as much as I tell myself I don’t mind getting older, that age is only a number, I still seem to gracelessly accept this fact. But {hay}, I am also discovering there just may be some benefits to being the old broodmare…Here’s why:

  • Fillies are oggled over for their looks.  Ya know, nice straight legs, well-muscled & proportioned, a “v’d up chest”, strong hindquarters, and a pretty face to boot. Broodmares? Na. They’re just used-to-bes. Sway backs, gray hairs, and broom-tailed crabs, but she sure “has some nice-lookin’ babies”.
  • Somebody eventually tries to find the appropriate suitor, aka stud, for the filly; therefore, she always has to look and act her best.  The old girls don’t much care anymore, because the studs lookin’ their way ain’t much to talk over the darn fence about.
  • Young fillies have to prove themselves to be hard workers, reliable and dare I say? Unemotional? The first sign of PMS and attitude gets her labeled and probably reprimanded. Broodmares make darn sure everyone is well aware of their emotional status from the get go.  They don’t mince words, and you ain’t gonna get much outta them if you talk smart about it.
  • In order for the young girl to keep in shape, you have to feed her right and exercise her frequently.  After the old girl has foaled a couple of “keepers” you can pretty much bet that unless her teeth are bad, she can sustain on a rocky pasture with no grass or special needs, so she probably saves ya a little cash.  Basically, she’s less maintenance, and you better just lover her that way.
  • You have to teach the young filly EVERYTHING. You know gain her trust, teach her slow, let her make mistakes. Broodmares already know EVERYTHING. Even when you think they don’t. Don’t ever make the mistake of trying to tell ’em different. They didn’t make it this far by being stupid.
  • Youngsters think they have to be friends with the boys, and compete with the other fillies.  Old broads know where they stand with each other and learn to rely on their herd mates because they help get ’em through the cold months.

To sum ‘er up, I suppose aging ain’t all that bad.  With age comes a little wisdom, and a lot of life lived.  Old broodmare status is well-earned and well-deserved, so go ahead and turn me out in that pasture. And don’t worry young filly, you’ll be finishing that race faster than you ever dreamed!

Happy Trails~

Heather

The Art of Barnyard Cussin’

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Nothing can stir the soul of man, woman, or child more than an adventure on a Montana dude ranch where one can partake in piece of old west history called cowboy, and blend that with the great outdoors. That is the setting of the story to follow…

It was a beautiful, pristine Montana morning with the horses grazing peacefully about the meadow in belly-deep grass; the sun was rising up to kiss the mountain peaks with warmth. The morning campfire was crackling away outside the lodge, and awaiting the guests, was a fresh pot of cowboy coffee.  It was what we called “Wrangler Breakfast” morning, which entails your guests consuming their meal of steak, eggs, & camp spuds around the fire while watching the wranglers gather in the stock by horseback.  This was my job, and I loved it.  There is nothing like saddling up on a cool, summer morning and heading out to gather in the horses.  It’s just you and your horse working together, and the feeling is indescribable.
I was the only wrangler on tap that morning, so I mounted up and headed my horse out the gate. The ranch owned about 80 head of horses and mules, and they knew the routine well of wrangling.  They usually did as they were supposed to, gallop gracefully to the barn displaying their athleticism and grace for the onlookers.  But, there were stragglers; defiant beasts that chose to head the opposite direction or hold their ground in a sweet section of timothy grass. This particular morning, they took a little extra coaxing.  I worked them back and forth across the meadow, pushing firmly but gently until they were in front of the lodge where they all chose to stop. They would take a few steps toward the corrals and barn, then stop and plant their fat faces in the grass. Any time I came near, they would pin their ears, whirl and kick, and circle back around to the tall grass. They knew they had the upper-hand.  After several minutes of this fun, I’d had enough.  My horse had lost any brain he had, my temper flared, and forgetting I had an audience, I opened up and aired out both lungs. 
Now, growing up in the barnyard, you learn the importance of which cuss words to string together to get the best bang for your buck, so to speak.  You don’t just throw out the usual simple sentence enhancers. Oh no! You string ‘em all together at one time, so I did. And I enunciated every single word loud and clear.  I took down my lariat and connected rope with hides, let out another incoherent stream of foul language, and chased them in with all I had.  Apparently my crazed appearance was convincing enough that they took off to the barnyard, full-tilt. I cussed and yelled at them the whole way, all the while forgetting about the crowd of  adults, children, crew, and most importantly, my uncle & boss, that had now gathered at the edge of the front lawn to watch the show.  I slammed the corral gate, steam rolling, exploits blaring and stomped my way to the barn. There!  I’d showed them who was boss!  I went about unsaddling and caring for my horse, and huffed up the hill for breakfast with the gang.  As I reached the campfire and guests, I noticed it was awfully quiet upon my arrival. {gasp…insert scene replay & silent foul language.}  Me and my big mouth.  Head down, I grabbed a plate of humble pie and proceeded to politely shovel it in by the forkful, quietly.  As the lump of breakfast soured in my stomach, I was reminded that sometimes, silence is golden.  Will I ever learn?  Hell, no…

Welcome, Greenhorn

Heather Countryman2 Comments
Let me preclude this story with a story… I have taken a step out the family business the past couple summers. My life simply took me in other directions, but I have somehow managed to burn up the road between Havre and Seeley Lake with the mad skills of a Nascar driver this summer. Although, Havre is starting to feel more like home, my heart belongs in the mountains. Always.  So, I soothe myself with quick weekend trips to help out and visit family when I can. This 30,000 foot view has given me a whole new appreciation for this operation, and the new guy(s) that are brave enough to accept the challenge of being new to the operation and riding for our brand. It’s not easy walking into a family business like ours. 

As most of you know by now, I grew up working for my aunt and uncle’s outfitting and guest ranch business in beautiful western Montana. Over the years, I had the honor of being graced with several titles: babysitter, shit shoveler, kitchen help, drag guide, aka the toilet paper (the last one a trail ride of 16 to shut gates, pick up dropped hats, reins, and bring up the rear), kids’ camp counselor (there are still a few kids out there recovering from a week of horseback riding and camping with me talking to a counselor of their own!), and backcountry cook. (I use the term cook lightly. Hunger usually won out over taste the first few years of cooking!) 


Eventually, with a little luck, some 7 years of blood, sweat and tears, and a magical 18th birthday, I became a trail ride guide and eventually, barn manager. But never, ever, was I the greenhorn, the new kid on the block, the red-headed, bastard child that showed up in the barnyard with brand spankin’ new gear of all the wrong sorts and a fresh tin of Skoal in my jeans.  I was never on THAT side of the fence in this operation… Thankfully…


The greenhorn is the guy that shows up eager the first morning all smiles with no idea of what’s in store. His new hat will be deformed and made fun of. He will be the brunt of dirty barnyard jokes and shenanigans.  He will inevitably be drug across the barnyard by Spade, the mule, on shoeing day.  He will saddle horses wrong and get bitched at by second year know-it-all wranglers (usually of the female variety).  He will work from sun-up to sun-up, and meet his ass coming and going on the dusty trail.  He will never drive the truck with the horse trailer. EVER.  He will get the smartest dumb horse in the corral for all intent purposes of teaching him the ropes. He will ride drag behind the mules watching packs and eat enough dust to choke a horse.  If he has a lick of sense, he will learn to completely disappear on his day off if he doesn’t want to be recruited for fixing fence, repairing tack or picking rock.  He will dig the latrine at every campsite.  His packs will have to be re-roped and slung correctly. He won’t have much chance at socializing with the opposite sex, unless he has the pleasure of packing Miss Kitty, the ornery mule.  He will be teased mercilessly by the seasoned crew, and make all the same mistakes that those before him did. He will forget to close gates, and get to change flat trailer tires.  He will eventually meet the ground when ol’ paint makes a high dive through the ground hornets.  He will hear the same songs in the breakfast line every morning, and he will eat more damn hotcakes than he ever thought he could. He will feel bruised, beaten, tired, and sweaty.  His hands will be calloused and his butt will drag.  But, at the end of the season, he will look back on it one of two ways… He may think this is the last year he ever cares to do this, to ride another horse or pack another mule or fix another fence. Or, he will know he’s grown in more ways than he could have dreamed. He will have seen more miles of backcountry than most men will ever know about. He will hear the boss man’s stories and poems and feel like part of the family. He will love pancakes of all sorts.  He will welcome hugs from the ladies in the kitchen. He will know each of the mules’ names and their favorite spots to scratch. He will bond with the horse he’s come to know over miles in the saddle, and lay claim to him for the seasons to come.  But most of all, he will walk back into his old life, reflect on the long days of hard work and his time spent at the ranch and be left yearning for more and wishing it were summer all over again.

See ya next year, greenhorn…


Splittin’ the Seams

Heather Countryman1 Comment
The woes of a 38 year old shopping in an 18 year old world…
I consider myself a comfortable and functional kind of shopper, and I highly dislike shopping for jeans; not nearly as much as bathing suits, but it definitely ranks right up there with waxing your lip, doing dishes, and paying taxes.  However, I do occasionally have to buy them, so I prefer to do my shopping at stores that sell clothing, tack, dog food, boots, feed, and beer (you know…one-stop shop).  That means the selection tends to lean toward functional. Until lately…
Recently, I was in my favorite store, and a bedazzled pair of ripped-out jeans caught my eye.  I thought, “What on earth possesses a woman to want to draw attention to her posterior with gothic crosses and sparkles?”  But after further perusing, I quickly deduced that this design was the only choice I had.  So, I grabbed a pair and headed to the dressing room, all the while my stomach turning at the sight of the price tag. In the dressing room, I stepped out of my duds, and pulled on the pants. Well, I tried to pull on the pants.  Now, I know that fat tends to rearrange itself from time to time, and I possibly ate ice cream the night before, drank a beer, and had sour cream on my potato, but I refused to blame my gluttony on the fact the pants were snug. I had the right size, right?  Tug. Pull. Squat. Suck it in. Wow, who knew it could be such a workout trying on jeans?  Upon searching for the button and zipper, (it was there somewhere) it came to mind that the backside felt a touch “drafty”. The tag listed these as “low rise”, which clearly meant that everyone else would get to see the moon rise. Not only were they “low rise”, they were tight AND sparkly, and created something resembling a “muffin top” out of my midsection. In fact, the idea of removing these pants quickly brought to mind opening a can of Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits. You know, the loud pop sound you get when you beat the tube against the counter?  Yeah… It wasn’t going to be pretty. Clearly it would require just as much effort to remove these jeans as putting them on did.
Well, I couldn’t get out of them fast enough! I was reminded this is exactly the reason why I don’t like shopping for any sort of clothing in this day and age. I might not be in style, or be gracing the cover of Vogue any time soon, but the last time I checked, my horse didn’t care what I wore to the barn.

Happy trails and happy shopping…May you ladies be far more successful than I was!