Desperation leads to desperate measures..I need a job so I found myself taking a civil service exam.
Well, today I took the official civil service Census Bureau test. There I was, trapped in a room chock full of local yokels in rural Texas. They ranged from the man with no teeth who didn't know where he "stayed" to the lady with a neck brace that had taken the test over three times and still didn't pass.
The first half hour related to instructions on how to print your name on the outside of a manilla folder. This also included very detailed instructions on completing an application which contained such difficult mandatory information such as: name, address, phone number, and social security number. At least three in our group got lost after writing their name.
When the really nice gentleman who was our test giver tried to explain felony convictions, the world stopped spinning and there were glazed looks from two of the group. I'm sure they were pondering the "ifs" of court dates pending.
Needless to say, after an hour of explaining to Mr. No Teeth that frankly the census bureau didn't give a rat's ass where he was from, just where he resided, the tests were distributed. We went through at least ten more minutes in how to fill the little dots of the answer sheet. Fortunately, coloring on paper was a task our group could handle, with most equating the task with the highest level of eduction completed.
Tests distributed, pencils up, the clock started. I dove into the test easily. However, you did have to pay attention to what was written in the question. Simple math, clerical skills, map reading, and supervisory skills were included in the test. Several times, I had to lean away from the man next to me. Not because I feared he was cheating...it was more that I thought he had lice. He scratched his head the entire time and little white flecks drizzled from his hair like rain.
On completion of the test, I sat pondering the number of correct answers to work for our Census Bureau. There were a total of 28 questions in all. You'll love this...the total correct to be acceptable is 10. That's right, below 50%. However, as evidenced by the lady with air in her head, you can take the test repeatedly til you reach that magic number of 10.
The question I know you want to ask??? How many did I get right? The answer...26 out of 28 correct. Does this make me Government management material?
Friday, December 5, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
The American Quarter Horse
Established in 1940, the American Quarter Horse Association is the largest breed registry in the United States. During the birth of the registry, a standard of breed characteristics was set forth by its founding members. The original description of the American Quarter Horse defined the hallmarks of the breed that at the time, aptly described the “bulldog” type. Today, while the basic standards hold true, the infusion of Thoroughbred blood influences the breed and you may not recognize some of the modern day American Quarter Horses as the type described in the formation of the registry.
Originally, the Quarter Horse type was short backed and compact, well muscled with a short head, fox-like ears, and large kind eyes with an intelligent amiable expression. Its deep sloping shoulder should be set at a forty five degree angle with a good wither enabling effortless saddle carriage. The chest should be very broad with wide forelegs, short cannon bones, and medium length pasterns. The hindquarters should exhibit width of muscle extending from the top of the thigh down to the gaskin. Hocks should be set well with good bone and width. The Quarter Horse should give the impression of overall balance with the ability to move quickly in any direction and stop just as easily.
Historically, the Quarter Horse was smallish breed usually not over 15 hands. Today, the range can be anywhere between a 13.2 hand cutting horse and a 17.2 hand hunter jumper. The breed standard has evolved depending on what event the horse will be used. Usually, if the horse is used for classic Western events, (i.e. cutting, reining, reined cow horse), they tend to be under 15 hands. English events, jumping, hunter under saddle, and hunter hack requires the longer stride of a much taller horse, usually over 16 hands.
In the founding years of the registry, only thirteen colors were recognized. They were: black, brown, bay, sorrel, chestnut, grey, dun, palomino, grullo, red dun, blue roan, red roan, and buckskin. Now, the registry allows perlino and cremello animals to have full registration as well. At one time, excessive white found on the body would disallow the animal into the registry with the thought that an American Quarter Horse should be of solid color differentiating it from the Paint Horse. With the advent of the “White Rule”, horses with excessive white markings can now be registered with a notation on the registration certificate.
Generally, the Quarter Horse’s temperament is easy going, with a keen mind. They are easily trained and make terrific horses for a novice rider. Because of their good mind, they excel at a variety of tasks and are calm on the trail. You will even find Quarter Horses at such prestigious events as Grand Prix jumping where warm bloods are the norm, a testament to their trainability. They can be found anywhere that requires a steady, obedient companion.
Whether herding cattle on a ranch, jumping fences in an arena, or simply enjoying the company of a good horse, you cannot go wrong with the American Quarter Horse. The breed exemplifies the very best in conformation, trainability, and just great all around partners for life.
Originally, the Quarter Horse type was short backed and compact, well muscled with a short head, fox-like ears, and large kind eyes with an intelligent amiable expression. Its deep sloping shoulder should be set at a forty five degree angle with a good wither enabling effortless saddle carriage. The chest should be very broad with wide forelegs, short cannon bones, and medium length pasterns. The hindquarters should exhibit width of muscle extending from the top of the thigh down to the gaskin. Hocks should be set well with good bone and width. The Quarter Horse should give the impression of overall balance with the ability to move quickly in any direction and stop just as easily.
Historically, the Quarter Horse was smallish breed usually not over 15 hands. Today, the range can be anywhere between a 13.2 hand cutting horse and a 17.2 hand hunter jumper. The breed standard has evolved depending on what event the horse will be used. Usually, if the horse is used for classic Western events, (i.e. cutting, reining, reined cow horse), they tend to be under 15 hands. English events, jumping, hunter under saddle, and hunter hack requires the longer stride of a much taller horse, usually over 16 hands.
In the founding years of the registry, only thirteen colors were recognized. They were: black, brown, bay, sorrel, chestnut, grey, dun, palomino, grullo, red dun, blue roan, red roan, and buckskin. Now, the registry allows perlino and cremello animals to have full registration as well. At one time, excessive white found on the body would disallow the animal into the registry with the thought that an American Quarter Horse should be of solid color differentiating it from the Paint Horse. With the advent of the “White Rule”, horses with excessive white markings can now be registered with a notation on the registration certificate.
Generally, the Quarter Horse’s temperament is easy going, with a keen mind. They are easily trained and make terrific horses for a novice rider. Because of their good mind, they excel at a variety of tasks and are calm on the trail. You will even find Quarter Horses at such prestigious events as Grand Prix jumping where warm bloods are the norm, a testament to their trainability. They can be found anywhere that requires a steady, obedient companion.
Whether herding cattle on a ranch, jumping fences in an arena, or simply enjoying the company of a good horse, you cannot go wrong with the American Quarter Horse. The breed exemplifies the very best in conformation, trainability, and just great all around partners for life.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Mongolian Adventure-Equine Style
A sample of my short stories...
Scratching the incessant itch of the bug bite I’d acquired on my forearm, I glanced toward my friends. We sat huddled together inside the toasty warmth of the yurt, unsure of the Mongolian chieftain’s decision.
The clan had found us on the broad steppes, riding abreast Bonanza-style behind the band of mares. Our mistake was that we thought they were much like American mustangs, ranging free and belonging to no one. We were wrong; the mares were the pride and joy of this particular family of Mongolians. Because of the language barrier, the normally affable nature of the natives had turned dour and we found ourselves herded inside their camp.
However, being held in the brightly colored felt structure was quite comfortable. I shook my hair out of my red ski cap. “Guys, we didn’t do anything wrong. How could we have known those mares belonged to them? We’re just tourists out for little ride in Mongolia.”
“Are you Cr-crazy? That head guy looked pissed off!” said Max, the Grizzly Adams of the group.
Mia, mousy and slight, looked toward me and added, “We’ll be tossed out of the country for sure, or worse. Why did you talk me into this?”
“Me? You’re the one that wanted to go on a riding vacation!” I grinned, “Besides, how many of our friends can say they’ve ridden on the Mongolian steppes?”
Neil, my husband, wiped his glasses and thoughtfully mentioned, “If we can get them to understand that we were just curious, I’m sure they’ll let us go. Not one of the men that surrounded us had guns that I saw. According to the literature I’ve read, horses are a way of life here. We have horses as a commonality.”
“Well, while we’re here, I’m going to check out the place,” I said, standing.
Two hands reached my arm at once and pulled me down. “Sit down! If they find you snooping like a tourist at Disneyworld, we’ll be in deeper trouble than we already are.”
“Sheesh, you guys are no fun. I wonder what’s in that pot in the corner. Did you see it? It’s all rusted and looks like a witch’s cauldron,” I said, reluctantly sitting.
Max muttered, “Just sit down and be quiet, I hear someone coming.”
The flap of the yurt opened to reveal the chieftain, scowling, followed by other members of the clan. They gave us a fleeting look and headed to the cauldron in the corner. The Mongolians were short, barrel chested men, with recessed almond shaped eyes that were difficult to read.
Our unease increased as the clansmen spoke to each other in their native tongue. The language was so totally foreign to us that glances from the men made my friends and husband a little fearful.
Naturally gregarious, I winked directly at the chieftain and smiled, lifting my hand with a little wave, hoping the gesture was universal and that he would look kindly toward women.
“Don’t,” whispered my husband, “We don’t know their culture. What is friendly to us may mean something completely different to them.”
Silence was replaced by the sound of liquid being scooped from the cauldron into chipped, gaily painted cups, clearly their very best. I noticed that there were more cups than men. The leader of the Mongols carried two full cups toward our group. He offered the first to me with a grunt.
I accepted the offering and sniffed the watery white liquid. I noticed the liquid smelled vaguely of mare’s milk and took a tiny sample. Not wishing to offend the clansmen, I smiled and said, “Mmmm, good.”
My words instantly melted the frigid atmosphere. Smiles from weathered Mongolian faces grew into rapid-fire responses. I hadn’t a clue as to what they were saying, I just smiled and nodded.
Before long, the yurt was full of people, which now included the women of the clan. It seemed that we had been accepted. One of the younger Mongolians spoke limited English, enough to translate the story of our vacation. . Food and drink was offered freely as our hosts welcomed us into their home.
Night fell and the clan offered our group our own felt covered teepee as well as a makeshift corral for our horses. As we bedded down, warm under furry blankets, I dreamily whispered, “Horsemen are all alike aren’t they? Our translator tried to barter for that bay I’m riding.”
My husband removed his glasses and snuggled further under his blanket. “Don’t you dare trade that bay for one of their ponies; you’ll create an international incident. I can see the headlines now, “American Woman Imprisoned in Mongolia for Horse-trading”.
“Well, they did have a really cute little chestnut with flaxen mane and tail, I wonder what the transportation costs would be” I said, as my eyes closed yielding to slumber.
Scratching the incessant itch of the bug bite I’d acquired on my forearm, I glanced toward my friends. We sat huddled together inside the toasty warmth of the yurt, unsure of the Mongolian chieftain’s decision.
The clan had found us on the broad steppes, riding abreast Bonanza-style behind the band of mares. Our mistake was that we thought they were much like American mustangs, ranging free and belonging to no one. We were wrong; the mares were the pride and joy of this particular family of Mongolians. Because of the language barrier, the normally affable nature of the natives had turned dour and we found ourselves herded inside their camp.
However, being held in the brightly colored felt structure was quite comfortable. I shook my hair out of my red ski cap. “Guys, we didn’t do anything wrong. How could we have known those mares belonged to them? We’re just tourists out for little ride in Mongolia.”
“Are you Cr-crazy? That head guy looked pissed off!” said Max, the Grizzly Adams of the group.
Mia, mousy and slight, looked toward me and added, “We’ll be tossed out of the country for sure, or worse. Why did you talk me into this?”
“Me? You’re the one that wanted to go on a riding vacation!” I grinned, “Besides, how many of our friends can say they’ve ridden on the Mongolian steppes?”
Neil, my husband, wiped his glasses and thoughtfully mentioned, “If we can get them to understand that we were just curious, I’m sure they’ll let us go. Not one of the men that surrounded us had guns that I saw. According to the literature I’ve read, horses are a way of life here. We have horses as a commonality.”
“Well, while we’re here, I’m going to check out the place,” I said, standing.
Two hands reached my arm at once and pulled me down. “Sit down! If they find you snooping like a tourist at Disneyworld, we’ll be in deeper trouble than we already are.”
“Sheesh, you guys are no fun. I wonder what’s in that pot in the corner. Did you see it? It’s all rusted and looks like a witch’s cauldron,” I said, reluctantly sitting.
Max muttered, “Just sit down and be quiet, I hear someone coming.”
The flap of the yurt opened to reveal the chieftain, scowling, followed by other members of the clan. They gave us a fleeting look and headed to the cauldron in the corner. The Mongolians were short, barrel chested men, with recessed almond shaped eyes that were difficult to read.
Our unease increased as the clansmen spoke to each other in their native tongue. The language was so totally foreign to us that glances from the men made my friends and husband a little fearful.
Naturally gregarious, I winked directly at the chieftain and smiled, lifting my hand with a little wave, hoping the gesture was universal and that he would look kindly toward women.
“Don’t,” whispered my husband, “We don’t know their culture. What is friendly to us may mean something completely different to them.”
Silence was replaced by the sound of liquid being scooped from the cauldron into chipped, gaily painted cups, clearly their very best. I noticed that there were more cups than men. The leader of the Mongols carried two full cups toward our group. He offered the first to me with a grunt.
I accepted the offering and sniffed the watery white liquid. I noticed the liquid smelled vaguely of mare’s milk and took a tiny sample. Not wishing to offend the clansmen, I smiled and said, “Mmmm, good.”
My words instantly melted the frigid atmosphere. Smiles from weathered Mongolian faces grew into rapid-fire responses. I hadn’t a clue as to what they were saying, I just smiled and nodded.
Before long, the yurt was full of people, which now included the women of the clan. It seemed that we had been accepted. One of the younger Mongolians spoke limited English, enough to translate the story of our vacation. . Food and drink was offered freely as our hosts welcomed us into their home.
Night fell and the clan offered our group our own felt covered teepee as well as a makeshift corral for our horses. As we bedded down, warm under furry blankets, I dreamily whispered, “Horsemen are all alike aren’t they? Our translator tried to barter for that bay I’m riding.”
My husband removed his glasses and snuggled further under his blanket. “Don’t you dare trade that bay for one of their ponies; you’ll create an international incident. I can see the headlines now, “American Woman Imprisoned in Mongolia for Horse-trading”.
“Well, they did have a really cute little chestnut with flaxen mane and tail, I wonder what the transportation costs would be” I said, as my eyes closed yielding to slumber.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
As usual
My ponies give me comfort in the ebb and flow of life. Unemployed after over thirty years in the Insurance industry, and on top of that, living very rurally, not one corporate entity is interested in my extensive experience in that industry. While that may be daunting in itself, I love working outside, even for the menial chore of cleaning a stall. The smell of horse manure keeps me sane...I'm so fortunate in that I do have that luxury. Not many urban dwellers would understand the concept, and, I feel for them. They know not of the time to slow down and watch the buzzards swirling around a downed animal, nature's way of janitorial services. They know of traffic, lunch on the run, and to hurry home to their families. Truly, an edited existence.
Writing has become commonplace for me. I'm honing my skills at flash fiction, a craft I truly enjoy. Not much money, but what does one expect? All things considered, I've done better than most, less than the truly gifted. I'll take my pocket change that I've earned from my writing. The menial money I earn weighs more to my psyche than a large paycheck in the corporate world. However, how long can I last in this way?
Only time will tell....
Writing has become commonplace for me. I'm honing my skills at flash fiction, a craft I truly enjoy. Not much money, but what does one expect? All things considered, I've done better than most, less than the truly gifted. I'll take my pocket change that I've earned from my writing. The menial money I earn weighs more to my psyche than a large paycheck in the corporate world. However, how long can I last in this way?
Only time will tell....
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Decisions
This morning, as I fed my horses, I decided to dump my ponderings onto a blog. My first thought of the day....the two old mares I have are sure 'nuf in love with each other. Even on a cloudy, misty morning, the sight of seeing the old gals- each hovering over their feed bowls but within sight of each other, just warms and assures my heart that all is well. As Jack (the stud colt) races and whinnies in the round pen, Spinner is busy rattling and shaking his bucket. Mornings are my favorite time of day. After each horse is fed, I enjoy the calming effect of hearing the grinding of teeth on grain and hay. The smell of damp grass and the quiet solitude in the simple act of feeding my horses makes the world right.
Maybe I'll sell an article today or find that dream job, so I won't have to contemplate selling one of my beloved horses once again. The thought is almost too terrible to imagine. Remind me to tell you of the last company I worked for....the story is long, sometimes amusing, but a sad tale in the end.
Maybe I'll sell an article today or find that dream job, so I won't have to contemplate selling one of my beloved horses once again. The thought is almost too terrible to imagine. Remind me to tell you of the last company I worked for....the story is long, sometimes amusing, but a sad tale in the end.
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