You may as well laugh.

Since there's no sense in crying over some things.

 I do sometimes go back and re-read some of the drivel that I've written (and STILL find mistakes,  by the way!)  and I had to chuckle when I read about the door installer.  Glad that I can crack myself up I guess.  I wasn't trying to be harsh or anything,  but anyone who works with their hands and is half blind and missing a digit?  Isn't he really handicapped?

Since it's just your average boring Friday here,  and I had this idea that I wanted to at least say something or other,  I figured I'd tell a little story about one of my brothers.  I'm reasonably certain he doesn't mind,  and if he does well,  he's in Nova Scotia,  and I'm in Austria.  So he won't be able to pound me into the ground or anything.  I do seem to vividly recall that he'd like to pin me down on the ground when he was a teenager,  but maybe these days I could either out run him,  or possibly just get him into a head lock.
He's bigger and stronger than me,   but I have the "height advantage".
That's what I tell myself anyway.
Probably best I never find out.

 He just turned 65 in March,  and has a horse farm not too far from the huge metropolis of Wilmot,   Nova Scotia.   It's actually more like "Wilmot Centre",  but that's OK,  Google maps isn't quite "all knowing".
You don't want to blink or look down to figure out what gear you're in if you're going through Wilmot,  or you'll miss it.
I think there's a "Frenchies" on the corner.   That's usually what I look for so I'll know when to turn.
Oh,  by the way,  "Frenchies" is an outfit that handles used clothing.  Kind of like the Goodwill,  but some sort of Nova Scotia version.   Hopefully they never close up and move away,  or I might never find my brother's farm again.

Anyway,   yesterday around four,  I had this flash of an idea to give him a call,  and was particularly proud of myself that I was able to punch the number into the phone without having to try it over again four or five times.  So when his wife Mary answered the phone I simply asked, "Are you having any fun?"  and she couldn't figure out how I could already know that Angus (that's my brother's name) had had a slight "altercation" with a team of horses just a couple days previously.

Well,  I certainly had no clue, and I was just calling because I had meant to call for his birthday,  but with the five hour time difference,  it's sometimes a little tricky.  When I think of these things,  it's usually the middle of the night back home.  Not really a good idea to roust someone out of bed to wish them Happy Birthday.
I know I wouldn't appreciate it.

See,  Angus has had this thing about horses for a few years now.   Probably something along the lines of 25 years or so?   He started out with Belgians,  and since they weren't quite big enough,  he decided to switch up to Percherons.
At one time,  he had 22 in his barn!  But over the last few years,  he's been trying to ease his way out of keeping quite so many.  He didn't actually own all of the 22,  there were two there that were being boarded,  with enough income to pay for the feed for the rest of them.
I think now he's down to around a half dozen or so.

We don't really keep count.

Over the years, since he was going broke having the blacksmith come in, he's had to learn how to be his own farrier, because their shoes are the size of dinner plates.   Plus he's also learned how to make his own harnesses.   A fellow has to do whatever it takes.
Along the way there somewhere,  he's become a bit of a local knowledgeable horsey guy, and has been asked to judge competitions,  as well as having competed in a few of his own. 


Here he is in 2008 (in the black Stetson) judging some sort of horsey competition in Lawrencetown.
I think.   He told me.  I really don't exactly remember.

My understanding is,  that some folks will bring horses to him that need to have some training,  and I think this is where he tends to get into trouble.

The story goes that on Tuesday he was out in the woods with a team of six year old mares that he had been keeping since December.   Now,  I'm not much of a horsey guy,  but as he started to describe this team, I could sense there was a problem.  I didn't even ask if they were his horses,  but at six years old,  and being in need of some "remedial" work well,  that's just not good.
See,  most any horse that hasn't been completely trained at that age is just an accident waiting to happen.  Percherons come in at around a ton apiece,  and if they get an idea in their head well,  if it were up to me,  I'd just stand back and go,  "see ya later".
Oh,  by the way,  it doesn't matter if you're talking about a metric ton or whatever kind of ton.
That's a lot of horse.
Of course.

 *ahem*

So when they bolted he tried to stop them.   Which he did.  The first time.  Second time wasn't so lucky.  He did mention something about going around in a couple circles there,  right before he got tossed into a gully and cracked his head on a rock!
 As horses will do,  they ran to the barn.

This is where my "see ya later"  theory comes in?   See?

It's a curious thing about arteries.  When you cut a couple of them on a rock,  they seem to bleed like crazy.   When he finally came in for lunch,  after having unharnessed these two idiot horses and walking back to close the gate,  a decision was made to make a trip to the hospital.
Probably right after Mary took one look at him and almost pooped her drawers.

Seems five stitches were in order.  The report is that,  putting stitches in your head without anaesthetic?
It hurts.
They couldn't stop the bleeding long enough to administer anything.
Also,  that if he had been knocked out,  he might have bled out.
That's not good.

 But the docs weren't done!

 It was then off to Kentville by ambulance for a CAT scan.   And no,  they don't shove somebody's cat on your lap to see if he likes you,  they put your noodle in this machine to make sure you don't have any extra screws loose in your head.   After that it was an ex-ray of his neck,  just to make sure his head stays on the next time he hits it on a rock.
Turns out he does have a mild concussion,  and when he was talking to me on the phone,  he did have a headache,  and for the first time in a long time,  he didn't want to talk on the phone for ever and ever.
(see,  if I'm payin'...he's talkin'.)

 Now you might think that I'm making light of this whole situation,  but you have to realise, we're basically a bunch of idiots,  and we were laughing about this ordeal the whole time he was describing it to me. 
No sense moaning about it.

It's some sort of recessive gene in our family I think.  We've actually been told to "settle down"  at a funeral parlour.  I'm not kidding. 


And really,  it's a good thing he hit his head,  since then at least he can keep working.
See,  he hadn't even made it a year since he laid himself up last May, in a much more serious way.  Like,  getting trampled by a horse,  laid up in a wheelchair with bits of stainless steel in your leg... kind of way.

I have graphic pictures somewhere.  You don't want to see them.

Now,  I'm not one to try and tell anybody just what kind of hobbies they should have.  If you want to jump out of an airplane or,  ride a motorcycle with no helmet or leathers?  Well,  that's up to you.  You might make out OK.  But when your parachute doesn't open or someone makes a left turn in front of you because they "didn't see you",  then it's not going to go so well.
 I might feel bad,  but I won't be really surprised.
 Having said that,  I did ask the question.  "So,  do you think it might be time for a change of hobby?"

It may come to this.

He's thinking it over.

In spite of horse ownership being worse than alcoholism,  he may have to give it up.  Cold turkey.


I think we'll all breathe a sigh of relief.



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