Author: letterflywrites

When I began working as a T-shirt artist for Wicked Wanda years ago, I learned the slang for reject. When Martha, in charge of the booth came across a shirt that was unusable due to a bad hem, tear or a blemish, she called it a ‘Larry.’ As I got familiar with how things worked at the sign company in Carbondale, I found out the original inspiration for that slang term.

Larry Weatherford, the owner, was the most unlikely person on the planet to have a sign shop. Not gifted with any visual prowess, design sense, or artistic ability, he had achieved a semblance of momentum just by being a fan of the industry. Larry made odd choices with his projects as he trudged forward. He had people with sense who worked for him and whenever he tried to participate, the project got bogged down. This frustrated the capable among us. He must have been aware of a need for good people and that explained his ongoing help-wanted ad in the trade magazine.

Being an admirer of industry-great Mike Jackson, from Oklahoma City, he hired a young man who had worked at that shop, thinking he would have access to greatness through him. The laborer only proved to be a good laborer. Larry seemed to have a Midas touch but what he touched didn’t turn to gold.

Married and adventuresome, his plan backfired when he persuaded his wife to do some partner swapping with another couple and she became infatuated with her new mate.

When an airbrush mural opportunity for an interior of a restaurant came along, rather than utilize my proven ability with that specialty, he brought in a man from a printing company to tackle the project – a decision neither the printing company guy or I understood.

Such was life at Larry’s sign shop – he had a way of deflating enthusiasm and promoting apathy in the ranks. I put in my time but took my energy elsewhere. I concentrated on my other ambitions.

My English teacher enjoyed having me in class and commented, “You seem to be the only one in here interested in what I am teaching.”

Because the coursework was supposed to be typed and I didn’t have a computer, he allowed me to print my assignments with a pen. He still used the same scrutiny about capitalization, punctuation and sentence structure as the others.

I discovered Evy Karoli was nearby in Cape Girardeau, Missouri at Dave Hale ‘s exotic animal farm with his huge variety of animals. I made the trip to see her one weekend and enjoyed the amazing farm filled with many species of animals from all over the world. Their signature was a large herd of camels that could be seen walking single file across the vast pastures. During those visits, I fortified my understanding of the criteria I looked for in another horse from this master trainer.

The months went by. Once I became convinced that this sign painting situation wasn’t going to take me anywhere, I left Larry and resumed freelance sign work in the region to achieve greater results.

Butch Webb had provided me with several restoration projects to work on at the shop during the summer months. Among the jobs to complete were several antique wooden merry-go-round horses. These were hand-carved out of wood and had seen service on carnivals during an earlier era. Part of the challenge was removal of multiple layers of paint, repairing the broken corners of ears, and making new legs. With all the features in his well-equipped shop and time during the summer months, I began the slow process of restoration. But recovery came first.

Butch Webb evidently had a resentment burning inside due to my not remaining obsessed with completing his work day and night, like I did during my drinking days. When his ‘A’ tour through western Canada was complete, prior to heading to Texas, the fleet returned to the shop.

I had been going to meetings and had begun the long tedious process of recovery and the fog in my brain was clearing. Through the fog, an idea for my future began to materialize. At thirty-four, I had the idea that perhaps I should get a degree.  Through asking the right questions, I found out that Southern Illinois University had the best graphic arts program in the country. 

While perusing a sign trade magazine – Signs of the Times – I found a sign shop in southern Illinois that advertised for a sign painter. I couldn’t stay here forever. As I made my plans to head out, Butch engineered a plan to screw me out of my money but never let on. Using the shifty manner in which he was famous, he found a way to short change me for the work I had completed.

One day he stealthily left on a plane for Vegas. I went to his secretary for my pay and she gave me only a fraction of what I had coming. She was simply doing what she’d been told. This is when I realized what Butch had done. Prior to my next meeting, I took one of the wooden Merry-Go-Round horses, and transported it to a safe location in Wichita in response to being shortchanged.

In Vegas, when he found out, Butch called and had his foreman park trucks around my rig to box me in. This foreman also had plans for the weekend. He left the shop confident that his efforts to thwart my travel plans were effective. With him gone, I had time to figure out a solution. Over the weekend, the Harder brothers helped me drop a drive shaft out of one tractor and pull the truck out of the way so I could leave. With my rig freed up, I left town. I went to get Betty the mule and then, the merry-go-round horse. Once loaded, I began my long trip east.

The long flat trip across Kansas gradually yielded to rolling hills as I passed into Missouri. The end of summer had passed. As I reviewed all that had happened to get me to this place, I entered the rugged coal country of Southern Illinois to assume my role at the shop I had contacted to become their sign painter. I also was in time for the first semester of school. My plan was to take full advantage of everything in Carbondale.

I checked in at the sign company and found he had room for my rig near the shop. He also knew someone who had pasture for Betty. I began a new routine with accomplishing sign work each day at the shop, and during the first lull on a quiet afternoon, I headed over to the campus to get acquainted with the Dean at the university.

While he looked at a portfolio of my work, I revealed my ambition to him.

“I’ve been thinking,” I began, “I should earn a graphic arts degree.”

He looked up from the work, paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and said, “I have students with a degree in airbrushing who can’t do this stuff. You don’t need a degree,” he continued, “just keep doing what you are doing.”

I explored what was available near the campus. I signed up for an English grammar class. I also became familiar with the nearby riding farm. These two learning opportunities became part of my weekly routine. I was still eager to develop my skills and stay in shape riding horses. I began taking lessons that provided access to a number of the school horses.

During that time at the barn, I reviewed the criteria again for a horse ideal for training into another circus performer. Young, but not too young (a five-year old is ideal). A horse who has never had any training means there aren’t any bad habits. Tall, kind and flashy.

 The focus of this barn was dressage. Their string of horses needed to be bombproof and easy going for the novice students. To join in, I became familiar with the procedure for dressage riding and practiced for upcoming tests. A formal horse show was scheduled for a few weeks away. I joined the rest of the students to get ready. The time to prove ourselves was here. 

The weekend finally arrived. We would ride proper tests in front of a judge and an audience. Like most specialties, the student rode through a series of maneuvers and transitions to earn acclaim as the aspects of each level was completed in secession to strict guidelines. This situation was not unlike performing as the seasoned school animals knew the routine.

Not knowing the school horse I rode was crowd-wise to this situation, I soon found out he knew he could cheat when an audience was present. Just like on a circus, when the animal knows the audience is gone they’d better act right, this horse knew that he could surprise the novice, and not do what he was being asked, and due to this environment, not get reprimanded in front of the judge.

When my turn came to ride my test pattern, I was ready and on my horse. I sat straight and proper and waited for the call of my name. After riding into the center of the arena, I acknowledged the judge with a tip of my hat. I then began to ride the sequence of this particular test. As I entered into the beginning of riding a ten-meter circle on one side of the arena, my horse began to veer back to cut off a significant amount of the shape I intended to ride. Using my whole leg, I gave him a swift thump to drive him back out onto the path. That got his attention.  The next circle he paid better attention to me.

Some of the students who knew this horse had been anticipating a scene. They commented on our performance when my ride was over.

I heard, “You got a pretty good ride from Cramer today.”

The time away from the pursuit of my livelihood to care for the mare had depleted my cash reserves. Now I was stranded and broke. This combined with having no direction for my life. I sunk into the deepest emotional devastation ever experienced during this life of continually having the ability to easily accomplish anything I set my mind to.

In this entry phase of my sobriety, I finally met the admission requirement. I hit bottom. From this low point, I found hope. I heard the message repeated from others who had found a life of happiness and productivity. They had experienced a shift in perception where we began to see things a new way through new eyes.

             Although I hadn’t had a drink in six months, my recovery started with the first word of the first step: we. I reached out. We are in this together. I joined the others. My response was to concentrate on going to meetings and asking for help from others. One guy in the group sounded good and what he said made sense. When the meeting was over, I took my hat in my hand and asked him to be my sponsor. We started to meet on a regular basis.  He started a process that began with going through the big book, the manual for recovery. One page at a time, he explained to me what those simple words, in that unique sequence, meant.

             From that start, I found a practical way to find, keep and expand a practical relationship with God by becoming honest, open and willing to uncover what kept me separate, and after discarding that, remain proactive with finding a new direction for my life.

             He introduced me to myself by relating his similar beliefs and the behaviors that kept him stuck. Then he told me about what he had found as the result of working the steps. Then he took me through the steps. Each step gave me a little more relief. Step four suggested I create an inventory of my behaviors, resentments and moral conduct; my greatest handicaps. With his help, I began to make this list. He made me understand their source and how my perception of others influenced the beliefs and decisions I made at that time.

He also showed me how fear drove my behavior. After uncovering this potpourri of kaka and having the written evidence stare me in the face, I admitted every bit to my sponsor, as suggested by step five. This deflation became the perfect segue for him to explain how these decisions, behaviors and beliefs contributed to the obsession I had developed with self that promoted grandiose desires, perceptions and withdrawal from others.

While I began to understand how fear, shame, regret and resentment drove my perceptions and behavior, he introduced me to an upgrade: spiritually driven responses that would also promote a healed perception of my surroundings.  A greater truth. Through this process, I found a design for living that started with a shift in perception called the turnaround. This is like putting on tainted glasses backwards and seeing for the first time all of my surroundings are beautiful.

         Through doing this work and while listening to others at meetings, I became related. I became connected, part of the group.  The concepts that kept me separate from those around me now became our reason for connection – having recovered from these same things. Through admitting my faults, embracing my humanity, and allowing connectedness to take place with my flawed fellows, for the first time in my life I felt the presence of God. I soon found my relationship with my higher power.

From this low point in my life, I found perhaps the greatest gift of all; freedom. For the rest of the summer I attended three meetings a day. I was immersed in the recovery process. I gradually healed. Then when the time was right, I received inspiration in regard to a logical destination to begin the next chapter of my life.

 “Yes, we have experienced remarkable success with reversing the effects of founder,” the spokesperson announced over the phone

                Back at the shop, Butch used the usual pressure to get sign work tasks done on his fleet prior to the beginning of his season. My work ethic had changed now that attending meetings was important. I no longer worked late whenever he asked. This promoted a resentment in my client although he assured me that he understood and had respect for someone who had recognized they had a problem and did something about it. Never the less, my focus on caretaking for my mare and attending meetings interfered with his ambition.

I did get his fleet on its way on time. Then, I made an appointment to take my horse to be healed with the corrective shoeing procedure available in Oklahoma City.

For months I succeeded in keeping Sassy comfortable in her stall. During my regular outings to see her, I used a wheelbarrow to provide soft sand in her stall, topped with pine sawdust. Because of the pain in her feet, she laid down a lot.

In the dark Farrier College building, a dozen students were learning how to make shoes at the forge and anvil. I found the man who made the claim over the phone about being able to help. He had me bring the horse inside. When he looked at her feet, he gathered the class around to see her condition firsthand.

“This is what a horse’s foot looks like,” he stated as he held her foot up between his legs, “when the coffin bone is protruding through the sole.”

The students leaned in for a closer look. He pointed out the obvious. As the class asked their questions, it became evident to me that her condition was grave. Expectant hopes were dashed to the ground. After the session, he pointed toward a place where she could stay.

                He had only crude stalls and musty, old oat hay for bedding. Overnight Sassy developed open bed sores from lying on course bedding. The next day, I received the inevitable prognosis of what I had been in denial of – in the form of a demand by him to put her down. The roller coaster experience of having my hopes ride high during the trip south, shattered upon arrival, and now the command from this egoic, less than sensitive service provider left me in tears.

Still confused about what to do, I called Evy Karoli. I was ashamed to report to her what I had done. I was sure she would be disappointed. Instead, when she returned my call, she was a source of comfort with helpful advice. It was time to end her suffering.

                I couldn’t bear to witness the euthanization of, and the discarding of my beloved, once proud mare. I sobbed while I gave my consent. I was filled with fear. I left that place on a dreary day in a blowing rain with vision blurred by tears. 

Back at Wichita, isolated at the shop, I sank into the most emotionally devastating depression of my life. Alone and completely depleted, I sought relief at the AA fellowship. With no direction to go, resources tapped, and in the depths of despair, I went to three meetings the day I returned.

At the first two, I heard the usual angst about withdrawal, and reports of progress, mixed with confusion and dilemma. When it became my turn to talk, I opened up about my tragedy and the loss of my mare and, perhaps for the first time, began to open up and attempt to describe the depth of sorrow I was feeling. My crude testimony deteriorated into sobbing. The entire fellowship rose to wrap their arms around me in an effort to provide me with comfort and encouragement.

I returned to the next meeting. Again, when it became my turn to speak, this scenario repeated. My condition of untreated alcoholism and delusional thinking was compounded not only by grief for the loss of the love of my life but, not knowing it at the time, withdrawal from something else. I had developed co-dependency with my mare who gave me an image of myself that I approved of. Through finding out about these and other concepts, I became familiar with how I used her as an antidote for my damaged self-esteem. Unknowingly, I found a way to approve of myself while being a handsome prince on a stunning horse. With her gone, I had a brokenhearted void in my soul.

Healing was underway. At the third meeting I attended that day, I began to look at my fellows with relatedness. One fellow was having a tough day during his job delivering pizzas. His plight became the focus of everyone’s empathy as we, including me, rose to console and comfort him. The following days gradually turned into weeks and about all I could do was go to meetings.

Days later I woke to discover Nick, my canine companion, laying paralyzed, quivering and unable to breathe. I laid him in the back of the van and raced to see the vet but was turned away. They were too busy. The only option I had was to put him down myself.

Back at Maize, I went over to the welding shop. I asked the two Harder brothers to help me with this task. They did have a gun but were not able to consider shooting inside the city limits due to some strain with the sheriff in the past. They lent me their .22 rifle. While tears flowed freely, I carried Nicks convulsing body to the grass north of the shop. I had to feel my way to lay the end of the barrel on his forehead because my sobbing obscured my vision. One loud crack and he lay at peace. I dug a hole and placed my friend at the bottom. After replacing the dirt on top, I paused to say a prayer. I was now completely alone. 

In the midst of devastation, a wonderful mule named Betty found her way into my life. Betty proved to be a great distraction from seeing the pain in Sassies eyes. During idle time at the farm, I began training Betty to work at liberty, or the style of responding to my positions and gestures in the round pen while completely loose, thus the term. When I began teaching her to bow, I noticed her bright willingness to learn.

I saw understanding in her eyes.

‘Oh, you want this?’ Betty seemed to say as she folded one foreleg back.

When I patted her on the neck, she melted.

‘Oh, I get a pat on the neck?’

That was how my love affair with Betty the mule began.

Over the years, this willing animal allowed me to train her to do more than any of my horses ever did. As her repertoire expanded, so did the composition of a routine to use for our act.

Fueled by ambition, the mule represented an opportunity to expand my professional offerings as performer. I aspired to develop another act. My days were filled with horse care and painting sign work for carnival folks in the area with various results, some wholesome, some not. I was distracted by this dilemma with my horse and my head seemed to be filled with cobwebs.

In the midst of all this confusion, I became a regular at the local AA club. I was still driven by intense independence. Although hungry for relief, an internal rigid streak mixed with demand resistance prevented my entering the process of recovery. The process described in the curriculum is achieved by following simple instructions.

          Like the shiny metal ball in a pinball machine, my direction was erratic, aimless, driven by self-delusion, misguided intentions and scattered fears as I continued on a self-induced path of ambiguity.

With the winter season over, the time came to travel to Wichita to paint for Butch Webb and his large concession operation. I loaded up the livestock and headed west. The trek had to be an excruciating experience for my mare, who did not have the ability to lay down during the entire trip. 

When Nick and I arrived at the tree-lined farm situated in the midst of vast flatland where I always boarded my horse, I fixed her stall with extra deep sand and fluffy shavings. It was fun being reunited with my horseman friends I knew from years of coming to this place.  My friends saw my way of going quite different now. Instead of practicing my dancing horse, I doctored her sore feet and nurtured her each day . I provided Sassy as much comfort as I could. No one was familiar with her condition so I received little help. I felt alone. As a group, we only had experience using our horses in health. 

By this time several people had attempted to reach me with the truth in regard to the reality of her situation. This irreversible condition in her feet had progressed into the affliction known as founder. I refused to consider what they were saying. I wanted only to find one more thing I could do that would work.

I was blinded by self-delusion. I over-did all of what I was doing for Sassy. I refused to believe that her dancing career was over. I continued to seek information from every source I could. I talked to university veterinarian schools for possibly a miracle cure or their willingness to use her as a study case to facilitate a breakthrough discovery.

The many conversations educated me to the reality of this plight, but instead of embracing the truth, I stubbornly continued looking for a cure. In the midst of all this misery, as the result of one lead, I received hope. A farrier college in Oklahoma City made the claim of being able to reverse the effects of laminitis. I gave them a call. 

       The engine in my truck had been getting tired. Bobby Steele agreed to give it a rebuild. While wintering at the Morris family winter quarters, he hoisted the engine out and dismantled the engine. When the engine was almost complete, Bobby needed sawdust for bedding the cages of his bears. I had only one horse. I used the entire width of the back of my trailer, approximately 8×12, to make a stall. Sassy enjoyed the room in the back of the new trailer all to herself. I thought sawdust would be a nice addition on the floor so I joined Bobby on his trip to a cabinet shop.

     While we shoveled the dusty stuff into leaf sacks, he became satisfied with the coupe. Back at the elephant farm, we resumed the engine rebuild. Sassy was getting along fine in her new digs, now enhanced with sawdust. The engine project progressed nicely but Bill Morris didn’t have the ability for me to stay at his farm for the entire winter. Rain was coming. Plus, there was no pasture available for my horse.  I had to go.

    With the engine complete, I moved the rig temporarily to Billy Rogers’s trailer park nearby, during the wet weather. This place was not ideal either; no yard for the horse.  The parking location was on terrain that left the rear of the trailer elevated. While in this situation, the new metal ramp was useless due to the acute angle. Satisfied with the comfort I had created inside, I left Sassy loaded that day and continued my search for a better parking place.

    Having looked at a pair of mules recently, I thought to contact Gee Gee Engesser. I found out she had room for the rig plus a stall and pasture for the horse. I made plans to move out there immediately. That would also facilitate acquiring the mules. 

      Upon arrival, while leading the mare out of the trailer, I was horrified at what I saw. Sassy walked gingerly, obviously in pain. Her front feet were way out in front of her. Gee Gee called the vet who arrived in a hurry but didn’t know what he was looking at or what could have caused her condition.

    He shrugged and said with unenthusiastic resignation, “Let’s wait a few days and see what happens.”

       Not knowing anything else, I proceeded to care for her as best I could in her new stall.

     Not having any experience with this condition and not knowing anyone to confer with that had any knowledge left me at a disadvantage. Gradually I learned about founder. I also found out that the window of where treatment would have been effective had slipped by. 

       Sassy remained in pain. In an effort to get off her feet, she began to lay down a lot. I took every effort to provide comfort to this wonderful mare who also represented an important part of my future ambitions. I refused to embrace the truth. I began the relentless pursuit of finding out about something or anything I could do to eliminate this condition.

       A follow-up conference with the veterinarian who responded first established him as incompetent. Another doctor informed me that with the immediate introduction of an antihistamine, the inflammation could have been reversed, but only during the introductory stages. It ends up that the sawdust Bobby and I retrieved contained certain hardwoods that promoted a fever in her feet. Wood shavings traditionally used for horse bedding are pine or softwood because several hardwoods are poisonous. As the temperature in her feet went up, the laminae became inflamed.

       The resulting inflammation in her feet caused the tissue contained in the hoof to expand. Since the hoof wall acts as a container for this tissue, it can only expand downward like toothpaste coming out of a tube. That was why contact with the ground became painful. This condition gave her the inability to place her feet squarely on the ground and is why she sought to rock back on the heel in an effort to get off the uncomfortable, tender sole.

       I knelt down in the sawdust of her stall and gently stroked her neck. I looked into her kind eyes and saw her yearning to understand what was going on.

       “Everything is going to be okay,” I whispered.

    I was afraid in spite of believing there was something I could do to heal this horse. I spent time with here, gently tending to her every need. My attachment to my ambition of going it alone separated me from the truth. Sassies condition was grave. I bedded Sassy up to her belly every day to make her as comfortable as possible. I also provided her to a regimen of pain relief via supplements.

      As I tended to this wonderful mare, time seemed to slow down. In the first few months of sobriety, I was learning about life. This life is a dichotomy. I was finding out that life was not good or bad but that life is a blend of good and bad. As Sassies condition worsened, I was blessed with another to love.

I was encouraged by Red to meet this man considered a legend in the carnival culture. He also knew Mel would be interested in some of my creative artwork talents. Arrogant and feisty, he considered only his ideas and made hasty judgments. After our introduction, he wandered over to look at my horse trailer.

“Stupid,” he snarled, ‘such a waste of space.”

He referred to how the horse industry had engineered the best way to provide a safe area for a horse to ride in a trailer. Instead of the trailer body taking every bit of allowable width, my trailer only had floor between the tires. Wrapped up in his thoughts, he was oblivious to the fact that this industry standard was perfect for this type of cargo. I learned that this sort of contempt for anything outside of himself was part of his peculiar persona.

Red was right about him wanting artwork. Mel built his motorhome out of an old milk truck van by splitting it and adding extra metal down the middle to make it extra wide. A clever machinist, he took three rear-ends to make one that was wide enough. The interior had railroad car features like a hinged sink that went up against the wall and ornate cabinets, bunk beds and lighting. He wanted Indian motifs on the sides.

I had an idea to improve my one-ton truck: A custom rack over the cab to carry ladders. I also recognized an opportunity with Mel. Yes, he could build that for me so we engineered a swap. I traveled to York later that summer to do the work.

 A clever man, he seemed driven by contempt. His agitated state prevented him from being a good listener and having regard for others. I visited his shop in Pennsylvania and saw many innovative ride trailer-mounting processes underway, made with Red’s guidance.

Mel was difficult to deal with. Unknown issues drove his demeanor. In my newly found sobriety, being around such turbulence was perhaps not appropriate for me in this fragile condition. In my confused state, my inability to speak around aggressive behavior surfaced. As he built his concept of what I wanted, I was unable to voice observations of what he was doing that would not work.

 He went belligerently ahead with his plan for two metal pans on hinges that, in addition to being too small, the galvanized metal surface was inappropriate for a horse ramp because it was hard and slick.

Intimidated by his manner, something had my voice. I was powerless to insist on what I wanted that would work. I felt as if I were in the twilight zone: an area with no syllables.  I was unable to verbalize what I wanted. The exchange concluded. Unsatisfied, I withdrew. I resigned to the waste of effort and the resources gone. I hadn’t yet learned to use the fellowship as a safe place to sound off with the vagaries of life and get helpful advice. I left with my useless contraption and headed south to a farm of some friends. I eventually had to discard the useless pieces he made. 

I didn’t know it at the time but the scattered mental syndrome that accompanied my new-found sobriety was a normal condition that would eventually pass. I hadn’t yet developed the sensitivity to notice and trust intuition in such matters. As I seemingly trudged along without direction, this fog that impaired my usual diligence would follow me around for a while.