John's 42nd Birthday

In mid-October, I blew all the cash I'd saved up for my husband's birthday on a black Resistol and oilskin duster. Though the cowboy attire was a much appreciated surprise gift for John at the time of its giving, I was quite distraught to see November 14th roll around without any funds for the celebration of his forty-second year. Yet the day came. And while money, it seems, may make the world go round, it has no power to stay the procession of the calendar. Nothing about the day had been planned, nothing had gone as expected, and everything was perfect.

The morning began with a brilliant pink sunrise over the Ozarks, a daily perk of life on Emotive Acres. John rose early, and happily accepted his steaming cup of coffee (one sweet 'n low, with a splash of milk) as the only gift I'd be able to offer him that morning. (I'd given him kisses, too, but those were all for me.) We ate a tummy-warming breakfast in our mid-renovation country kitchen, and suited up to turn out the horses. One by one, we lunged and turned out our stallion, our gelding, and our filly. Since this was John's special day, we decided it was time to get him on the back of our four-year-old mare for his very first ride around Emotive Acres.

A few days earlier, we'd made an unspoken agreement with our chihuahua that, as long as he stayed within Emotive Acres's property, we'd allow him to run free along with us as we worked the pasture. Chico had been adhering to our agreement, perhaps too closely. As soon as John slipped onto Bubbles's back, the chihuahua was at her heels, sniffing at her hooves. The sensation startled the mare, who managed to land a swift kick into the ribs of the little dog. Chico hollered as he flew through the air and slammed against the bars of the round pen. The chaos of the little dog caused Bubbles to rear and buck, just as John had stuck his hands in his pockets to retrieve some apple-flavored treats. John was airborne for a moment, bounced along Bubbles's wide frame, and managed to get a foot underneath him before breaking his fall with his rear end. This was to be Emotive Acres's first rodeo event. Chico, displeased, walked away with his tail between his legs, muttering under his breath. John, I am proud to say, managed to keep his hat on the whole time.

We did get a ride out of Bubbles that day, and John was very pleased. With the homestead in working order, we voyaged into town to pick up some bread and milk. As we arrived at the meat market, the most amazing smell of barbecued bratwurst wafted over to us. The brats were being cooked by a grinning fellow in a camouflage shirt, jeans, and a neon orange cap with tiny deer antlers protruding from the forehead. From under his mustache, he offered us some free samples. It was the best brat I'd ever tasted. Inside the market, however, was the real treat. Four local wineries had sent over their best bottles, and were offering free tastings to the people of Owensville. We ended up hanging there for nearly an hour, getting tipsy on little plastic cups of heaven and lunching on gourmet cheeses and free sausage. We celebrated with preachers and sinners, connecting with our fellow countrymen, loudly and jovially quoting Bible verses and country music songs. It was a joyous occasion.

That afternoon, our buddy Bull arrived at our doorstep with an arsenal of firearms. Seeing the unmistakable light in my husband's eyes, I politely ducked out and let the men play. Bull and John took the guns outside, strapped up some targets, and began to fire. The cracks of the gunfire split through the crisp mountain air, and held all living creatures at attention. After a while, the men invited me out to try my hand at the trigger. I was pretty good with the 22 rifle and the 22 pistol. Nearly hit the bulls eye each time. But then they put a heavy black beast in my hand. I hadn't expected much of the gun, and I suppose I'd gotten cocky from my first two experiences with firearms. But this time, as I pulled the trigger of the 38 special, the explosion in my hand sent me flying backward, and the noise was like a cold icepick to both eardrums. Not thinking, I flinched and covered my ears with my arms. The men hollered and dove for the gun, which was now flailing about as I tried to escape the ringing in my head. Bull managed to pry the gun from my fingers, and John sympathetically encouraged me to return to the safety of home for my recovery. "But you did really great!" he insisted. He's so sweet.

The night rounded out with a delicious homemade steak dinner, and our nightly barn ritual. I've planned a few birthday parties for John, always topping the last occasion with grander festivities and elaborate surprises. This birthday didn't cost a smidge of time or money, yet John insists that it was his best. Such is the life we've created on Emotive Acres. We've learned to surround ourselves with simple delights that supersede any urban need for pomp and circumstance. Every day is a celebration of life and birth. Each new sunrise commemorates our existence here on earth. We are truly blessed to have stumbled upon the amazing rewards of stewardship, and we look forward to sharing those rewards with any who visit these Emotive Acres.