THE ZEPHYR/DEC-JAN 2008 to somehow welcome the person to Big D, to let that person (who was surely from New York or LA) know that not every Dallasite supported, say, the death penalty or felt that Tn the forty-five minutes it takes the owner and the vet to show up, Randy and I deliver black folks should neither be seen nor heard. On one such occasion, my wife and daughter, who was two-years-old at the time, had accompanied me. That was - good grief! - 28 years ago now, and I’ve seen a lot of celebrities come and go, so let me say that the evening’s guest at that party was Tom Wolfe, the progenitor of New Journalism, author of “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,” “The Right Stuff,” “Bonfire of The Vanities,” and how many others I don’t know? Wolfe, who THE CHIEF always dresses in white - suit, shirt, hat; L ean eae even his ties are either white or soft silver and his complexion is so fair, his hair so light-blonde that, with his soft voice, he appears, if at all, almost as a ghost - was the foal. It’s hard work.as by now the mare has given up and is no longer helping us. With a final tug a perfect, flaxen maned, sorrel filly lies at our feet, still encased in the fetal sac. Her eyes are closed. Randy quickly tears away at the membranes and we both try to revive her, with me pumping at her chest and Randy trying to get her nasal passages cleared, but it’s clearly too late. She was most probsbe already dead before we even got there. It’s so tragic and I’m so saddened by it all, even knowing that we most likely saved the mare who we leave in the able hands the vet. We silently drive on home - it’s past nine now, the sun is setting, the beauty of our surroundings belies the sadness. Quietly Randy says, “I wish I had told my grandfather how much I loved him before he died. I should’ve thanked him for raising me.” This is a part of Randy’s story I wasn’t aware of, but this was not the time to delve. “He knows,” I say quietly either bored or nice enough to listen to a couple of the guests - one a dashing young “liberal for Dallas” attorney (who, that evening, also wore a white suit), another an aging member of Dallas’ rather vague arts community - go on and on about civil rights or the lack of taste various rich Dallas leaders had so blatantly, and lastingly, alas, exhibited by erecting towering build-: ings of individual blandness that, together, resulted in Dallas’ pitiful and (1 remember this word) “embarrassing” skyline. After the sides had gone, Wolfe, my friend the host, and a couple other old friends sat, having a last drink, or maybe a next-to-last, and visiting- how ‘bout them Cowboys! At one point, my daughter, Marianna, who, as I said, was two at the time, toddled over and climbed into my lap. Now, it must be said that Marianna’s mother and I spent virtually all our spare time reading to Marianna, chatting with her, watching “Sesame Street,” but, still, she was hardly more than a baby. In a lull, I broke into John Masefield’s famous poem, reciting thusly: “I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.” My friends, and Wolfe, looked at me, wondering what I’d had to drink that they'd missed. Then, I said, “Who wrote that, Marianna.” Without a second’s pause, she said, “John Masefield.” My friends have over the years fairly regularly recalled that event, that perfect moment. And I believe, or certainly I prefer to believe, that Tom Wolfe was sufficiently impressed. )@6) er: Attorney at Law 801-532-2447 www.banlaweffice.com Call for a free consuftation. We also handle social security disability NIMA ISHAM...LIVINGSTON, MONTANA Its those cowboy times: “Can you follow me up the road to drop this dump truck off and give me a ride back?” Randy stands in my doorway. It hasn’t been a great day. I’m tired and upset to find out that my mare isn’t bred. But I load up the dogs for the evening ride and dutifully follow Randy ten miles into the foothills. On the way back, he drives. It’s.a stunning full spring scene. The meadows and hills FANNA & RAY ARE DOING have greened up emerald, the sky glows sapphire, ae air shimmers. Randy pulls off the dirt road and stops- I think to enjoy the view? Butn “There”’s a horse out there thrashing some,” he ee “Let's go check her out- she might be foaling- may be in trouble.” We walk down into the pasture - cautious under and through the barb wire fences. Several horses are peacefully grazing, but this pretty, sorrel mare has struggled to her feet and is now standing apart watching us. As we approach, I can see bloody tissue hanging out of her very swollen hind end. “It’s her water bag,” Randy informs me. I keep my distance and Randy moves slowly, reassuring her. Looking her over, he seems worried. He removes his watch and hands it to me, and rolls up his sleeves. She and | are both rooted to the ground as he reaches deep into her, gropes around some and pulls out two tiny hoofs. I gasp with delight, Randy is less than thrilled, “Looks like it’s backward. Hoofs are pointing up.” We wait and watch while the pretty sorrel mare lies down again and tries pushing, but to no avail. “We're going to have to help her,” says Randy. “You got any twine in the truck?” We walk back up to my truck to _ gather what supplies I may have. _ None, naturally. | Randy’s _ not only and rope just such ave, Had we come are the dog Wednesday is MEXICAN NIGHT : JUST A BLOCK EAST OF THE STOPLIGHT ON THE ROAD TO CORTEZ OPEN DAILY 6:30AM to 9:30PM MONTICELLO, UTAH SUPPORT ZEPHYR ADVERTISERS The businesses and individuals are the people who keep PLEASE let them know you AND SHOP who advertise in The Zephyr this publication alive. appreciate their support. THERE! in truck he would have had several varieties of twine but also “calf pullers’ for an occasion. What I do though, GREAT The same great F at a NEW LOCATION. (Got Cyclist’s Jewelry 2» leashes olding Abra and Sula down in the bed of my truck. We untie them - Sula promptly leaps from the back of the truck and takes off into the fields, racing circles of exuberance- and head back for the mare. We don’t know whose mare this is or whose land we’re on, just that we're there to help. Randy loops a dog leash around each tiny hoof and as the mare heaves, and rolls from side to side, tries to pull the foal out. It’s not working. The mare is obviously exhausted, the foal is obviously stuck. We decide to try to walk the mare to the barns down the road, hopefully to find her owner or at least access to phones to call for help. We'd use our cells but we're “in a pocket” - no reception. Randy fashions a sort of halter out of the two leashes and starts walking the mare - her foal’s legs dangling out along with part of the amniotic sac. I go back for the truck (Sula comes running) and drive down the road to meet up with Randy. At the barn complex we find a workman who gives us the owner's phone number. Randy calls, interrupting their dinner. The conversation is calm, slow and controlled. Hi, how’re you and hate to bother you, but “Your mare’s in trouble here. You best call the vet but I think this foal’s dead already.” He listens for awhile, then “T’’ll go ahead and pull it out till you get here.” No drama, no panic, just another thing to deal with. On my own, I would've been hysterical. Amulets, Earrings Bracelets Rings ete... jewelry for Cyclists, Boaters, Surfers, Yoginis ... \ www.CampfireCircle.com “log on” /