Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" (c) 2008

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [Images from top to bottom: "The Last Chair, Lively, Virginia", "The Flowering Oaks, Lively, Virginia, "Ancient Oak, Lively, Virginia", "Harriman, Tennessee", "Minnie Pearl's Hat, Ryman Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee", "Mary at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", "The Very Large Array, New Mexico", "Panoramic Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", & "Cattle and The VLA"]

        We had just had a perfectly nice little box lunch at an Interstate rest stop in the Valley of Virginia. No harsh words. No crazy comments. No imagined slights from us. Then, as my mother was getting a scarf out of the car, preparing to walk over and get back into the Penske truck, she said to me.
    "You know, after Pamela was born I had a miscarriage and I fought to have another child, so remember that, the next time you get upset with me!"
    I shrugged my shoulders, gave Annie a crooked smile with a slight shake of the head and walked my elderly mother back to the truck.
    And this was Day Two of what turned out to be a week-long journey, driving my mother and her things to an independent living place, near my home in Tucson, Arizona.

    I thought it would be fun, driving Miss Daisy across the country. It was anything but. When Annie arrived, ten days before we were going to leave for Arizona, she was prepared to do a lot of work, packing my mother up. What she didn't know was that in the months leading up to the move, Mom hadn't done a thing. When I arrived three days before we departed Virginia, Annie had done an amazing job, in spite of everything.
    Even though I had been to The River to visit at Christmas, I had no idea how much my mother had begun to fade. She started out the day as a woman in her eighties and ended the day as a six-year-old child. When friends would ask me, on the phone, how my mother was, I would say she was 'petulant'.
    But my mother’s old, and it's not her fault that she has become more of a spoiled brat. She has always been this way. But now, she was ruder, more insulting, and more manipulative that I've ever seen her. She’s never been one to apologize or try and walk in anyone else's shoes, but now it was all or nothing, black or white, good or bad, with no gray in between. And the All was All Her. We either loved her or hated her, and she wasn't shy to say anything now. [Like she ever was.] And even though it was never her intent to be hurtful, that didn't mean it didn't hurt. [Whether a truck runs over you by accident or on purpose, you've still been run over by a truck.] Add to that the entitlement issues in her DNA and the occasional histrionic tears and you've got a nightmare for Annie and I.

    Miraculously, we got the 26-foot Penske truck on the road on Friday Afternoon, with Mother and Annie following in Mom's Buick Le Sabre. We made it as far as Charlottesville, Virginia that night.
    Besides the little adventure caused by me getting the truck stuck in the parking lot of the motel, (I embedded the rear end into the pavement while trying to go up a little hill. Had to get a tow truck to wince it free), the first day's drive was uneventful and rather pleasant for me. For me. Not for Annie. For Annie had Mom in the car with her, for hours. After Day One, Annie and I traded off my mother. Day Two, Mom rode with me. Day Three, she rode with Annie, etc. That way, we each had every other day without the presence of my mother.
    When Mom doesn’t get her way, either she is wrong, you are wrong, or all of us are wrong. There is no simple difference of opinion in my mother's world. If you disagree with her, you hate her. If you are angry at some behavior of hers, you hate her. If you ask for something that she doesn't want to give, you hate her. I wish I could say this was new, but it isn't. It's just more so.
    Also, Mary puts people into two groups, those she considers family and those she doesn't. If you are considered family, then you are obligated to do what ever she asks. You are her servant, her peasant, her slave. And if you refuse, politely or no, she gets mad and either insults you or tries to shame you into doing what she wants. Again, not new. Just more desperate and pitiful these days. (Then again, my mother’s ancestors did own slaves and she was raised by black servants. Perhaps I expect too much.)

    The manipulations and criticism started long before we left Lively, Virginia.
    By the time we reached Tennessee, Mom was saying she wanted to go back home to Virginia or go to Raleigh and live with my sister, Pamela. (Not an option, now or ever.)

         
    In Nashville, she thought she was in Richmond, Virginia. Truly. She thought we were on Broad Street, seconds after we had left the Ryman. Thought the Mosque was just up ahead. ‘What the fuck,’ I silently mouthed to Annie in the rear view mirror, as we drove back to the Interstate.

    In Arkansas, she tried to jump out of the car. We affectionately call it The Arkansas Incident. We were driving slow and it was at night, so no one got hurt.
    By Oklahoma, we couldn't stand to even think of eating dinner with my mother. We prepared food for her to eat and brought it to her room at sundown, and then Annie and I went out and had our own dinner.
    I took some pictures of Mom at the Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas that turned out to be somewhat iconic. Thanks God for that.

    By Santa Rosa, New Mexico, she was weeping in the hallway of the motel, saying we were abandoning her.
    The Very Large Array was fun for Annie and I, and we even had one lighthearted moment with Mom. The sustained winds were 40 miles per hour that day and as we were walking Mother to the Visitors Center, one of us on each arm so she wouldn't blow away, Mary said, with a bit of wonder in her voice,
    "Son, you are really taking me on an adventure."
    We all three laughed. The one and only time that would happen in 2500 miles.

    I could say more. I probably should have said less. Bottom Line: Mary is all settled in at Sin Vacas, an upscale retirement village, where all the street names are in Spanish for nutty things. ('Street Without Sin', 'Street Without Denial', 'Street Without Danger'. Mom lives on Calle Sin Envidia: 'Street Without Envy'. And Rancho Sin Vacas, the gated community where the elderly village is, means Ranch Without Cows.) She’s making some new friends and going to church. She's slowly learning how to get to the bank and to the grocery store. And she’s even saying thank you to me when I come up to help connect the computer or put together a lamp (Even though I know her 'thank yous' really mean 'please don't leave me all alone'.)
   
    Mom and I don't really get along. Haven't really for years. I tolerate her and she probably tolerates me too.   
    But one piece of advice or rather a warning to all.
    Don't say to me "You're being such a good son."
    I'm not. And if you say it to my face, I’m probably going to get pissed off.
    I didn't move Mom because I'm being a good son. I did it because Mom begged me to move her to Arizona, and that we had few options left, for Mary can't really take care of herself anymore without help.
    I told Mom a number of times, that I really didn’t think it was a really good idea to leave 100 friends in Virginia behind, to live near her son and her 92-year-old sister and her son's ex-girlfriend in Arizona. But we have a saying in my family: "Mary does whatever Mary wants to do." Her so-called friends in Virginia, most of them rich, white, arrogant fucks, call Mom ‘a force of nature.’ They are not complementing her.
    No, I'm not a good son.
    I'm not doing this because I want to, or that I even think it's the right thing for her to live in Tucson, but our choice are limited now.
    Retirement places in Virginia are much more expensive there than in Arizona.
    My sister Pamela lives in Raleigh, in the Old Home Place, but she is fighting cancer and is really in no condition to be around Mom, in a number of ways.
    It's by default that I'm doing this, have done this.
    I'm not a good son.
    I'm just the person who’s doing what needs to be done.
    That's all.
    If I had my way, Mary would be living in Virginia somewhere.
    But you rarely gets your way if you are with my mother.
    It's Mom's way or the highway, pretty much.
    Even though she would deny that.

    “Your hair is so beautiful,” she says.   
    “You’re as handsome as your father was,” she says.
    Mom is over the top with her compliments now. I’m repairing a chest-of-drawers in her new apartment. She’s following me around.
    She may be a bit sun-downy these days. She may be her normal Narcissistic self, but she isn’t stupid. She knows she fucked up. She knows Annie and I are pretty tired of her shit.
    Phase One is done: Mary and her stuff have been moved across the country.
    Phase Two is mostly done: Unpacking Mary’s shit and getting her settled in.
    Now, on to Phase Three: Maintaining Mom in Tucson.
    Once-a-week visits and occasional chats on the phone is the plan. My plan. Her plan would be for me to be at her beck and call, 24 / 7 / 365. That ain’t going to happen.

    The view from her balcony is fabulous. City lights in the distance at night. An arroyo filled with birds and their songs during the day. I close my eyes and hear the quails’ sing. I feel sad. Mom doesn’t even notice the beauty right in front of her. I open the sliding glass door and reenter her apartment. She yells something at me from the bedroom. I can’t hear what she is saying. I don’t really care.

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One: "The Wisteria Prayer Tower"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One:
“The Wisteria Prayer Tower, Sonoran Desert, Arizona" © 1999, 2008

    I'm here alone tonight with a small hoop made of wisteria, the vines a gift from Mary Ann’s backyard. I twisted them into a circle and wrapped the hoop with a battery-powered string of clear Christmas lights. The hoop and lights sit at the base of a saguaro cactus. I open the shutter and walk back to a nearby shelter. It's a simple structure. Just four posts and a crude roof made of two by fours, spaced a few inches apart, to give some shade from the midday sun. A couple of benches too. From this short distance, I can see the glow of the hoop, and I begin to drift off into memory, thinking of a night under this shelter, just last year.
    [It has just begun to rain. We've had a great dinner at Caruso's, celebrating her birthday. It's Monsoon season and we decided to go look for storms. We found a big one. The rain's coming down in sheets. The shelter proves little relief from the storm but we don't care. I gaze upon her silk green dress, not completely soaked, sticking to her beautiful body, her nipples showing through the fabric. Mary Ann and I are very wet. In many ways. We laugh. I press her against one of the shelter’s supports and kiss her deeply again. She kisses me back hard and makes a little moan. I feel a stirring. It's really pouring. I hardly notice.]
    I blink and sigh. Back to tonight, this moment, this time. I leave the shelter and walk back to the hoop and the saguaro. The glow of Tucson's city lights shines over the mountains to the East. I gingerly approach my Rollei. Ever so slowly and evenly, I advance the film, with the shutter still open. I turn the knob a third of a turn, then another third, then another, until I'm relatively sure I've drawn the film through at least two or three frames. I then close the shutter.
    I consider another exposure. I open the shutter again. I slowly take my hands away from the camera, and step back from the tripod. I walk toward the shelter. I then take myself out of the moment, out of this night, and daydream myself back to that night, last year, with Mary Ann. The one with the hard rain, with that never-ending kiss, with that wet silk green dress.

"...at the Singing Rocks" (c) 2008

"Dead Hundreds-Year-Old Ironwood Tree at the Singing Rocks, Ironwood Forest National Monument, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[On the fifth anniversary of the War in Iraq.]

"Coral Sea Roses" by Cathy Spann

"Coral Sea Roses" (c) 2008 Cathy Spann

"The Mustang High Grass Spiral" (c) 2008

"The Mustang High Grass Spiral, Mustang Mountains, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

       MLK Night. I walked in the tall grass at sunset, playing a poor version of "We Shall Overcome", but I didn't judge myself too harshly for the finger faults. Neither would have Dr. King. I had carved the dirt spiral in the ant-flat a hour earlier. I came back, packed up the mando and set up the shots. First shots, not so good. I then moved the camera and shoot directly into the rising Full Moon with a bit of dusk-light still left in the sky. Never had done that before but I kind of liked what I saw and what I shot. Waited another hour and then shot some flame spirals but they didn't make the grade. Wasn't a flame spiral night. Frankly, I may not use the Zippo again. Felt like I was taking a big step backwards.

       Then this morning, I thought about the portable battery-powered Christmas lights I carry in my 30D bag, and wondered what a slow dance with them around this spiral in the high grass would look like. It looks awfully good in my mind's eye. I do a little test dance in my kitchen with my Christmas-Lights-On-A-String. Looks good here. The Mustangs Mountain are an hour and a half away. Hmm. I hope the storm that's coming up from Mexico takes its time.

       The Mexican clouds did roll in, but it didn't really matter. The shot I got the night before was just fine. I did shoot with the Christmas lights but it was clunky and ill-timed. And this afternoon ended up being about Forgiveness and not about Photography.

       While hiking today, up a canyon that was new to me, I started speaking to God. I do that sometimes. It helps me release feelings and gain insights. Old saying: If I live only with my feelings and have no spirituality, I'm ruled by my emotions and I have no perspective. If I live through Spirit alone, without feeling my emotions, I'm stuck, arrogant, and in denial. But when I live in that middle place between God and Passion, I have them both, and I feel balanced, centered, generous and hopeful. That's what happened today in that side canyon. I expressed forgiveness to a musician friend who inexplicably axed me from his life a few years back. I felt forgiveness for a long ago lover, who was sweet and kind, but who wasn't in love with me even though I wish she had been. And I gave myself a break, letting go of some judgments about my mismanagement of money, about my inability to age gracefully, and about some of my shortcomings when dealing with family. When I got to the dirt spiral just before sunset, I realized that what I needed from the Mustangs had already been given to me. No photographs were needed. Again, I did shoot some nocturnal images, but it wasn't the night for circles of Christmas lights over a dirt spiral. It was a day about letting go and forgiveness. But I did play "Cut The Tent" on my mandolin in the stunning purple dusk, and I did call a friend on my new cellphone to tell her how beautiful it was in the Mustangs. And I did leave smiling with a cloud-fuzzy Full Moon rising in the eastern sky. 

“The Road to Uncompahgre Peak” © 2007

 

“The Road to Uncompahgre Peak, Colorado” © 2007 Stu Jenks

[Images: "Sioux Mud on Snow, Colorado", “The Rialto Theatre, Alamosa, Colorado”, “Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado”, “Daylight Donuts, Alamosa, Colorado”,“Uncompahgre Peak, Colorado”, "#7 Site at Silver Thread Creek Campground, Colorado", "Blue Jay, Oatmeal & Tripod", and "North of Creede"  © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

        Thursday, October 18th, 2007

        Alamosa, Colorado. The first Western town I ever visited and stayed at, for a length of time. (I don’t count Austin, Texas, the city I visited a few days before Alamosa in 1977. Texas ain’t really the West to me. Texas is Texas, a separate country.) Came to visit Bob, a friend I went to Carolina with, until he transferred to Adams State in Alamosa. Sadly I haven’t keep up with Bob. Have no idea where he is. Then again we drifted apart soon after he left Chapel Hill. Visiting him in Colorado was one of the last times we spent any real time together. Still remembering drinking the 3.2 beer and complaining about it. Also remember drinking Lone Star beer and not. Bottom line, Bob was a good man and I hope he is doing well, thirty years after our last meeting.

        I visited the Great Sand Dunes National Park this morning. First time in thirty years. Hiked to the top of the highest dune, 700 feet about the surrounding landscape. Beautifully cold. Ran into an older man at the top who said he was ‘semi-retired’. (Semi-retired means to me: Rich; Maybe have to fly to a board meeting every now and again; Travel a lot; Spend a lot of money.) Tough old bird. A member of the Elite but  he can’t be too spoiled if he was willing to plod through steep sand to get to the top of a big-ass sand dune. Not an easy climb at all. I left the $1200 Canon 30D in the truck today. Took the Brownie and the old Pentex instead. Had a wonderful time, wind hitting my face, sand soft and rough at the same time, thinking about days, thirty years prior, with Bob and some of his other friends. Happy I can still make it to the top. Remembered a voice telling me back then, that I needed to ‘stop smoking.’ It was saying stop smoking dope not tobacco back in the day. Now, the voice is saying ‘quit smoking’ and now it’s about tobacco. I tied a red prayer bundle (containing tobacco) on some tall grass, prayed for others, and myself and found a healing rock for me and a power rock for Annie on the way back to the truck.
        Got to Alamosa in the mid afternoon. Stopped and mailed a few postcards at the main Post Office. Longed for a Daylight Donut but they were already closed for the day, yet I could still smell the baking donuts on the sidewalk by the front door. Hmmm. (A day or two later I was driving through Alamosa again and stopped by, but alas, still closed. No Hot Donuts Then Either.) Oh well. Got some gas and headed west toward the San Juans and Uncompahgre Peak.

        The plan was this: Drive to the 4 x 4 trail that goes up to the trail-head for Uncompahgre Peak. If the snow is too deep, car-camp at the base of the jeep trail. If the snow is shallow, head up as far as I can go. Probably won't make the trail head. Definitely won't be hiking to the top, like years ago. Just camp somewhere along the jeep trail. That was the plan.
        I’m driving on Route 149 west of the little village of Creede now. Up I go. No worries. No snow except on the highest peak from what I can see. Easy driving. I drive by a formal Forest Service campground with its ten campsites, its wooden picnic tables and its iron grills. Called the Silver Thread Campground. Looks to be only one camper there. It is Fall, it is cold, and it is a weekday. I turn my nose up at this modern campground as I drive by. Wouldn’t think of camping at such a citified campsite. I’m heading for the wilderness. Up in the deeper snow.
        Then I notice it’s getting colder and colder and more and deeper snow is appearing on the roadside. I know it’s colder for now my truck heater can’t keep up with the outdoor temperature. That means it’s very cold.
        I reach the Slumgullion Pass, that is south of Lake City and now I’m hitting patches of snow and black ice in the road. My heart rate goes up. About an hour, maybe two of sun left. I engage the four-wheel drive, but as any rock hopper knows, the four by four is really a two by two, and it doesn’t do much if anything against ice. I crack my moon roof and stick out my hand. Sweet Jesus it’s cold. Well, I am at around twelve thousand feet. I do the math. If it’s this cold now, that means tonight it’ll be zero or below. I won’t freeze to death for I've got a good bag and a good coat but I may be uncomfortable. And I do have a desert battery in my truck. Negative teen temperatures tend to kill car batteries. I’m beginning to reconsider my plan. Even at the base of Uncompahgre Peak I may get stuck in snow or at least be really cold. Hmmm.
        Suddenly, I round a corner and see Uncompahgre Peak a few miles in the distance.
        “Good Lord!” I say.
        This is a sight that I’ve only seen on TV and in movies but never in person. An image of snow being blown horizontally off the top of a mountain by the very high winds at the summit. An image of the Dead Zone.
        I stop and take the Dead Zone’s picture. I then settle on an improvised Plan B.

        An hour later, I’m at the Forest Service campground I scoffed at earlier. Suns almost down. I’ve set up my Svea 123 stove on the picnic table and it’s burning like a jet engine, heating water to a boil, to make coffee and oatmeal for dinner. I’m eating string cheese while I wait. It tastes like creamy ambrosia.

        I’ve unrolled my Kelty bag in my truck and I’ve set up my old Rollei camera on a near by hill, for some nocturnal star circles shooting later. A couple of hunting parties are across the way in their RVs, but no one is close to me. I’m eating cheese with gloved hands, and I couldn’t be happier. Maybe a little happier if I had someone to share this little paradise with, but not much happier. The snow under my feet is powdery and dry. No clouds in the skies. And the cold air wakes you up like loving slap on the ass. And it’s not too cold here. In the twenties I’m guessing, not sub-zero. Big difference between 20 degrees and –20. Like the three bears, the third bed/porridge/chair was just right. And the Silver Thread Campground is just right.
        The water reaches a boil and I pour it on top of the instant mocha coffee inside my blue enamel cup. I stir and sip the boiling lumpy liquid.
        “Sweet Jesus who lives in Heaven.”
        I take a second sip and close my eyes in rapture.

Friday, October 18th, 2007

        Except for getting up once to close the shutter on the 2 1⁄4, I slept for ten hours. Ten hours straight, pretty much. I haven’t felt this good in years after sleeping. The 10,000-foot-high cold mountain air didn’t hurt none either. And now I’m watching a blue jay eat my leftover oatmeal.

        I leave the bird to peck my bowl in peace and headed up a spruce-covered hill to the south. Already been up to the ridge-line a few times this morning. This time I’ve come up to pray.
        After prayers, I come back down, pack up my gear, and finish my coffee. The blue jay has finished my oatmeal. It's still early, around 8 a.m. but I have one more place to go before I leave.
        The small stream that traverses the campground becomes a hundred-foot waterfall a couple hundred yards from my truck. I grab the Canon and head to take some pics. I arrive and just slow down even more. I take a few impressionistic zooms of the rushing stream but mostly I just sit. Sit and have a smoke. Sit after the smoke. Sit and sit some more. Loud water, be it a fast stream over rocks or waves at the ocean, does that to me. Slows everything down. Thinking stops, feelings settle, my eyes sort of cross.
I then close my eyes, and all the World is Sound.

"The Albany County Buffalo" (c) 2007

"The Albany County Buffalo, Wyoming" (c) Stu Jenks 2007

Shame I don't have a MP3 module on this blog. I recorded this big boy's breathing on a small handheld digital recorder while I was photographing him. He was both curious and mildly irritated with me as I shot him. He did allow me to pet him a couple of times but he was not too fond of my camera. His fellow corral-mate was only mildly interested in me. He, on the other hand, came right over and said hello. But it was the sound that I wish I could play for you on this blog. He and I just stood together for a while. I wasn't shooting. I was just leaning on the fence and he was leaning toward me from his side. His breath rattled loudly through his throat and his huge head, sounding much like water going down a bathtub drain. He wasn't angry (then). He was just breathing. Actually, he was never was really angry with me. He just got spooked by the sound of my camera shutter a couple of times.

 

As I said in an earlier post, the sadness I felt of the absence of the herds of Bison was profound. The roving street gangs of Antelope didn't make up for the lack of the Ocean of Buffalo that had once lived on these plains. Don't get me wrong. I don't romanticize these creatures, at least not too much. They are not the sharpest pencils in the pack and they can be a bit ornery. But there is something about them, like boulders that slowly move through the grass. They are, after all, the largest land mammals in North America. Like a cross between a dog and a mountain.

And I may be projecting this, but when I looked in his eye, and I did a number of times, it was as if I could see him thinking, wanting, wishing for this:

"Please let me out of here."

I wish I could.

I wish I could raise the all the Buffalo from the dead.

I wish there were scenic overlooks on the Interstate where you could watch a Sea of Bison run by.

I wish for a lot of things.

Only a few of them come true.

 

[The top two images are mine and the buffalo's. The bottom image is of William Jacob Hays' painting "Herd of Buffalo", Circa 1862. It's part of the permanent collection at the Denver Art Museum.]

"Leopard Appaloosa, Wyola, Montana, Crow Reservation" © 2007

"Leopard Appaloosa, Wyola, Montana, Crow Reservation" © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

 

       I'm tired of the Interstate. I think I'll drive by the river for a while.

       I get off at Lodge Grass and head south on a little two lane road. Railroad tracks on my right. Little Big Horn River on my left. Sun's about set.

       It's poor here on the Crow Rez but not bad at all. Poor is relative. If you have land along the river, some horses, a nice little house, a good truck and friends and family to love, how poor are you?

       Speaking of Horses, the Crows love their horses. Many of the Northern Plains Indians loved their steeds but nothing like the Crows. They also love their dogs. A matriarchal society, the Crows have a long history of male and female chiefs. Word has it that they even had a trans-gender chief back in the day. Two-Spirit, The Crows called people like that, having male and female spirits inside of them at the same time.

       The Crows were the enemies of many other tribes, the Lakota, and the Northern Cheyenne being a couple. Don't know why but they were picked on a lot by the other Indians. When the U. S. Calvary arrived, many men joined as scouts. Do you blame them? [Possible conversation: Army Man: 'Can you tell us where the Cheyenne are?' Crow Man: 'Why do you want to know?' Army Man: 'Because we want to kill them.' Crow Man: 'They are right over there. Wait a second and I'll go with you.']

       One of the most accurate accounts of what happened at the Battle of Little Bighorn came from a Crow scout named White Man Runs Him [or his other name was White Buffalo That Turns Around. Something tells me the first name was given to him by a Lakota or a Cheyenne.] When Custer ignored his advice, to not attack the throng of Indians by the river, White Buffalo took off his army uniform and put on his tribe gear. When confronted by Custer, he said he wanted to die as an Indian not as a soldier. Custer got pissed and relieved him of duty, and for most of the attack, White Buffalo and three other Crow scouts saw it all from a ridge nearby.

       The Sun has now set. I'm heading south. The sky is lavender. Hope to be in Colorado by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I'll drop by the Denver Museum of Art and check out their Native American Art collection. I remember from 18 years ago, that it was an amazing collection, that was both historically extensive as well as being modernly progressive. Hope they still have it. You never know. Things change.

       I turn left and get on Route 457 heading east. That'll take me back to I-90. Then I see him and his buddies. I pull over immediately onto the grassy shoulder.

       I've never seen a horse like that in all of my life [Later I found out that he was a Leopard Appaloosa] Black spots on White. Amazing.

       I take his picture and then his buddies come over with the What's-You-Doing look. I grab some fresh grass from my side of the fence and feed a couple of his friends. The Appaloosa never does come over to the fence. He keeps his distance, which is OK. But his corral-mates took the grass from my hand and they have themselves a little snack. I rubbed their noses too.

       I talk to them. They say nothing. They just eat the grass and then look to me to give them some more. I smile and oblige them.