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.

BETSY LERNER'S WITTY ADVICE TO WRITERS

Besides being a top notch writer, Betsy has a sense of humor. She soon had me laughing with her straight shooter commentary. Although, as I delved deeper into "The Forest for the Trees," I thought, you're supposed to be mentally unstable in some form to be a writer, willing to cut off body parts to draw attention to yourself and your book was my take. Her vast experience led me to believe she worked in a mental institution, but I know better. Now, I can offer her a reprieve from the everyday rigors for I am as normal as they come, imagine the possiblilties. Enjoyed the book and the wit it took to make the subject points sink in.