Feb 042011
There is a new stirrup design on the horizon!
In fact, right now that new design has zipped through the idea-gathering stage, struggled back and forth through the ever-changing drawing board development, loped through the prototype building process and finally, finally, finally, is in the test-driving stage! (That part is in the round pen.)
Sounds easy, but let me tell you: creativity and craftsmanship evolve slowly and tediously, usually with a lot of trips back through each phase. The Nettles Stirrups crew, however, thrive on the dares of a new design, gnawing on it like an old dog handling a bone. They love the mental challenges, flourish on making the difficult work like grandma’s well-oiled sewing machine.
No doubt, that’s the reason there are so many copy-cats in the world. A copy- cat is the guy without any integrity. Neither does the copy cat – oh heck; let’s call him what he is – a copy-thief – have the mentality to develop the idea – or he would. Secondly, he isn’t smart enough to initiate intricate workmanship and most importantly he has no clue how to test-drive. That’s because few copy thieves have enough responsibility about them to care for a horse or a saddle.
I remember when Ronnie developed the Halfbreed stirrup. The Halfbreed premiered in April at the NCHA Super Stakes Show. Three months later when we returned for the NCHA Summer Spectacular, a vendor already had copies of the Halfbreed. A copy, though, is only a picture and never has the detail an original has; can’t because those Chinese haven’t paid the price of 40 years in the saddle, developing an understanding for detail.
But I digress….back to the latest design.
As with each of its older siblings, the new stirrup was born because of a need – this time a need that came from barrel racers. Last year on the BarrelWorld.com blog, numerous barrel racers shared how much they liked Nettles Stirrups. We found out about this when several called requesting, “The stirrups they are talking about on the blog.”
Barrel racers Martha and Ed Wright have been using Nettles Stirrups for years. They prefer the 2” flatbottom. While some bloggers followed in their footsteps, others praised the Halfbreed. Recently barrel champ Sharon Camarillo contacted us to help her improve the barrel racer’s ride – and that’s the baby now in the works.
While the barrel racers need brought about the birth of this new stirrup, past experience says they won’t be the only users. Take the Trailblazer for instance. Originally it was built for trail riding – or so we thought. Today, though, it’s the primary request for anyone wanting a little more comfort in the saddle and a little less pounding on the knees.
This new stirrup is going to be a doozy! Can’t wait for it to premier!
And when it does, it won’t take long for the copy-thievers to send it to China. The Nettles Crew just smiles. They are the old dogs gnawing on the bone who know intricate workmanship just can’t be copied.
Jan 262011
I think it’s Murphy’s law: if something can go wrong, it will. And it did last Wednesday. Ever had one of those days?
Last Wednesday Ronnie and I flew home from the Denver Western Market, a huge gathering of manufacturers of western products where retailers converge to check out the wares and order for their store. I’ve been setting up Nettles Stirrups for 18 years, so going home should be a no-brainer, right? Hmmm.
Denver Market is a lot of fun but also a lot of work. I had stood 10 hours a day (no time to sit!) visiting with long-time customers and educating new ones. We have quite a few overseas clients and since I speak nothing but Texan and theirs is broken English it can be a tussle to get orders written correctly. I always pack a lot of Tylenol.
The show was great – our booth even won Best of Booth Award! I was happily tired. Should have known it was too good to last.
Even though I was a beat chicken we left the motel long before daylight the next morning to catch our 10:40 am flight, partly to avoid Denver’s early morning traffic, partly because of previous slow experiences getting through the security – and partly because Ronnie gets up at the crack of dawn! (See if I take him again.) Ronnie assured me though, that leaving my warm bed shortly after getting in it would make for a stress-free trip to Texas. Boy was that wrong.
At least, however, it started off right. Surprisingly, after turning in our rental car, the shuttle bus driver immediately headed for the airport, most likely because no one else would need his services at such an early hour.
Security also went smoothly – well, sort of. Ronnie kept dinging the alarm. Just about the time I thought he would lose his Levis he got through. At least there weren’tthat many people around to see those skinny legs had that happened.
Within an hour of leaving the motel all the preliminaries were behind us and we sat in the Airport’s Chop House Restaurant enjoying a great breakfast. If you haven’t tried their Fratitta spinach omelet, it’s awesome. The cowboy stuck with the mundane two eggs, sausage and grits.
With tummies full and almost two hours to spare we settled near the boarding area. I plugged in my trusty computer and went to work. Ronnie got out Just Shorty and began to read. (Do you realize how many years ago I wrote that book and he is just now reading it?)
Time passed.
And then… I looked at my watch. 10:30. Something was dreadfully wrong.
I jumped to squint at the check-in marquee. It said Dallas all right – but at 12:00 not 10:40. Jerking the cord from the plug and plunging my computer into the bag, we took off down the corridor in search of the right flight. Thank goodness, it wasn’t far away – but already loaded, doors closed, about to depart.
There must be something about the look of a distraught Texas woman. I saw deep compassion in her eyes or either she was thinking, “These poor dumb Texans.” It didn’t matter; just get us onboard! She placed the call, literally pleaded with someone there – and God bless ‘em…they held it!
Of course, while we were happy. I don’t think the flight attendant was. Could have been her snarled lip, hands on hips or the fact that she insisted there was no room in the half-filled plan for our traveling bag. Irritably she announced it had to be checked to Dallas. Heck, I didn’t care; at that time she could have checked Ronnie! I just wanted to see Texas soil!
As we deboarded at Dallas where we had a 3-hour layover before flying on to College Station Ronnie asked about our carry-on. The snarly attendant (wish I had gotten her name!) said “Baggage claim.” “Here?” he asked. Hmm. Well, okay.
Getting to baggage claim meant leaving security, however, and returning through that torture again. Ronnie’s new boots were in that bag and he seriously talked about forfeiting them. My makeup was in that bag, though, and if we had to walk to College Station we were getting that bag! Out of security we went.
Wouldn’t you know it – no bag. Waited and waited and waited. No bag. Grrrr. Next step: hunt an employee. (Have you ever noticed they are never around when you need them?) Ten minutes later an employee– I really think he was a janitor – instructed us to file a lost bag claim in College Station. Grrr again.
I had just thought I was tired the night before. Naturally, even though security was a hike away we could see the line snaking through the building. We got behind a class of foreign high school boys who spoke little English. Communicating with each one about how to get through security took time – a lot of time.
By the time we stripped once again and got back into the secure area our 3-hour layover had dwindled to an hour and it had also been a long time since that Frattita omlette. A barbeque restaurant, well, if you want to call that barbeque, was about a half block from the boarding area, however, so we hopped upon bar stools at a table and tried to get waited on. You needed to draw a line to see our wait person move. By then I realized if something could go wrong, it would, including getting the laziest wait person in the airport.
Shortly before boarding time we strolled back toward the area…and then Murphy’s law struck again. Ronnie asked me for our tickets; I couldn’t find them.
Dumping my purse (any other time that would have been embarrassing) I scattered debris in a wild search. Ronnie always kept the tickets, but while re-dressing after security – that’s when I remembered. I had laid them on the table where we ate. Visions of really missing the plane danced in my head as Ronnie literally ran back to the barbeque stand. For the first time in my life I was glad we had gotten their lazy employee. The table was untouched and the tickets where I had left them.
The silver lining? The bag was waiting when we deplaned in College Station.
I’d still like the name of that flight attendant who probably hasn’t stopped smiling about giving us the luggage run-around. May the Bird of Paradise fly up her nose!
Jan 192011
Maybe, just maybe, we’ve got some encouraging news about the future of the economy! At the recent Denver Western and English Association Trade Show – that’s where the western retailers go to buy store products (and hope it’s all sold before the end of the year so they don’t have to count it as inventory) the parking lot “runneth over” every day.
Crowded parking lots mean people and that is a good sign, especially since last year it wasn’t too difficult to find a place to park.
Another good sign were the lines. It’s encouraging news when you have to wait to place an order, especially since last year there was plenty of time to play solitaire while waiting for a buyer to show up. Believe me, store owners do their homework and they aren’t about to exchange their hard-earned dough for products unless they think you will turn loose of your hard-earned dough to take them home with you. So standing in line was a good sign.
And good vibes surrounded our booth! Our Nettles Stirrups booth won “Best of Show”! That means we looked good…
And one more encouraging sign during the Trade Show? The weather! The weather in Denver, Colorado was warmer than the weather in Madisonville Texas! There were 50 and 60 sunshiny degree-days in Denver while drizzling rain and low 40’s dominated the days at home.
Think about it: Signs of an encouraging market on the heels of a scary economy, a winning booth amid hundreds of booths, and balmy weather in January in Denver Colorado.
Who says I’m not livin’ right?
Jan 122011
Socks: check. 14 pair of them. Vitamins: check. Took a while to count out the calcium, the daily vitamin, the Co-Q 10, but I’ve got to have vitamins to keep me going! Makeup? Never mind; just dump a bunch in a zip lock bag – I think airlines bought stock in zip lock bags before announcing you had to pack your stuff in them.
During all that counting to make sure, I’d packed enough for a trip to Denver Market, Greg Depriest’s statement I mentioned last week kept rolling through my mind. Remember Greg, the deep thinking pastor/cowboy/philosopher whom I shared had made a casual statement once that slam-dunked me? It’s really a simple statement but it gets deeper the more you think about it.
Greg merely said, “We should stop measuring our lives by numbers and start measuring instead by what we produce.”
Numbers is the American way to measure: the number of zeros following those other numbers in our bank account, the number of square feet in our home, the number of horses/cars/hobbies we have. And the list goes on and on.
At first I wanted to argue that, those living in large homes and jaunting around in several vehicles proved numbers measured production. Perhaps that’s partly true, but not necessarily so. Could be the greenbacks that purchased the homes and car toys were inherited, and therefore no connection to what the owner produced. Or, could be they are hocked to the hills, definitely no connection with what the owner has produced.
It’s deeper than that, though. If you “measure instead by what you produce” then that is a different measuring stick – right thinking, believing in oneself, immersion in others, stepping out on faith.
The world is full of individuals who developed successful businesses on a shoestring. That’s good, but really, it is shallow end of it.
What about producing upstanding responsible children? Forget the bank account! Counting out five-dollar bills into their hands seldom gets as good a measure as stirring oneself completely into a child’s life or anyone else’s life for that matter. Want to encourage someone? Listen, and then listen some more. Want to help someone? Love them where they are. Seldom do numbers, no matter what they buy pop your heart with gladness as seeing someone whom you poured yourself into as a happy, fruitful Individual.
The fact is, the more you think about which measuring stick you are really using, the deeper it settles inside of you.
Think about it. I have to run to catch an airplane. See you next Hump Day!
Welcome to Hump Day! For you leisure folks – I don’t personally know any of you, but I do envy you – Hump Day is Wednesday here in the working world, the halfway point to T.G.I.F….or for some of us T.G.I.S (Thank God it’s Saturday).
Hump Day is a great Day! It’s like reaching that titillating top on the roller coaster ride. You’ve probably been there. Your cart starts up the track with gusto like you starting the work-week with a positive “I’ll get it done this week!” attitude.
Then comes the uphill climb and by the time the roller coaster reaches the top, all that resistance has almost ground it to a halt.
Work weeks can be like that. The gusto of Monday morning “get her done” gets sidetracked. There’s the constant critic whittling at you – could be a real person or could be the invisible one living on your shoulder. There’s the onslaught of unexpected sniffles, unexpected malfunctions and numerous other sand-in-the shoe irritations. By the middle of the week you, too, are at a crawl.
But then comes Hump Day, half-time for the week.
Personally, I think it should be dubbed Choice Day because that’s what it is, a time to make a choice. It’s like that tummy-tickling brief moment on the high point of the roller coaster track… that hair-width of a second when you decide to either be scared to death as the roller coaster plunges down the track or enjoy an exhilarating slam-dunk ride to the end.
On Hump Day, whether we realize that or not, we choose to either allow the week’s interruptions to halt progress and merely go through the motions until T.G.I.F., or we regroup, refocus and tackle the remaining weekdays.
I know a lot about regrouping and refocusing, but I must confess, I don’t know a lot about roller coasters. I don’t do roller-coasters! That’s just what my crazy friends silly enough to get on those things tell me.
In fact, you’ll probably read quite a few things other people tell me on the Hump Day Blog. We’ve got a lot of smart roller-coaster style philosophers out there.
They’re the ones who pop some simple statement that simmers in your mind for a while, similar to the simple roller coaster ride to the top. But it’s the downhill side, the thinking side of what they said – whether to make a point or merely in passing conversation – that bottoms inside you like a slam-dunk.
One such roller coaster philosopher is Greg Depriest. I think Greg’s passions are pastor first and cowboy second, but I’m not sure. I do know the cowboy doesn’t override (no pun intended) the pastorship, but quite honestly I think the two could be tied for first place. If you think about it, both professions come with a lot of slam-dunk philosophy.
Next Wednesday I’ll share one of Depriest’s casual statement that slam-dunked me, so make sure you to tune in. Right now, though, it looks like Allie is telling me its puppy birthing time.
Enjoy your Hump Day, your Choice Day. And just think, T.G.I.F – or T.G.I.S. for most of us – is just around the corner!
There is a time for everything… It happened in December 1984. We were on the floor of the Will Rogers arena where hubby Ronnie Nettles had just won the Futurity. Here came this short guy with a recorder in hand. A big smile peeked out from under a cowboy hat shoved tightly onto his forehead. No doubt about it; he was a reporter.
This reporter, though, talked fast one minute and sporadically the next. Questions? He had plenty and he wasn’t afraid to ask anything. He reminded me of a hyperactive Chihuahua – or maybe it was a pit bull. If you were even interviewed by Robert Eubanks, you know exactly what I mean.
And a season for every activity under heaven;
Within a year we became journalistic colleagues and I came to love that hyperactive Chihuahua/pit bulldog. I learned if I deciphered Robert – not what he was saying, but what he was thinking – I had the golden calf in mentors. A walking encyclopedia of cutting knowledge, any sport for that matter, he remembered who won shows years ago, to whom they were married (then and now!) and the names and ages of their children, even their dogs.
Besides a wealth of information, Robert was also a wealth of journalistic expertise. Accidently quote a fact incorrectly – expect chastisement. Write a passionate or brilliant statement, though, – and receive undulated praise.
He was, to say the least, journalistically blunt.
He was, without a doubt, passionately Christian.
He was beyond his years in vision and intuition.
And he was, well … downright ornery!
A time to be born and a time to die…
Robert Eubanks, born 70 years ago, died Oct. 29, 2010. While Illness dogged his body for several years, it couldn’t dog him his mind. He pursued a positive attitude about his health, continually lifted Jesus – to nurses, doctors, whoever crossed his path … and as early as June, wisely planned his funeral.
A time to mourn and a time to dance…
I mourn the loss of that short reporter I first met in December 1984, recorder in hand, big smile peeking from under a cowboy hat. I grieve for the mentor whom I came to love. My heart aches for the loss of a journalistic teacher and Christian friend.
Yet, I dance. I dance in the memories of Robert, his beautiful smile, his sincere caring nature. I rejoice in having known a man with such intrinsic knowledge and shake my head at my own audacity to be too busy, too often, to intently listen.
I stand in awe that Robert, who sometimes experienced difficulty conversing, sang beautifully – fluidly – in church and I smile knowing he now celebrates with his Lord in Heaven. Ecclesiastes 3 says, “There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under Heaven; a time to be born and a time to die, … A time to mourn and a time to dance…”
Here’s to you Robert, to your memories, to your mentoring. I’m so glad there was a time for me in your life.
