Corley [kor-li] - proper noun

or,

events and such that define my being 10-15

It has been a while since I took time to reflect on my past. Tonight seems like the perfect night. Texas, in true form, is gracing us with some beautiful warm weather, despite last week's freezing temperatures. This makes me feel creative and nostalgic. Lucky you.

Some things I bring up maybe posted already, but they need to be included, so suck it up.

-When I was nine my mother got involved in her first serious relationship since she and my father divorced. It is an adorable story, no doubt about it. My mother and her sister went out dancing for her birthday, and while at this country bar a couple of drunk guys started harassing them. Since the guys were obviously not going to go away my mother took action, and went up to the first approachable looking guy she saw. "Play along," she told him and the quickly went into, "My goodness! I haven't seen you in forever! How have you been?" She struck up conversation with this man, Mack, asking him all sorts of familiar questions: "How are the kids? Work? Where are you living these days?" He answered them all honestly, and at the end of the night she gave him her work number so that they might go out some time.

-At this point in my life we were living a nearly meat-free existence. We ate chicken or fish once a week or so, but it is expensive, so we didn't have a whole lot of it. This was fine with me - I never really liked the stuff. Mack isn't that kind of guy, though. He hunts and he eats meat at every meal. This was new to me. During Christmas break Mack took me and his daughter, Brooke, who was a year older than me, hunting with him. It should be fun, right? Like camping is fun. It rained the whole weekend, and we spent most of our time in the camper (It hardly deserves that title) playing cards and making up songs about how cold it was. We spent a little time up in the deer blind, and Mack shot a doe, which he hung outside the window we slept next to. This sort of got to me, but I just tried not to look. The morning we were to leave Mack took a walk around the property while Brooke and I got ready. "Girls, we're gonna head out a little early. I thought I heard running water, but I couldn't see any. I don't want to get flooded in." We packed up the truck, doe and all, and took off. About a third of the way to the main gate we came to a dip in the road that was full of moving water. Mack shed his camoflage cover-alls and waded out the deepest part, which came up to his thighs. He came back and put his cover-alls back on. We sat in silence for a minute or two. "Well, there is no cell phone reception here. The water isn't too deep, and the current isn't very strong. We are going to try and cross."

Is everyone shaking their head? Thinking of news reports, and how they always tell you to turn around if there is water over a road? Well, we didn't really have that option.

So we drove out, and half way through the water the truck stalled. Mack did a little cursing, and told us to grab our things. He then picked us up (this time without the luxury of taking off his cover-alls) and walked us to the other side. We began waking. Brooke and I dramatically over-reacted, not realizing that the dangerous part was over. I did some audible praying as we walked the six rainy and cold miles toward the main road. Finally, a man in an old modified mail truck stopped and asked if we needed help. Mack told him about our predicament, and the man left for a larger vehicle, meeting us again about a mile later. He took us back to his house so that Mack could call my mother and tell her what had happened, and then drove us into town to get a room at a hotel until my mother could get there. She did later that night, and Mack bought us all dinner at what seemed to be the only restaurant in Junction, Texas. We got home late that night, but I had one hell of a story to tell when school resumed.

I have always been an unreasonably superstitious person. I took this whole event to heart. This was an omen that I should not participate in killing animals, obviously. I didn't even like meat much, anyway. About six months later, when I became a vegetarian at eleven, this was part of my reasoning.

- Mack and my moother married on June 9th, 1995. I thought it really inconsiderate that they married nine days before my birthday, stealing my thunder. Oh, to be an adolescent.

- Brooke's birthday is about a month before mine, May 20th. That year instead of going on the annual HUGE family beach trip, we were going for Brooke's birthday as a group limited to Mack, Mom and us girls. School had just gotten out, but Brooke and I were already bored during the day at home by ourselves. We were planning to leave on a Friday after Mom and Mack got home from work, but Brooke and I were so bored, and so anxious to go to the beach, that we were tearing out our hair. We decided that we would make some food. I can't remember what it was we had decided to make, only that one of the things we needed was on a top cabinet shelf next to the stove. Ever graceful, Brooke decided to climb up onto the counter to get it, but when she went to lower herself back down to the ground, her foot slipped, and she knocked a nob off of the stove, starting a gas leak. I can remember backing away from the stove, and grabbing the phone (which you are not supposed to do!) to call my mother. She called the fire department and my grandmother, who came to wait with us. I was more afraid that my mother and grandmother would see how messy the house was than I was of the fact that our house was filling with explosive natural gas. When the firemen arrived, they were unable to find the cut-off to the stove, so they cut off gas to the entire house. My mother called a service man to come and re-light all of the pilots. As chance would have it, this man had worked for the construction company that had built our house back before they went under in the eighties, and knew his way around. About 45 minutes later he called Mom into the garage to look at the water heater. "M'am, if I were you, I'd consider myself lucky. See, this copper line here? The gas flows through it, but ours is corroded. It would only be a number of days, a very few number of days, before you had a very serious problem on your hands. Mostly likely, an explosion." This hot water heater was directly under the bedroom I shared with Brooke, and we were trying to sell our house so that we could move into one that would actually fit the whole family. In any situation, explosions are bad. My mother and Mack had to spend a lot of money that weekend. Not only did we still take our trip, but they also had to buy a new stove and a new hot water heater. The fact remains that Brooke and I saved the world that day, or something close to it.

- That same summer my mother told me that I MUST pick a summer camp. She was tired of me sitting around all summer. So I picked the most expensive camp I could think of: riding camp. I immediately fell in love with riding. Guess who pays for it now? Me.

- When I was thirteen one of the most important people in my life since Annie Tannie passed away. "Granny" babysat both me and Sara from the time we were 3 months old. She was old fashioned when it came to kids, but it worked. I was potty trained in a day, I believe she gave me an ultimatum. She was an incredible woman, and offered to be my "substitute grandma" when Annie Tannie died. Once, when I was about four, I brought some costume clip on earrings that Annie Tannie had given me, to Grannie's house. Of course, I left them behind, and she put them away, telling her granddaughter, Emily, that I was too young to appreciate them, and she would give them bak when I was older. A few weeks after her funeral I got a package in the mail from Emily containing a note and the earrings. Now I am old enough to care for them, and I plan to someday wear them on my wedding day.

- At fifteen I zipped into my over-achiever stage and began taking classes at Austin Community College. Before I finished high school I had taking five semesters of American Sign Language, some History, and computer courses. I started at UT in the fall of 2002 as a sophomore. Sadly, I had slumped out of my over-achieving stage.

So, here we are, at 15. Only two more segments to go before I have caught up with myself.

Florida's Flourish

Back in February Madge sent Florida, the model horse found in her yard while mowing, to Texas. After spending months in the air-conditioned luxury of my room he decided that he was finally going to use that English degree he got years ago - He is going to write a novel! Florida has embarked on a series of interviews to research the types of careers "traditional" (his term, not mine) horses might embark on. He asked me to post parts of the interviews here to drum up excitement about the novel. How could I say no?



Florida's first interview was with Faux Pas. He is the closest thing to a model horse a traditional horse can be: a pet. Pets work sporadically and are over-compensated for what little work they do, as far as Florida can tell. Faux Pas' boss is a young lady named The Q.



The Q recently changed Faux Pas' job description so that he is once again required to do something - other than consume food - at least twice a week. He is not happy:



Florida noticed that THIS work does not look difficult. Trotting in a circle? If Florida's legs moved he could totally do it. Florida thought that The Q had the harder job, actually. Can you imagine trying to keep a horse that weighs almost a ton at the end of a line? "If I weighed that much as you, I'd do what I want," Florida later confided in Faux Pas. Once Faux Pas had all of his muscles loose he gave a couple of bucks. "Hey!" he yelled at Florida, "I love it when the weather changes, do you? Doesn't it make you feel great!? It makes me want to be a colt again and pursue my dreams of rodeo work!" Florida was embarrassed for Faux Pas and tried to look away, but Faux Pas was like a train wreck, and Florida's neck is made of plastic.



Finally, Florida realized why Faux Pas was hired into this "pet" position. He was the best in the business. Not only could he entertain with his eating skills, but he also had a degree in therapeutic interaction and his coat was great for absorbing tears. Faux Pas' advantage though, the reason for the overcompensation, was that he was also as beautiful as a model horse.



After the interview Florida was overheard asking Faux Pas if he had an agent.

Corley [kor-li] - proper noun

or, events and such that define my being - 5-10

(I would like to be able to tell you why my father is such an amazing person, like the entry I wrote about my mom. However, my father has a fairly high profile job, and I'm fairly searchable. I don't know that he wants his co-workers to know ALL about his past.)

I don't remember exactly how old I was, but I very clearly remember the night that my father told me and my little sister that he and my mom were separating. I remember telling him that I knew that it meant they would be divorced, and he told me that it wasn't that at all. It turned out to be the case. Sara was about three, she had no idea what was going on. I remember being extremely angry with her in the following months because she would cry at night. I knew that she didn't understand why she was crying, really. She had separation anxiety and she really did miss my dad, but she didn't understand what was going on.

The divorce was final right around February of the next year, I think. I remember thinking it was that much more sad, being close to Valentine's Day. In the end it was the best for everyone.

My parents didn't fight when they were married - they're actually still very good friends - but had they been forced to parent in the same house once I became an adolescent things would have been much different, and they would have fought quite a bit. Looking back I can say that I believe that my father's depression was the biggest contributing factor to their divorce. His sister Becky was diagnosed with cancer and subsequently died, his mother had died of cancer a couple of years before that, and earlier in his life he lost his sister Sally and his father. My dad had dealt with grief much differently with his father's death as a kid, and Sally's as a young adult. He couldn't use the same methods to cope. The way I see it is that he just had so much to work through that he couldn't work on a marriage. Sometimes love is not enough. I know that they continued to love one another; my father cried when he found out my mom was going to re-marry.

Because of the divorce I had two wonderful experiences:

:::Time with Poppy::My grandfather, Poppy, came over every Thursday night to babysit. He'd arrive with a brown paper bag with four frozen treats in it - one each for me and my sister to enjoy that night, and one for later in the week. We'd watch TV, play games - once we put sponge rollers in his hair, only to have mom come home early. She says that he looked like Clem Kadiddlehopper when they all came out. When he put us to bed he'd sing us songs from hit parade. I was the only 8 year old singing Perry Como's "Prisoner of Love."

:::Horses::: My dad set me up with riding lessons with a girl he worked with. We'd go on Wednesday nights, a.k.a Dad nights, and I'd sit atop 'Nomad,' an old flea-bitten grey Arabian, and try to keep my heels down. Claire, his owner, gave me my first horse book and gave me the horse bug that's been draining my bank accounts ever since.

secrets, secrets are no fun...

Hey, remember this horse?



Her name is Annie, or St. Anne's Fortune, if you're feeling fancy.

In June 2005, between buying the house and Janet's death, I bought her. For a year and a half she has been my secret. Ex #1 didn't find out about her until shortly before we broke up. My dad found out about a month ago. My mom doesn't know.

I kept her a secret for what I felt were good reasons. When I bought her I bound reason and financial responsibility with coarse rope and crude knots and threw them onto the tracks which my intoxicatingly compassionate heart was barreling down. No one was going to understand why I bought another one when I already exhausted myself trying to support one.



As a very young foal, before she should have been weaned, Annie was brought to the farm I was boarding at in Dallas. The people who owned her then abandoned her. The manager took over her care as soon as he realized that they really weren't coming back, but he did so cautiously. If anything happened to her because of his care the horse owners could still take legal action, if he did nothing he could have negligence charges brought against him. So he logged every feeding amount and time. After three months he posted legal notice of his intent to sell and sold her quickly to someone on the property. In the next four months she was sold two more times. The people who owned her at that point then impulsively bought another horse and needed to get rid of her fast. When in that week she didn't sell, they began talking about auction.

The thing about Annie is that she's young, so she doesn't have much training beyond ground manners; she's a rescue, so no one knows what her bloodlines are; and though she's pretty, she's not much prettier than most horses to unbiased eyes. She wasn't worth much at all. At auction she would sell to a killer. There are two slaughterhouses in North Texas that take horses.

I couldn't let that happen.

I have two horses. I've had this other wonderful, beautiful, quirky creature in my life and I haven't been able to say anything about her for fear someone would find out. Even in my daily life I had to censor myself so that I didn't slip in front of family, or someone who MIGHT know, or ever come into contact with, my family. It's almost been like I never owned her at all. I feel like keeping all of the love I have for her tucked away keeps me from being able to love her as much as I could.



Earlier this month an older horse at the farm died. He died defending himself against younger horses who were running him down. He kicked the main aggressor as hard as he could - throwing it backwards head over tail. When he kicked that other horse he used so much force that he broke his own leg. On Wednesday I got a call from his owner, "Q, this is Margy. I was told you're trying to sell Annie." And it was done. My problems were solved, I no longer have to feel guilty for the financial assistance offered by my family. I no longer have to feel guilty about the lack of time I have to spend training her, or the things I can't buy for her, myself, my other pets. I don't have to pick up every possible shift at the restaurant, and when I go to the farm I can go just to ride.

Now everyone knows, and all that stuff I had tucked away is caustic and seeping out. I am very sad. She's not leaving the farm, I have first option to purchase if she is even sold and I've been told I can ride her once she's trained; but she's not my Annie Bear any more. There will be fewer opportunities to have her check my pockets for goodies, nuzzle my hair, or willingly submit to kisses on her very, very soft muzzle.