‘Girl, Just Keep Your Legs Together, And All Will Be Well!’

Good advice for any female, at any stage in her life, although the context may change as she ages.

As I recently entered my eighth decade on this earth (for those of you in Rio Linda, that means I just turned 70 a couple of months ago), the context these days relates mostly to my life on the farm, because that's where I spend the very great majority of my time.

Every evening, I trot (well, maybe I don't trot anymore; maybe I just "totter," or "stagger," or perhaps I "wander in a desultory fashion") down to the barn with a small bucket of grain, to call the sheep in for the night. I didn't used to do this, but a few years ago I had a couple of ugly coyote incidents which ended badly, and I decided I didn't want to live through those again, so I try to keep the troops safe by bringing them back to base camp in the evening. Generally, they're very up for this, and anxious to get to their nightly feast.

Sometimes, they're too anxious.

After ending up flat on my bum night after night, with the bucket's contents raining down around me while the buggers foraged around, through, and sometimes within me, I finally figured it out.

Don't give them an inch!

The inch (or perhaps two or three) that I regularly gave them was that inch or more between my legs, as I entered the arena, moved normally and energetically around (because I am a fairly normal and energetic person), took the latch off the gate, approached the feeders, thrust the scoop into the grain bucket and then shook its contents into the feeder.

Almost every time, I ended up with a couple of (very friendly, let's be clear) sheep's heads between my thighs, staring lovingly up at me, hoping for an extra bit of treat. The 150 or 225 pounds they each carried forward while moving towards the feeder, still between my legs, usually upended me, with the especial thrill, from those with horns, of the impression of several dime-sized and painful bruises presenting themselves on my inner thighs a day or two later. I don't forget. And thank goodness I never ended up in the hospital for any reason where I might have had to explain such awkward presences.

My eventual (and ultimately dispositive) conclusion was that I must have been doing something wrong, and that striding about openly and freely, "like an Egyptian," (let's hear it for the liberated peoples of several thousand years ago B.C.) might not have been such a good idea:

So I decided to restrain myself. To try "walking like a lady" as my English Granny, with all her repressive ideas, had instructed me to:

Head up and level, shoulders down, legs together.

Know what? It worked!

They get their treats, and I get to stay on my feet, with my dignity intact.

Who could have guessed?