The Paradox

I am bone cold,deadly serious when I say that for nearly a decade my horse lot has been functionally unappealing to the eye. The function that my sagging fences and ground covered with baling string served was to keep out the wrong kind of people. It kept Mrs. Drysdale from coming back. She would take one look, sniff disapprovingly, get back in her limousine and leave, never to return. On the other hand all the Ellie Mae's of the world looked at the horse lot and saw nothing but a bunch of beautiful critters.

This is precisely how I wanted things to be. The Mrs. Drysdales of the world do not like me and I find that they give me indigestion. The Ellie Maes of the world are a pure delight to be around.

However, I have recently fallen into a trap of my own making. Over the winter something took hold of me and made me decide to change the appearance of my operation. Oh do not get me wrong. Mrs. Drysdale will still not approve and Ellie Mae will like the place just as much, but my beautification projects have not come without a cost.

Last month I spent less time in the saddle than for any comparable month over the last decade (except for those months spent recovering from broken ribs). It seems like forever since I have had an hour to just stand beside a horse and chew and sigh with him. I have gotten nearly no where on the book that I am writing. My little riders, who used to be drawn to the horse lot like flies, now find it possible to be somewhere else. Perhaps it is merely a coincidence, but I fear that the change is a result of their decision that my hammers, brushes, and hoes just do not properly fit their hands.

To further complicate matters, my place has begun to look too classy for me to appear in it without a significant fashion makeover. This also takes time away from the horses. Wearing clean clothes, daily showers, shaving--where has the rest of the world been finding time to do all of these things?

Every day the place is starting to look better. I am afraid that, at this rate, Mrs. Drysdale might even be attracted to our horse lot by Labor Day. Should that occur, my last line of defense will be to set on the front porch of the little house and play my banjo. (Visions of "Deliverance" have always served as a potent Drysdale repellant.)