Practically A Ranch Hand, Review: The Great Gatsby, Shoe Judge

I recently spent a glorious long weekend on a semi-remote five acres, visiting a dear friend I haven’t seen in years and “helping” her with the chickens and the horses and various other sundry farm animals, meaning that I mostly just stood there while she did all of the actual work. Nonetheless I feel qualified to be a ranch hand now, since I learned all about the care and feeding of horses (they drink an astronomical amount of water) and how to humanely slaughter a chicken. (We didn’t slaughter any chickens, she just explained how the FDA recommends it be done now.)

I also rode a horse, to my great and unexpected nervousness. I like horses and while I hadn’t ridden for quite some time, I’m generally accustomed to the protocols and enjoy riding when I get a chance. But I’ve mostly ridden very tame ranch horses and this horse was a race horse, which for some reason I found intimidating and nervous-making. My friend’s daughter was the owner and she is a total horse whisperer and has a deeply symbiotic relationship with this horse, but despite her assurances, I was still uncomfortable and fearful, which snowballed when I was informed that the horse can “sense my heart rate.” (What? How??) That made me feel even worse, that I was upsetting the horse with my elevated heart rate. The signals I was supposed to give this horse were different and more complicated than what I was used to, which also compounded things, and I was relieved to finally hop off of her. I really want to try again, though. This is a very safe horse, I just got all up in my head and forgot how long it’s been since I interacted with a giant unpredictable creature who could throw me a mile if she got a mind to.

Horse intimidation aside, it truly was a blessed visit, and such a joy to be with my friend again.

A while ago, I set a goal to read at least one classic every few months. It’s been...slow going. But I’m chipping away at it. I’m currently reading The Great Gatsby, which is a very contradictory experience for me. On the one hand, it is truly some of the most beautiful writing I have ever experienced. I frequently have to stop, pause, and re-read passages because they are so astonishingly gorgeous and elegant that I can’t believe what I just read. On the other hand, I feel that F. Scott Fitzgerald's literary virtuoso is completely wasted on a parade of shallow, vapid and self-involved characters who while away their time in debauched depravity and contribute nothing to the world. I’m about halfway through the book and I can’t stand Daisy Buchanan or her dumb brick of a cheating husband, Tom. Gatsby himself is just a slick, flashy criminal rather than the tragic figure he is frequently made out to be. Jordan, the lady golfer, at least has some sort of discernible personality, as objectionable as it is, but Daisy is superficial through and through, and at least so far, displays zero depth of character or intelligence. Yet it is so beautifully written and breathtaking I’m willing to put up with this gaggle of hedonistic morons to the bitter end. I’ll probably finish it this week and I’ll let you know if I change my mind about anything.

On a final note—I traveled by train to and fro the five acres and I couldn’t help but notice what I deemed to be an inordinate amount of inappropriate footwear. Flip-flops, jelly sandals, and near-bare feet abounded. I don’t understand why people can’t put on proper shoes. When I was complaining to my friend about this, she said, “That’s crazy! Like, what if there’s an accident and you have to kick out a window?” to which I said, “Exactly!” and that is why we are besties.

--Kristen McHenry