Thank You Diane W.

When faced with a conundrum I prefer the input of women over that of men in nearly every case. Men rather uniformly give the same three part analysis as to how best face a challenge:

1. Determine the most recently developed type of machinery or technology that could possibly be used to fix the problem.
2. Lament the fact that said machinery or technology is so expensive.
3. Plan to either one day be able to afford said machinery or technology or to wait until the price comes down.

Each part of the analysis is repeated, using only slightly different phrases until the original problem is forgotten.

No, if a question needs to be answer I prefer the input of women--smart women that get to the point. (If I am found dead with a blood vessel blown in my head please make sure that the autopsy report reads that my head exploded from listening to a women that could not get to the point. Even better, make sure that my tombstone says something to the effect of "DAMMIT I WOULD STILL BE LIVING IF YOU HAD ONLY GOTTEN TO THE POINT!")

Now, Dianne W. is a smart women that knows how to get to the point. She provided me with an answer to a question that has plagued me since I was about 12 years old. I always wondered how the Great Depression destroyed the ability of Americans to write great songs. One of my fundamental beliefs has been that no song written after about 1936 was worth tuning a guitar up before you played it. Some writers wrote a few songs worth playing, but none were worth actually tuning up for or even reworking them get the kinks out of them.

In simple terms, why can we not even write songs equal to "Faded Coat of Blue", much less touch the quality of the lyrics of real art, like "The Vacant Chair"?

Dianne W. suggested that great songs are still being written, just not recognized. In short, that the truth really is out there.

Candidly, I dismissed that suggestion in less time than it took her to type it. Then I remembered that one of my other fundamental beliefs was that I should never dismiss the thought of a smart women that knows how to get to the point.

I went looking for great writing again. I found it. She was right. First I found Gram Parsons. I find his writing to be inconsistently brilliant, but brilliant none the less. Then Townes Van Vandt showed up on my computer. His lyrics are like reading Dorrence on natural horsemanship. Some of it does not make sense to me, but the fault is mine. The importance of what he wrote is not dependent on my current ability to understand it (But I sure would have written a line differently in "Tecumseh Vally" to read "with all the pain inside her" instead of "with all the lust inside her". I am sure that he is right. I just cannot figure out why.)

Then I stumbled on the apex. Good writers make one confront the truth. Very good writers slap one in the face with the truth. Steve Earle picks the truth up off the floor and beats the hell out of you with it. I hesitate to develop a new fundamental belief at this late stage in my life, but I have a hard time believing that he will ever be bested. He takes realism to a new level. Every time I hear "Billy Austin" I am executed. Every time I hear "Billy Austin" I am also an executioner. Listen to "Taney Town" and feel what it is like to be a "Colored boy" and part of a lynch mob.

And Guy Clark--"Dublin Blues"? We will see. (Incidentally, I have actually seen Doc Watson play "Columbus Stockade Blues" and I would not trade that for having the Mona Lisa hanging in my living room)

If anyone out there has read this far down and wonders what all this has to do with horse training, follow me here. I love Buck Brannamen but I cannot hang with his statement that "everything that we do with a horse is a dance." No it isn't. Working a horse is way too important to compare to dancing. On the other hand, it is obvious to me that everything that we do with a horse should be a song. The truth found in a round pen is the same truth found in a good bass run (either on a Martin guitar or a very old Gibson).

Perhaps the more important lesson is this--I always believed that if a song was worth doing, A.P. Carter would have done it. My eyes have been opened a little wider.

If you think that if a training technique is worth doing Parelli (or Lyons, or Anderson, or ...) would have done it, now is the time to open your eyes a little wider.

Parrots can beautifully recite what ever words they have been taught. Crows can't. Crows figure out things on their own.

Your horse deserves for you to put a little crow into his training.