Dun is Dun

When introduced to new things, you feel compelled to learn about it as much as you can. You want to be knowledgeable so you don't feel stupid and out of place.  There are certain safety reasons too...like never walk behind a horse you don't know.

Ed and I went to a high dollar horse sale in Fort Worth, Texas.  It was my very first horse sale and I was actually excited about it.  I sat there studying the catalog of several hundred horses that listed each one with the important information: registered name, year model, gender, color, brief description and pedigree.  Some people like a certain "line" of horses thinking that they pass certain traits onto their offspring that they find desirable.  Reminded me of the Daughters of the American Revolution who recognized my classmates for tracing their genealogy back to the birth of our country.  Looking up from the Sears and Roebuck of horse listings, there was the first horse in the ring.  The color of Jiff creamy peanut butter, he was a big, sturdy animal who was groomed like he was going to the prom.  I wondered if he was a Tea Party horse.  I leaned over and asked Ed "what kind of horse is that?"  Without even looking at me, he said "It's a dun."  That wasn't enough of an answer for my inquiring mind, so I pressed, "what makes it a dun?" Ed turned to face me and flatly said "A dun is a dun." 

I sat there shaking my head and silently scowling.  Funny when something has been with you all your life you just know it.  It just is and requires no explanation.  Dun is dun.  Got it.  Being who I am, however, I leaned over to the other side of me and pestered that guy asking him the same question.  He gave me a nice explanation of "dun refers to the color of the horse which can range from sandy yellow to reddish brown and has the tale-tell darker dorsal stripe."  He then went on to discuss the darker shading on the points and darker mane and tail.  Wow.  A real answer.  I liked it. 

Over the next couple of months I asked more questions about horses and cows.   They were all met with brief responses.  Simmental cattle suck.  They just do.  Finally irritated with my husband's lack of enthusiasm about my attempt to learn more about his world, I asked him what his problem was.  He didn't have a problem he explained, he just didn't expect or require me to lose myself in these things.  He had fallen in love with me for who I was and changing was not required on my part.  He was allowing me to stay "me."  I was deeply touched by this after much reflection.  This explains why I still wear flip flops to rodeos.  I just gotta be me.

About a year after I married Ed, we bought a new place in Oklahoma and sold the Texas ranch.  It was not hard to say goodbye to caliche dust roads, neighbor's Sasquatch bulls, or the drought.  Ed went ahead to Oklahoma while I wrapped up the packing in Texas.  Without selling a horse, I had paid for new carpet in the ranch house we'd be moving into and they were installing it before I was to move there with the furniture.  There was one giant room in the house that had berber carpet that was still in good condition and not shag burnt orange.  I didn't want to be wasteful, but it couldn't stay because it wouldn't match.  Matching is a Southern commandment ingrained into us as small children. I left explicit instructions that the berber be saved when removed so we could put it in the office. The carpet guys arrived and set about their work.  Ed called me and wanted to know which carpet was supposed to be recycled, to which I replied "the berber carpet."  The phone was briefly silent.  Ed then asked "which one is Berber?"  I couldn't help myself..."If dun is dun...then berber is berber."