Horsing Around

 

I know, you've forgotten more about riding than I'll ever know, and I remember telling two rodeo stars about the Thoroughbred Grey I was training, with help.

me and the youngest

They looked at me blankly, in a nonplussed wtf are you kind of way and I replied, "Hey, just having fun with a horse." They lightened at that, "What it's all about, man." 

Three screws in the hip and a cautionary tale later I'm more cautious and haven't ridden since; maybe that needs to change? But here's the thing, I'm not inclined to get on a half-broke horse anymore, much less a mad Arab. Is that wrong?

Ride on,

LSP

Texas Light

 

The famed City of Lights, aka Paris, France, is great but Texas has light too, from the heavens. That struck me as I drove out to take the Sacrament to a churchman who'd just got back from hospital after hip surgery. There it was, the sun breaking through the clouds like the presence of God blessing the land of the Lone Star State.

And there I was at the ranch, parking up by an old Chevy 2500 and looking over at round bales, a random dog house sitting on the side of a storm shelter, and a barn beyond. A lot of memories. Many, many hours dove hunting and walking the treelines, gun in hand, a few unsuccessful coyote calls under a bright moon, target shooting photos of Episcopal bishops with GH, rest in peace, and on. What good times.

A cacophony of tiny dogs greeted me at the door, "Come on in, Fr. LSP!" And I did, TR was recovering on a recliner and everyone was watching Yes Prime Minister, a favorite in this part of rural Texas, but that had to pause for the short service.

Think, God, in the Sacrament, visited that house and the people who received him were united to his victory on the Cross. The sun, if you like, broke through the clouds and the glory of God shone. What a wondrous miracle, and how dim our eyes are to see it, but I won't preach.

TR's a neat guy, he used to cowboy at the King Ranch and I asked him once what it was like, "I'll tell you Father, nineteenth century work for nineteenth century pay." In related news, he cooks what might be the best brisket I have ever tasted. Just outstanding, and that's no idle plaudit.

God bless you all and grant TR a full recovery.

Tantum Ergo,

LSP

Poor Baby!

I wasn't going to say Mass at Mission #2 two Sundays ago because a Mad Arab threw me off her back, resulting in three massive screws to the upper femur. So I called the MC and asked if he'd sorted out a supply priest. The conversation went like this.

"Hey, d'ye have a supply priest sorted out for Sunday?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was figuring you'd do it."

"How, I've got three enormous screws in my leg."

"Poor baby!"

This left me with one choice and one only. Get up. Get in the rig. Say the Mass. Good thing the recruit's on hand to drive, and by the way, the MC in question has a history of falling off horses.

Ride on,

LSP

Turn Of The Screw

Turn of the screw, as in Epstein starts giving up Clinton state secrets and Comey sings under that good old Horowitz method? We wish, but no, it was all about driving to Waco to get staples out and x-rays on the hip to make sure everything was Trump Train according to plan.

Apparently it was, "Nothing crazy down there," observed an attractive radiologist before sending me upstairs to the staple shop. I grinned back, she was reassuring, and headed out to the next date with destiny.

A bored staple mechanic asked me to "stand over there," so I hopped over to a naugahyde examining couch and stood there, wondering what to do. "Look, I can't take them out if your shorts are in the way." I sorted that out, she set to with a handy pair of pliers and out they popped.

Then another medical professional swung by and gave me the run down. Nothing crazy down there, just three enormous screws holding my bone together. Start putting weight on the leg, exercise the muscles but listen to your body and sure, you can ride again if you're stupid. Do the screws go away? "No, you've bought them, they're yours."

I liked her for that and cleverly didn't say, "Yes, Ma'am, but aren't they a gift from Baylor to the Church?" And that was that. The Recruit wheeled me out of there and taxied us back to the Compound. 

And no, we didn't stop at Waco's fabled Silos. Why? Because they're overpriced rubbish. On a different and happier theme, the youngster ships out to Benning late August.

And that was troublesome to me, hurry up Army! But it's turned out for the best, as it goes. 

Stand firm against Satan's New World Order,

LSP