For me growing up, certain things were pretty straight forward. We didn’t come down to breakfast until our beds were made, we didn’t play until our homework was completed, and we didn’t have television privileges if our grades and citizenship weren’t acceptable. My brother and sisters and I were allowed three TV programs a week, and we looked forward to them with great anticipation. “Little House On The Prairie” was every Wednesday evening. “The Brady Bunch” was on Fridays, which we called “Parties,” because we were permitted to share a community bowl of chips and enjoy our one coca cola of the week.On Saturdays we watched “The Waltons,” and as long as we changed into pajamas and brushed our teeth during a commercial, we could watch the entire show through the credits. I can still remember falling asleep to the voices of “good night John Boy,” and “goodnight Mary Ellen.” On those weekly occurrences, my siblings would mimic the Waltons and we would call out to one another…”good night Judy, good night Jay, good night Dana, goodnight Susan…” until one of my parents, in a stern voice, would say the final GOOD NIGHT of the evening. The sounds, familiarity, and safety of our household enveloped us as we drifted off to sleep.
 
Growing up, most of my family memories of our kitchen involve a cardboard box of sorts, most often with an abandoned puppy, bird, bunny, hedgehog, or even a grasshopper, that either one of my siblings or I would bring home. The size of the box varied a bit depending upon the occupant, but the one certainty was that each of our little charges had a name, and they were loved, at least for the time that they lived in our home. My father would always couch the inevitable with a gentle but matter of fact little sermon about nature, and the circle of life; he would tell us that mother animals always knew whether a baby would survive or not, and that is why she kicked them out of the nest, to protect the rest of her babies. Then, he would alternate the every two hour required feedings with my mother, feeding baby animals canned evaporated milk out of an eye-dropper. In the case of the puppy left to die in a trash can or abandoned by the side of a rural road, he had fewer words. Those lessons were not lectures; they were actions of compassion, and kindness. Regardless of which of my siblings trudged home with a myriad of strays or rejects, we would all rally around our new responsibility with hope and certainly a few sincere prayers.
 
By the age of twelve, I had my own little horse rescue which often stretched to nine horses at a time. I started by saving starving and forgotten horses out of barbed wire lots and then proceeded to boldly approach those who openly abused. My rescue attempts later took me to the very rural county auctions where I would bid on the most desperate foundered or crippled horses. We would load my new pet in the back of a paneled pick up truck and take it home for whatever TLC that I was capable of delivering. My parents were pretty supportive in my dictating what brand of dog food that we could buy (I carefully read the labels). They also provided amazing latitude in giving me autonomy in bartering with local dairy and horse farms for pasture space. I think back on those innocent times and stiffen a bit when I recall my parents’ benign mention of the “glue factory.” In reality, I don’t think that my parents actually knew. I didn’t, not really until about five years ago.
 
Today my kitchen belongs to horses who have suffered previous unspeakable abuse. The window over the old cast iron sink looks out over the east paddock and donkey coral and round pen. From this window, I experience the most spectacular sunrises that I have ever seen. They are colorful and tinted with hope,
tremendous responsibility, and certainly a strong dose of sincere prayer. This ranch that we have worked so very hard for, and that we fight to keep every month, provides a landing pad of security for the horses who come to us for refuge and a promise for those whom we have yet to help. On January 4th, we celebrated our fifth anniversary, an anniversary marked by saving and serving 206 horses, donkeys, and one spotted mule. Equines, who came to us starving, shattered, and hopeless, now have not only a second chance, but are guaranteed a future. They all have a
name, a red bucket, and they are loved. Our work is never completed. As we fulfill our promise of a future to each of our temporary residents, we extend the ethereal welcome mat to a horse that we have not yet met, but commit to with a tireless dedication because now we know.
 
The sounds of nighttime are different from my childhood. My window is always cracked and the voices that drift to me are the soft nickers of contentment, the calling to a new resident that I can only project is one of welcome and reassurance. Perhaps the most opinionated of all is the bellowing of the donkeys, most possibly requesting room service. Over the course of time, the voices change as our horses eventually go to their forever homes and develop their own bedtime rituals. Elliot’s repeated brays are now replaced by the nighttime calls of Coco and Petunia. In keeping with our mission, all of these now familiar voices will be replaced by new and deserving equines yet to be saved and named. There are too many words, or perhaps as I take a lesson from the past, not enough words. Red Bucket, and those of the many dedicated who serve, will continue to be a voice for the voiceless, and will continue to do so through our dedicated and compassionate actions, saving and serving horses.
 
This culture message is dedicated to my parents, Joseph and Marilyn, the selfless volunteers of Red Bucket, and our generous donors who make our work possible. Happy 5th Anniversary!