stuff i come across while i should be doing my homework

My nephew Travis is hangin out in Iraq trying not to get blown up. He is a super kid. He put this video together of Christmas in Iraq.

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Please stop using iTunes now. They are a bunch of hooligans. Amazon has an MP3 store that is super. That’s right…M…..P….3… Say it loud and say it proud. I am trying to promote the return of the MP3. I can play the song on my Palm T|X. My kids can play it on their iPods. I can load the memory friendly Windows Media Player and play all of my MP3’s. I would love it if all of the world banded together and in a uniformity the world has never seen take down iTunes.

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By the way… school is in recess so I am not bloggin right now. I am actually getting work done so that I can get around to not doing my homework starting Jan 7.

read this…

http://gazelem.wordpress.com/2007/12/27/the-big-news-that-someone-me-leaked-on-monday

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Jack Schaffer - Stubby Pringle’s Christmas

High on the mountainside by the little line cabin in the crisp clean dusk of
evening Stubby Pringle swings into saddle. He has shape of bear in the
dimness, bundled thick against cold. Double stocks crowd scarred boots.
Leather chaps with hair out cover patched corduroy pants. Fleece-lined
jacket with wear of winters on it bulges body and heavy gloves blunt
fingers. Two gay red bandannas folded together fatten throat under
chin. Battered hat is pulled down to sit on ears and in side pocket of
jacket are rabbit-skin earmuffs he can put to use if he needs them.

Stubby Pringle swings up into saddle. He looks out and down over
worlds of snow and ice and tree and rock. He spreads arms wide and they
embrace whole ranges of hills. He stretches tall and hat brushes stars
in sky. He is Stubby Pringle, cowhand of the Triple X, and this is his
night to howl. He is Stubby Pringle, son of the wild jackass, and he is
heading for the Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley.

Stubby Pringle swings up and his horse stands like rock. This is the
pride of his string, flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped strawberry roan
that looks like it should have died weeks ago but has iron rods for
bones and nitroglycerin for blood and can go from here to doomsday with
nothing more than mouthfuls of snow for water and tufts of winter-cured
bunch-grass snatched between drifts for food. It stands like rock. It
knows the folly of trying to unseat Stubby. It wastes no energy in
futile explosions. It knows that twenty-seven miles of hard winter
going are foreordained for this evening and twenty-seven more of harder
uphill return by morning. It has done this before. It is saving the
dynamite under its hide for the destiny of a true cowpony which is to
take its rider where he wants to go - and bring him back again.

Stubby Pringle sits in his saddle and he grins into cold and
distance and future full of festivity. Join me in a look at what can be
seen of him despite the bundling and frosty breath vapor that soon will
hang icicles on his nose. Those are careless haphazard scrambled
features under the low hatbrim, about as handsome as a blue boar’s
snout. Not much fuzz yet on his chin. Why, shucks, is he just a boy?
Don’t make that mistake, though his twentieth birthday is still six
weeks away. Don’t make the mistake Hutch Handley made last summer when
he thought this was young unseasoned stuff and took to ragging Stubby
and wound up with ears pinned back and upper lip split and nose mashed
flat and the whole of him dumped in a rainbarrel. Stubby has been
taking care of himself since he was orphaned at thirteen. Stubby has
been doing man’s work since he was fifteen. Do you think Hardrock
Harper of the Triple X would have anything but an all-around
hard-proved hand up here at his farthest winter line camp siding Old
Jake Hanlon, toughest hard-bitten old cowman ever to ride range?

Stubby Pringle slips gloved hand under rump to wipe frost off the
saddle. No sense letting it melt into patches of corduroy pants. He
slaps rightside saddlebag. It contains a burlap bag wrapped around a
two-pound box of candy, of fancy chocolates with variegated interiors
he acquired two months ago and has kept hidden from Old Jake. He slaps
leftside saddlebag. It holds a burlap bag wrapped around a paper parcel
that contains a close-folded piece of dress goods and a roll of pink
ribbon. Interesting items, yes. They are ammunition for the campaign he
has in mind to soften the affections of whichever female of the right
vintage among those at the schoolhouse appeals to him most and seems
most susceptible.

Stubby Pringle settles himself firmly into the saddle. He is just
another of far-scattered poorly-paid patched-clothes cowhands that
inhabit these parts and likely marks and smells of his calling have not
all been scrubbed away. He knows that. But this is his night to howl.
He is Stubby Pringle, true-begotten son of the wildest jackass, and he
has been riding line through hell and highwater and winter storms for
two months without a break and he has done his share of the work and
more than his share because Old Jake is getting along and slowing some
and this is his night to stomp floorboards till schoolhou8se shakes and
kick heels up to lanterns above and whirl a willing female till she is
dizzy enough to see past patched clothes to the man inside them. He
wriggles toes deep into stirrups and settles himself firmly in the
saddle.

“I could of et them choc’lates,” says Old Jake from the cabin doorway. “they wasn’t hid good,” he says. ““No good at all.”

“An’ he beat like a drum,” says Stubby. “An’ wrung out like a dirty dishrag.”

“By who?” says Old Jake. “By a young un like you? Why, I’d of tied
you in knots afore you knew what’s what iffen you tried it. You’re a
dang-blatted young fool,” he says. “A ding-busted dang-blatted fool.
Riding out a night like this iffen it is Chris’mas eve. A dong-bonging
ding-busted dang-blatted fool,” he says. “But iffen I was your age
agin, I reckon I’d be doing it too.” He cackles like an old rooster.
“Squeeze one of ‘em for me,” he says and he steps back inside and he
closes the door.

Stubby Pringle is alone out there in the darkening dusk, alone with
flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped roan that can go to the last trumpet
call under him and with cold of wicked winter wind around him and with
twenty-seven miles of snow-dumped distance ahead of him. “Wahoo!” he
yells. “Skip to my Loo!” he shouts. “Do-si-do and round about!”

He lifts reins and the roan sighs and lifts feet. At easy warming-up
amble they drop over the edge of benchland where the cabin sungs into
tall pines and on down the great bleak expanse of mountainside.

Stubby Pringle, spurs a jingle, jobs upslope through crusted snow.
The roan, warmed through, moves strong and steady under him. Line cabin
and line work are far forgotten things back and back and up and up the
mighty mass of mountain. He is Stubby Pringle, rooting, tooting
hard-working hard-playing cowhand of the Triple X, heading for the
Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley.

He tops out on one of the lower ridges. He pulls rein to give the
roan a breather. He brushes an icicle off his nose. He leans forward
and reaches to brush several more off sidebars of old bit in the
bridge. He straightens tall. Far ahead, over top of last and lowest
ridge, on into the valley, he can see tiny specks of glowing allure
that are schoolhouse windows. Light and gaiety and good liquor and
fluttering skirts are there. “Wahoo!” he yells. “Gals an’ women an’
grandmothers!” he shouts. “Raise your skirts and start askipping! I’m
acoming!”

He slaps spurs to roan. It leaps like mountain lion, out and down,
full into hard gallop downslope, rushing, reckless of crusted drifts
and ice-coated bush-branches slapping at them. He is Stubby Pringle,
born with spurs on, nursed on tarantula juice, weaned on rawhide, at
home in the saddle of a hurricane in shape of horse that can race to
outer edge of eternity and back, heading now for highjinks two months
overdue. He is ten feet tall and the horse is gigantic, with wings,
iron-boned and dynamite-fueled, soaring in forty-foot leaps down the
flank of the whitened wonder of a winter world.

They slow at the bottom. They stop. They look up the rise of the
last low ridge ahead. The roan paws frozen ground and snorts twin
plumes of frosty vapor. Stubby reaches around to pull down fleece-lined
jacket that has worked a bit up back. He pats rightside saddlebag. He
pats leftside saddlebag. He lifts reins to soar up and over last low
ridge.

Hold it, Stubby. What is that? Off to the right.

He listens. He has ears that can catch snitch of mouse chewing on
chunk of bacon rind beyond the log wall by his bunk. He hears. Sound of
ax striking wood.

What kind of dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool would be
chopping wood on a night like this and on Christmas Eve and with a
dance underway at the schoolhouse in the valley? What kind of chopping
is this anyway? Uneven in rhythm, feeble in stroke. Trust Stubby
Pringle, who has chopped wood enough for cookstove and fireplace to
fill a long freight train, to know how an ax should be handled.

There. That does it. That whopping sound can only mean that the
blade has hit at an angle and bounced away without biting. Some
dong-bonged ding-busted dang-blatted fool is going to be cutting off
some of his own toes.

He pulls the roan around to the right. He is Stubby Pringle, born to
tune of bawling bulls and blatting calves, branded at birth, cowman
raised and cowman to the marrow, and no true cowman rides on without
stopping to check anything strange on range. Roan chomps on bit,
annoyed at interruption. It remembers who is in saddle. It sighs and
obeys. They move quietly in dark of night past boles of trees jet black
against dim greyness of crusted snow on ground. Light shows faintly
ahead. Lantern light through a small oiled-paper window.

Yes. Of course. Just where it has been for eight months now. The
Henderson place. Man and woman and small girl and waist-high boy.
Homesteaders. Not even fools, homesteaders. Worse than that. Out of
their minds altogether. All of them. Out here anyway. Betting the
government they can stave off starving for five years in exchange for
one hundred sixty acres of land. Land that just might be able to
support seven jack-rabbits and two coyotes and nine rattlesnakes and
maybe all of four thin steers to a whole section. In a good year.
Homesteaders. Always out of almost everything, money and food and tools
and smiles and joy of living. Everything. Except maybe hope and
stubborn endurance.

Stubby Pringle nudges the reluctant roan along. In patch-light from
the window by a tangled pile of dead tree branches he sees a woman. Her
face is grey and pinched and tired. An old stocking-cap is pulled down
on her head. Ragged man’s jacket bumps over long Woolsey dress and
clogs arms as she tries to swing an ax into a good-sized branch on the
ground.

Whopping sound and ax bounces and barely misses an ankle.

“Quit that!” says Stubby, sharp. He swings the roan in close. He
looks down at her. She drops ax and backs away, frightened. She is
ready to bolt into two-room bark-slab shack. She looks up. She sees the
haphazard scrambled features under low hatbrim are crinkled in what
could be a grin. She relaxes some, hand on door latch.

“Ma’am,” says Stubby. “You trying to cripple yourself?” She just stares at him. “Man’s work,” he says. “Where’s your man?”

“Inside,” she says, then, quick, “He’s sick.”

“Bad?” says Stubby.

“Was,” she says. “Doctor that was here this morning thinks he’ll be
all right now. Only he’s almighty weak. All wobbly. Sleeps most of the
time.”

“Sleeps,” says Stubby, indignant. “When there’s wood to be chopped.”

“He’s been almighty tired,” she says, quick, defensive. “Even afore
he was took sick. Wore out.” She is rubbing cold hands together, trying
to warm them. “He tried,” she says, proud. “Only a while ago. Couldn’t
even get his pants on. Just feel flat on the floor.”

Stubby looks down at her. “An’ you ain’t tired?” he says.

“I ain’t got time to be tired,” she says. “Not with all I got to do.”

Stubby Pringle looks off past dark boles of trees at last row ridge
top that hides valley and schoolhouse. “I reckon I could spare a bit of
time,” he says. “Likely they ain’t much more’n started yet,” he says.
He looks again at the woman. He sees grey pinched face. He sees
cold-shivering under bumpy jacket. “Ma’am,” he says. “Get on in there
an’ warm your gizzard some. I’ll just chop you a bit of wood.”

Roan stands with dropping reins, ground-tied, disgusted. It shakes
head to send icicles tinkling from bit and bridle. Stopped in midst of
epic run, wind-eating, mile-gobbling, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled,
and for what? For silly chore of chopping.

Fifteen feet away Stubby Pringle chops wood. Moon is rising over
last low ridgetop and its light, filtered through trees, shines on
leaping blade. He is Stubby Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple
X, born with ax in hands, with strength of stroke in muscles, weaned on
whetstone, fed on cordwood, raised to fell whole forests. He is ten
feet tall and ax is enormous in moonlight and chips fly like
stormflakes of snow and blade slices through branches thick as his arm,
through logs thick as his thigh.

He leans ax against a stump and he spreads arms wide and he scoops
up whole cords at a time and strides to door and kicks it open…

Both corners of front room by fireplace are piled full now, floor to
ceiling, good wood, stout wood, seasoned wood, wood enough for a whole
wicked winter week. Chore done and done right, Stubby looks around him.
Fore is burning bright and well-fed, working on warmth. Man likes on
big old bed along opposite wall, blanket over, eyes closed, face
grey-pale, snoring long and slow. Woman fusses with something at old
woodstove. Stubby steps to doorway to backroom. He pulls aside hanging
cloth. Faint in dimness inside he sees two low bunks and in one, under
an old quilt, a curly-headed small girl and in the other, under other
old quilt, a boy who would be waist-high awake and standing. He seems
them still and quiet, sleeping sound. “Cute little devils,” he says.

He turns back and the woman is coming toward him, cup of coffee in
hand, strong and hot and steaming. Coffee the kind to warm the throat
and gizzard of choredoing, hard-chopping cowhand on a cold cold night.
He takes the cup and raises it to his lips. Drains it in two gulps.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “That was right kindly of you.” He sets
cup on table. “I got to be getting along,” he says. He starts toward
outer door.

He stops, hand on door latch. Something is missing in two-room
shack. Trust Stubby Pringle to know what. “Where’s your tree?” he says.
“Kids got to have a Christmas tree.”

He sees the woman sink down on chair. He hears a sigh come from hear. “I ain’t had time to cut one,” she says.

“I reckon not,” says Stubby. “Man’s job anyway,” he says. “I’ll get it for you. Won’t take a minute. Then I got to be going.”

He strides out. He scoops up ax and strides off, upslope some where
small pines climb. He stretches tall and his legs lengthen and he
towers huge among trees swinging with ten-foot steps. He is Stubby
Pringle, born an expert on Christmas trees, nursed on pine needles,
weaned on pine cones, raised with an eye for size and shape and
symmetry. There. A beauty. Perfect. Grown for this and for nothing
else. Ax blade slices keen and swift. Tree topples. He strides back
with tree on shoulder. He rips leather whangs from his saddle and
lashes two pieces of wood to tree bottom, crosswise, so tree can stand
upright again.

Stubby Pringle strides into shack, carrying tree. He sets it up,
center of front-room floor, and it stands straight, trim and straight,
perky and proud and pointed. “There you are, ma’am,” he says. He moves
toward outer door.

He stops in outer doorway. He hears the sigh behind him. “We got no
things,” she says. “I was figuring to buy some but sickness took the
money.”

Stubby Pringle looks off at last low ridgetop hiding valley and
schoolhouse. “Reckon I still got a bit of time,” he says. “They’ll be
whooping it mighty late.” He turns back, closing door. He sheds hat and
gloves and bandannas and jacket. He moves about checking everything in
the sparse front room. He asks for things and woman jumps to get those
few of them she has. He tells her what to do and she does. He does
plenty himself. With this and with that magic wonders arrive. He is
Stubby Pringle, born to poverty and hard work, weaned on nothing, fed
on less, raised to make do with least possible and make the most of
that. Pinto beans strung on thread brighten tree in firelight and
lantern light like strings of store-bought beads. Strips of one
bandanna, cut with shears from sewing-box, bob in bows on branch-ends
like gay red flowers. Snippets of fleece from jacket-lining sprinkled
over tree glisten like fresh falls of snow. Miracles flow from strong
blunt fingers through bits of old paper-bags and dabs of flour paste
into link chains and twisted small streamers and two jaunty little hats
and two smart little boats with sails.

“Got to finish it right,” says Stubby Pringle. From strong blunt
fingers comes five-pointed star, tiple-thickness to make it stiff,
twisted bit of old wire to hold it upright. He fastens this to topmost
tip of topmost bough. He wraps lone bandanna left around throat and
jams battered hat on head and shrugs into now-skimpy-lined jacket. “A
right nice little tree,” he says. “All you got to do now is get out
what you got for the kids and put it under. I really got to be going.”
He starts toward outer door.

He stops in open doorway. He hears the sigh behind him. He knows
without looking around the woman has slumped into old rocking chair.
“We ain’t got anything for them,” she says. “Only now this tree Which I
don’t don’t mean it isn’t a fine grand tree. It’s more’n we’d of had
‘cept for you.”

Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway looking out into cold clean
moonlit night. Somehow he knows without turning head two tears are
sliding down thin pinched cheeks. “You go on along,” she says. “They’re
good young uns. They know how it is. They ain’t expecting a thing.”

Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway looking out at last ridgetop
that hides valley and schoolhouse. “All the more reason,” he says soft
to himself. “All the more reason something should be there when they
wake.” He sighs too. “I’m a dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted
fool,” he says. “But I reckon I still got a mite more time. Likely
they’ll be sashaying around till it’s most morning.”

Stubby Pringle strides on out, leaving door open. He strides back,
closing door with heel behind him. In one hand he has burlap bag
wrapped around paper parcel. In other hand he has squarish chunk of
good pine wood. He tosses bag-parcel into lap-folds of woman’s apron.

“Unwrap it,” he says. “There’s the makings for a right cute dress
for the girl. Needle-and-threader like you can whip it up in no time.
I’ll just whittle me out a little something for the boy.”

Moon is high in cold cold sky. Frosty clouds drift up there with it.
Tiny flakes of snow flat through upper air. Down below by a two-room
shack droops a disgusted cowpony roan, ground-tied, drooping like
statue snow-crusted. It is accepting the inescapable destiny of its
kind which is to wait for its rider, to conserve deep-bottomed dynamite
energy, to be ready to race to the last margin of motion when waiting
is done.

Inside the shack fire in fireplace cheerily gobbles wood, good wood,
stout wood, seasoned wood, warming two-rooms well. Man lies on bed,
turned on side, curled up some, snoring slow and steady. Woman sits in
rocking chair, sewing. Her head nods slow and drowsy and her eyelids
sag weary but her fingers fly, stitch-stitch-stitch. A dress has shaped
under her hands, small and flounced and with little puff-sleeves, fine
dress, fancy dress, dress for smiles and joy of living. She is sewing
pink ribbon around collar and down front and into fluffy bow on back.

On a stool nearby sits Stubby Pringle, piece of good pine wood in
one hand, knife in other hand, fine knife, splendid knife,
all-around-accomplished knife, knife he always has with him,
seven-bladed knife with four for cutting from little to big and
corkscrew and can opener and screwdriver. Big cutting blade has done
its work. Little cutting blade is in use now. He is Stubby Pringle,
born with feel for knives in hand, weaned on emery wheel, fed on
shavings, raised to whittle his way through the world. Tiny chips fly
and shavings flutter. There in his hands, out of good pine wood,
something is shaping. A horse. Yes. Flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped
horse. Flop-eared head is high on ewe neck, stretched out, sniffing
wind, snorting into distance. Cat-hips are hunched forward, caught in
crouch for forward leap. It is a horse fit to carry a waist-high boy to
uttermost edge of eternity and back.

Stubby Pringle carves swift and sure. Little cutting blade makes
final little cutting snitches. Yes. Tiny moltings and markings make no
mistaking. It is a strawberry roan. He closes knife and puts it in
pocket. He looks up. Dress is finished in woman’s lap. She sits slumped
deep in rocking chair and she too snores slow and steady.

Stubby Pringle stands up. He takes dress and puts it under tree,
fine dress, fancy dress, dress waiting now for small girl to wake and
wear it with smiles and joy of living. He sets wooden horse beside it,
fine horse, proud horse, snorting-into-distance horse, cat-hips
crouched, waiting now for waist-high boy to wake and ride it around the
world.

Quietly he piles wood on fire and banks ashes around to hold it for
morning. Quietly he pulls on hat and wraps bandanna around and shrugs
into skimpy-lined jacket. He looks at old rocking chair and tired woman
slumped in it. He strides to outer door and out, leaving door open. He
strides back, closing door with heel behind. He carries other burlap
bag wrapped around box of candy, of fine chocolates, fancy chocolates
with variegated interiors. Gently he lays this in lap of woman. Gently
he takes big old shawl from wall nail and lays this over her. He stands
by big old bed and looks down at snoring man. “Poor devil,” he says.
“Ain’t fair to forget him.” He takes knife from pocket, fine knife,
seven-bladed knife, and lays this on blanket on bed. He picks up gloves
and blows out lantern and swift as sliding moon shadow he is gone.

High high up frosty clouds scuttle across face of moon. Wind whips
through topmost tips of tall pines. What is it that hurtles like
hurricane far down there on upslope of last low ridge, scattering
drifts, smashing through brush, snorting defiance at distance? It is
flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped roan, iron boned and dynamite fueled,
ramming full gallop through the dark of night. Firm in saddle is Stubby
Pringle, spurs ajingle, toes atingle, out on prowl, ready to howl,
heading for the dance at the schoolhouse in the valley. He is ten feet
fall, great as a grizzly, and the roan is gigantic, with wings, soaring
upward in thirty-foot leaps. They top out and roan rears high, pawing
stars out of sky, and drops down, cat-hips hunched for fresh leap out
and down.

Hold it Stubby. Hold hard on reins. Do you see what is happening on out there in the valley?

Tiny lights that are schoolhouse windows are winking out. Tiny dark
shapes moving about are horsemen riding off, are wagons pulling away.

Moon is dropping down the sky, haloed in frosty mist. Dark grey
clouds dip and swoop around sweep of horizon. Cold winds weave rustling
through ice-coated brushes and trees. What is that moving slow and
lonesome up snow-covered mountainside? It is a flop-eared ewe-necked
cat-hipped roan, just that, nothing more, small cowpony, worn and
weary, taking its rider back to clammy bunk in cold line cabin. Slumped
in saddle is Stubby Pringle, head down, shoulders sagged. He is just
another of far-scattered poorly-paid patched-clothes cowhands who
inhabit these parts. Just that. And something more. He is the biggest
thing there is in the whole wide roster of the human race. He is a man
who has given of himself, of what little he has and is, to bring smiles
and joy of living to others along his way.

<<<<THIS IS WHERE I STOP READING>>>>

He jogs along, slump-sagged in saddle, thinking of none of this. He
is thinking of dances undanced, of floorboard unstomped, of willing
women left unwhirled.

He jogs along, half-asleep in saddle, and he is thinking now of
bygone Christmas seasons and of a boy born to poverty and hard work and
make-do poring in flicker of firelight over ragged old Christmas
picturebook. And suddenly he hears something. The tinkle of sleigh
bells.

Sleigh bells?

Yes. I am telling this straight. He and roan are weaving through
thick-clumped brush. Winds are sighing high overhead and on up the
mountainside and lower down here they are whipping mists and snow
flurries all around him. He can see nothing in mystic moving dimness.
But he can hear. The tinkle of sleigh bells, faint but clear, ghostly
but unmistakable. And suddenly he sees something. Movement off to the
left. Swift as wind, glimmers only through brush and mist and whirling
snow, but unmistakable again. Antlered heads high, frosty breath
streaming, bodies rushing swift and silent, floating in flash of
movement past, seeming to leap in air alone needing no touch of ground
beneath. Reindeer? Yes. Reindeer strong and silent and fleet out of
some far frozen northland marked on no map. Reindeer swooping down and
leaping past and rising again and away, strong and effortless and
fleeting. And with them, hand on their heels, almost lost in swirling
snow mist of their passing, vague and formless but there, something big
and bulky with runners like sleigh and flash of white beard whipping in
wind and crack of long whip snapping.

Startled roan has seen something too. It stands rigid, head up,
staring left and forward. Stubby Pringle, body atingle, starts too. Out
of dark of night ahead, mingled with moan of wind, comes a long-drawn
chuckle, deep deep chuckle, jolly and cheery and full of smiles and joy
of living. And with it long-drawn words.

We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e… pa-a-a-artner!

Stubby Pringle shakes his head. He brushes an icicle from his nose.
“An’ I didn’t have a single drink,” he says. “Only coffee an’ can’t
count that. Reckon I’m getting soft in the head.” But he is cowman
through and through, cowman through to the marrow. He can’t ride on
without stopping to check anything strange on his range. He swings down
and leads off to the left. He fumbles in jacket pocket and finds a
match. Strikes it. Holds it cupped and bends down. There they are.
Unmistakable. Reindeer tracks.

Stubby Pringle stretches up tall. Stubby Pringle swings into saddle.
Roan needs no slap of spurs to unleash strength in upward surge, up up
up steep mountainside. It knows. There in saddle once more is Stubby
Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple X, all-around hard-proved
hard-honed cowhand, ten feet tall, needing horse gigantic, with wings,
iron-boned and dynamite-fueled, to take him home to little line cabin
and some few winks of sleep before another day’s hard work…

Stubby Pringle slips into cold clammy bunk. He wriggles vigorous to warm
blanket under and blanket over.

“Was it worth all that riding?” comes voice of Old Jake Hanlon from other
bunk on other wall.

“Why, sure,” says Stubby. “I had me a right good time.”

All right, now. Say anything you want. I know, you know, any
dong-bonged ding-busted dang-blatted fool ought to know, that icicles
breaking off branches can sound to drowsy ears something like sleigh
bells. That blurry eyes half-asleep can see strange things. That deer
and elk make tracks like those of reindeer. That wind sighing and
soughing and moaning and maundering down mountains and through piny
treetops can sound like someone shaping words. But we could talk and
talk and it would mean nothing to Stubby Pringle.

Stubby is wiser than we are. He knows, he will always know, who it
was, plump and jolly and belly-bouncing, that spoke to him that night
out on wind-whipped winter-worn mountainside.

We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e… pa-a-a-artner!

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Skills to master before you decide to Heli-Ski.

1) kick-turning
2) traversing
3) side-slipping
4) snow-plowing

That’s all you need to heli-ski. Heli-skiing is not only for super-advanced skiers.

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Check the Snowbird mountain cams to see what is happening on the mountain. Snowbird is - by far- the greatest place to ski in Utah.

http://www.snowbird.com/ski_board/mtncams.html

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I just got out of math class and my head is turning. I heard this song for the first time when I was in High School and I got it free with a skate boarding magazine I bought. Just close your eyes and get mad.
 

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unbelievable. they have a page on youtube that is worth visiting!

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Taking College Algebra I ran across this video showing us how to do Partial Fraction Decomposition

 

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