'Yellowstone' Appeals to a Nation of Soft Hands

My wife, who spent much of her childhood in Northern California — and whose grandparents owned orchard land and kept horses and other animals — always laughs at me during our yearly trip to the county fair. The reason is my fear of walking past the horse stalls. I’m a transplant to rural Michigan from New York City. Farm animals were an abstraction for most of my life.

I pass by rows of Clydesdales, hindquarters facing me on either side in uncomfortable proximity, and imagine my own demise if one should decide to kick. My father is no horseman, but he’s had a long career in manufacturing. He can make or fix most anything. (Once, in the ‘70s, he fell from a catwalk onto a floor where F-14 Tomcats were being assembled below. He has suffered headaches ever since, but barely missed any work.) His father was ship electrician’s apprentice on a minesweeper during the Second World War, followed by a career as an electrical inspector for FDNY and then as job site engineer for massive construction projects.

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