My first trip abroad was to Nicaragua, a country that had seen its share: there had been a quake; the country entered a period of war; and, by the time I arrived, its people were desperate for jolly. The kids wanted to touch “blonde hair” (I know … we were hours from Managua, maybe that had something to do with it); my official title was that of photographer, but I think I was just blessed to have friends make room for me; I saw good doctors (in the OR with tools for cars) restore smiles and sight; and, I saw men with homemade legs to help them scoot about. These people walked for hours to get where we were. Some, stood outside in lines long as long can be to see us. And, all I wanted to do was talk and take their pictures. Sun poison… it started there.

But, what fascinated me was the stories they told in the signs and the graffiti and the Coca-Cola shirt they wore, after some AID organization had gotten it to their door. The words – it was all there; the hope; the fear; the installation of politicians as god-like; and, consumerism (kids had water and kids had cola; adults, water, cola and beer). When I visited there were two tall buildings – one an International hotel and the other a government building.

We could walk through these abandoned properties and see rocks as tall as my knees, where homes once stood. They still had homes, but most of the ones I saw had metal coverings and one room. Chickens … Roosters … A site. But, still they smiled and looked for the smiles of others.

After a bit of a manic Tweet spree, during which time I mouthed off at anyone who offended me, my God, my rights, I decided to seek safer shelter: I traveled to Bohomamma’s Google Page, where I (personally) follow communities as diverse as Tech; Social; The Jesus Daily Quote; Space; Frontiers. Google place is a trip, as the acid loving high schoolers used to say; but, I think what Google does best is to remind all social networks and communities – across Facebook, Twitter and others – of the true possibilities of community. 

I do not know what happened, but the experience of visiting Google for the first time was seamless; and, then I realized that my entire trip on the Internet could be as well. That’s kind of it (for anyone who follow us or our small community). 

Street Photography by Mohamed ADBELRAZEK

I don’t know how this particular photographers work entered my stream (still confused there), but it did. I kept looking at his work and I kept thinking, “Qatar, is that a good place or a bad place?” I could have looked it up – the search box is right in front of my nose; but, I didn’t want to know what anyone else had to say on the subject. This photographer’s work told me what I needed to know. Anyone, who produces this type of photography – who highlights the glow – is good; comes from good; and, wants to share good with others. 

He is fantastic. I love his photographs – all of them. His two photographs of ‘The Jokers’ (possible title) “in Doha, Qatar during events in Kidney national day in Qatar” remind me of home; and, the parades in the tradition of Joe Cain (he’s buried there). 

What goes around, comes around … 

The work of Mohamed ABDELRAZEK, Mansura University, Doho, QATAR. On Google+. 

 Contact: 

Further Reference:
You Tube Channel: World Media, “Qatar Music and Images“

The discussion regarding “The right kind and wrong time of nanny…”;

Sodomy “costs a lot more…”;

In favor of stop and frisk (her position on guns in schools?)

“As you know, I want to use drones for stop and frisk….”

YouTube Video via Michael Savage for Prez.

Image: The Seven Chakras Reinterpreted via Piccsy.

I do a lot of things for a lot of people; and, the only ones in my life giving me a break in that regard, are my children.

If you asked – and, if you asked a lot of women – we know that between the ages of birth to at least five or six years of age, children do better with mothers at their side.

As a mom, my job is to create a child who says, “Mom…I’m okay, leave me alone.” But, it takes a while to instill confidence in that step into the world. It’s work. It’s reading patterns in children and sensing when they need help and where and why. Women, in my opinion, tend to be more sensitive and especially with children. The role of the majority of women in this world is to balance the negative.

Children need: and, while there is lot of argument about nannies and what have you; and, we have many great ones whom add to our life; I can tell you that it’s me who gets the job of creating a good man and good woman. I like the role. I believe I have good values and I believe my children will contribute to the lives of others, if I am able to instill me in them.

Even with all of our financial blessings, which has allowed us to get help organizing and managing our lives, the burden of that work is on my shoulders. It’s work and if a woman allows, it will pull her to her knees crying out to something or someone for a break. You know you’ve been there. It is crying in order to pull one’s self together, to get the strength to do it again another day.

Reality: women not only want to work, we have to with the state of the economy today. We are required to do so. And, in return, we can expect to be paid less (that’s wrong) for the same work; we can be expected to create good boys and girls; we can be asked to keep our husbands pleasured because our time stamp is nearing; or, we can say no.

I say no.

I’m done living like this.

Our politicians have driven our countries into wars; have dragged us into a debt so deep that we have to decide (and, yes – it is a decision we make together) between helping a kid get a book or building a stealth paper machine that will wipe an entire neighborhood and barely leave a trace.

Am I scared after writing that statement? Yes. Twitter – the corporation – only added to the fear. If Twitter – a communicator of ideas doesn’t have my back – I’ll find another company who will.

I think there are lot of people like me and I think the companies that allow people like me to gather, will do well, because people like me return favors.

Our country and the state it is in affects me in such a away that I want to do something.

I am ornery: I take a bit of pride in that; but, whether you believe in God, science or the randomness of life, something made me this way. People think I shouldn’t be the type (and, I don’t think I necessarily look the type), but it is who I am. I also believe myself to be a lady and most ladies don’t really care if you agree or not.

When I see injustice, I tend to want to go head first wherever there is flame. That’s a fact: I once ran into a burning building to grab a couple of kids, who were stuck at the top of a staircase because their older, Asian (?) father couldn’t organize thoughts fast enough to figure out where he needed to go to keep his children safe. My husband tells this story one way; but, when I think about that night, I didn’t think they were in danger, I just thought, “it’s my job”. I have children now and I am not certain if I would do it again, but I suspect I might; and, that’s another issue that trips me up.

My son, once heard me take down a nanny who popped a balloon of her charge, because the three-year old, whom was out at 7:00 p.m. at night on a cold night, wouldn’t stop crying.

I didn’t apologize to my son for my behavior. I told him I expected the same from him, when he was older.

And, so…I’m sitting in my bed reading tweets: and, it’s nasty stuff. It’s men who shame rape victims, because the victim uses Twitter to find her support and to share her voice.

It’s people whom are obsessed with pushing their party or their individual goal through the party, finding women on Twitter and posting notes about their being fat or their being ugly.

Enter…the bull.

I wanted to see what would happen if I pushed back against that…and, the further I went, the harder I laughed. I got reactions and I probably got the reactions I wanted.

I wanted someone to stand up to the bullies.

I am not the type who hits below the belt: my methods are much effective. I find, when dealing with the bullies, the best approach is to say it like it is. The truth here is I enjoy watching the response: my particular skill – I think – is to notice in bullies what they try to hide from the rest of us. My particular pleasure? Reminding them that I know this fact about them.

Tell me I’m crazy: there is still truth in the fact.

I plan to create a gallery of the social networking sites and other – highlight our front pages there – of the smiling faces who’ve joined us places elsewhere from Twitter.

I also like data – patterns in behavior and in numbers: so, as I go on my merry little way, slaying bullies or addressing issues of importance to me, I noticed a lot:

I noticed my follower number being 600 one moment; and, 599 another.

I noticed I was DM messages to followers and they weren’t getting them.

I noticed that some followers weren’t getting my messages at all.

I noticed a lot of porn accounts clicking in (irony here – we should talk).

@Bohomamma was mentioned in a rape forum and criticized by a clever little troll named ‘misspell’?

The funny thing here – the name of the account may have been a direct message to me, because if you follow me or Bohommma, you know my hands are bit faster than my thoughts and it’s tangled…but, I am in a hurry and I press send. It is sensitive area for me. Not, because I don’t believe in my intelligence, but because the troll is correct. I should not have sent the post or the e-mail without taking the time to spell-check.

So, what kind of man tracks rape victims or survivors of sexual abuse on Twitter, so that he can silence their voice? You know. Now what? 

Truth is…most of the time, I can find myself to a correctly spelled word. Most of the time, trolls cannot. Spell-check equals the imbalance of smarts, in favor of the troll.

So, our @Bohomamma account was shut down for harassment or something (I really have not had the time to look over everything). And, interestingly enough, my private Twitter account was also closed. I do not use my private account for anything. It was created when I was playing with Twitter and discovering how it worked best.

It doesn’t work: There are a lot of people posting information, but not many reading the stories they favorite. Brands know, because URL shorteners and such, track which articles were clicked.

Every interaction on Bohomamma’s Facebook is recorded for my review because as a brand, it’s my job to know with whom I am speaking and why. The exchange is that I can tailor the our content to your likes. There isn’t a nefarious aspect, when I use the tool. Wth others?

Why were my accounts closed?

Why was my private account suspended, when that account has no record of my kicking a bully’s ass, during a crying spree, when I just decided my voice should be heard?

I thought at first, the issue involved free speech. Was this a impeachment against my right to say what I thought?

I don’t name call  - the other guys do. Let’s remember how harsh and brutal the attack on Sandra Fluke. If any woman thinks she could have withstood that barrage of shit that was thrown in her face, without an army of women rising up and calling game. I refuse.

I absolutely refuse to allow this filth into my life anymore.

Ooops…there she goes. She must be crazy.

No. I think crazy is allowing a bunch of overpaid, overstuffed, ego-centric men to bang and pound a woman who said, “this is my story.”

I’m a little nervous about saying all of this.

But you know what…it gave me an idea: Bohomamma is a magazine. We were an Honoree in lifestyle websites in 2012. No big deal to many: but, a big deal to a mom who spends all of her time with her children; and, also all of her time with the daily tasks of life.

I think it is a freedom of press issue. That’s a bigger deal to me.

I don’t know a lot, but I have studied some, and I don’t think Twitter gets that right.

I’m okay never having another Twitter account again. After all, it’s hard for a woman, who is building a business, to be bombarded with “women” (probably a man/hidden behind a stock photo) selling their sexual services to me. Facebook is my tool, because they do not allow it…it’s a line and if anyone has crossed it on that site, I haven’t seen it.

Think about it…I don’t believe that the constant bombardment of our culture of women selling themselves is good for our moral worth. I  am not arguing the point: I am stating my fact.

I feel exposed. I worry how far this could go. There are many scary trolls in this world and they like to look at my stuff…little old me.

But I tell you what? I also like the challenge. I don’t want to end up in jail or something, but I don’t think I did anything “wrong”.

I’m laughing really…

The reason our accounts were so effectively suspended (causing me work that I’m not sure has been corrected) is because I like to play in all areas of media. I like music. I think music is a safe to get a point across; add a picture – things become clearer; add, a video..I’m drawing you a map; create fun and group of people who like to honor each other, slay dragons and rule the world…

I think it is Google…and, Facebook and I’ll have a list.

Someone has to have my back on this. I have children and I think they need me.

I am an Aries after all. Blame it on the stars.

And for the record: I do believe that Rush Limbaugh should remove himself from our airwaves (there is law there). I do believe Ann Coulter sells out the sisterhood. Is that freedom of speech? I’ve heard wor

se from their mouths. If you don’t know, follow a couple of accounts (we’ll update), such as #UniteBlue or #VAWA

We found this soundtrack magical, as we cozied on our bed with our Snuggle turtle – stars float across the sky.

My children are not getting my attention right now. As a mother, that really hurts me.

I’m going to stop for a bit because she wants me to play tea.

Women everywhere are hysterically laughing into their computer screens; Smokey on Spotify…Dr. Dre earphones…a little one prone to fitful sleep…and, I couldn’t stop laughing.

    “My dad taught me to understand fear”, an article in The Telegraph on the life of another horse whisperer, Buck Brannaman.

If you have never read the Horse Whisperer, a novel by Nicholas Evans, we highly recommend it for your list or group.  

There is a movie, directed by Robert Redford, based upon the book. It is also a personal recommend for people in my life. 

Mr. Redford’s The Horse Whisperer is a beautifully shot film: we like to assume that Mr. Redford has walked a professional path in dignity because of his understanding of the rhythm and flow of the West, its land and its people.

Mr. Evan’s account of his life as a horse trainer is a deeper look into the life story of a man, as only books can offer.

After reading The Horse Whisperer, we think that Mr. Evans considered himself a flawed man; as only great men tend to do.

His life wasn’t easy: poor lives often lead to poor decisions and poorer options. We will forgive a man anything, if he is hungry or weak and we got the sense that Mr. Evans was hungry and weak for a while.

What Mr. Evans’s account of his life accomplished so well, was to offer a glimpse into the moment at which a person decides to leave a past behind: to break free of a past – generations of flaws and human frailties on one’s shoulders – how awesome must that internal conversation be?

In terms of Mr. Evans’s professional approach to training horses, he seems to be a man strictly opposed to breaking the backs of those beasts.

I’ve seen horses trained, I am the granddaughter of a Cowboy, and I have seen Cowboys talk to animals, so I know they can.

I like to think this sense of animals and nature is also what the Native American Indians do so well – to listen to animals – when they are not so entwined with our world, so much. 

I have seen kids hurt physically by adults in their lives and comparing the two, a cowboy who listens to animals; and, a parent who attempts to train children with belts and whips, I’d say my views are inline with the cowboys, the Indians and the Horse Whisperers. I would also say I am violently opposed to abuse of anything or anyone.

If a horse is broken – broken through force – he or she loses its greatness; the light disappears from the eyes of a horse (or any other animal or being) who has been broken with whips and chains; and, when breaking a horse (or any other being), whips and chains are often utilized. I think the light is taken, because the fear has come. 

Observing people and nature, I tend think that there are many types of whips and chains: there are the emotional ones, the financial ones, and, the literal or the physical ones.

Because of Mr. Evans’s book and some of what I have seen in my own life, I offer that every once in a while there is a horse that refuses to be broken; these horses will wear a man down and it is something to behold. These horses…we have have sayings about these willful horses in our culture: 

“Better to ride on ass that carries me, than a horse that throws me. – English Proverb 

“For want of a nail the shoe is lost, for want of a shoe the horse is lost, for want of a horse the rider is lost.” – English Proverb

“Where the leather is scarred, there is a great story to tell” – Jimmy Tart

“Show me your horses and I will tell you what you are.” – English Proverb

The beaten horses are the ones sent to the good cowboys and horse trainers, because these horses need only a couple of things to move forward: to trust, to know their own strength and a personal belief in each. 

The romantic in me thinks of it a bit like an agreement between gentlemen or ladies: “I will care for you, until you rise again; and, you will not throw me, or at least not quite so hard, because you know we’re speaking a language.” 

Bohomamma has been pulled into Twitter these days. It’s good to see good people trying to figure out, with whatever thoughtful and talented contribution they can, how to solve some of our bigger issues;  Twitter is also a trolling ground for marketers and porn suppliers (irritating); but, the worst for us is that we get pulled into the fight, thereby negating our ability to think. We’re learning. 

There is a lot of talk on Twitter these days about issues affecting the disadvantaged: The Violence against Women Act (should be written: Women Against Violence Act); healthcare; guns and firearms; war and the weapons we choose to fight those wars; intelligence and intelligence threats; Constitutional issues surrounding transparency; issues concerning what our government has or has not the right to do against its people; political theater and how politicians use media to “brand” themselves to a buying audience, which has become so accustomed to knock- offs that we’ve forgotten about the originals in our political history; civil and religious liberties; and, automatic spending cuts in the amount of $85 billion dollars.

When we allow ourselves to create stories in our minds connecting a particular ‘automatic spending cuts’ and the people who will carry the burden of those financial decision; we can’t help but think of what happens to a horse which has been trained with whips.

People, at least in my experience, are more fragile than the most fragile of horse.

This is what I (we) say: If a person wants to know about implications of a financial decision on our markets, the person needs to read the publications of economists; if a person wants to know about transparency in media, they should be reading material from attorneys, professors and organizations which are challenging court decisions throughout all of our judicial houses.

If a person wants to know about war, we recommend following NGOs and organizations which put the majority of their financial resources and personal energies into those efforts. We suggest you begin with those organizations whose agents are also on the front lines. If a man or woman is risking his or her life to make something better for someone else, we’d think them trustworthy.

Whom we wouldn’t recommend as a first source of our news: television personalities; broadcasters who broadcast opinion (left or right); any person whose books become bestsellers because of conscious inflammatory statements written by the author (or ghostwriter); politicians who suddenly become their party’s “celebrity of the moment” after some outrageous statement against women or African Americans; “writers” and “bloggers” who aren’t thoughtful in their words, like so many great writers are; and, frankly, anyone who makes the hair on your head stand. If you’re not inviting someone to your family table, I don’t think I would listen to them on my radio; we think radio hosts who own homes worth $30-$40 million dollars and who are still angry in this world, are not sources we would trust either; and, we desperately do not appreciate women who go against a sisterhood (there’s more on that later). 

Cowboys and Horse Whisperers….they tend to say what they mean and move on; and, they also tend to be smart, independent thinkers about life. Most people I know are. 

Bohomamma is beginning a Twitter list, “Research and Studies on Issues Affecting Our World Today” (we’ll shorten the title). Send us a link,  post to your feed on Facebook or Twitter and let us know it’s there; or an e-mail of articles which we may wish to consider. We’re looking for the thought leaders on issues of importance in our world. We want studies; we’re looking the good writers; we’re looking for lessons in history…I think you get the idea. 

Recommended Reading:

The life of another Horse Whisperer: “My Dad Taught Me to Understand Fear”, an article in The Telegraph about the life of Buck Brannaman.

Both Mr. Evan’s book and Mr. Redford’s film are available on Amazon.

Featured Image: Cowboy Riding Bronco While Other Cowboys Look On via The Library of Congress. 

Today’s Playlist: Coldplay Live 2012

Playing Now: Track: More than you Know, Artist: Dexter Gordon, Album: North Sea Jazz Legendary Concerts on Spotify.

Cover Image: On the set of The Pledge (2001), American mystery directed by Sean Penn. From Wikipedia, “The film features an ensemble cast, with Jack Nicholson, Aaron Eckhart, Helen Mirren, Robin Wright Penn, Vanessa Redgrave, Sam Shepard, Mickey Rourke, and Benicio del Toro.”

Since a few of us have been in her very position, in one way or another, we decided to watch the Oscar clips of her.

Goodness: The Universe has just bequeathed Ms. Lawrence, the coolest girl on the block – and, the right kind of cool at that.

We’ll be telling our daughters, “You see that Ms. Lawrence? You’re going to be like that Ms. Lawrence. You need to pay attention right now and I’m not asking twice.”

We’ll be telling our sons, “Do not bring home anything less than Ms. Jennifer Lawrence – girl or boy; black or white – your future partner will be nothing less than Ms. Lawrence.”        

Image: Movie Still: As Good as It Gets, 1997, Romantic Comedy; The As Good as It Gets Ms. Helen Hunt and the As Good as It Will Ever Get, Mr. Jack Nicholson. 

In fact, anyone who knew him called him by that name: It was “Cowboy”, “Mr. Cowboy” and “Papaw Cowboy” wherever he went.

He had been raised on the land. His Irish roots brought his father, an alcoholic from Ireland. The story in our family is that my grandfather’s mother was Indian. I’ve heard Cherokee and I have heard Crow. I think I remember seeing a picture of her once – a special treasure floating somewhere. I remember the braids and the dark dress. She married and had a lot of children; and, when men are unhappy and alcohol helps soothe that pain, it’s the women and the children who suffer.

My grandfather, along with his brothers and sisters, worked their land – however big that parcel was and I doubt it was big enough to produce for all. My grandfather and his brothers left school early. I have heard that my grandfather left school in the 2nd grade. (It’s recollection; I make no claim to 100% factual accuracy. Ironic, because my grandfather’s line is also Mormon and Mormons keep good records.) 

The family name was at one time Underwood. The name sounds very Indian to me. I did research my grandfather’s family tree on the Mormon site, but I traced myself to an English court and thought I might not have understood how that research tree was meant to be traveled.

1930s Sprott Alabama Post Office Gas Station. Source: Pictures of Vintage Americana

Every sibling to my grandfather whom I have ever met was nothing but kind to me. He used to take us wherever he was going. Whoever was around would hop into his red pickup; or hop his lap when he was riding a tractor to the barn. He didn’t stop. He loved what he did. 

Sunday mornings on Papaw Cowboy’s farm:

The women would wake and the kids would stir. The men would go out and they’d start feeding the horses or milking the cows. They would scatter in throughout the morning for a biscuit or a cup of coffee – it didn’t really matter what the weather was; there was always something cool or hot to take the edge off the body. 

There was a lot of a laughter in his home. People stopped by often: people from the church; people whom had business with Papaw Cowboy; the cow hand who had come to exercise the horses or shoe one. 

RiRi was often there – even on Sundays. I think she liked being in that home – she was respected there. I don’t remember a lot of her life, but she has stayed with me since childhood. I do not know her age at that time. She was older – her hands were a bit wrinkled; her nails were always clean; she carried a towel on her hip; and, her hands were often wet. She never me scolded me – in fact, I don’t remember her scolding many – she didn’t have to; there was right and there was wrong and we didn’t have a choice in which path we were going to take. The funny thing, she never did more than a quick dressing down and a look. 

At one time, I was recovering from something and because my parents “made us” watch what they watched (it was that or leave the room), I was home for a week when the mini-series Roots premiered. I remember seeing Ri in those faces. I knew her through that mini-series. 

She signed her name with “X”: I know a couple of women and men like Ri – women and men who used a mark as their word.

My grandfather was good in this regard. He was matter of fact, “Ri, got to get your signature, we need to get your money to you this week.” He cashed her check and he was always right, because he would ask me to check his math because he didn’t want to “short a good woman like Ri.” 

She’d walk over, wiping her hands on her towel, and her hand shook a little, she’d draw the lines.

She had cared for my grandfather’s second family for a long time and she ran that house at my step-grandmother’s side. That’s the difference (or maybe the take away) of movies like The Help: women were in a boat together and they had to be smart; neither my grandfather’s wife or Ri had time for nonsense such as bossing someone else around. 

So, we’d run in to the kitchen in the morning because for whatever reason, we visited a lot. There were a lot of kids: my grandfather had four from his second marriage; we were four; we had a group of family down the road – five girl who were the daughters of Uncle Bill and who lived in an Antebellum style home on a large lot of land, not far away. Somehow, we would all end up at Papaw Cowboy’s farm on Saturday nights or Sunday mornings. And, between my grandfather’s wife Mimi, Ri and whichever older cousin happened to be around, we’d all get to church. Sometimes, we weren’t all there, sometimes we were. 

We’d listen and sing and we’d get an ice-cream on the way home – never with caffeine, although the term “java” was a younger one and we sneaked those in when we could. I think Papaw knew. I do…

We’d get back to the house and Ri would be at the sink moving huge pans: it’s a process – it’s cleaning breakfast; moving into lunch; putting out plates and napkins; picking up; handing a kid a potato with salt and my aunt would join in.

Sometimes, they would ask one of us to pitch in here or there; I don’t think it was our sex that dictated our chores – I think it more our boredom at any given time and, maybe whomever happened to be underfoot.

My step-grandmother…she’s a lady. She’s the only family member that has visited me with each of my two children. She’ll call me a day or so before and say, “We’re driving up…” and they are in that Lincoln driving down Broadway and it is a sight and I cannot be more thrilled that my seventy-something lady of a grandmother gets to see this city, because she always had wanted to do so.

There was a big, open kitchen and living room.The men would tend to afternoon chores when we returned from church. We’d follow sometimes. We’d usually meet up in the kitchen here and there. We were never asked to leave.

In fact, my grandfather delighted in sharing with his male friends the conquests we had achieved. Those men would laugh and they would say, “Cowboy, that’s is one smart girl.”

My grandfather would say, “My girls can do anything,” and we were all his girls, even if my mom didn’t always feel as close to him as she wanted. I think divorce is hard on children and my mom got hit with a bit of that. He had three daughters from the first marriage; two by the second; and, two boys for good measure.

We’re strong women. We work hard. We get it done. Those women gave me that gift and my grandfather had a hand.

We’d scatter again, confident in how good we felt and we’d find our way back about 4:30 for supper. Sometimes, someone would call outside for those of us in the barn.

Because my grandfather’s line of the family became involved in politics in Mobile, we had a Sheriff and other local officials who were direct relatives of ours. There is also a connection to George Wallace and his wife; but, this story…requires research. 

I think our family (and I say ours…it started on that farm) became involved in politics because my grandfather got things done; he shook hands; he made life easier for other people; and, he understood their lives. They respected him for it and he was able to enter politics, which is what he wanted. 

In fact, we’ve led quite a few Mardi Gras parades in Mobile – either on horse, a float or one of the antique cars my grandfather collected and cared for. 

So, we would hold up our arms and throw candy and beads  down Government Street. We never felt privileged to lead the parade, but we did feel honored that we were allowed to ride in those cars. 

My grandfather kept a collection of National Geographic magazines in the dining room, by the door near the washroom and the saddle room. It was the adult version of the National Geographic. He also had a series of The Encyclopedia Britannica - a complete set.

We’d sit for supper and they would talk politics and life and to them there was no separation. My gift from my grandfather was that he allowed me a couple of things: he allowed me the honor to listen to the truth in the world around me; he inspired in me a sense of justice; he instilled in me a sense of politics as a process to lift people from where they are; and, he blessed me with a sense of obligation to people – he allowed me to see the good, the bad and the ugly. He would make comment to me about how it was a bad season for someone or that someone had a bit of a problem with the drink. He also gave me drive: he was prepping his girls for the Governor’s House – he was and I was on board; hook, line and sinker, but time got us first.

I think the drink is my grandfather’s reason for Mormonism – whether his, I don’t know; but I’m certain his father influenced my grandfather’s religious beliefs. 

My grandfather also taught me that work is hard. For some, it is back breaking. 

In an effort to teach discipline and hard work, my father would have us “till” his fields in the middle of humid summers in the South. We’d pull stumps and there would be a jug of water to the side so that the ATVs didn’t hit something on the way. Tilling fields is difficult for a ten year old; I’m certain it is more difficult for an adult.

My grandfather’s talent in life was to listen to the stories of the people around him. He learned about himself that way. I would probably credit the Irish and the Indian in his life. He was religious – he and his God were tight. He was spiritual. He and I spent a many day just sitting looking at a horse or into the pastures. 

So, when I think of my grandfather’s family and the gifts they gave me: I am a listener; I feel nature deeply in my life.

I was kicked in the head once by a black and white spotted horse that was new to the farm and needed to be broken in, because I wanted to touch that beautiful white tail. If you have never brushed the tail of a horse; you should.. it is a peaceful practice. So, I’m also taken by things I see around me and I am hardheaded. 

I remember I woke up in the ER on a metal stretcher: when my grandfather realized there would be no long term damage to the brain he was so desperately trying to cultivate, he reminded me that cowgirls don’t walk behind horses and he said something about horses flicking flies from their tails. 

I was proud of that scar. I wore it well. It has faded since, but by God, I liked that scar.

And the other gift he gave me? He was a traveler and he had the means by which to travel well. We saw the West the year before he died; almost a year or so after he and I lost my mom. 

My view of the world starts with my childhood. 

I love nature and want to see it secured for others. It is a path. 

I love spirituality in that there is a rhythm in the way good people walk their lives. In my experience, the good travelers have been wounded, but those wounds calm them or that mountain or whatever it is people reach toward when life gets tough.

I feel a kinship with the land and I can’t help but feel a closeness to the Indian in our family – a sense of respect to the ones who allowed me to respect nature. Indians honor the balance of things.

I love men, because the good ones make a difference and they believe a woman can rule the world and they are ready to put their energy, effort and encouragement behind the effort. 

I love ladies – manners can take of an enemy in a way that screaming cannot. It is a gift really, to slap an opponent in a way that makes the opponent look silly. 

I love women, because the good ones make life easier for the others. 

I love cleaning. It is (at times) a place where I work things out in my head.

I love children, because my grandfather encouraged our voices and I think there was wisdom in his decision and I am a better mom for that lesson. 

My payment to him is to carry his line to ours and without him, there would have been no “ours” – I’m sure of it; time gave us that.

We lost him to a farming accident and he didn’t even need to work, but the legend in our family is that only Cowboy could have been run over with a very large industrial sized tractor and live for 30-days.

Much love to my Papaw Cowboy and his family. We remember him in each other. 

Track: Below My Feet, Artist: Mumford and Sons, Album: Babel