Monday, March 31, 2014
You Can Find Me In The Shanty
A year's hiatus from this blog, but not from blogging. I invite you to visit me on WordPress at my new blog, Pappy's Shanty.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
One-Horse Winter
It was never my intent, of course, to experience a one-horse winter. It was thrust upon Hero and me a couple of days before the Winter Solstice. The silver lining: all of my free time was devoted to one horse. Deep down it was an opportunity I had craved but I didn't realize it until I experienced it.
Mo's death found me unprepared. Luckily, a friend offered her gelding as a companion for Hero, and together we hammered out a contract, but horses are tender beings and this new boarder horse was delayed pending diagnosis of a nagging suspensory ligament injury. I felt that waiting for this horse was the best option but it meant Hero spent over three months as an only horse. I admit it; selfishly I loved every minute of having Hero all to myself.
~
Weather and circumstance forced me to concentrate on the ground relationship with Hero. He's a great horse, athletic, yes, but also very smart. I can say with absolute certainty that there is not a mean bone in his body. At times he did not like what I was asking of him, but he was never nasty. He made his feelings known -- usually by putting that head way way up where I couldn't reach it -- but he never bolted or reared or snapped or behaved in any way that scared me. He stayed with me and tried very hard to figure out a way to do what I asked of him because he is always willing. This spirit of collaboration is one of the reasons why Thoroughbreds are my favorite breed, and Hero is exemplary.
When he understands his job Hero behaves like a pro. He stands in cross ties for grooming and hoof trimming, which he clearly does not like, but he knows it is what is expected of him. He is perfect for blanketing. His manners in-hand when haltered are impeccable. He quietly follows me into his stall when I am carrying his feed pan, always staying on my elbow, never rushing me or mugging. He loves having his ears stroked, and in quiet moments, he lets me plant little kisses on his sleepy eyelids.
~
One windy March morning Hero and I were in the barn together. I had yet to halter him and he stood loose by the open barn door in the big aisle while I got his turnout sheet ready for him. Overwhelmed by the emotions of having an elderly parent with dementia, I suddenly found myself in tears. I hung Hero's folded sheet near the empty cross ties, and stood for a moment, waiting for the tears to stop. Unbidden, Hero walked up to me, covering half the length of the barn, and stopped quietly before me, his forehead inches from my chest. Why? Just to be there for me. While Hero did not comprehend the complexity of my emotions, he did comprehend their congruency and my absolute vulnerability at that moment. Horses are very attuned to the emotional climate around them, and Hero was merely saying to me "I'm here, I'm with you."
When all matters around me flare and erupt and mock my attempts at control, this horse gives me a purpose. Caring for him is always the high point of my day. Out of necessity he has learned to appreciate human interaction and we are both very comfortable around each other. In our late night ritual, I stop to listen for his whereabouts when I enter the dark barn, and often he is already waiting for me in his stall. He stands there, in the open stall doorway, and gently places a nostril next to my knuckles or against my sleeve. We stand quietly next to each other as he relaxes, dropping his neck, swiveling his ears, dozing. When he wakes up he yawns and licks and chews, and when he walks off I know that he is ready for his late night hay ration.
~
Out in my field there stands a mud-caked pony who is happily snatching spring grass. His name is Hero, and he owns me.
.JPG) |
| In my tack room, there is no evidence of only one horse on the premises. |
Mo's death found me unprepared. Luckily, a friend offered her gelding as a companion for Hero, and together we hammered out a contract, but horses are tender beings and this new boarder horse was delayed pending diagnosis of a nagging suspensory ligament injury. I felt that waiting for this horse was the best option but it meant Hero spent over three months as an only horse. I admit it; selfishly I loved every minute of having Hero all to myself.
~
Weather and circumstance forced me to concentrate on the ground relationship with Hero. He's a great horse, athletic, yes, but also very smart. I can say with absolute certainty that there is not a mean bone in his body. At times he did not like what I was asking of him, but he was never nasty. He made his feelings known -- usually by putting that head way way up where I couldn't reach it -- but he never bolted or reared or snapped or behaved in any way that scared me. He stayed with me and tried very hard to figure out a way to do what I asked of him because he is always willing. This spirit of collaboration is one of the reasons why Thoroughbreds are my favorite breed, and Hero is exemplary.
When he understands his job Hero behaves like a pro. He stands in cross ties for grooming and hoof trimming, which he clearly does not like, but he knows it is what is expected of him. He is perfect for blanketing. His manners in-hand when haltered are impeccable. He quietly follows me into his stall when I am carrying his feed pan, always staying on my elbow, never rushing me or mugging. He loves having his ears stroked, and in quiet moments, he lets me plant little kisses on his sleepy eyelids.
~
One windy March morning Hero and I were in the barn together. I had yet to halter him and he stood loose by the open barn door in the big aisle while I got his turnout sheet ready for him. Overwhelmed by the emotions of having an elderly parent with dementia, I suddenly found myself in tears. I hung Hero's folded sheet near the empty cross ties, and stood for a moment, waiting for the tears to stop. Unbidden, Hero walked up to me, covering half the length of the barn, and stopped quietly before me, his forehead inches from my chest. Why? Just to be there for me. While Hero did not comprehend the complexity of my emotions, he did comprehend their congruency and my absolute vulnerability at that moment. Horses are very attuned to the emotional climate around them, and Hero was merely saying to me "I'm here, I'm with you."
When all matters around me flare and erupt and mock my attempts at control, this horse gives me a purpose. Caring for him is always the high point of my day. Out of necessity he has learned to appreciate human interaction and we are both very comfortable around each other. In our late night ritual, I stop to listen for his whereabouts when I enter the dark barn, and often he is already waiting for me in his stall. He stands there, in the open stall doorway, and gently places a nostril next to my knuckles or against my sleeve. We stand quietly next to each other as he relaxes, dropping his neck, swiveling his ears, dozing. When he wakes up he yawns and licks and chews, and when he walks off I know that he is ready for his late night hay ration.
~
Out in my field there stands a mud-caked pony who is happily snatching spring grass. His name is Hero, and he owns me.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Next to Last Goodbye
Like all thieves, dementia does not discriminate. Akin to a plague, it steals from anyone unlucky enough to come in contact with it. That it is stealing my mother's mental faculties is just one aspect of the disease. It also has robbed her of a future, an ability to live independently, the opportunity to enjoy a quality of life in her retirement.
~
In a cruel joke of the universe dementia has robbed my mother of one of her true loves: language. My mother taught English in junior and senior high school for 35 years. She loved the written word. These days she can no longer write the language she finds so beautiful, and I suspect that soon she will no longer be able to read it. Sometimes I wince when I see her determination to articulate a word that has escaped her.
Cooking was another highlight of my mother's early retirement, as she adored recipes and had stacks of cookbooks and clippings everywhere. When visiting, she always had at least one recipe for us to make together, and my mother and I would dance our little kitchen dance, she directing me as I chopped the vegetables while she whisked a sauce; I took for granted her command of her kitchen and its utensils.
~
So dementia has stolen from me, too. I will never get to see my elderly mother enjoy an afternoon puttering in her garden. I can no longer smirk at the silly messages about aging she wrote in our birthday cards; she can't even address an envelope anymore. She finds the telephone too confusing to use.
More than anything, dementia has robbed me of finding a common ground with my mom. I can sympathize with her situation but I can't really empathize. I feel as though she is in prison and I'm visiting her: we can see each other through the glass, hear each other's voices, but when we're done talking she goes back into her cell (dementia) and I go back outside to the "real" world; I can't follow her nor can she accompany me. It's like living in a really bad dream.
~
My mom moved to an assisted living facility this weekend. It was completely her decision. She found this place near her sister's house and decided to make the move before she experienced any further loss of her faculties. In a way, she made this next stage of her life easy on us, freeing us from having to decide to "put her in a home." Of course we completely support her choice as her new apartment still gives her a measure of independence albeit within a supervised community.
She lives five hours away from me now. She is gone from my daily life, probably for forever. And my grief has been kick-started. She will not get better, she will get worse. Such is the nature of this disease; dementia can be managed but not cured. We are all powerless in it's wake.
~
In a cruel joke of the universe dementia has robbed my mother of one of her true loves: language. My mother taught English in junior and senior high school for 35 years. She loved the written word. These days she can no longer write the language she finds so beautiful, and I suspect that soon she will no longer be able to read it. Sometimes I wince when I see her determination to articulate a word that has escaped her.
Cooking was another highlight of my mother's early retirement, as she adored recipes and had stacks of cookbooks and clippings everywhere. When visiting, she always had at least one recipe for us to make together, and my mother and I would dance our little kitchen dance, she directing me as I chopped the vegetables while she whisked a sauce; I took for granted her command of her kitchen and its utensils.
~
So dementia has stolen from me, too. I will never get to see my elderly mother enjoy an afternoon puttering in her garden. I can no longer smirk at the silly messages about aging she wrote in our birthday cards; she can't even address an envelope anymore. She finds the telephone too confusing to use.
More than anything, dementia has robbed me of finding a common ground with my mom. I can sympathize with her situation but I can't really empathize. I feel as though she is in prison and I'm visiting her: we can see each other through the glass, hear each other's voices, but when we're done talking she goes back into her cell (dementia) and I go back outside to the "real" world; I can't follow her nor can she accompany me. It's like living in a really bad dream.
~
My mom moved to an assisted living facility this weekend. It was completely her decision. She found this place near her sister's house and decided to make the move before she experienced any further loss of her faculties. In a way, she made this next stage of her life easy on us, freeing us from having to decide to "put her in a home." Of course we completely support her choice as her new apartment still gives her a measure of independence albeit within a supervised community.
She lives five hours away from me now. She is gone from my daily life, probably for forever. And my grief has been kick-started. She will not get better, she will get worse. Such is the nature of this disease; dementia can be managed but not cured. We are all powerless in it's wake.
 |
| Mother's Day 2011 |
Saturday, March 2, 2013
The Best Bad Idea
We all have them. More importantly, at some point we all must choose from among them. And of course I'm talking about bad options.
~
I loved Argo -- for many reasons -- but mainly for making "the best bad idea we have" so very entertaining. For most of us the stakes are thankfully not quite so high, but the process is no less infuriating. You find yourself saying again and again "These are my only options?" or "This is the best we can do?" and the answer always come back "Uh, yeah."
If by some miracle you haven't seen the clip from Argo (watch for it at 1:31), it goes something like this:
In light of the gravity of the film's subject matter I hesitate to say that we've all been held hostage by bad options, yet we have all been in the position of trying to help the very people who resist our best (bad) ideas. Whether it is your child, your partner, or your elderly parent, at some point nearly everyone will be faced with options that don't make anyone happy. You are forced to make the best of the situation. It is a task that life demands from all of us.
~
What, exactly, is my point here? It's this: we all have the potential to be in the position to make a decision that may be the only viable option in a bad situation, and by making that difficult decision, we will be met with skepticism and frustration and perhaps even hostility. We realize that we may take it on the chin in the short run, but we stand by the decision because we know it is the option that offers the best long-term outlook. If we're lucky, one day someone may recognize the difficulty of the situation, and the complexity of our choice, and the fortitude it took to do the right thing.
But probably not. I think that "real life" is a lot like one of Argo's closing scenes, where Mendez is told that he is being awarded highest honors, but for reasons that are classified, and therefore no one will publicly acknowledge the bravery, the success, the ingenuity, etc. of Mendez' actions.
To distill my point even further: doing the right thing, especially if it's the best bad option, is sometimes it's own reward. And probably one that can only be savored alone. "If we'd wanted applause, we'd have joined the circus."
~
I loved Argo -- for many reasons -- but mainly for making "the best bad idea we have" so very entertaining. For most of us the stakes are thankfully not quite so high, but the process is no less infuriating. You find yourself saying again and again "These are my only options?" or "This is the best we can do?" and the answer always come back "Uh, yeah."
If by some miracle you haven't seen the clip from Argo (watch for it at 1:31), it goes something like this:
In light of the gravity of the film's subject matter I hesitate to say that we've all been held hostage by bad options, yet we have all been in the position of trying to help the very people who resist our best (bad) ideas. Whether it is your child, your partner, or your elderly parent, at some point nearly everyone will be faced with options that don't make anyone happy. You are forced to make the best of the situation. It is a task that life demands from all of us.
~
What, exactly, is my point here? It's this: we all have the potential to be in the position to make a decision that may be the only viable option in a bad situation, and by making that difficult decision, we will be met with skepticism and frustration and perhaps even hostility. We realize that we may take it on the chin in the short run, but we stand by the decision because we know it is the option that offers the best long-term outlook. If we're lucky, one day someone may recognize the difficulty of the situation, and the complexity of our choice, and the fortitude it took to do the right thing.
But probably not. I think that "real life" is a lot like one of Argo's closing scenes, where Mendez is told that he is being awarded highest honors, but for reasons that are classified, and therefore no one will publicly acknowledge the bravery, the success, the ingenuity, etc. of Mendez' actions.
To distill my point even further: doing the right thing, especially if it's the best bad option, is sometimes it's own reward. And probably one that can only be savored alone. "If we'd wanted applause, we'd have joined the circus."
Friday, February 15, 2013
Billy Collins Delivers a Swift Kick
It is the expansiveness of this rural place that reminds one of perspective and of how we relate in the grand scheme of things.
~
People with control issues (and I include myself in their numbers) are probably more easily frustrated than most. We certainly can get our snooty noses out of joint when things don't go our way. Overwhelmed by all that is on my plate -- and I resist the temptation to list them because I am certain they are paltry compared to what others are dealing with -- what I'm really upset about is my inability to deal gracefully with the very things over which I have no control.
Big deal, right? Exactly.
~
Billy Collins (sadly, no relation) was Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003. I like his poetry very much, so much so that my poor husband had to endure my regular recitations one winter. My husband astutely reasoned that if he just read the poems first he didn't have to endure my oratory. The happy result is that we both share a language of Billy Collins references. My husband can say that "the lion of contentment has placed a warm heavy paw upon his chest" and I know that he is saying how much he enjoyed the dinner I cooked for him.
~
Late on a chilly February night, I trudged up the lane from barn to house, completely immersed in feeling sorry for myself, for I was SO overwhelmed, boo-hoo-hoo. Luckily, I looked skyward and the view stopped me in my tracks. Through the bare black bones of the trees I saw thousands of stars twinkling away. A crescent moon helped keep the sky dark and the stars used this to their fullest sparkly advantage. I have seen many beautiful things in my time on this earth, but none so beautiful as a dark winter sky full of stars.
Billy Collins' words swirled in my head: a few stars singing a song their mother sang when they were mere babies in the sky.
With the ancient star-studded universe as witness, all my petty problems arose in a puff of angry vapor, and quickly dissolved into the nothingness that they were.
~
People with control issues (and I include myself in their numbers) are probably more easily frustrated than most. We certainly can get our snooty noses out of joint when things don't go our way. Overwhelmed by all that is on my plate -- and I resist the temptation to list them because I am certain they are paltry compared to what others are dealing with -- what I'm really upset about is my inability to deal gracefully with the very things over which I have no control.
Big deal, right? Exactly.
~
Billy Collins (sadly, no relation) was Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003. I like his poetry very much, so much so that my poor husband had to endure my regular recitations one winter. My husband astutely reasoned that if he just read the poems first he didn't have to endure my oratory. The happy result is that we both share a language of Billy Collins references. My husband can say that "the lion of contentment has placed a warm heavy paw upon his chest" and I know that he is saying how much he enjoyed the dinner I cooked for him.
~
Late on a chilly February night, I trudged up the lane from barn to house, completely immersed in feeling sorry for myself, for I was SO overwhelmed, boo-hoo-hoo. Luckily, I looked skyward and the view stopped me in my tracks. Through the bare black bones of the trees I saw thousands of stars twinkling away. A crescent moon helped keep the sky dark and the stars used this to their fullest sparkly advantage. I have seen many beautiful things in my time on this earth, but none so beautiful as a dark winter sky full of stars.
Billy Collins' words swirled in my head: a few stars singing a song their mother sang when they were mere babies in the sky.
With the ancient star-studded universe as witness, all my petty problems arose in a puff of angry vapor, and quickly dissolved into the nothingness that they were.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Hero's Winter Water World
 |
| On rainy days, it seems best to stay in the barn and roll in clean shavings. |
 |
| In retrospect, perhaps turnout wasn't such a good idea. |
 |
| Yeah, definitely not a good idea. |
 |
| "Today it's dry but I still managed to get shavings stuck to my face!" |
 |
| Snowfall on top of muddy ground... |
 |
| ...means restricted turnout. |
 |
| Better just to stand in the barn and eat hay. |
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