Send Me Your Tractor

pictures, I will post 'em here, and then we can all admire 'em. Sound like fun? Grandchildren, children, and critters in the foreground are welcome. Get on it. Don't forget to include any interesting details.

Send in your yard/garden tractor pics, too, if ya' got 'em.

Send 'em to jaciii@bellsouth.net large files are OK.

Some pics of JD's big and small from an lurker who wishes to remain anonymous. Looks like Grandpa is semiretired on the big mower. You don't see many tractors the size of that BIG Green with the boy without cabs/ROPS much anymore - oldschool.



From EP(Gregg) Does that look like hot dirty fun or what?!

MF 1135 100 hp. This was during the 2004 peanut harvest in late October, I sent you the second picture to show you how dusty is was that day. This is the land on the river (94 ac cropland above the river bottom) where we are talking about hog hunting with you guys someday.

We were running two 1135's and two combines that day. The 1155 was pulling the hay halling trailor. I took these pictures when I rotated from combining to driving the dump wagon ( 195? international 2 ton modified with PTO hydralics and a large side dumping basket on the bed) with the all important cooler full of beer in the front seat. Not only did you did you have to go to the combines for them to dump, but you were also the bartender. The peanuts were dry enough to combine between 11:00 am and 10:00 PM, which makes for a long day. But it is fun!

Gregg

Here's what a box-stock International can do with only a wax job and some shiney wheels for show:



Here's Bill's Garden Tractor equipped with snow blade on front, chains on the back, and an angel (Bill's daughter) in the drivers seat.



Here's David Goodyear and his just-turned-two year old grandson, Hunter, on his newly acquired and tuned up '51 Ferguson. That's 1951 for those of you out there with unproven post-Y2K tractors. Note the size of that starter motor cable - David wants the juice to flow!

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Program...

I promise to pull this down as soon as I get more tractor pics (or model #'s FT - hint hint) but y'all gotta check this out. I didn't know these were available, and it's even the correct color!

Biker Chick

Nate, get one for Jeb or I will, to refrains of, "Oh yeah?! Who bought him his first motorcycle?? All you did was feed, house, clothe, educate, and raise him. I had to buy him his first bike. "

JACIII's First Motorcycle

This is not actually the bike I owned but this is the model. Self mixing two stroke with oil in a seperate tank.

There's a story behind this:
I wanted a riding lawnmower for my birthday when I was about 10 yrs. old. Go figure. Well, Dad saw an opportunity to get himself a rider and me a birthday present at the same time. Clever, yes? No.
Some time while I was in middleschool I decided a dirt bike was just the thing for me and traded my (Dad's) riding lawnmower to some grungy dudes around the corner for a non-running DT175.
Let that be a lesson to you: Don't bullshit the kids too much, it could bite you on the ass.

The Good Ol' USA has Plenty of Crappy Roads to Ride. You Don't Have to Go to Columbia.

From StrikingViking.net


Take particular note of the "Kalifornia" attitude toward the warnings he has been given.

ON THE ROAD IN SOUTH AMERICA

November 6, 2001 Bogotá, Colombia What was amazing this morning was how everything began so normal. Departing Bogotá was like riding out of any major Latin American metropolitan area. There were smooth intersecting multi-lane freeways, modern restaurants and toll plazas with armed guards crouched behind sandbag bunkers. Even though I have received assurances the road ahead is safe, I am still uneasy over the upcoming ride to Medellin.

Under the friendly surface, Colombia is still locked in a culture of violence. Once o¬n the road, my anxiety subsides somewhat. I observe military convoys of dull green eight wheeler trucks packed with machine gun bearing, grim faced young soldiers dutifully eying traffic crisscrossing around them. This is a relief. I feel safe. This is like cruising California o¬nly with jungle terrain and much steeper mountains in the distance. Although it’s o¬nly two hundred miles to Medellin, because of the steep windy road, driving time is 8 hours if o¬ne keeps moving, which I do. I don’t want to get caught out in the no-man’s-land countryside after dark.

It’s been reaffirmed numerous times that a truce has been signed between the government and the dreaded FARC rebels declaring a temporary end to hostilities. Authorities in Bogotá stated the road northwest to Medellin is now patrolled by the army. Although still apprehensive, I convince myself that the threat, along with others so far, is overrated. The highway south, leading to Ecuador via Cali is my final destination out of Colombia. But this is directly through territory seceded to the rebels a few years ago by the government in an effort to jump start peace negotiations.

The rebel’s tactic of taking hostages for ransom has supposedly ended but I want to wait a few weeks and ride around the secure zones to build my confidence before attempting that route. I don’t want to become part of a terrorist fund raising drive yet it’s questionable how valid the danger claim really is. After all, there have been warnings about every country since leaving California.

After four pleasant and uneventful hours into o¬ne of the most spectacular jungle rides yet, my self-confidence grows and I wonder--“What’s all the fuss about anyway?” Soon the two lane curvy road narrows with long stretches of missing pavement and fewer structures or signs of normal activity. After riding over several breathtaking seven to eight thousand foot mountain passes, a few small broken down o¬ne-room houses called casitas pop into view.

They are selling gas from 50 gallon barrels alongside the road every mile or so. I topped off my six gallon tank thirty miles outside of Bogotá and my bike has a two hundred twenty mile fuel range. Running dry isn’t a worry yet since they’re selling out of drums indicates there are no stations. This means there are fewer people around, a concern that is soon verified by an empty crumbling roadway. After a short while more, there are no other vehicles in either direction. The environment abruptly transforms into the stillness of a graveyard.

Before long, it’s alarmingly evident—I am alone. For the first time since leaving Bogotá, I experience the bowel burning notion something is about to go wrong and I consider turning around in a frantic flee to the safety of a city. I keep going, slowing o¬nly to navigate the precipitous climbs and ever-sharper turns.

The vibrant green jungle turns eerie, lifeless landscape, pumping shivers up my spine like fluttering electrical current. I’m a man who doesn’t scare easily but am now in the grip of a powerful, unmistakable fear. There is death in the air.

After clearing the last hairpin curve, I come upon a two-ton truck with a canvas-covered bed being waved o¬n after apparently stopped and searched by armed men in dark clothing. It’s here, o¬n a late, warm, sunny afternoon, in the spooky silence of a towering encroaching jungle, where events occur that will alter the course of my life.

I am five thousand miles from the safety of my home, o¬n a desolate stretch of the Colombian Autopista, o¬nly two hours from the safety of Medellin, when stopped at a military-style roadblock by about thirty, heavily armed young men in their late twenties. They’re dressed in black sweat pants and black long sleeved Tee-Shirts with nylon ammunition vests bearing AK-47 assault rifles. A few of the clean shaven, short haired men step out from behind the truck, while others line the shoulder in front and behind. They wave me over with their rifles in firing position, aimed directly at me.

This is my first encounter with rebel forces. I had imagined guerrillas would be attired in camouflaged uniforms with some type of military look to them. I’m still uncertain who they are. It’s possible they’re o¬nly bandits. My mind races to a pulsating red alert and for a moment, I consider making a run for it. The jungle o¬n either side is an impenetrable wall of tangled green, shooting straight up the mountain o¬n the right, and dropping off perilously o¬n the left. There are o¬nly two choices, forward or backward o¬n the road.

I deliberate revving my motor and running o¬n through until noting tall shiny antennas glinting in the air connected to radios in hand. I assume they’re talking to lookouts in both directions. It’s unlikely I can safely elude a barrage of machine gun fire from the surrounding troops. Even if I do, more gunmen up the road are certain to have better luck.

Before I can collect my thoughts, the men shout commands in an unfamiliar campesino slang that doesn’t register in my mental dictionary of California, second semester, college-learned, Mexican Spanish. Gesturing by jerking their guns to o¬ne side and ordering me off the bike, several of the men jam gun barrels in my ribs as I dismount. I scan the scene, trying to stay calm as the reality of this dreadful circumstance sinks in.

A moment I had feared has arrived with no escape and it hits me--it’s likely I may die here today. As I step away from my bike, several of the men in a wild frenzy rip the electronic equipment off the handlebars. Others feverishly ransack the contents of my saddlebags, tossing clothing into the road. They are shouting, Ropa Ropa (clothes, clothes). I’m not sure what they want, and still don’t know who they are.

I hope maybe because they are stuffing my clothes in a sack, I’m just being robbed. Then an older, light skinned man in his mid-thirties, appearing to be the leader because he gives orders to the others, yells, Vamos! Let’s go! Thinking he means for me to get o¬n my bike and leave, I start to do so. This enrages him more and it’s back to the gun barrels in the ribs. What he means is, we are leaving together. Other stern faced men motion with their weapons for me to accompany them behind some dilapidated deserted shacks half buried in the jungle.

My mind races for a way out -- there is none. I have never felt heart-thundering, cottonmouth fear like this before. I now believe with absolute certainty that this is execution time. They want me behind those structures for fun and games before blowing my head off.

Positive my life is about to end, I’m determined not to die alone in the jungle and never be found. My o¬nly option is to stonewall and try to take it in the street, where a bus had been stopped next to us. Let the terrified passengers be the witnesses to my murder. At least then my loved o¬nes might hear what happened and get my body back. I would have a say in where I spend my final moments.

No quiero ir! I respond, shaking my head while trying to conceal the fear in my quivering hands. I don't want to go!

The men angrily shout back -- Vamos!

The force of the rifle-jabbing increases. Yo no voy!, I yell, I'm not going!

The situation is exploding out of control with everyone shouting louder and louder in languages neither understands. Then the leader levels his machine gun at my face. Convinced death is imminent and terrified to perish undiscovered, I provoke him to action screaming, Chinga tu madre puto, hazlo aqui! Fuck your mother punk, do it here!

Gritting his teeth with a look of vicious determination he lowers his rifle and yanks a 9mm pistol from a shoulder holster, chambers a round, and points it at my forehead from ten feet.

Andele pues puto!, I yell, Get o¬n with it punk! I clench my eyes and hear a deafening crack. For a few moments I am uncertain if I’m dead or alive. Nothing registers in my brain. My body freezes. He cleared my head intentionally. But as I open my eyes he takes careful aim at my upper arm.

My brain re-engages. I realize that they want me alive, and that I will be accompanying them, with or without a bullet in the arm. This is no bluff. I look over at the bus. Some of the passengers are crouching, some are crying, and some look away pretending not to see. I plead with my eyes--- tell someone what you have seen here.

Several men flag the bus o¬n. And as it slowly chugs away in a cloud of black sooty smoke, I manage a stiff-legged walk toward the edge of a menacing jungle where a dozen more armed men with weapons pointed at me are waiting. Two other guerrillas are busy hiding my bike in the abandoned casita in an effort to conceal what has occurred. I become acutely aware -- I’m about to vanish into a nightmare I may never awake from.

Once swallowed by the thick, gloomy countryside, the trail becomes a weather eroded gully, steep and narrow, forming a deep V shape. It starts ten-feet wide, eight-feet up and narrows to ten inches across at the bottom - just enough for a heel to toe step o¬n the wet slippery red clay. Although this maneuver appears to be a well coordinated ambush for locals, there’s no mistaking the excitement and shouts of bravado among the victorious marauders.

We descend rapidly for fifteen minutes with twenty or thirty men strung out ahead and behind, trudging steadily downhill until they halt for a quick radio check conversing in coded phrases. Somehow I know the word was put out, the ultimate prize is in hand, an American has been captured. I still don’t know who these men are or why they have taken me prisoner.

When they finish o¬n the radio I ask, Quien es ustedes? Who are you? The leader thrusts out his chest and responds, Eh Eleh Enee! I don’t understand that this is the Spanish pronunciation of the abbreviation ELN at first, and give him a puzzled look. Offended by my ignorance, he places his beard stubbled face close to mine and screams through stinking, rotting teeth, Erjecito de Liberacion Nacional! The National Liberation Army. Fidel Castro’s favorite Marxist thugs, who have financed a 40-year leftist rebellion against the Colombian government by kidnapping civilians for ransom and assassinating those who fail to support them.

These rebels have a brutal track record of murdering civilians and holding and torturing hostages for years while ransom fees are negotiated with tormented families. Along with several other groups including the right wing Paramilitare, they have recently made US Secretary of State, Colin Powell’s list of most aggressive world terrorist organizations.

I dig deeply into my mind searching for a way out, an escape plan, words of advice from my long dead father, something in my martial arts background or years of meditation training.

I come up empty, drawing o¬ne blank after another. Until now, I had always believed there was a solution to every problem if I searched hard enough. Today is different. The hostile expressions o¬n the faces of these terrorists tell me they are anxious for me to try something stupid, for the honor of slaying a Gringo, a Yankee Imperialista--an enemy of the people. For the first time in my life, I feel I have no chance…

Epiphany.

I'm Gonna Give Y'all the Fever Yet.

When Nate ad I were makin' our liesurely way back from our ICBM (That's Intra Continental Ballistic Missle) impersonation through Tennesse, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas year before last we plotted our return encompassing the Natchez Trace. On it, we sheltered from a horrendous thunderstorm in a little town in Mississippi under the awning of a country store/fuel station. The only soul minding the store was a cordial black fella. Within' ten minutes of our arrival a strange thing happened.

About vehicles suddenly began pulling up to the store from all directions. It happened so fast we didn't pay much mind to it as we were mainly concerned with when the rain would let up and where we could score some RainX for our face-shields. One must also remember that being the only white folk in an all black rural Mississippi town is not like being the only white folk in the ghetto.

Eventually, even more cars/trucks/vans pulled up and some of the brothers looked to be from the 'hood when it suddenly dawned on me that more were showin' up, noone was leavin' and this might not be a coincidence. It probably was, or we may just have been the only white folks they had seen in awhile.
"Hey, Y'all gotta come see these ignur'nt white folks what's ridin' motorcycles in the rain!"

So, being the type of CCW permit holder I am I decided I'd hate to have to shoot any racially insensitive black folks, clued Nate in, said our fare-thee-wells and scooted on out. In the driving rain.

I stumbled upon this pic at BigDogAdventures.com of a store in Mississippi that sure looks familiar....

Just Thought I'd "Pass" This On

I raced a Harley today and after some really hard riding I managed to
PASS the guy. I was riding on one of those really, really twisting
sections of canyon road with no straight sections to speak of and where
most of the curves have warning signs that say "15 MPH".

I knew if I was going to pass one of those monsters with those
big-cubic-inch motors, it would have to be a place like this where
handling and rider skill are more important than horsepower alone.

I saw the guy up ahead as I exited one of the turns and knew I could
catch him, but it wouldn't be easy. I concentrated on my braking and
cornering. three corners later, I was on his fender. Catching him was
one thing; passing him would prove to be another.

Two corners later, I pulled up next to him as we sailed down the
mountain. I think he was shocked to see me next to him, as I nearly got
by him before he could recover. Next corner, same thing. I'd manage to
pull up next to him as we started to enter the corners but when we came
out he'd get on the throttle and outpower me. His horsepower was almost
too much to overcome, but this only made me more determined than ever.

My only hope was to outbrake him. I held off squeezing the lever until
the last instant. I kept my nerve while he lost his. In an instant I
was by him. Corner after corner, I could hear the roar of his engine as
he struggled to keep up. Three more miles to go before the road
straightens out and he would pass me for good.

But now I was in the lead and he would no longer hold me back. I
stretched out my lead and by the time we reached the bottom of the
canyon, he was more than a full corner behind. I could no longer see
him in my rear-view mirror.

Once the road did straighten out, it seemed like it took miles before
he passed me, but it was probably just a few hundred yards. I was no
match for that kind of horsepower, but it was done. In the tightest
section of road, where bravery and skill count for more than horspower
and deep pockets, I had passed him. though it was not easy, I had won
the race to the bottom of the canyon and I had preserved the proud
tradition of another of America's best bikes.

I will always remember that moment. I don't think I've ever pedaled so
hard in my life. And some of the credit must go to Schwinn, as well.

Be it known: No pedal pushing, tight-wearin' sissy is gonna get around BrandX on his Harley.

I Give You The "Swamp Thing" Kawasaki KLR650

Message dates Jan 1, 2006

hi fellas,

I pulled into Ushuaia, Argentina (the world's southernmost town you can drive to, in Tierra del Fuego) last night just in time to celebrate new year's with about 25 other bikers who have all worked their way down through the Americas.

I am the only KLR rider and all these other guys (mostly europeans) are on BMWs, KTMs, a few Africa Twins. The KLR gets a lot of respect when they find out it cost only 5 grand and it made it all the way down from Oregon (about 20,000 miles zig-zagging and on some of the worst roads on the planet), with zero problems... most of the KTMs and BMWs didn't fare so well. Apart from being a crappy long-distance highway cruiser (i.e. all day on pavement), the bike has treated me very well even after the horrible abuse I've put it through on the dirt roads and trails down here.

*snip* solicits advice on whether to replace chain and sprockets after his 20,000 mile trip before heading home.*snip*

Any insight/advice on this topic will be appreciated.

happy 2006 from cape horn

steven

The picture above is from another rider who also treked to the southernmost driving point of the hemisphere. Don't it look great dirty?

North to Alaska

Let's see 240 miles to the nearest fuel, I've got 6 gallons in the tank @ 50mpg or better.... Yeah I'd bring the extra gallon, too.

Name that bike!

Wistful Winter Wonderings on Winchesters .270

That damn Gregg and his dead piggie pictures has drawn me from my obsession with a certain whore-fingernail-red 1100 thrill missle back into the sleepy world of calibre consideration. That's OK though, 'cause it's cold outside, the wind is bendin' the trees, and I may not come out of my flannel 'jammies all day.


So let's talk about the .270, shall we? What started out as a flat shootin' barn burnin' speed demon has become.... ya' thought I was gonna say somethin' like "slowpoke", didn't ya'. Nope. It's still right on the tail of those hot-shit cartridges we all read about in the glossies. How can that be?!

For years the .270 Winchester factory load launched a 130 grain bullet at a muzzle velocity of 3140fps while the *New* *Improved* .270 WSM (Winchester Short Magnum, SB) is listed at 3275fps. Hmmm... I don't think I'm gonna buy a new rifle for a 135fps improvement. It seems factory loads have changed a bit in the last few years as the *New* .270 Winchester load is a mere 3060fps. Whether lawyers, sales of new magnum cartridges, or better engineering measurement methods are the impetus behind it I don't know, but the fact remains the books have been cooked.

I'm gonna stick with the old timers and run Sierra 130grain spitzer boattails of 60 grains of H4831. Well, not exactly, I think I'll use H4831SC since it works better in my powder feeder, but you get the picture. And if you don't take a look at these from Gregg's program Ballistic Pro:

Control of Canadian Thistle

From a site on "mint" production

Biological Control

Ceutorhynchus litura (crown/root weevil)
Distribution within host range: limited sites
Infestation of host: light (>10%)
Control ability on seeds and/or plant density: Good
Availability for redistribution: Limited

Larinus planus (seed head weevil)
Distribution within host range: limited sites
Infestation of host: heavy (> 70%)
Control ability on seeds and/or plant density: fair
Availability for redistribution: mass collections

Rhinocyllus conicus (seed head weevil)
Distribution within host range: widespread
Infestation of host: heavy (> 70%)
Control ability on seeds and/or plant density: fair
Availability for redistribution: mass collections

Urophora cardui (stem gall fly)
Distribution within host range: widespread
Infestation of host: heavy (> 70%)
Control ability on seeds and/or plant density: fair
Availability for redistribution: mass collections

It seems all you can really do is till frequently (no good for pasture), spray in the spring when the shoots are young and try to spot spray through the growing season to starve the creeping root.

WB Needs Help with Critical Reading

BTW, this study refutes the assertion that "SUVs are safer", as it pertains to children.
WaterBoy | Email | Homepage | 01.03.06 - 3:56 pm |

Anytime I see an article headlined about the evils of SUV's I know it is a good opportunity to show my daughters how journalists, "scientists", and commie-rat-bastards will lie in sneaky ways to affect your opinion on a matter.

First : The Headline
Study: SUVs no safer for kids

Right away this fails the common sense test; So, if I run my suburban with my younguns in it into a camry with your younguns in it mine will get hurt and yours won't? Hmmm.

Second: this statement;

rollover crashes occurred twice as frequently in SUVs as in passenger cars and children were three times more likely to be injured in a rollover crash than in a non-rollover accident

Let's give 'em the higher frequency of rollovers and look at the sneaky way the part about children being three times more likely to be injured got slid in there. Children probably ARE three times more likely to be injured in a rollover, but that does not address rollovers specifically in a SUV. A cute bit of slight of hand reminiscent of the clinton era.

Here are the questions to ask :
What percentage of crashes are rollovers? Sorta like the vitamin that decreases your risk of "X" disease by three times when you only had a 1 in 10,000,000 chance of gettin' it in the first place.
Are rollovers more often reported as opposed to idiots running into inanimate objects or high energy fender benders? The "study" looked at crashes reported to StateFarm so obviously somebody had to have full coverage, or be liable for someone else's damage, it had to be reported to the insurance company, and they must have insurance (With StateFarm) for it to make the sample. If you don't see a lot of trouble in those sample qualifications, I can't help you. Go away.

Third:

"The study looked at crashes reported to State Farm involving 3,933 child occupants"

How often are crashes reported with information concerning child occupants where the child did NOT get hurt, or where noone got hurt in the SUV? I'd wager: none or close to it. We've all been involved in a traffic accident; did the cop want to know who was in the car that wasn't injured?

There is a disclaimer of sorts at the end of the article:

heavier vehicles are generally safer than lighter vehicles within their own class. That is, a big car is safer than a small car and a large SUV is safer than a smaller one.

Data, and common sense has also shown that large SUV's are safer than large and small cars, and minivans/small trucks, and damn near everything is safer than a small (that means REALLY small like the kia sportage or the little suzuki) SUV or a mitsubishi montero (? - I don't know what the story is with this mitsubishi but it's there in the "Deaths per Million Produced")

That's enough to give you the idea, keep lookin' at it and you'll see a lot more in there. The point is the average Waterboy will read the headline and maybe a little of the first paragraph and come to the conclusion that "they" say SUV's are dangerous.

WB, I know I hung you out to dry here, but I suspect you only threw that link up 'cause Bill was hard on ya' about rear wheel drive versus front wheel drive. If so, it was a good tactic but poor strategy, at least here in JACIII's House of Large Cars.

The Leisure-Suit of the 90's

Can you see this fella on his 45 horsepower tassled hippo checkin' himself out in the storefront glass downtown? Maybe at Hooter's big-tippin' little girls so they won't act creeped out around him?
~
~
~
~

Ick.

I thought after the campaign to normalize pedophilia beastiality would be peddled as commonplace, but I must admit to being surprised by this.

MR: "Excuse me I feel the need to go french kiss a tree."

WaterBoy: "Man, I miss that about Michigan. Frenching the maples in March."

MR: "Ah, true but for me the real maple syrup still comes from VT."

I can hear MR's wife now -

MRsMR -"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?"
MR - It's not sex if you don't have intercourse.
MRsMR - Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!
MR - OW! Stopit, Honey! She doesn't mean anything to me! Really OW! It's just for the syrup! I don't even really like michigan maples! You know I prefer vermonts! OW!
MRsMR - Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap! My mother told me there was something wrong with you. I should *Whap!* have listened.
MR - Waterboy does it, too!
MrsMR - If Waterboy jumped off a cliff...Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!

MR wants to drive through Mexico with the family

Y'all think that's a good idea?

I would have to do a lot of research before I went with other adults, much less children. I get the impression mexico is a lot like Jamaica - you need to stay in the resort areas to survive.

The Family Truckster

Now that's family transportation! Just look at the ass on those things. And can you beat rear facing thirdrow seats for the fun factor?

For the Record

SB is right.

*and she's a prety good troll spotter, too*

MiniVan Madness

I see 'em all the time. Minivans darting in and out of traffic, passing at the speed of sound on the interstate. Always some henpecked frustrated wimp behind the wheel.
I ask you, really, what kind of man drives a minivan? And past that; What kind of man drives a Minivan fast?

People didn't drive stationwagons this way. I miss stationwagons.

Anatomy of a Business Call

Phone rings. I see it's a local number I don't recognize. Shit. Somebody probably with a nag that can't walk and hasn't been trimmed in a year, and won't get trimmed again for another year. I let voicemail get it and answer the third call the next day.

JACIII - Yeah. (No sense in encouragin' 'em)
Y - Um, I have some horses that need trimming and one in front shoes that needs to be reset.

JACII - Okay, How many need trimming?
Y - Let's see.... 14. And the one in front shoes.

JACIII - What are they?
Y - What are they??? Uh, they're broodmares. Oh, and a weanling, and a yearling. And two stallions.
JACIII - OK, what are they? (She'll catch on in a minute)
Y - Oh, quarterhorses.

JACIII - When were they trimmed last?
Y - Well, they're three weeks overdue.
JACIII - (Deep calming breath) When were they trimmed last?
Y - Oh, we had 'em on an eight week schedule but, like I said they are three weeks overdue, so... eleven weeks.

JACIII - Got it. Why do you have one in shoes. (It's crippled...)
Y - Oh, that's my baby. I've had her since she was a foal. She's eighteen and I just want her to be comfortable. She has some calcium deposits on her knee and the vet in Wisconsin put special shoes on her. I have them if you want to see them. (These turned out to be cheap caulked shoes someone had beaten the toe square one. Not a bad plan except for the caulks)
JACIII - The vet put shoes on her? (oh, shit, a yankee know-it-all with a yankee know-it-all vet.) What happened to her knee?
Y - It's an old injury. The vet didn't actually put the shoes on, my old blacksnith Larry did. I have them if you want to see them. I don't care what it costs I just want her comfortable.
JACIII - (Get's out the old schedule book) Let's see...
Y - What do you charge?


This Lady's horses were extremely well behaved, had long enough legs to get under them (rare for modern dachshund-like Q-horses), was appreciative of the work, but unappreciative of the bill. Hey! That's a lot of horses! And one of the shoes on the old mare is a twenty dollar (my cost) shoe by it's self. She'd have shit if one of the $400.00 (my cost) shoes had been required.
Note the last question was not the first question she asked as is often the case and tells a farrier where the priorities are in their horses care. She is not your typical quarterhorse owner that wants her horse trimmed in such a manner that it will win a show but become unsound down the road. (No, I don't do that. There are plenty of jack-legs out there who will.) She does, however, think they do it better in Wisconson (yankee - can't help it) where everyone is smarter and knows quite alot about horses, so we shall see how this one goes. After I saw her reaction to the bill, I didn't reschedule her but told her to call in a couple weeks to reschedule . That will give her an out (by not calling) and time to find a cheaper farrier so she wouldn't have to lie were I to call to confirm seven weeks from now.

Such is the life of a horseshoer.

Y'all have a great Christmas !

Don't know how much I'll be around this and next week. The grils are off to Grandma's and as soon as I trim 14 horses and shoe one (That takes care of the Christmas bills!) this afternoon I will be following on the Mothership. I am hoping to ride to the Keys next week weather permitting.

Audioblogger is history, so I can't send ride reports, but there's always Nate's Peep Paradise, or EP's new pad, and Vox is picking on girls again. Pick your poison.

I know, I didn't get everyone's links up here, so do what I do and look through the comments for links to Roci and whosyourhuckleberry and the rest. Good readin' all around.

- Update -
Horses done ($400.00 for 2 1/2 hours work!!!!), bike warmed up, showered (Yes, I washed behind my ears), shaved, clean underwear (in case I'm in an accident). See y'all!

Damn Gregg!

Thanks for the video/pics! That's one bigassed tornado!