I always considered myself the outdoors-y type. Thought I was tough; have never known a professional pedicure or manicure; could bench press 200 lbs; spent my free time hiking or backpacking in the Sierra's or along the North South Trail of Land Between The Lakes with a 65 pound pack on my back. Camping was sissy. I backpack. Alone. In the mountains. I am tough.
I am also 50 something now, and things may have changed. Five years ago, I was still trying to operate on the above premise--toughness. In the past five years, Doug has, without saying a word, shown me that I'm not the rugged, farm, country-type I thought I was. Yesterday was the nail in that coffin when I tried to catch Gus, our 17 hand white horse, after he walked through the pasture fence--again--and was running like a freight train around the house, through the orchards, through the garden, kicking and farting and blowing up a dust storm.
"I've got this. No problem. I did this a couple of weeks ago without incident," I say out loud to the five dogs looking at me as if I should just run for cover because they were. These guys are gentle and have only knocked me through the fence and stepped on me one time in 5 years. And they didn't mean to do it then. So, I march out to the garage to fetch his feed bucket, fill it with feed, and out I go. But Gus wasn't ready to go. At least not back into the pasture. He took off headed right for me and my bucket of feed, skidded to a stop in front of me, jammed his huge head into the feed bucket which I promptly dropped and spilled feed everywhere. Gus is panting and quivering and prancing about. The other two "big dogs," Rhett and Deets, are whinnying, stomping, and prancing in the pasture.
"Perhaps if I take Rhett and Deets some food, then Gus will follow me back into the pasture to get some more," I hypothesize. I loaded up the bucket again, but this time I'm just a little nervous because Gus has taken to running around again. I'm old enough to understand how pain feels. I hug the side of the house, head towards the pasture, then peek around the corner. No Gus in sight. I make a mad dash for the greenhouse. Just a few more feet. But, "Oh, Heck!" there he is, right in front of the greenhouse drinking water from the catch barrel. So I stand there. Swatting flies--just like Gus--waiting for my moment. I go back to the table in front of the garden to sit down in the shade and wait for him to run off. Except now I am cut off from going back into the house with my five scaredy-cat dogs. The chickens, which were hiding out under the mulberry tree take off and head for the henhouse, like a chicken train. You can see them in the third row panorama of pictures above. "Run, Girls!, Run!," I yell. Suddenly I see my opening and make a mad dash for the porch and into the house. "He's not hurting anything," I say, " in fact, maybe I won't need to mow this week after all!"
Ultimately, Gus is re-corralled and all is well. So, here is how you DO catch a horse: wait for husband to come home to walk the 1200 pound "big dog" gently back into the gated pasture. Dejected, embarrassed, and finally humbled, with my head bowed in front of Doug I say, "I guess I'm not as tough as I thought I was. I guess I'm really just a city-girl, aren't I?"
"Oh, I knew that all along," he replied with a grin. "I also knew you'd figure it out for yourself one of these days."
who are we?
We are avid seamstresses and crafters since the ORIGINAL 1970's, and we're still going strong. We're also yarn, fabric, and pattern hoarders. ("Speak for yourself," protests Alice.) We, ok, I haven't parted with my stash in over 40 years until now. Maybe we'll have something that you just can't live without! Enjoy browsing!
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All photos and stories on this website are the property of Dianna Johnson unless otherwise indicated. Please don't copy them and call them your own. Plagiarism is not only really rude and mean, but it is against the law. I have made every effort to give credit to other artists when I have used their work, and would ask that you do the same if you use mine! Thanks.
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