I Break For Holidays

Peace On Earth and The Bowling Team

I wonder who invented bowling shirts.  And why.

First of all, it was my husband's bowling team.  Initially I thought the Tuesday GTE Men's League was just an excuse to get out of the house, drink beer, and eat pizza.  But the guys were serious about their bowling.  They may have been quiet accountants by day, but by night (well, Tuesday nights, at least) they were transformed into The Beancounters, five guys packing custom-drilled bowling balls, matching team shirts, their very own bowling shoes, and little tiny bottles of baby powder.  Wednesday mornings were marked by feverish data entry into a Lotus spreadsheet followed by hours and hours of analysis of the team's standing in the league.  The Stats were always in the backs of The Beancounters' minds because it all culminated in the big event of the spring:  The Bowling Banquet.

I'll tell you how big of a deal the bowling banquet was: if you were dating a guy and he took you to the banquet, you knew he was serious about your relationship.   The league only bowled during the winter months, ostensibly when there was little else to do in the bleak frozen Midwestern landscape.   I suppose you could say that the bowling year ended officially in April.

At my first Bowling Banquet with my future husband
who was being, um, serious.

And that is one reason my husband and I were married in May.  With all the bowling duties officially out of the way, The Beancounters could relax a little and do other things, like mow their lawns, wave as their kids went off to prom, or attend weddings.   A highly social bunch, The Beancounters tended to band together for these big events.   And so it was that following my second Bowling Banquet my future husband and I were presented with a big box.  It was a wedding gift from the team.  It was an entire set of Farberware stainless steel cookware.

Take a moment to get your breath, because that is what I had to do.  I was bowled over, to say the least.   It was by far the best gift ever and incidentally one that we still enjoy to this day, after nearly a quarter century of wedded bliss.  I rarely put a pan on the stove without the memory of The Beancounters flitting through my thoughts.  Now is the time to tell you that The Beancounters also included a sub-group; their wives.  I never think of the guys on the team without remembering their wives, too.  That Farberware wedding gift was symbolic of all of The Beancounters relationships:  classy, tough, enduring.

Not the cake I ordered.  The little bowling
pin was nestled in my groom's tuxedo
pocket all through the ceremony, and he
 waited until all eyes were upon us at the cake-cutting
to reveal this little surprise.

Well played, new husband.  Well played.

Pretty much the exact moment I became a Bowling Wife.
Incidentally, it was also the exact moment that I perfected
my Exasperated Sigh/Eye Roll technique.

At that time cellular service was merely a dot on the veritas horizon, but we all sensed that GTE was changing.  First one couple was transferred away, and then another, and another.  There was a reunion of sorts when most of the group ended up in Irving TX, but only for a couple of years.  More transfers and retirements further spread The Beancounters over the South, Southeast, Midwest, and mid-Atlantic.  Our physical get-togethers were replaced by long distance communication.

~

This year on Christmas Eve, when I put the big Farberware skillet on the stove to make my husband's favorite braised beef, when I put the two quart pan on to heat some milk for hot chocolate, I will remember -- always fondly -- The Team:  Kay and Mark, Carol and Ron, Judy and Steve, Mary and Phil, and especially Judy and Jim.

And I will be filled with peace.

The Book That Made Me a Morning Person

Proof that morning persons are made and not born:  me.  It has not always been this way (just ask my mother, my roommates, former college professors, and previous employers).  It was never a goal of mine to be a morning person since showering and getting to classes/work on time was challenging enough.  It all happened in spite of me.

So what changed?  My mindset, and a simple technique called "morning pages."

My much-loved and well-worn 16 year old copy.

In the mid 90's there was a lot of buzz about a book called The Artist's Way.  At the time, I was working in a bookstore and fielded numerous requests for the book. Intrigued, I bought a copy with my employee discount, and then promptly left the unopened book on my shelf for a couple of years.  A cross-country move to the hinterlands of the mid-Atlantic provided the ripe opportunity for Cameron's book to take hold as I looked for ways to distract myself from feelings of being uprooted and alienated.

You will notice the subtitle says A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity.  Honestly, if so many people hadn't asked me about this book I would have blown it off as spiritual hoo-hah.  This book is a 12 week course that basically guides the reader through numerous techniques that gets one thinking differently.  It is not solely for artists (of which I am not) nor for spirituality-seekers (also, not me) but for folks who just want to see if being creative adds in any way to the quality of their lives.  Spoiler alert:  it does.

Tatters.  My poor book sports a broken binding,
 numerous colors of highlighting, and many many scribbles.

The hardest part about The Artist's Way course is a thing called "morning pages."  I used to hate these things with a blinding passion.  They're hard.  And, to get back to the point of this blog, they have to be done first thing in the morning.  And they have to be done in long hand (using a computer is cheating).  "So," you think, "writing three pages in long hand every morning for twelve weeks.  No big deal."  Except that if you're used to editing every thought that comes into your head before you can get it down on paper these pages are like wrenching a nail out of a fence board by using a butter knife.

This is the beauty of the course; it reveals to you the way your family, your community, your culture has affected how you think and view the world.  It took me years of doing the course -- badly, I might add -- before I learned to turn off the editor in my head.  Now, the pages flow easily.  I can fill three pages in about 30 minutes AND I look forward to the process.  Please excuse the coarse words, but the morning pages are basically a brain dump.  After you dump the gunk out of your brain, you leave room for new stuff to come in, potentially better stuff than what you left on your morning pages.

The course is great if you love binders.  Every few years I pull
out the contents and have my husband burn them.  I have
never, ever re-read any of my hundreds of  morning pages.

I credit The Artist's Way for bringing me to Harmony Stable because one of the jazillion exercises in the book dares you to imagine your ideal life.  If you never let those thoughts into your consciousness, you may never get the chance to seize the opportunities when they appear before you.



And so it goes, every year when the time changes back to EST, when I am awake in the darkness of 5:00 a.m., I begin anew the 12 week Artist's Way course.  It is a fantastic winter project, as far as I am concerned, and I have no plans to abandon the routine.  I am currently in the midst of week four, galloping along strongly and feeling full of run.  See?  Pretty creative use of equestrian metaphor, huh?

Lefty's way of doing the morning pages.

And what time did I begin my morning pages today:

Yup.  A.M.

I had to make some coffee first.

9 1/2 Months as a Twihard

Living a life of rural isolation is no protection against The Twilight Saga.

I blame him.

I had managed to be completely unaware of the phenomenon until a flu bug knocked me out in February (yes...2012).  It was then, bored and cranky, that I splurged impulsively on a $2.99 kindle edition of the first Twilight book.  I couldn't put it down.  I was hooked.  It was the best flu I've ever had.

I became a Twihard in record time, plowing through all four books in a week, and then buying used copies of the movies.  Now, the movies were a bit disappointing, except for, well, you know...HIM.  And that other guy, but we'll get to that in a minute.

Let me start by saying that when you make the decision to read teen fiction, you set yourself up for tales of vampires and werewolves.  I was immediately taken in by perfect Edward Cullen.  I thought Bella was a hard-headed trouble maker.  Jacob was a rather predictable corner of the lovers' triangle.  Of all of the books, I thought Eclipse was the best (not nearly enough Edward in New Moon), and I liked Breaking Dawn the least (really?  TWO movies out of that one?).

A word about the series:  if I had a teenager in my house, I would encourage them to read all four books.  Meyer did manage to convey awfully good tension and resolution regarding tolerance.  Also, she liberally borrowed story lines from classics and made them interesting by combining them with the vampire-werewolf mythology.  Teens today are lucky to get a novel way to comprehend Shakespeare and Bronte via the Twilight saga.  If it gets kids to read, don't you think it's worth it?

The movies.  I do not remember little Robbie Pattinson from Harry Potter.  The first time I ever saw him in a leading role was as Jacob Jankowski in Water for Elephants.  I found him quite appealing, although not appealing enough to rent Twilight (not on my radar yet).  Every bad thing you've heard about that first Twilight movie is absolutely true.  I was struck by Pattinson's youthful Edward, and he played the brooding vampire pretty well, despite the amateurish production.  I had seen Stewart in an indie film where she convincingly played a mopey hair-tossing slut.  I've got to hand it to Stewart; with her big ears, narrow chin, and rabbit teeth she is not a classic movie beauty, but her I-don't-give-a-shit attitude serves Bella well.  I still don't know what those guys saw in her, though.

The real delight in the movies is Taylor Lautner.  Whenever he's on-screen, I can't take my eyes off of him, even when he manages to keep his shirt on.  He is such a natural, so easy to like.  He made me reread the entire series with his likable Jacob in my head.  I will not, however, participate in this silly Team Edward or Team Jacob hoo-hah.   And I would be remiss if I did not mention Billy Burke's wonderful chief of police Charlie.  Kudos to him for taking the role and being serious about it.

love the copstache

see what I mean?

Which brings me to my quandary.  BD2 opens this Friday, the last Twilight film of the series.  Should I shell out the bucks and spend two hours in a theater full of goofy teenagers, just to say I experienced this phenom?  Is it worth it?

Shooting Star

I saw one in the pre-dawn yesterday, and I don't want to forget it.

Autumn Signals

Have you not thoroughly enjoyed the cooler weather?  Autumn's chilly infusion has obliterated my heat-induced stupor and has enabled a reunion with my old energy and enthusiasm.  I am ridiculously happy and therefore completely annoying to anyone around me.

Autumn makes me giddy.  It probably has something to do with the excellent sleep guaranteed by cool nights, but there are many other autumnal thrills.  Like geese.  We live in a migration zone for Canada geese and in late September it is not unusual to see flocks winging through the valley.  Many times they fly low enough that you can not only hear them honking but also their wings beating the air.

Geese at sunrise.  I always wonder:  have they been flying all night
or are they just early risers?

The horses have been growing their winter coats for some time.  It is a curious thing that my horses' bay coats turn sort of mulish in the winter.  Momento's coal black legs get a winter topcoat that is almost blonde.

Nuzzling Mo's blonde "mule muzzle."

Hero's mule muzzle has a reddish tint,
which complements the ever-present mud.

In the fall, the barn is fully stocked with hay, which is an unbelievably comforting feeling.  The day when you put the hay bales into your barn happens to also be the day when you seriously think about selling your horses.  But once that hay is stacked and ready for winter feeding, well, then you enjoy the company of your horses again.  Bonus if you also get a big load of pine stall shavings at the same time.

I enjoy this view even more if someone stacked the hay for me.

The honeysuckle also enjoys an autumn revival and resumes its takeover of the pasture fencing.  Personally, I do not feel that honeysuckle is ever photo-worthy.

Ollie's Close Call

First, a confession:  I trespass over neighboring hay fields every day, my dogs in tow.  So whatever happens to us, you may say we asked for it.

Blatant trespassing.

Walking the dogs is, by far, the easiest thing I do all day.  We walk every day, rain or shine, hot or cold.  A beagle simply will not let you shirk out of her daily exercise routine.  Most of the time, our walks are pleasant.  But not always.

Leave it to a beagle to put her nose where it doesn't belong.  Ollie is so game when she is outside, she goes after every scent.  It never occurred to me that she would literally stir up a hornet's nest, but it is exactly what she did.  They had a nest in the ground, in a field we'd traversed hundreds of times.  Before I realized what she was into, angry hornets fumed up and we all began to run.  The dogs are on 26 foot leads, and the fleet-footed Annie was pulling me along, and luckily safely away from the hornets.  But little short-legged Ollie wasn't so lucky.  I saw her biting at her back as we ran and after a few adrenaline-fueled seconds, we were no longer pursued.

Ollie wasn't right.  She immediately had a bout of diarrhea, followed immediately by vomiting.  Next, she plowed her muzzle into the grass, and then she collapsed.  I stood there for a few seconds before it clicked in my brain what was happening to her:  anaphylaxis.

I scooped up my lethargic beagle and started to carry her home.  She was completely limp.  We were about a half a mile from the house, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to run with her, so Annie and I walked as fast as we could.  A couple of times, Ollie stopped breathing, and I laid her down on the ground, expecting to witness her death.  But there was something about being on her side on the ground that always revived her breathing.

Unbelievably to me, I carried Ollie all the way up the hill to the house.  I laid her on her side on the couch and called the vet.  They told me to give her a Benadryl tablet and get her to their clinic as fast as I could.

We looked bad.  I remember walking into the clinic holding her and an elderly man was standing at the counter waiting to pay his bill.  He looked up at us with a pleasant expression, but as soon as his eyes fell on Ollie, he looked away quickly, his face dropping.  The techs were expecting us and got her into an exam room right away, and the doc was there a few seconds later.  They checked her vital signs, got a quick history of what happened, and asked my permission to treat her aggressively.  My little bench leg beagle was whisked away to begin emergency treatment immediately.  There was nothing left for me to do but go home and wait for their call.

She survived.  She was given a steroid, some IV fluids, some anti-nausea drugs to keep her from vomiting, and who knows what else.  The clinic considered transferring her to the all-night emergency vet clinic, but decided to let me take her home that night instead, with instructions to get her to the emergency clinic immediately if she began vomiting or showing any sign of distress.  She had five huge angry welts from the hornet venom.

Sick bay.

Still feeling a bit puny.

 

We were lucky.  We were lucky the vet clinic was only a 20 minute drive, and that they had the ability to take her as an emergency.  We were lucky that she didn't go into a coma before the vet could treat her.  Stings are part of country living; I get one big, juicy wasp sting every year, whereas the yellow jackets prefer my husband and always find a way to sting him when he is mowing.  We have also been lucky that our stings, while very very annoying, have never been life threatening.

Ollie made a full recovery, for which I am thankful.  She is good company, despite her penchant for rooting up trouble.  And I am much more careful when out in the fields, although I still trespass daily.

The Blogosphere

Having been a blogger for a year now, I must ask the question:  is my contribution worthy?

more MincingMockingbird genius

I read a few other blogs regularly.  The best are ones that combine good writing with a killer sense of humor.  I still think Hamish Cargill is the best blog writer ever, but, sadly, he's gone legit with a proper day job (in an office!) and he doesn't blog anymore.  A couple of my other favorites are stellar writers and although they don't tend to employ humor in their writing, their posts are so well written that it doesn't matter.

(There are blogs that are just plain cringe-worthy.  These are the blogs that must have begun as some sort of catharsis for their writers.  And while there is little doubt that cathartic pieces are great for the writer, I find them to be horrible for the reader.  To these writers might I suggest a good old pen and private paper journal.  There may even be kits available for grinding axes in the comfort of your own home.)

Admit it, bloggers, the stats page is the first place you look when you log in every morning.  That first post to get lots of "likes" and "shares" on Facebook thrills you to no end and becomes your fevered goal for all future posts.  Stats tell you not only how many hits, but from which op systems and browsers people are accessing, and from what country they do this.  To my readers in Latvia, Slovakia, Ukraine, and Russia:  I know you're not reading my brilliant posts, and please stop using my stats page to try and get me to click on your malware links.  But thank you anyway for the inflated stats.

You'll notice I dodged that question about my contributions being worthy.  I'm tempted to go to my stats page to answer this.  Truthfully, I have fallen short of my humor goal.  I place a premium on witty and strive to hit that mark; if your reader doesn't get a kick out of reading your post then why bother.

I have also employed that time-tested technique that goes like this:  when you can't think of a topic for a blog post, use lots of photos with captions instead.

Thoroughbreds For All...and For All a Good Night

(This post was originally published on the Retired Racehorse Blog in May 2012.)

There are so many good things to say about New Vocations’ event “Thoroughbreds For All” that I hardly know where to begin.  The event was flawlessly planned and executed.  Attendees were greeted first by volunteers and then by the sights and smells of a country buffet served in West Wind Farm’s covered arena.  Round tables were full of newly-acquainted horse people who enjoyed the sunset meal and conversation: the mood was bright and upbeat.

This scene played out literally in the middle of horse country, near Lexington Kentucky.  From one’s bleacher seat under the canopy of a covered riding arena, looking out at the breezy green April countryside, one suddenly became aware of a pretty little bay horse walking in, and then another.  Hosts Steuart Pittman and Anna Ford introduced themselves and the horses, and all eyes fell upon the two bays...and then a third bay...  and so it went until a nice selection of thoroughbred ex-racers were introduced.

Soon enough, Steuart and Anna were joined in the arena by eventers Bruce Davidson Sr., Cathy Wieschhoff, and Dorothy Crowell and by equine vet Dr. Steven Allday.  They passed the microphone between them as they assessed half a dozen thoroughbreds that are now in the New Vocations program.  Cathy and Dorothy were much alike in their assessments, both seeming to prefer a more short-backed horse (Cathy mentioned that it seemed easier to “connect” them) whereas Bruce pointed out that his best jumpers had been long-backed horses.  Dorothy uses a simple assessment tool when considering a new horse, simply called the three S’s:  sound, sane, and a horse that makes her smile.  Dr. Allday commented on the specific medical issues with each horse.  Three horses were selected for a riding demonstration that would follow.

But first, jockey Chris McCarron brought two students from his NARA jockey school that he mounted on two of the New Vocations thoroughbreds.  Chris focused on his riders’ hands and talked about a technique he teaches called “down and low with the reins.”  It is his experience that this technique produces a quieter mount and that thoroughbreds seem to respond well to it.  He complimented his two student riders on their soft hands, which he felt was an essential skill.  Chris then donned his helmet, mounted one of the horses, and produced a brief but beautiful ride, demonstrating not only three gaits, but also a lead change.

Chris McCarron aboard Sports Book Junkie
photo courtesy of New Vocations

Audience members were delighted to find themselves auditing a riding lesson given by Bruce Davidson Sr.  Three riders – Eric Dierks, Kerry Blackmer, and Steuart Pittman – mounted three of the horses selected from the early session.  The horses were not calm and quiet mounts; they had never before seen bleachers and a sea of faces in their riding arena, and they reacted to it.  But because all were ridden by experienced riders, their anxiety was limited to a very few antics; mainly jigging, head-tossing, and looking.  Every horse held it together, and the two with the longest tenure in New Vocations program even took their first jumps.  Everyone in the arena (with the exception of Kerry) chuckled every time Bruce calmly said “Just drop the reins, Kerry.” 

Dorothy and Cathy got a chance to showcase their off-the-track mounts.  Under Dorothy’s care, her young horse Hennison gets work every day.  And yes, that means jumps, too.  She warmed him up as the fences were set, talking gently to him as well as the audience, and then let him trot several jumps before he trotted in and cantered out of a double combination.  Dorothy mentioned she worked with her horses for four to eight years before bringing them to a four star level.  Cathy’s horse Ready For April is eventing at the preliminary level, and he is flat-out lovely.  She is an advocate for ground work with a rope and trains all of her horses with this method.  She demonstrated by trotting Ready For April over a new jump before mounting and riding him over it.  Her delight in her horse was infectious.  I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Cathy Weischhoff riding her own Ready For April
photo courtesy New Vocations

To close the evening, the wonderful eventer Molokai, still a looker at age 29, pulled Dorothy into the arena as she talked a bit about their years together.   “Mo” put a classy finish on the evening, reminding everyone what is possible when a horse is given a chance to prove himself as an athlete.  ~kc

Sunday at the Barn in Fine, Fine Weather

a few sips before heading outside

a line forms at the water buckets

a gleaming, freshly groomed dappled bay

pastoral, but only momentarily...

Hero can't resist the urge to roll in the dirt...

...and soon enough Mo follows suit

too perfect outside?  afternoon hay in the breezeway

Mutiny On the Morning Routine

Morning routines tend to be rushed affairs, but the little cats have interjected a counter-routine of their own.

dewy evidence on the deck

The "little cats" are just that...the pair of them weigh 17 pounds.  Until recently they've been house cats but the shake up in the routine revolves around their insistence to be allowed into the back yard in the morning.  Outside.  Mutiny.

When I return to the house after barn chores the little cats are waiting for me at the back door, and they pounce and tumble over the threshold (and each other) and into the yard.  It does no good to chase them.  I have tried, with no success, to herd them.  Basically, this is their show, and my part is to play the audience.

Which, by the way, I love.

So I stand with coffee cup in hand and watch as my two little felines stalk bugs and each other, nibble on grass, occasionally vomit said grass, and sometimes give chase.  All of this is pretty basic kitty behavior but it seems infused with a little more energy and interest since these two are recent outdoor inductees.

The most senior member of the duo is Lefty-the-one-eyed cat.  Lefty has been with us for over ten years, and because of his size and limited sight I felt it my duty to give him my every protection and keep him in the house.  Lefty is kind of a little Buddha; when outside he mainly likes to sit and contemplate.  He radiates serenity.  Once in a while he gives in to the universal urge of all males and urinates in the great out of doors.  A few times, he's been tackled.

Lefty, contemplating

The tackler is Inky Stinky Parlez Vous, our two-year old chatterbox.  I'm sure it was her idea to stage the morning coup.  Inky has brought a lot of energy into the house.  She chatters constantly, she chases the dogs, she tackles Lefty and pins him until he cries kitty "uncle!", and she never ever backs down.  I'm pretty sure she'd walk right up to a coyote, look him in the eye, and confidently swipe his nose.  Then she would turn her fluffy tail into his face and strut away.  It's what she does.

Inky, stalking the photographer

I feel the urge to make a point of telling this story, but the truth is, I don't really have one.

Hounds, Unbidden

It is a fact of country life that sooner or later a stray hound will show up on your porch.  We've experienced the phenomenon three times in 12 years, and I'm a little nervous as I think we're due for another.  A hound dog is so friendly and easy to like, you're feeding them before you can think twice about it, and before you know it they're on the bed with you and you never reclaim that space.

A dozen years ago I was walking down the lane with my two dogs, all of us recent transplants from the suburbs.  It was a half mile stroll to the mailbox and in those days the road was a single, tree-lined lane.  I peeked up from the mail in my hand to look at the dark wet trunks of the pine trees when I did a double-take:  did I just see that?  Two long slim white legs set upon huge paws co-mingled with the tree trunks.  A second later a gigantic hound emerged from the woods and timidly offered to walk us home.

One of my dogs was called Lucy, so I dubbed the big hound Linus.  He had impeccable manners. I called the shelter to report that I had found him, and then made a weatherproof bed for him outside the garage.  Linus was easy to like, and after a couple of days a part of me hoped he wouldn't be claimed, but he was.  A man called for directions to our place but his timing was awful as Linus had disappeared the day before.  The man showed me photos (it was indeed Linus, whom he called "Jim") and told me he lost the dog when they were out hunting.  This, I soon learned, was a recurring theme with hound dogs.

I never saw either Linus/Jim or his owner again.  Life trundled along and one June day my husband and Lucy came back from a trek to the mailbox.  My husband came inside, mail in hand, and told me to look on the front porch.  I assumed it was a parcel of some sort, but instead it was a beautiful little hound puppy.  She had followed Lucy, leaping and skipping and nipping at her, the whole way home.

pretty Annabelle Lee

She belonged to a bad-boy neighbor who had a reputation for violent behavior.  We returned the puppy to the owner's front porch several times, and we had to put her back with enough food so that we could get away before she followed us back home.  Soon enough we had to make our getaway in the car, and we gave up when, after plopping her on the owner's porch, we looked in the rear view mirror and saw a puppy running after us at full speed, her cheeks bulging with uneaten treats.  She was certain her home was with us.

There is a corner market about a mile from our place, strategically placed at the crossroads of two busy state highways.  I went there one hot spring afternoon to buy Gatorade for the men who were building my pasture fence.  As I walked up to the front door a gorgeous bench-leg beagle trotted up to me with a look on her face that read "Will you be my mommy?"  She was so sweetly friendly that I bent to pet her and coo at her and she put her big white beagle paws on my knees so that she could lick my nose.  When paying for the drinks I inquired about her ownership and was told by a terse and exasperated store owner to "Take the dog.  Just take that dog!"  Evidently she had been hanging around for days, loitering by the front door.  I looked outside the window to see a county highway dump truck go loudly past.  This dog had managed, somehow, at this busy crossroads, to stay out of the way.  I thought about driving past and possibly seeing her limp little body on the side of the road, and was positive I couldn't live with that outcome.

When I walked back to my car, the pretty beagle was greeting a man at the gas pump.  I looked to her and said "Are you ready to go home?"  and she bounded to my car and jumped into the front seat, as if we'd practiced it.  She sat in my lap for the ride home with her busy nose sticking out of the window.

Olivia Boom-Boom Collins

She was a quality beagle, so I reported her to the local shelter as a "Found" dog and prepared myself for the onslaught of phone calls.  We didn't get a single call.  Like all the other hounds, I had fixed a nice bed for her in the garage, but she was in the house with us within a week.  About the time that I became fully smitten with her I realized that her "will you be my mommy?" face was really a "may I check your pockets for food, please?" face.

In time I learned, both from local lore and from personal experience, that once a beagle is on a scent, they'll "chase a deer all the way to Canada."  It is entirely possible that Ollie strayed from a place several counties away.  That may be one explanation why her owner hadn't contacted me...they never knew their beagle was reported as "found."  When I met Ollie she had a new collar (but no tags), she had a still-pink scar from having been spayed, and her nails where trimmed.  I always felt that somewhere, someone was terribly worried about her, and was sick about losing her.  I wondered what name they had given her.

 Couch take-over

In the Deep Midsummer

Blooming idiots; I planted them in April and
 to my amazement they are thriving.

How to spend a hot afternoon.

Siesta for two.

Spa day for my boys.

One Magical Hour

These last two Memorial Day weekends were indeed memorable.

A full Flower Moon perches over the Harmony barn.

The horse world is small, the Eventing world an even tinier microcosm.  I suppose this is one reason why that when an Eventer suffers a loss we all feel it, much as any family does when one member suffers.

~

I vividly recall the freakishly hot Memorial Day 2011.  I had been fighting a cough for weeks and had finally taken some medicine which made me drowsy beyond belief.  I had fallen into a drugged sleep on the couch and my husband decided to bring the horses in for me that evening.  He called me from the barn to tell me that Momento had come in from the field and lay down in his stall without eating.

I ran to the barn and found Momento still down in his stall.  I checked his gums and listened to his belly noises.  He was colicking.  I called the emergency vet service to alert them of the situation.  We got Momento on his feet and began walking him up and down the barn aisle to keep him from rolling and hurting his painful gut even more.  We took turns walking him in the darkening barn and I began to sponge Momento off with cool water during my husband's turn.  This seemed to help him and when he seemed a bit calmer I lifted Momento's tail to take his temperature.  The reading seemed too low so I decided to recheck and when I lifted his tail again to insert the thermometer, Momento passed gas and then he visibly relaxed.  Gas colic!  We were smiling with relief.  The emergency vet had yet to return our call, so we kept up the walking/sponging protocol.  Within an hour Momento was calm enough to return him to his stall. We stayed with him until midnight, when he began to doze.

At the very moment that we walked across the darkened farm to the house, still worried about our horse's recovery, a faulty hay steamer ignited a barn fire at an Eventer's barn in eastern Pennsylvania.  Within an hour six horses and the entire barn would be lost.

Of course I didn't know what was happening in Pennsylvania as I checked on Momento throughout the night.  Between five and six a.m. he finally passed a normal amount of manure and his expression was bright again.  He wanted breakfast.  I called the emergency vet -- who had not received my message -- and he agreed that turnout with observation would be best for Momento.   My horse's mild colic was put into perspective when I learned of the devastating losses from the Pennsylvania barn fire.

~

Fast forward to this past Memorial Day.  Once again the Eventing world was rocked by news of a trailer accident that would claim the lives of three of the six horses on board.  The scenario played out as if in slow motion:  one horse dead at the scene, another sent to the equine hospital the following day with a serious leg injury that resulted in euthanasia, a third horse admitted the day after that with a ruptured cecum.  He was humanely euthanized, too.  Three horses gone in the span of one weekend, surely the longest of nightmare weekends for the entire family involved.

~

On Sunday night of this past Memorial Day holiday I turned my horses out into the cool night.  The moon was nearly full and draped a silver sheen over the treetops and the fields.  Fireflies flashed like paparazzi from the leaves and grass.  By moonlight I finished the last of the barn chores, serenaded by crickets and cicadas.  I could hear the horses pulling grass just outside the open barn doors.   A delicious breeze cruised through the barn.  Momento came back inside and found me standing alone in the barn aisle.  He asked me to scratch the itchy spots on his flanks, and I was more than happy to oblige.  Even inside the barn the moonlight gleamed off his sleek summer coat.  My wonderful bay horse stayed next to me, quietly positioning himself so that I could hit each and every one of his itchy places.  I covered that entire horse with my fingertips, enjoying every single second and not wanting the night to end.  I felt as though I couldn't absorb enough of the experience...the smell of my horse, the feel of his warm body, the easy dance of moving around each other in the dark.  I know him so well and was so grateful for his presence in my life.

My heart was both full and heavy; heavy with the shared loss of the Eventing community, full with gratitude for Momento, that this Memorial Day weekend was so very different from the last.  In the midst of a weekend of tragic losses, I experienced one magical hour.

Liberated: A Quarter Horse

(This post was originally published on Horse Junkies United in June 2011.)

It started with a call from my uncle, who wondered if I could take on an old horse.

She arrived coughing and stumbling off the trailer.  Her name was Libby.  She had been a barrel racer in her youth, and later had been rescued from neglect by a teenage girl who rode the manure-stained mare all the way home and asked her parents “Can I keep her?”  When Libby moved in with us, veterinarians concurred that she was probably about 25 years old.

Libby and I began our friendship with boundary-setting:  I quickly learned that if you inadvertently cause pain while trying to lift a hoof for cleaning, even an old horse can show amazing speed and agility when she bites you on the calf.  She was also horribly barn sour, and ran through every snaffle bit we had plus one low-port curb.  We decided she would make an excellent companion horse.  And she did.  When my beloved first horse died unexpectedly, I cried into Libby’s withers for weeks. 

Libby's idea of boundary-setting.

Late one July evening my husband’s grey mare colicked.  The vet gave us directions for administering pain meds and left us for the night.  We sat in lawn chairs in the pasture just outside the grey mare’s small paddock and together with Libby we all began the long night.  The grey mare had a rough time and Libby stood by quietly nickering to her.   Early in the morning, as the sky was just turning light, I was slumped against my sleeping husband when I felt something touch my elbow.  I woke to find Libby softly nudging me awake with her muzzle; I was overcome by her gentleness.

"Good morning, Mom!"

My geldings got rambunctious on a warm April day.  One lacerated a sole and the other tweaked a tendon, and they both landed on stall rest.  Libby expressed her feelings about being kept in the barn all night by breaking into the hay storage area and pulling each and every bale into the barn aisle.  Not satisfied with her destruction she then walked across the empty wooden pallets, breaking several boards and amazingly not hurting herself in the process.  I literally stopped in my tracks the next morning at the sight of the hay-filled aisle, and at Libby, who was unable to move an inch in any direction without lifting all four limbs over a bale.  Who would have imagined a 31 year old horse trashing a barn?

Libby is lying in the pasture as the geldings graze peacefully nearby.  The little black barn cat is with her, too; he lies on top of her grave and takes a bath in the sunshine.  Libby lies quietly in my heart as well, in the chamber she burrowed into long, long ago.  From time to time she nuzzles a memory softly forward into my consciousness and I find myself thinking of her and then I realize I am smiling.  It is not such a bad thing, to take on an old horse.

LIBERATED
"Libby"
 c.1980 - 2011

Meant To Be

The first thing you should know about me is that I have no talent for winning contests.

It is because of this dismal contest track record that I did not believe I had really won the Eventing Radio Show's Rolex photo contest.  The winner was announced on April 1st.  Surely this was an April Fool's joke.

Happily, it was not.

The incredible 22 year old stallion Cigar struts
his stuff at the Hall of Champions presentation.

And so I arrived at Kentucky Horse Park early on Wednesday afternoon and was able to spend a couple of hours leisurely strolling through the park and enjoying the attractions.  But I watched the clock carefully, because the first horse inspection was set to begin at 3:00pm.  Never before in my short history of attending Rolex have I been able to swing a Wednesday arrival, let alone see a first horse inspection.  The weather could not have been more perfect for this pageant of equally perfect horses.

Karen O'Connor presents the stunning Mr. Medicott
in her equally stunning white pant suit.  Love those heels!

Thursday was the first day of dressage, and I was in my seat early to watch the tests.  I recall thinking -- and this is a first -- that this test actually looked fun to ride.  At the lunch break I made my way into the Trade Fair and visited my two favorite vendors:  Dark Horse Chocolates (I stocked up on their Peppermint Ponies -- no pun intended) and Omega Alpha (makers of the wonderful non-narcotic Chill, a staple in my barn).  Late in the afternoon Chris Stafford of the Eventing Radio Show invited me to her table in the trade fair so that I could see her show live.  She also sent me on an errand in the media center, but it was just a clever ruse, for when I returned to the show she had arranged for me to meet Canadian rider Peter Barry.  It was the photo of Peter's horse Kilrodan Abbott that Chris had chosen as the winning entry in the contest, and she arranged for Peter and me to have an on-air meeting.  Needless to say this was a great beginning to Rolex weekend.

The winning photo:  Kilrodan Abbott ("Eddie") calmly
 standing  in a tub of ice water at the 2011 Rolex.

After leaving the Eventing Radio Show, I grabbed a big glass of Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale and made my way to a grassy hill alongside the stadium; with the sun sinking slowly behind me, I watched several riders practicing for their Friday dressage test.

William Fox-Pitt sits astride Parklane Hawk
as a lucky admirer gets some face time.

Andrew Hoy aboard the lovely Rutherglen.

Friday found me in my stadium seats again and I watched all of the tests up to the lunch break.  I then took myself on a tour of the entire cross country course.  It was the first time I'd done the entire course in one outing and the perfect weather made it an easy walk, a memorable afternoon.

Buck Davidson warms up on Titanium as
Andrew Nicholson walks Quanza around
David O'Connor whilst they chat.

A new jump on course this year, the
gorgeous Mountain Dulcimer. 

If you have never attended the Saturday cross country day at Rolex then I must tell you that the traditional viewing strategy is to arrive early, get a good seat somewhere on course, and then figure out how you will walk the course throughout the day so you can see all of the rides.  This course had other plans, however; not many riders completed this very technical course.  Thankfully, no horses or riders were seriously injured.  But I was only vaguely aware of this at the time because, you see, I was busy in the vet box after Peter and Eddie's excellent ride.  They finished with no jumping penalties and only 3.2 time penalties.

Peter Barry and groom Colleen talk about the ride
as super-fit Eddie calmly soaks in ice water.

On Sunday I arrived at the park early to participate in one of my favorite Rolex rituals:  breakfast at Roosters' Cafe.  The nice folks at Roosters make a breakfast sandwich with no peer; I always get the hot sausage with a fried egg nestled into an inside-out toasted hamburger bun.  I nibbled at it while I made the very chilly walk to the second horse inspection.  From the time the second inspection ends until the start of the jumping test is a span of several hours, and so I filled it by stopping by the Charles Owen tent and getting fitted for my JL9 vest and my skull cap.

Finally, one o'clock arrived with the stands jammed full of spectators.  I couldn't see a single empty seat.  Even with the mandatory television delays the jumping test went too fast.  Within two hours a new Rolex champion was crowned, and the awards ceremony was over.  I was able to chat with Peter for a couple of minutes between his interviews, and then I headed back to the Eventing Radio Show table where Chris let me sit in on her live show.

The funny thing about Rolex this year was I wasn't even planning to attend.  I entered the photo in the contest because it was a photo of a horse that I really really liked.  I never once thought that it would win, but I'm so glad it did.  Kilrodan Abbott is the kind of horse I find myself drawn to:  steady, workmanlike, as kind as the day is long.  

Eddie and yours truly.  Photo by Dylan Barry.

My gut feeling is that Eddie is about to stride into a global arena.  I write those words with a certain amount of wistfulness because my affection for Eddie is kind of proprietary in nature.  As silly as it sounds, I do not want to share him!  But of course I'm being selfish.  The truth is I am lucky to have spent any time at all with Eddie and his fantastic owner and support team.  Just to get close to a horse like this is an unbelievable opportunity.  I am so grateful to the Eventing Radio Show for allowing it to happen.