Change: Somtimes It's Just Not Right

Jodhpurs Picture Courtesy of Wikimedia

Jodhpurs Photo from American Import Export, LTD
This is more like it!

Photo Courtesy Wikipedia
These riding breeches look more like ski pants than the romantic equestrian jodhpurs of my day.

Out of desperation, I searched for and found a pattern for jodhpurs, however, they don't appear to have the voluminous silhouette of yore.

If you live as long as I have, you will experience many changes in your personal landscape. Some changes will delight you and you embrace them; some you'll just have to roll with; but some changes just aren't right and you are compelled to dig your heels in and refuse to bow to them.

Now take jodhpurs (if you can find them!). When I was young, I had English riding lessons at Fort Benning, Georgia. It was rumored that my riding master, a retired U.S. Army man, had played on General Patton's polo team. In any event, he required that proper riding attire be worn to each lesson: the knee high leather riding boots; the black velvet riding helmet; a correct shirt and finally, the jodhpurs. Jodhpurs, those wildly romantic breeches that officers of the cavalry wore; the ones amorous Argentinian polo players sported; not today's skin-tight pants that make you look like a skier. Rather the ones with the generous volumes of fabric around the thighs and the little button-on elastic stirrup that fits under each foot, inside the knee-high, black leather English riding boots.

After years of not having been near a horse, I decided to take up riding again. So Tall Husband and I found a store that sold English tack and apparel, not an easy place to find in Texas. When I was shown the selection of "jodhpurs" that looked more like leggings, I asked to be shown "the real riding pants." The clerk looked puzzled when I described them and asked, "Where have you been lady?"

When it finally sank in that there were no real jodhpurs to be had; that the romance had gone out of riding, I was devastated. What else in the world had changed that I had not noticed? "This is just not right," I declared to Tall Husband and we went in search of romance.

We located a shop that specialized in reproduction of the look of yesteryear. I described the breeches to the young manager and drew her a sketch. She was excited about them, promising to see what she could do. It took a season, but her company came up with a reasonable facsimile of the jodhpurs. She called me to give me the news and I immediately went to her shop and bought a pair. Yes, one pair because that's all they had left. She said the minute they went on display, they sold out. I was so happy to hear that there were women with a sense of adventure and romance left in the world. One pair would do just fine!

Cindy's Bomb

This image or file is a work of a U.S. Airforce, Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal Government, the image or file is in the public domain.

Happy Birthday Cindy! As a gift, here's a true story from your childhood.

We were stationed on the U S Army post in Grafenwoehr, Germany. I was pregnant with my son and my daughter, Cindy, was a precocious three-year-old. That morning, I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink, watching her from the window. I turned to put a dish away and when I looked back toward the playground, I realized I had been watching the wrong little red jacket. I was outside in a flash and saw Cindy running toward me from the nearby woods.

"Annie*," she said in her dramatic little voice, "come help me dig my bomb out of the ground."

"Is this another pretend story?," I asked. After all, she was known around post by the nickname Sarah Heartburn for all her dramatic monologues which were only loosely based on truth.

In the woods she led me to a heavily shaded area and sure enough, there was a half buried WW II bomb, of a US variety. It looked to be about a hundred pounder with a distinctive fin protruding from the dirt. Cindy's excavation tools were close by; a stick and a large rock. I gulped as I noted the fresh scratches on the bomb. I convinced her that Daddy would be the better person to dig out her bomb and we returned to our quarters (military talk for apartment.)

Out of her earshot, I telephoned her father. He sounded very disinterested and said he would have a look when he came home for lunch. When he arrived home, he insisted on eating lunch before having a look at the bomb. He ate so slowly that I wanted to shovel food into him myself. Then he insisted on second servings; more tea; dessert; brushing his teeth; on and on. Finally he agreed to go.

When we arrived in the woods, the bomb had disappeared. The earth had been smoothed over and Cindy's tools were gone. "There's no bomb here," he said in a tone of voice one uses with a pathetic person given to hallucinations.

"Where is my bomb?, Cindy demanded of him. "I want my bomb back."

After her father returned to work, Cindy and I paid a call on Pat, the wife of the ordnance officer. Pat was fuming. It seems that her husband, Jack, never came home for lunch and didn't bother to call. I didn't mention the bomb, but I realized that Jack and his team had secretly gone into the woods by the back road and removed the bomb. "So let the boys have their little secrets," I thought to myself.

The next afternoon while Cindy and I were visiting with neighbors, there was a distant explosion. The building shook, our coffee cups rattled and we were all wide eyed. But not Cindy, "They blew up my bomb," she shouted angrily and began to tell all who were present about the theft of her bomb. The Army would have few secrets with Sarah Heartburn around.

*Cindy refused to call me Mom, "because that's not your name."

Annie Get Your Gun: The Grim Side of Running a Home

In every country I have traveled to, the first question I am asked is, "Where are you from?" When I answer, "Texas," the next question is often, "Does every Texan have a gun?" The truth is, this Texan does.

Years ago in another life, before Tall Husband, I was the wife of a U.S. Army officer and was often alone with two small children. This story began one night when we were living in Columbus, Georgia near Fort Benning. I was awakened by the smell of cigarette smoke in the house. I was terrified as I quietly checked on my sleeping children. I realized the smoke must be coming from the basement. The next morning, police found cigarette butts in the basement. They informed me that there were no signs of forced entry and that the intruder had ripped out the exterior light at the basement door. The police could never catch the smoker. Changing locks, replacing lights, later getting a dog, nothing deterred this guy.

After sleepless nights of laying awake smelling cigarettes, I relented to friends' insistence that I have a gun. It was agreed that my best friend's husband, Major G would select a gun and train me. He was responsible for training army personnel to handle weapons and headed a team of men who traveled the world giving exhibitions. I had seen Major G, at an exhibition, fire a pistol at an ax that had a playing card affixed on either side. The bullet split in two and hit the center of each card.

Not only did Major G train me to fire the gun, he taught me to speed load so that I did not have a loaded gun in the house with my children. The gun and bullets were kept in different locations. (The children were never told about the gun.) We rearranged my bedroom so that I had a vantage point where I was not immediately visible to an intruder walking into the bedroom. From that vantage point, I was to squat with the weapon pointed downward, identify the person as a stranger, then aim for the middle of the chest and shoot to kill. No holding at gunpoint, no conversation, no warnings. Other preparations: leave the hall light on so that the intruder's eyes would have to adjust to the darkness of the next room he entered. Never yell out, "who's there?" You give your location away by doing so. Never go through the house looking for an intruder, let him come to you. Watch shadows, be very quiet, smell the air and listen.

One night, after hearing my dog's aborted bark from the basement, I sat for three hours in my vantage spot, smelling cigarette smoke wafting up from the basement and wondering why Coco wasn't making a sound. At daybreak, I ventured into the basement and found my dog unresponsive. After examining Coco, my veterinarian said the dog had been shot with a tranquilizer.

The following night a neighbor called to tell me someone was parked on the corner, watching my house and smoking. After I telephoned the police, I went to a dark window with army binoculars. He was alone, looked to be thirty something and continued to smoke his cigarette. When the search light of the police car illuminated the interior of his car I could see he was not a person known to me. He showed the two police officers something, as they approached. They cut their lights and continued to speak with him. He remained in the car and then for some unexplained reason their conversation turned casual. While I could not hear their words, I could hear the casual tone and their laughter. Then the smoker drove away. After the police officers rang my doorbell, they assured me that I was safe and that the disturbance was caused by two teenagers who were "necking." One officer went so far as to say that he knew the boy's dad and would have a talk with him.

I looked the officer in the eye and said, "Tell him I have gun and I am trained to use it."

The smoker never returned after that night. I heard some years later that Major G was recruited by Interpol. The children are grown. I still watch shadows, listen and smell the air.