A SHOOTER’S MANIFESTO - WELCOME TO THE BLOG
Yep, that's me, photobombed by a horse. Her name is Melody and she's a registered Percheron mare who weighs about 2,000 pounds. A mare who insists she's a lap dog...
I'm glad you stopped by. Grab a cup of coffee and browse my varied topics; this is content I'm continually updating and that which reflects my travels and my life. I hope you find something that brightens your soul. All the Best ~ Judy Ann
Itsy Bitsy Spider
Look what I found, a Shamrock Orbweaver. They’re maturing, and will be quite active August through October, so look for them in the garden, fruit trees, eves of the house, etc. Don’t kill her. She’s not only harmless; she’s your friend. She has a voracious appetite for all kinds of pesky insects, and with a “belly” this size, she’s about to lay egg...
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The Original Firehouse Horse
FORGED by the FIRE
A GLIMPSE OF PERCHERON HISTORY AS A FIREHOUSE HORSE
Not every horse was a viable candidate for serving as a firehouse horse. They had to be incredibly strong, quick, athletic, and fearless. When responding to an incident, these horses had to remain calm as flames and embers mixed with myriad distractions surrounded them at ever...
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Grey Horses
Did you know that grey is not actually a true color in horses? It’s a gene mutation that causes a process of hair depigmentation. Since I regularly field questions about grey horses and why they dapple out and eventually turn white, I’ve laid out a series of photos I snapped from around North America over the last decade. The photos help illustrate...
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She Melts the Snow
I meet so many wonderful people, people with stories that are as unique and beautiful as they are. Here’s the deal, folks: stop and talk with others, say hello, engage in conversation, offer a friendly, encouraging smile. Stop what you’re doing and take the time to get to know others. “Too busy” is not a valid reason; you could be missing out on on...
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Bye Bye Miss American Pie
Except for the legions of crickets who begin their chorus long before nightfall, there is only the occasional rustle of cornstalks from the ghostly breeze. It’s a quarter mile trek from the gravel road marked by the bent green sign of Gull Avenue and 315th Street. Beside me to the north, a rusty barbed wire fence is choked by tall grasses. It borde...
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