And a-One, and a-Two...

"By the light of the silvery moon..."

At 6:21 a.m. I head out the back door and turn down the lane towards the barn.  Boo the barn cat greets me.  (He comes up to the house early so that I can carry him back to the barn to feed him breakfast:  you have to love the way a cat thinks.)   The moon is nearly full and casts a silver shimmer over everything.  It is so quiet that all I can hear over the crunch of my boots are the valley winds aloft.  The three of us head to the barn: me, Boo, and our Matisse-like moon shadow.

By 6:48 a.m. the horses and cat have been fed, and as the horses dig into breakfast hay I walk back up the lane.  I stop and turn to look at the moon, which already has lost its silver glow and reflects the warm tones of the sun.  The eastern horizon is already lightened, and with so much cross-illumination, a shadow doesn't stand a chance at survival.  I am joined again by Boo, who bums another ride, and this time just the two of us traverse the lane.

At the top of the rise, I stop to look at the yellow moon peeking through bare branches.  I nuzzle Boo's head which smells deliciously of the hay he slept in.  Already dogs are barking in the distance and the sound of a few far-off car engines ruin the rural stillness.  Boo belches and brings me back to earth, and in a another minute he wriggles out of my arms.  Apparently in a hurry to begin his day, he trots off down the lane.  And I walk back to the house alone.

How To Train a Hero

In his 11 years on the planet, my horse Hero has experienced many things and undoubtedly many riders.  Truth be told, I could tell from the first time I met him that he'd had a lot of handling and training in his life. It was one of the things I liked about him.

Hero has what I would call a "youthful exuberance."  I don't believe that there is a mean bone in his body, but there are times when he gets a little full of himself, and his way of expressing his feelings is through movement.  And by movement I mean rearing, striking, bucking, crow-hopping, and of course, galloping.  Thankfully, none of this has happened when I've been on his back.  Yet.

But I realize the tendency is there, and this is when I call in the professionals.  My favorite trainer confirmed for me what I had been feeling for some time:  I have a very green-acting 11-year old horse.  She finds him to be a bit scattered and unsettled, and thinks he may have been subjected to "poison cues."  I'd never heard this term before, but I love it and I think it is accurate.  In Hero's case, we suspect that at certain times a rider may have asked him to canter and then yanked on his mouth to bring him back or slow him down.  To Hero, this means that when he is asked or cued to do something (canter) he then expects to be punished (pulled on his mouth).  This is confusing to a horse because he thinks "why would I canter when I know it will cause me pain?" and he begins to resist working with his rider.  It can also cause some exuberant displays of athleticism.

I do not for one second think that these poison cues were intentional.  Riding is a skill of finesse, and riding well is an art form.  I have had hundreds of hours of lessons and I consider myself a novice.  Every horse is different, as is every rider, and none of us are always great.  And as forgiving as horses are, sometimes they learn to be on guard because they have been hurt in the past.  Pain is a very effective teacher.

So my job is to take my kind little Hero and go back to basics with him.  I must admit I am thrilled at this prospect for it will be the first time I have ever attempted to retrain a horse.  I adore Hero.  I want so much for him to trust me and want to be with me, both on the ground and under saddle.  He is by nature a sweet and kind horse and it is very rewarding to work with him.

But I must also be careful.  I know of horses who have been with one rider for most of their lives, and they are very much "one-woman horses."  This is dangerous because there is no guarantee that their "woman" will always be there for them, and horses that are misunderstood are also often mistreated and that, my friends, is a lose-lose scenario.  Right now, I think Hero needs to be a one-woman horse, as it will teach him consistency with the aids while bolstering his trust and confidence.  But I need to be really careful that I always ride him correctly so if heaven forbid he finds himself in other hands he will be treated well.

The path ahead for Hero and me is one of opportunity.  Truthfully, I can't wait.

Toy Story

My friend Josh is an art director, but only by day.  By night (and most weekends at this time of year) he is an entrepreneur.  An avid collector of Breyer horses, he once found himself with one particularly grungy model.  Necessity being the mother of invention, he did what any art director would:  he sanded down to the bare plastic and then wondered how to repaint.  Inspiration struck and he decided to apply a coat of chalkboard paint.  The rest is history.  He now runs his own etsy shop called Houndstooth Design where he sells lots and lots of chalkboard horses.  So successful is the chalkboard venture that he was featured in his employer's blog.  After describing his love of horses, he then quipped "Yes, I am a 12-year-old girl."

Oh, how I can relate.  But first, you must endure some storytelling...

In the four years I spent riding my beloved Midnight, I only fell off of him once.  Although he was a big Thoroughbred, Midnight played no part in the fall.  Rather, I teetered off a poorly placed mounting block and as I swung up into the saddle I jabbed my poor horse in the ribs with the toe of my boot.  Midnight moved off of my kick as I tried to get myself balanced in the saddle, but to no avail.  Instead I popped straight over his right shoulder and was soon eating dirt.  Meanwhile Midnight took off galloping and bucking through the pasture.  He did let me catch him, but every time I tried to remount, he dodged me.  I tried moving the mounting block, mounting from the fence, then even had someone hold him for me, but he would not have it and swung his big hips out of the way every time.  Finally, I gave up and as frustration welled, so did the tears and I stood in the corner of the paddock fence with my face buried in my coat sleeve.

My horse had turned me into a stark raving 12-year-old.  Never mind that I was actually 44.

(In case you were wondering, the next day I saddled my big bay horse and with great trepidation climbed the three steps of the re-positioned mounting block, slipped my left toe into the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle.  Midnight was a perfect gentleman that day and every one thereafter.)

Harrisburg on duty in the tack room.

When I was 12 and playing with my Breyer horses all I could dream about was having my own horse.  I thought that one day I would outgrow all those Breyer horses, especially if I was lucky enough to get the real thing.  Oh, how I wish I'd invented Breyers, because one never outgrows them.  Am I right, Josh?

Starry Starry Night

I do not dread cold winter nights.  Au contraire, I have come to embrace them.

Although development is seeping into my rural community from every direction, it is still rural enough that our night skies are quite dark, and it is easy to view hundreds and hundreds of stars.  So as the season transitions from warm to cold and as the pasture grass wanes, the horses need more and more hay forage to maintain their body heat and weight, and it is my preference to supplement them with one last hay serving late at night.

Many times working with horses has produced a spike in my adrenaline coupled with a pounding heartbeat, but there are many more times when horses have forced me to slow down. The still winter nights are such an occasion: words will fail me as I try to explain the utter beauty of looking up through bare branches to see the display of stars above them.  And to see one's horses silhouetted against a starry midnight sky is literally breathtaking.  I have enjoyed late night winter feedings with every one of my horses through the years and the experience never gets old.  I imagine it is one element of my life that I actually share with horsemen of the ages; for some reason I often think of the Mongol tribes of 800 or so years ago, and how they must have stood next to their furry winter horses and marveled at the stars too.

When it is time to go back into the house, I am always reluctant to leave, and once back in bed, I stay awake a long time trying to memorize the sight and sound of my dearest friends standing under their blanket of stars.

Wellies Season

It is always a happy occasion when conditions warrant donning a Gore-Tex jacket and Wellington boots, and today dear readers (both of you) is that day.

Autumn rains have finally decided to visit east Tennessee where the beagles and I enjoyed a wet romp through the fields.  Never mind that I strayed from our farm and daringly trespassed over neighboring hay fields; 'tis the nature of autumn rains and Wellies that makes me giddy and reckless.

And now, a favorite Wellies story.  Dateline:  Rolex 2011, Lexington.  To say that Kentucky experienced a wet spring is a gross understatement.  It is now old legend that jumps not intended to be water obstacles on the cross country course were, in fact, water obstacles.  The course provided this challenge to the spectators as well as competitors.  On cross country day I found myself walking the course with 100,000 fellow horse lovers, and it is no exaggeration to say that this day boasts the highest concentration of Hunter Wellies- and Dubarry-clad fans per capita in all of North America.  In a serious miscalculation I wore my mid-calf Wellies instead of the traditional knee-high pair.  At one point I needed to ford a ditch that appeared bottomless, and I noticed two Wellies-clad equestrians striding out of the water and in my direction.  I stopped them to compare the water lines on their tall boots.  After serious consideration, we all decided that I should go for it, and off I waded into the swirling (not really) eddy.  It was tricky going, truly dangerous stuff (not really), but after several tense moments at last I emerged on the other side, my feet still dry, my Wellies sparkling.  I glanced back to the other side and was met with hearty cheers and double high-fives from the Wellington crowd that had assembled on the bank and had willed me through the raging torrent.  Go me.

What if there were two types of people in this world, Hunter people and Dubarry people?  I would be a Hunter Wellies girl.

Vintage Mint Condition

Reflections upon turning 50:

• A quick anatomical survey reveals that I still have all of my original parts, sans tonsils.  Were I a car I would be considered "vintage mint condition."

• I've carried some old-fashioned notions about what this age is like, so it thrills me to report that I still have my hair (and it's still brown) and my all of my teeth (which are, happily, not brown).

• I am thankful for having a sense of purpose in my life -- make that TWO purposes -- that inspire me to rise before the sun every single day.  (hint:  they eat hay for breakfast)

• I am lucky to have a lifestyle that demands energy, stamina, creativity, humility, and a sense of humor.  The sturdy wheel barrow and the very supportive husband are also bonuses.

• I know that I have a fondness for bashing social media, but even I admit that it is so very nice to be in contact with friends I met well over 30 years ago.  And social media has introduced new friends (human and equine) who have brought unthinkable joy to my life.

• But I still hate cell phones.  They turn some people into boors.  So I'll stay old-fashioned on this one.

Milestones

This past weekend, my husband reminded me, was the 25th anniversary of our first date.  According to my rough calculations, that makes it the official "I have been with you for half of my life" moment.  This means that I can stop blaming my mother for all of my problems and can now start blaming my husband.

Kidding.

Hubby tromped into the house Friday afternoon with a bouquet of roses and half a dozen cupcakes. What was my gift to him?  Uh, well, hmmmm.  I didn't buy him anything.  We had agreed some time ago that we weren't going to buy gifts for birthdays and anniversaries.  We're at the stage in our lives where purchased gifts don't hold the significance that they did in our youth.

Truthfully, at this point, I get less excited about "things" but more and more excited about "time."  Translation:  the best gift you can give me is your time.  And attention.  Yes, that's it.  The best gift you can give is your attention.  This holds true not just on birthdays and anniversaries, but also on bad days and good days.

So does this mean I tossed the bouquet and the cupcakes?  Heck, no!  My husband spent time in his way, too:  he took the time to go to a florist and request some flowers and then he went to the bakery and made the difficult decision to limit his purchase to only 6 cupcakes.  He's a man of steel.

And so the weekend played out as it usually does, with me eating five cupcakes to his one.

Legend of the Falls

A girl never forgets her first fall.  Actually, mine was only a half fall, because it was preceded by the strong upward trajectory produced by a bucking horse.  The smooth arc of descent was abruptly altered when my left calf "plonked" on the top rail of the board fence and then I dipped and skidded into the earth, filling my shirt, breeches, and underwear with fresh, cold arena sand.  Too late, I realized I had committed the cardinal sin of falling from a horse when I tensed every muscle in my body (no kidding...even my eyelids) before impact.

I got up, brushed the sand off my arms and legs, limped to the barn and grabbed a martingale, adjusted my tack, remounted, and finished my riding lesson.  At this point the worst thing was all of the sand settling in my underpants, and every time I posted the trot I couldn't help but think "This must be what hemorrhoids feel like."  The deep nausea-inducing pain began to sink in while driving home.  Needless to say, I had pulled every muscle from my chin to my navel, and the simple things -- like, oh, rolling over in bed and showering -- had become excruciating and impossible.  Alas, there are many inherent risks when riding sport horses, and falling is but one of them.

So it should come as no surprise that I incurred a  debilitating shoulder injury on a...dog walk. One minute I'm walking happily along a fencerow in a westerly direction, and the next I'm facing southeast with a bit of grass obscuring my view.  Apparently one of my dogs attempted to chase something behind us and she pulled me clean off my feet and onto my left shoulder.  It is a disconcerting feeling to try to rise but find yourself unable to.  I laid on the ground for a minute or so, and while my body was immobile my paranoid mind nimbly raced off on a wild journey and diagnosed a broken collarbone.

Finally, I got to my knees while the earth whizzed around me in a disorienting fashion.  "Are you all right?"  a man's voice shouted in my direction.  (Oh perfect.  A witness.)  The collision with mother earth had knocked my glasses askew (but to my credit, I never dropped the dog leads) and as I righted them and attempted to rise, I suffered the injustice of a beetle flying into my mouth.  I spat him out on the third try.  Sadly, I'm not making any of this up.

With my hair falling out of it's clip, my white shirt grass stained and re-buttoned to form a sling for my left arm, I gathered my dogs and headed for home.  Cue drum and fife music.  Of course I had no broken bones, and I walked away from the crash with nothing more than a lingering soreness and stiffness.  Other than being unable to get in and out of bed or pull a shirt on over my head to cover my puffy shoulder, everything seems normal.

Spinning my falls as "legendary" may be a bit over the top.  They're probably only just epic.

Field Trials

Were I to blame someone (and who among us can resist doing just that?) it would be JS.  It is JS who harvests the giant 30+ acre hay field that adjoins our property.  JS was out mowing the field early in the morning, so once he left, the dogs and I took advantage of the newly-shortened hay and went for a walk.  There were, sadly, several carcasses -- mowing casualties -- in the field and this proved too enticing for my dog, Annabelle.  She rolled on some hapless, flattened rodent and instantly squiggled out of her collar.  She took off running like a bolt of lightning as I stood holding her limp collar and lead.

Annie went flying up the cut field, then did a sharp jag to the right and then went boing-boing-boing-ing through the tall uncut hay.  I scrambled after her with Ollie the beagle, and we ran (pant, pant)  all the way up (pant, pant) to the edge (pant, HEAVE, pant) of the woods (GASP! WHEEZE! RETCH!).  By this time, Annie was doing fly-bys about every 90 seconds, so Ollie and I kept to our normal route around the perimeter of the field, then we jumped a fence, skittered down the lane, and bolted (pant, pant, WHEEZE) across the riding field and up to my barn.

Annie squeezed under an overhead barn door and, more amazingly, Ollie and I had enough lung and leg capacity to run up to the barn before Annie came back out.  I let Ollie slip under the same door, and then closed both dogs behind it, went around to another barn entrance, climbed the locked (@#$%&!!!) gate, and captured Annie in front of the feed room.  The dogs looked at me, and I back at them, as all three of us stood panting and bleary-eyed after our cross country run.

This scenario has played out similarly before.  One time Annie was popping in and out of snow drifts and managed to hook her collar on a briar.  Hooking a briar generally means being held up by ripped clothing or a jagged bloody streak or both, but not for Annie.  For her, hooking a briar meant freedom, and she bounded off across the snowy field while her collar stayed twinkling in the bramble.   Ollie the beagle was lunging in hot pursuit as she pulled me along, but we were no match for the fleet-footed Annie.  Clearly beaten, we started angling towards home but not before we took a short cut in front of an old tobacco barn, only to be buzzed again by Annie, and there were moments when I was literally skiing down the snowy hill being pulled by a heaving, baying, frenzied beagle.

Whenever a dog breaks free they inevitably head for the barn.  Even though they are not ever allowed in the barn, they know who lives there:  barn cats.  And if you're one of my dogs, you're chosen method of expressing delinquency is to chase a barn cat.  Annie is not fazed by having to climb a small mountain of hay bales to get to a cat, and it would appear that getting hissed at and slashed on the nose is one of the perks.  I don't understand this thing they have with barn cats, but it is where we always find ourselves once someone has breached protocol and gone rogue.

I guess I should have named one of my dogs "Sarah."

But we always have a happy ending, the three of us trudging up the lane towards home, where the dogs will be asleep within minutes.

Ready. Set. Stop.

Having spent most of the weekend posting, troubleshooting, and fine-tuning my new blog, I am now thoroughly exhausted and need to take a break from it.

An exaggeration, but only a little.  Think about how much time you spend with facebook, twitter, blogger...  The truth is social media is a colossal time waster.  Somewhere, at some time, I lost some energy and I'd really like to get it back.

The cats are part of the conspiracy.  They began clamouring at 4:40am and I woke from my dream travels to find myself in the great state of Everything Hurts.  This journey begins when I slump off the couch with a stride-altering bunion and heads straight down the drive to the bruised fascia of my heel.  From there it's a quick route to the audible clicking of my knee, and we pick up speed as we cruise into the stiff and unyielding lower left sacrum and hit the gas pedal to the sore, puffy, aching left shoulder (the reason I'm sleeping on the couch in the first place and, truly, the nature of this injury deserves it's very own post).  A quick tap on the brakes and we hit the pounding sinus headache and I find myself at my destination:  shuffling around in the dark, fumbling cat food into tiny little dishes.

And I confront exhaustion, yet again.  One thing I completely underestimated when I brought horses home to live here is that they -- and every other animal -- require the devotion most people reserve for toddlers.  And unless you're pumping out toddlers by the dozen, you get through this phase after a few years at which time, I surmise, your energy begins to rebound.

My 1000+ pound toddlers show no signs of growing into more independence so that I can get some rest.  And truthfully -- here's the paradox -- I don't want them to.  I love this rural life and obviously no one held a gun to my head and shouted "BLOG OR DIE!"  So, like everyone else, I will make the needed adjustments and find the balance.  Mostly, I will stop making laundry lists of things that hurt.

Why blog?

This is the question I keep asking myself.  There is no shortage of bloggers on board the world wide web, so why would I add my voice to the chorus?

I blame Hamish.

Hamish Cargill is my favorite blogger.  I look forward to his posts with breathless anticipation.  Hamish is funny, clever, erudite (you know...smart) -- all the things that comprise an excellent blog.  Also, he doesn't talk about himself too much.  He writes about his experiences (he calls them "adventures", and believe me, the description is apt) and does so in a very entertaining manner.  It probably helps that he is an Aussie.

(Hamish is also a rider, an eventer no less, and I got to see him go at Rolex last spring.  Yes, I admit, I am a little star-struck.)

So let's get back to this business of blogging.  Here is exactly why I want to write like Hamish:  instead of saying "We had an awful dressage test"  he says "Tiger, having cleverly worked out that a dressage test was imminent, decided that he would take control of the situation and his naughty streak came to the fore at the worst possible time."  Instead of saying "My horse misbehaved in the trot-up" he says "At the trot-up he resisted the urge to behave like a mature adult and acted instead like an unbroken brumby. As the crowd clapped the previous horse and just before they called my name to present to the Ground Jury, Tiger decided that the Burghley atmosphere really did knock the years off. While rearing on the end of the reins was a new but manageable trick, what really upset me was the volley of snot bullets that he fired into my face and body as he did so."

See?  Funny, funny stuff.

And so, here I go, my first foray into blogging, and I think I'm pretty clever to quote the good stuff from somebody else's blog from the get-go.  But I know that you, dear reader, will expect the real stuff from me next time, and none of this borrowing from Hamish.  That is my goal as well.