From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Tuesday, May 21, 2002
Subject: Out a' the saddle again
Sometimes you wanna stay in bed, sometimes you wanna stay under the bed.
Took me a while to get back to you, on account a' this week I been busier than the shovel-man in the circus parade.
If I recall correct, you asked me if things come out all right since news broke 'bout them damn terror memos. That's a hard one to answer, 'cause it come on me so sudden I ain't yet put it in the proper retrospective. Since it started, though, seems like each day been a' unknown terror, but I been thinkin' there's somethin' familiar 'bout it, too.
I mind when I was hardly bigger 'n a water pump. We was only a short time in Midland. One Sunday Poppy took me to a rodeo to see a cowboy friend a' his that was in the ridin' 'n ropin' competition. The cowboy, name a' Slim Steele, was a game ol' boy, and he had a passion for ridin' 'n ropin' that was only surpassed by how bad he was at doin' both.
Slim was what you might call a phlegmatic sort a' man, by which I mean he was always coughin' fit to be tied. Don't know if it was the allergies or rodeo dust or what, but his coughin' made horses uncommon nervous, and they never reacted to 'im in a way that signified they was glad he was among 'em. To put it plain, horses just seemed to dislike ol' Slim right out a' the chute.
Anyhow, in this partic'lar ridin' 'n ropin' event I'm fixin' talk 'bout, ol' Slim was paired up with a horse went by the completely 'propriate name a' "Murder." There was folks held this was the meanest horse ever known to man. Some said he'd been sired by Satan out a' Jezebel on a cloudy day. There was those said that Murder'd done a five-to-ten stretch upstate for assault n' battery with Special Circumstances, but that he'd been paroled early 'cause he'd went almost two weeks 'thout killin' anybody, and the warden'd took it as a sign he'd been rehabilitated.
Well, eventually it come Slim's turn to ride 'n rope. That ol' boy played his part, comin' out all full a' ginger 'n bad attitude. But Murder didn't even bat a eyelash, jus' stood with his back to Slim in what seemed to ever'body a pretty clear message .
Must a' seemed that way to Slim too, 'cause he looked a little bit throwed, and when he got up to the horse wasn't near as much snap in his step.
When Slim scrambled up on the horse it looked for a minute like things was gonna go okay. But I'd noticed a certain look in that horse's eye that put me in mind uvva campaign speech they made me give in Berkeley one time. Made me cross myself -- and I'm a Methodist.
Slim was just gettin' his butt comfortable in the saddle, when sudden-like, ol' Murder rears back, almost tossin' the poor ol' saddlebum backward to the ground. Then he bucked forward and quick back several times. And the last time he done it ol' Slim come off that horse's back like a cork out uvva champagne bottle. That might a' not been so bad in its ownself, if one a' Slim's spurs hadn't got caught in the stirrup.
Right then that evil ol' horse took off like a Ford pickup chased by the Revenue. He was just draggin' poor ol' Slim up and down the field. Sometimes the horse 'd make a quick turn, with the unfortunate result a' whippin' ol Slim up 'n down the fence posts. Other times he'd leap over the jump barrels, bangin' Slim's head across 'em like a toddler draggin' a teddy bear downstairs. That horse was just playin' with that boy.
Finally, the rodeo clowns roped ol' Murder and quieted him down, 'til they could extract Slim from the ground he'd been depressed into. Poppy 'n me rushed up to him, lyin' quiet in the rodeo sand and bleedin' from just 'bout ever' place you can bleed; gravel pounded into his face and neck like walnuts in a chocolate chip cookie. Poor ol' boy had two broken arms and a leg that didn't look exactly right. The only way we could tell he was still alive was his eyelids was flutterin' , 'n his lips was movin' a little bit, like he was sayin' somethin' — a prayer maybe. Made me near heartbroke to see 'that ol' cowpoke lyin' there that way, and I leaned close to hear what I thought might be his last words.
What he was sayin', over 'n over, was: "Went better 'n I thought. Went better 'n I thought."
So, yeah, I guess things is okay.
Your Pal,
George
Maintainin' my faith in America, no matter what it does to me
From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Tuesday, May 21, 2002
Subject: Out a' the saddle again
Sometimes you wanna stay in bed, sometimes you wanna stay under the bed.
Took me a while to get back to you, on account a' this week I been busier than the shovel-man in the circus parade.
If I recall correct, you asked me if things come out all right since news broke 'bout them damn terror memos. That's a hard one to answer, 'cause it come on me so sudden I ain't yet put it in the proper retrospective. Since it started, though, seems like each day been a' unknown terror, but I been thinkin' there's somethin' familiar 'bout it, too.
I mind when I was hardly bigger 'n a water pump. We was only a short time in Midland. One Sunday Poppy took me to a rodeo to see a cowboy friend a' his that was in the ridin' 'n ropin' competition. The cowboy, name a' Slim Steele, was a game ol' boy, and he had a passion for ridin' 'n ropin' that was only surpassed by how bad he was at doin' both.
Slim was what you might call a phlegmatic sort a' man, by which I mean he was always coughin' fit to be tied. Don't know if it was the allergies or rodeo dust or what, but his coughin' made horses uncommon nervous, and they never reacted to 'im in a way that signified they was glad he was among 'em. To put it plain, horses just seemed to dislike ol' Slim right out a' the chute.
Anyhow, in this partic'lar ridin' 'n ropin' event I'm fixin' talk 'bout, ol' Slim was paired up with a horse went by the completely 'propriate name a' "Murder." There was folks held this was the meanest horse ever known to man. Some said he'd been sired by Satan out a' Jezebel on a cloudy day. There was those said that Murder'd done a five-to-ten stretch upstate for assault n' battery with Special Circumstances, but that he'd been paroled early 'cause he'd went almost two weeks 'thout killin' anybody, and the warden'd took it as a sign he'd been rehabilitated.
Well, eventually it come Slim's turn to ride 'n rope. That ol' boy played his part, comin' out all full a' ginger 'n bad attitude. But Murder didn't even bat a eyelash, jus' stood with his back to Slim in what seemed to ever'body a pretty clear message .
Must a' seemed that way to Slim too, 'cause he looked a little bit throwed, and when he got up to the horse wasn't near as much snap in his step.
When Slim scrambled up on the horse it looked for a minute like things was gonna go okay. But I'd noticed a certain look in that horse's eye that put me in mind uvva campaign speech they made me give in Berkeley one time. Made me cross myself -- and I'm a Methodist.
Slim was just gettin' his butt comfortable in the saddle, when sudden-like, ol' Murder rears back, almost tossin' the poor ol' saddlebum backward to the ground. Then he bucked forward and quick back several times. And the last time he done it ol' Slim come off that horse's back like a cork out uvva champagne bottle. That might a' not been so bad in its ownself, if one a' Slim's spurs hadn't got caught in the stirrup.
Right then that evil ol' horse took off like a Ford pickup chased by the Revenue. He was just draggin' poor ol' Slim up and down the field. Sometimes the horse 'd make a quick turn, with the unfortunate result a' whippin' ol Slim up 'n down the fence posts. Other times he'd leap over the jump barrels, bangin' Slim's head across 'em like a toddler draggin' a teddy bear downstairs. That horse was just playin' with that boy.
Finally, the rodeo clowns roped ol' Murder and quieted him down, 'til they could extract Slim from the ground he'd been depressed into. Poppy 'n me rushed up to him, lyin' quiet in the rodeo sand and bleedin' from just 'bout ever' place you can bleed; gravel pounded into his face and neck like walnuts in a chocolate chip cookie. Poor ol' boy had two broken arms and a leg that didn't look exactly right. The only way we could tell he was still alive was his eyelids was flutterin' , 'n his lips was movin' a little bit, like he was sayin' somethin' — a prayer maybe. Made me near heartbroke to see 'that ol' cowpoke lyin' there that way, and I leaned close to hear what I thought might be his last words.
What he was sayin', over 'n over, was: "Went better 'n I thought. Went better 'n I thought."
So, yeah, I guess things is okay.
Your Pal,
George
Maintainin' my faith in America, no matter what it does to me
Horse Shot
That's a horse on you
© 2001- 2, Hank Blakely
