“One of my objectives is learning more than is absolutely necessary.” –Jules Verne

Ride, love, live. Share, be kind. It all goes so fast.

No curb chain, green-broke mare, 90-degree cutting Quarter horse turn. Can feel her heartbeat through the saddle still. Yes, said it before; will likely say this again. Live, learn, keep going.

Backed her well muscled rump into me, a corner in her stall. Facing death if Penny kicked. Once once. Mamie said, don't go in their without a halter and lead line, that's her space. Learned the lesson.

Grany gear, low low. Urr, rrr, rrr. walking the big ol' yellow and white Blazer down Copper Hill steep steep incline. No safety guardrails (hah) on either side of that road then. RRR, rrr, rr. Walking down on four wheels, geared down, worked. Up that beloved driveway to home, horses, dogs. Made it. Tomorrow is another drive. But for now, snow. Warmth. Hay and grain for them, shelter.

The star-studded night sky there. A sparrow hawk looking at me the first day. Paradise. Hay fields, a spring. Bareback through the meadow, just dreaming and feeling the sun. Dogs right there, happy too.

Platform jump into cold cold spring water, northwwest Florida. Seeing barefoot people tracks? Crazy. It's winter. Nope, he said. Those are bear tracks. Jaw drops open, learning still.

Funny how music can bring a time in life right back, front and center. The ice-cold air conditioning in my dorm room after baking in wheelwell on the flightline, soaked with hydraulic fluid. Queen on my turntable speakers amp (it had tubes and produced incredible sound) system.

Passenger in Barb's white convertible. The big old car that Kathleen loaned me so I could drive to Destin on my day off. When Destin was nothing but beach, a snackbar of sorts (one), ocean, miles of nothing in both directions. The white glow at either end. Not a soul seen all day. Never going back there. Not like that anymore.

My 10-speed, smoothies in Fort Walton Beach. Driving a stickshift with Sandifer Platt along the coast, keep going.

Camping near Blackwater River. Riding Penny, the river. Annie paddling along too. What a good girl.

Durn. The invite to go with riders on racking horses night hunt on the range.

Galax Fiddler's Convention. The tailgate jams. Time stops. After dark, someone falls happily in a ditch. No harm done.

Center in the Square. Caving, New River. Fossils in a stream, horse pasture in Salem.

The Scout, seats like wood, Dad driving, the sea chest with Annie between the seats, following a four-horse trailer through Atlanta and north. This one is for you Dad. A Jeep driver in World War II, driving that Scout. We had fun.

Ambulatory, next stage, bedridden, end stage, dead. Life, summed up in a few words (some do skip some stages, plugged pulled quickly). Bear with me, this is all so very gut-wrenching.

You should be running— Elizabeth Sherman, burn bright.

Sitting on a terrace at Lackland Air Force Base after basic training, in casual status. Having a two percent beer to celebrate (yes it was allowed and so daring to have. One.) Whoo hoo. Hearing this from Willy and Waylon.

Ahead: Phyllis and Larry, Phyllis's Folly. Redbud. Bent Mountain, Pogue's Mill. Bylines, book. Features, rising, rising.

Dreams into reality. There was much more to come. Unbelievable.

Another chapter opens. Parts amputated (metaphorically speaking) and now what.

Oh.

All that living is still right there. All those abilities plus writing which is like breathing.

Oh.

A camera in hand since a toy Diana brand one place in my hands by my mother. The camera took real images and my mother took them and got developed. What magic and power to see those. Draft horses, at the fair. Some with heads missing, but in my hands, captured some of what was seen right by and through the white board fencing.

Can ride, train rogue horses–hear them say what they need. See others copy, imitate, use my words.

Oh.

This is joy. Words and pictures, pictures and words. And with a weird mix of aviation mechanics and rural life, travel. Not to the places everyone knows. Reading to accompany all. Listening to people, books of local history that never get far. So very valuable.

She's home, hospice. How can this be real?

He liked this one.

Across genres. Nimble is a gift.

Miles and miles. New Market. Natural Bridge. Goshen Pass, Lexington. History that is not dead, happened right here.

Yorktown, Williamsburg, Gloucester.

Guinea, Virginia. Oh boy.

Almost home.

Albuquerque. The night grave shift. Riding in the back of a truck on base, home to bachelor officer's quearters, me and Lynn. Because, female. Reading Dickens, looking at the Sandia Mountains. Taking the shuttle around base.

No one would believe this.

Rescue and recovery, one tight community, but don't like H-3s much.

The drive to the airport. Miles and miles.

Wake up. Wake up.

Going back to go forward.

But first: Wait! One more look.
Good-by, Good-by, world.
Good-by, Grover’s Corners.
Mama and Papa.
Good-bye to clocks ticking.
And Mama’s sunflowers.
And food and coffee.
And new-ironed dresses and hot baths.
And sleeping and waking up.

Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful
for anybody to realize you.

Do any human beings ever realize life
while they live it? – every, every minute?

–Thornton Wilder

Editor's note: This story has been updated. Also see: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/kl-9ZsMG7a4 and https://www.youtube.com/shorts/FwJDyw2v5yQ.