I still remember how happy my stick horse was to be out of its barrel and free to gallop across the school grounds. We were both about the same age — five years, and how many hands — oh, the high chaparral! From the Basque txaparro, from txapar, from saphar! Oh, hear him snort! And hear me sputter these words through my mesquite mustache laden with the smoke of last night’s campfire! But wait. Is that you there?