(“The all-you-can-eat buffet would feature blubber satés, walrusicles, and similarly themed fare. “)

If you’ve ever traveled I-95 from the Northeast Corridor to Florida, you’ve been hit by the sensory blast from that paean to American roadside kitsch—South of the Border. You’ve maybe seen it at night —the pulsating, glowing giant revolving sombrero on the horizon—and you couldn’t have missed the blitz of dayglow billboards heralding its presence from miles and miles away. “Pedro says he runs the wurst restaurant in town. You never sausage a place!”; “Pedro’s forecast: Chili today, Hot tamale.” (They become politically more incorrect from there.) In times past from Philadelphia to Daytona, FL, the billboards numbered nearly 250. Nowadays there are only something like 175 of them along the highway, but you still aren’t likely to miss the place. In sum, SOTB lays claim to $40 million worth of über truckstop and bad taste spread over 350 acres in Dillon, SC, just south of . . . . well, you know.

Years ago we lived in New England also quite near to I-95, just over the border from New Hampshire. On the Interstate just above us sat a moldering, derelict truckstop, weeds poking their way up through the cracked asphalt parking lots. It was always Susan’s dream to somehow acquire that parcel and to open her own roadside attraction to be billed as North of the Border. Her iconic cartoon mascot was to be Tuktu the Eskimo. The all-you-can-eat buffet would feature blubber satés, walrusicles, and similarly themed fare. Despite her carefully constructed business plan, the market was soft back then, and she found no foresighted investors willing to commit to her venture. If it had taken off, our lives could be so different now!
Horsewomen are of hardy stock. I speak not of the long nailed drama queens being hoisted into the saddle by their grooms but of real horsewomen. A fair example of the latter is Denise. When not riding and not working (oh, that!), she tends her farm. One morning she set upon a chore familiar to Floridians—fastidious, conscientious ones anyway. She decided to scrub and hose down her roof to keep the moss, mildew, and creeping subtropical crud at bay. Parenthetically I would add that in 22 years I have never once felt the urge to hose down my roof, but that’s a kind of lifestyle choice which puts me just one notch farther from my heavenly reward.

So one fine morning Denise leans a tall ladder against the gutter and, hauling her garden hose behind her, climbs onto her roof. The work is proceeding well; she is feeling the contentment and fulfillment that only comes from a clean roof. And then . . . the trailing hose snags the ladder, and she watches, eyes wide, as it slides and then topples to the ground. She is marooned!

She pictures her cell phone sitting below her on the kitchen counter. She can see the road from her perch, but it’s an infrequently used dirt lane that dead-ends one farm beyond hers. Not much help to be found there. Then, the sound of a truck. That one neighbor is on his way out to somewhere. As her passes by, she jumps and shouts, gesticulating wildly. Cheerfully, he waves back and disappears in a settling cloud of dust.

An hour later, still roof-bound, her hopes are raised. The truck. The neighbor coming home. This time to attract his attention she screams and gyrates like a crazy person. (By now, she nearly is!) This time he honks the horn as he breezes by.

The day wears on. Aside from having to pee, she realizes that at 4 p.m. I will show up for her dressage lesson. “If he finds me up here, I’ll never hear the end of it,” she thinks. Taking her life in her hands, she shinnies down the TV tower (no cable out in the country after all) and kisses the blessed ground.

She relates her tale to me later that afternoon. Of course, I promise my silence and never breathe a word of it to anyone for the rest of my life.

New topic: Chicken or the Egg Department. Posted by a swimmer who doesn’t want to let go of the side of the pool: We left brain people construct wholes out of details, especially those details that pertain to the actual execution of something. The details act as “anchors to reality” of sorts and if they are missing, the big picture words do not seem all that helpful. In fact, a lot of the big picture ideas will become perfectly clear, almost self evident, once the execution details are mastered and you feel confident in your understanding of their function as well as their purpose (the how’s and the why’s). Approaching this (or any) topic from the other direction seems awkward and difficult because it comes across as fuzzy, especially when you are just starting out or re-training.

OK, if she must, but this is my message back to her: “Awkward and fuzzy” are to be embraced (or at least tolerated). Distant galaxies only come into focus as you refine your tools. In the meantime, enjoy the mysteries.

(Letting go ain’t easy!)

FaceBook lights the world: Posted by a “friend”– Andrew was putting up horses in the dark wearing flip flops…stepped on an oak snake and got bit on the toe.

And I’m thinking wouldn’t this sound better as a haiku?

Andrew in the dark.

Flip flops, oak snake, toe bit. Huh?

Oak snakes don’t have toes!

Meantime, regarding haikus . . . some days instead of a lesson, in their absence I ride my students’ horses. They often want to hear all about my ride. They’re at work; they await a text from me. What better way to occupy that other part of my mind while riding than to compose my report in haiku form?

Dark mare with issues

Meets opinionated back.

Holds self in lightness.

A dopey nitwit

Confronted with career choice

Decides “Humble is Best.”

And so on. It’s better than reciting the Periodic Table to yourself or reeling off all the state capitals over and over.

And lastly, another FaceBook post, this one from one of my more paranoid “friends” waxing bleak on the state of the body politic: “. . .his minions are plotting, planning, changing, forging, whatever evil they are planning to unleash on us. We have never been this close to such danger before. I am sorry but it’s true… soo much is wrong…no way really to sugar coat it… and on that note I am off to bed. If something happens between now & morning, remember God is in Control. Take good care..♥ Peace ♥”

My meant-to-be-comforting rejoinder: God may be in control, but I think sometimes he smiles when he takes his hand off the tiller.