There's Pain, Laughter and Romance in "Broken Rib Ranch"

                                   Back and forth across the path,
                                   Pounding hoof beats aftermath,
                                Left for dead, face down in the dirt,
                          Tim struggles to stand, but everything hurts,
                                  Laid up for weeks, his ribs so sore,
                               On the bright side, he got out of chores.

A Quest to End Pain and Suffering Causes Additional Abuse of Unwanted Horses.

For the horse's sake, U.S.-based horse slaughter plants should be allowed to re-open. If there is a need for horsemeat to be processed for human consumption, and there is (approximately 150,000 domestic horses are exported abroad for slaughter each year), then it should be done within our own borders where there are laws to regulate the business and to protect the horses. As harsh as that may sound, it's better than the alternative: Horses being stuck inside cramped trailers for periods as long as thirty-six hours, without food or water, while they are hauled across the country to Canada, or to Mexico, where they are met with a horrific death.

There are just too many horses to be absorbed into the mainstream of the horse world without some sort of checks and balances. Large breeders want only the cream of the crop, no matter how many foals have to be born. The rest are cast off and sold at slaughter. Greed fuels the industry, with little consideration given to the animal's well-being. And, while rescues have achieved commendable success at providing care for a large quantity of horses, the numbers saved at these facilities is small in comparison to the influx of unwanted horses. Despite strong opposition to the contrary, slaughter is a necessary check, therefore, regulated transport and rendering should be the balance.

A Book For Horse Lovers and Anyone Who Has Said "I Do."

Growing up, Timothy Parsel lived only a stone's throw away from Lake Charlevoix, where he spent his summers casting a fishing rod and riding the Ironton Ferry. Horses were never in the picture—until one day in 1979, when he was smitten by a blue-eyed blonde and decided to accompany her on a trail ride to win her affection. From that point forward, his life would never be the same. (Nor his backside.) In Broken Rib Ranch, Parsel reveals his fun-loving nature by spinning harrowing situations into comical tales about a wife who does everything in her power to possess as many horses as she can, while he struggles to hold his own against a species with a mind of its own. Parsel uses his grasp of the saddle to put you in the thick of things; so, tag along for the ride of a lifetime. Even the shortest jaunt is a train wreck waiting to happen.

Description for Broken Rib Ranch

How does an ordinary guy who enjoys the conveniences of in-town living and the solitude of fishing on quiet Northern Michigan lakes, find himself building miles of fencing and improvising creative ways to haul water to dozens of horses in the midst of a blizzard—only to keep his wife happy? Timothy Parsel expected to live an ordinary existence of driving truck long-haul and coming home to Diana, his beautiful blue-eyed bride ... instead, his life quickly transcended into an escalating chain of undesirable events that revolved around Diana's lifelong dream of horse ownership. Readers are crying and laughing with Parsel as he trades in his fishing pole for a pitchfork and posthole digger. Discover how Broken Rib Ranch broke several horses—but not the author.

         

Introduction to "Broken Rib Ranch"

In high school, I grudgingly wrote a short story to fulfill an assignment. It centered on the freedom and excitement I felt whenever I ventured out on my motorcycle. An unexpected result was praise from my English teacher, who believed I had a gift for writing. For the remainder of the school year, she pushed me to pursue a career in writing. However, upon graduation, I learned that my parents expected me to earn a living so that I could move out of their house. The lure of the highway enticed me more than college; so I choose a profession in trucking and hit the road. I soon realized trucking wasn't as glamorous as it was portrayed in movies like Smokey and the Bandit. The long hours and isolation gave way to loneliness. My only companion became the nonstop chatter over my CB. I virtually had no social life. The loneliest aspect was that my romantic life was nonexistent ... until six years later, during a hiatus, when I met my future wife, Diana. It appeared I had found the woman of my dreams—but, like all dreams, it ended when Diana wanted a horse. One horse became two, then doubled, and then doubled again. I spent the next thirty years being stomped on, bitten, and kicked while mending broken fences and broken ribs. When Diana got a misconceived notion to rescue a herd of wild horses from Canada, it almost sent me over the edge—and then one day it suddenly occurred to me, I finally had something to write about. Without Diana, my life would have been as dull as a high school English class.

The Driving Force Behind My Book

As I look out the window at a field scattered with horses, I found myself doodling on a blank piece of paper. These animals had become the bane of my life—yet were my wife's love and joy. Two people so far apart... I wondered how it had come to this. I realized what I had scribbled were, in reality, chapter titles that chronicled this unforeseen journey of mine. At the time, I had no intention of putting words behind each chapter. It was simply my attempt to empty my mind of these events. Every time I watered the horses or fixed a fence, my heart pounded heavily. I was furious and I felt defeated. As I would spew out the latest incident to my friends, they would listen with mouths agape, and then burst into laughter (of course, if they were in my boots, they would not be laughing). It was this stunned laughter that got me to put pen to paper. Could my tales of grief make people laugh and be my therapy? Thus began my memoir. www.timothyparsel.com

LANCE ARMSTRONG AND THE NRA HAVE A LOT IN COMMON!

Despite overwhelming evidence, neither one will admit that they are wrong. Instead of stepping forward with sensible solutions to problems, they throw up their hands in disgust and blame everyone else around them. The National Rifle Association needs to concede that there's no reason for anyone to own an automatic weapon with such destructive power as the AR-15 or similar weapons. The second amendment is not in jeopardy simply by banning these weapons or clips, which hold vast amounts of ammo. You are currently not allowed to own a Sherman tank that is fully functional despite the fact that it would be fun to shoot. Step up and do the right thing. Twenty first graders from Connecticut would like to have had that choice... As for Lance Armstrong, prison should be his next tour.

A CONTROVERSIAL TOPIC

A few years ago, people cheered when the United States closed its processing plants, because they believed horses would be spared a cruel death. Instead, it had the opposite effect. Blame it on the drought, the economy tanking, or whatever you want, but when a bale of hay reached $7.00, a lot of people could no longer afford it. As a result, the number of horses being neglected rose significantly. If a horse has to be slaughtered, wouldn't you rather it be done within our borders where there are laws to protect them? I would. Therefore, I applaud the reopening of the slaughter houses.

THE SNOW AND BITTER COLD PAYS NORTHERN MICHIGAN A VISIT

In the wee hours of the morning, I work with pulsating fingers trying to thaw outside water faucets and frozen hoses. My reward? Flowing water. While I wait for the water troughs to fill, I throw down some hay for the horses. Afterwards, I drain the hoses and put them away so that I won't have to fight with them again later in the evening when the whole process will need to be repeated all over again.

A NOTE FROM NORTHERN MICHIGAN

My friend's kids don't think it's plausible when I tell them, "Back in the day, when I was a kid, the snow piles alongside the roads were as big a mountain." Despite that these kids grew up in Northen Michigan, I find myself trying to describe every aspect of what it was like to trudge through the snow with our sleds until we reached the top of a hill just so we could glide back down. Afterwards, we tunneled through snow piles and built forts. I can see why they might be skeptical. I mean, here it is the middle of January and there's only a dusting of snow on the ground. It makes me wonder if today's kids will ever get to experience the heavy snowfalls of the past. I hope so, because if they don't, they'll be missing out on some of my fondest childhood memories.