The Spirit of a Horse

In my beginning, there was always the horse. The horse was my inexplicable passion and curiosity. On the mobile which hung over my crib, I distinctly remember the parade of the fuzzy bellies of animals that circled my head as I lay there. There was a sheep, a duck, a pig, and a horse, all wound up there in a continuous circling motion while soft music played in an attempt to lure me to sleep. My focus always, was on the horse.

My grandfathers both were horsemen, but my mother’s dad still had one when I was old enough to be placed on a horse’s back. His mare, a plain bay walking horse, was named Old Lady. I have no idea how old she was but all through out my childhood and later until college, she was simply there, every summer when we went to visit, a magical creature without  any apparent signs of aging. My grandfather bred her several times and she produced three pretty foals, the second of which was to later become my first horse. I never heard any word of Old Lady’s passing and it is hard for me not to imagine that she is still there on the land that my grandfather once owned and farmed, with her large cracked hooves and long flowing mane waiting for the ears of hard corn that he brought her to eat.

Last week I lost a long time friend, another horse. Limerick, was what I called her, her registered name being some silly garble of stuff that came with her when I bought her as a weanling. Limerick had just passed a major milestone a few weeks back in passing her thirtieth birthday and was in relatively good health and spirit. Sadly an old set of lungs and a dreadfully hot and humid day, combined with the provocation of the hatch of a plague of blood sucking horseflies making her leave the comfort of the shade to avoid their bites, put her in peril. She succumbed to the heat and we found her gasping in heat stress out in her field near her favorite cedar tree, unable to rise. It was the end. We kept her as cool as possible with a steady train of water bearers to pour their buckets over her while we waited in the heat for the vet to arrive to give her the final relief. We shaded her with  umbrellas and I fed her an entire bag of carrots which she enthusiastically chomped down to the last one. Finally it was over, and the kind man who had buried Joline last year, laid yet another great mare to rest.

Thirty years. Most horses don’t make it that long. Most relationships don’t either, but Limerick had been my friend for basically her entire life, and a good bit of mine, this time span of thirty years, three long decades. I had bought her before my youngest daughter was born, broke her, trained her to run and jump and dance with me in the sport they call combined training. Together we campaigned for many years and she won us many championships, with ribbons and trophies that line the walls of my tack room. Together we flew.

It was in this campaigning, this weekend traveling to shows, and more in the daily training to be able to win at them, that our relationship developed. I was ambitious  and she was talented and so we made a tight team. At a moment of memories while waiting on the vet to arrive, I laughed that this mare was once so athletic that she could unhorse me on a whim. One of my coaches once said that to be in the right position going over a fence one should pretend that  if Speilberg could magically make your horse disappear from underneath you that you would land standing on your two feet. Limerick was able to that with me. I could be riding along and the next moment, standing there wondering where my horse went. It was all in good fun to her, and I usually appreciated her sense of humor and timing. She definitely had spirit. Funny that despite all of her winning and practice having ribbons tied to her bridle, she never liked them flickering in her face, and very nearly bucked me off on several of our ceremonial victory laps.  

There was one show that I learned more about her character though, in Nashville. I had taken my oldest daughter to it with me this time and we had arrived on Friday afternoon to a darkening sky and approaching storm. The stabling was under a giant tent and we put Limerick in her stall and I went to unload things from the trailer leaving my daughter in the tent to wander around and see all the horses. Thunder then gave way to lightening bolts and heavy rain. I had taken safe haven in the truck for the moment and I could see that the wind was whipping the tent into a moving, flapping, out of control creature that was looking like it was going to leave. This was not the most settling situations for any horse but especially for a young horse like Limerick was at the time. Concerned for my young daughter, I hurried to get back in the tent when things settled a bit. I found my daughter quietly sitting on a flake of hay in the corner of Limerick’s stall with that mare calmly standing over her, unafraid of the chaos with the tent flapping, thunder and wind, and horses and people hollering and moving about. I was stunned then at her protective instinct, and she showed this type of reading the situation on many occasion to me, and later, to her foals.

After her career in showing, Lim became a brood mare and was an excellent mother to first Kudzu, then Orion, Rubiat, Tango, and finally Vixen. When she was too old to carry her own, she became the baby sitter, the boss mare that would teach manners to the weanlings, and especially to the colts who thought biting and climbing on anything or anybody’s head was fun. She always kicked them high, body blows so as not to hurt those pretty legs. When the last of the weanlings grew up and left, Limerick remained in the pasture at the little barn on the farm, retired and free from obligations until last week’s sad day. 

In Limerick’s passing through this life with me,  as both my vehicle and my friend, she took me places I would never have gone, and afforded me friends both equine and human that I would not have made, many of whom I still have. Through her I have memories of wonderful times that we shared. She listened unconditionally as animals are wont to do, to my struggle with life lessons along the way, gave no verbal advice, but was stoically just there. It helped. Thirty years of experiences, not ownership, is what having a horse for thirty years is about.

They say of all of the animal spirits that the spirit of the horse is the strongest. It is the stuff of legends and myths and for good reason. To gaze into their eyes and read them reading you and assessing your mood, thoughts, and intent and to have them trust you to do your biding is an amazing relationship, one built on things intangible and magical.

Limerick had a very strong spirit and I am lucky indeed to have known it. Like Old Lady at my grandfather’s farm, I think her spirit will always be over there under her cedar tree wrapped in its shade. I can only be thankful for our having joined up so long ago and so say a fond farewell to Limerick. She was, and always will be, a great horse, and my friend.

A Most Recent Odyssey

Recently Mark had been tossed a tentative photography job up in Long Island by our dear friend and Master Chief, Joe diMaggio, Jr, a culinary genius, an artist, (and yes, kin to the name sake, his uncle, and looks just like him),  an absolute riot to be around, a wild and crazy man with a huge heart that we had come to know when he opened a restaurant next to our gallery a few years ago. Mark had done the food shoot for that place and I had been given the default job of chief assistant and stylist, despite the fact that my knowledge of food styling at that time was fairly nil and I could barely fold a tripod leg up. My shortcomings were masked by Mark’s incredible photography skills, and we did a great job for Joe, on that shoot and others that followed. Joe was now opening a new restaurant up in New York, and needed the skills of a good photographer to shoot images of the food they would be serving for web and publicity things, etc., knew Mark’s work, and gave him a call. It would mean a long drive, three days shooting, and another long drive home, so we gave it thought.

After the incident with Gracie and Heidi written about from my last post, it did seem to be a good time to leave town and let things rest. Gracie could stay with our daughter, husband and granddaughter, and their dog Stella to let her wounds heal and have some time around a smaller, friendlier dog and the energy of a toddler. If she could stay out of the talons of the neighborhood owls I thought it might be a good plan for her, to get a change of pace and forget the Heidi thing. I also, just needed to leave the farm with all of the recent sadnesses and get away, so driving eighteen hours to Long Island, and then back, surprisingly sounded fine. We said yes, quickly packed and headed north.

We traveled as we usually do, interstate for sheer mileage until we can stand it no more then off onto a country lane to

enjoy the slower pace and scenery. I think we were in northern Virginia when we got off the fast lane in. The scenes out of our window were now of smooth rolling hills dotted by pristine simple houses with tall narrow windows in shadowed yards. The houses were flanked by large organic expanses of barns and silos that were tucked into the swells and fallings of the hills. Surrounding fields of wheat, hay, and young corn were tidy and lush and the eye was easily led down their perfect rows. The light was low and golden and its beams bathed the houses and their barns in an etherial moment of beauty in its pure simplicity, until finally the sun dropped and darkness took its place, and onward we bound.

Near Lexington, VA, the place where both of my brothers went to college, we ventured off the path again sort of in search of Natural Bridge, a stone arch that I had heard my brothers speak of from their time up there decades ago. Finding it to have become a sad tourist trap, we chose to move on down the road. Over the top of a hill and down, there on the left was a hand painted sign as we rolled past it,  that said it all. ”Foamhenge”? After a quick u turn we bumped our way down a short driveway to the bottom of a hill. There on top, ahead of us it loomed, Stonehenge, in all its glory and mystery. The celtic symbol of whatever they were doing back then with all that pagan stuff, the circle of stones that nobody can explain, was magically here before us in rural north Virginia, improbably made of styrofoam and spray painted to look like weathered old stone. It was absolutely convincing, and looked totally real, in an amusing  and befuddling as to why, sort of way.

After a leisurely eighteen hour drive up we found our destination in Sea Cliff on Long Island, at the house that we were to stay at for the next three days for the shoot. A long time friend, one we had known from many previous incarnations, Julie, or Jules, was to be our host. Julie, who had also known Joe from previous restaurant work for him, was there to get the mechanics of this restaurant going. Julie just handles it, all, and smiles. Her charming house became our home base and was a lovely retreat in this little village on the north edge of the Gold Coast, where families walked past our porch view in the morning taking their kids to school, and later strolled with their dogs saying hellos to those they passed. It was a cloistered neighborhood of beautifully painted Victorian homes mixed with charming cottages and picket fences that were footsteps away from incredible dining and the view of the Atlantic. It was a place hard to not enjoy.

At the new restaurant we spent the next three days in total absorption photographing and setting up shots and scenes with the dishes, all masterfully crafted and produced by both Joe and a tall, quiet fellow who we were told was the designated Head Chef for this new restaurant, John Milito. We later learned that this John guy, whose incredibly lovely dishes we had been admiring, styling, photographing, and tasting, had been the former Chef at Tavern On the Green in Central Park until its recent closing. Who knew? Here I was pushing around the food of two renown culinary artists, with my limited credentials, and was damned honored to be doing so. 

Joe and John continually produced amazing dishes which we set up, photographed, tasted, and kept the flow going for the entire three days solid. It was very hard and intense work, but delicious, and very gratifying work made

easier with Joe’s direction and his ability to convey exactly what he wants, or not. We arranged small pizzas with little stuffed toys for the kids, and Mark shot incredibly elegant pieces of salmon, shrimp, and a tomahawk ribeye steak that would feed a family of five for a week for the appetites of the the grown up customers to be. Starting a day shooting a luscious piece of Tiramisu and letting that be your breakfast with coffee is not bad work, if you can get it. Job finally completed, we packed, said adieus after three wonderful days of work and play, and began our trek south by southwest.

The return home was quickly marred by our guidance system thinking it was hilarious to route us through south Manhattan island to put us off in the arm pit of

New Jersey where we spent the next two hours going stop sign to stop sign in an endless sea of small neighborhood after neighborhood trying to find an interstate. It was an absolute navigational hell and there was no way out once there. We were both cussing our plight and searching for alternatives on cell phones, and finding none, grew angrier by the moment. The northern version of the seventeen year cicada had hatched and the whirling drone of their music lent a further surreal atmosphere to our personal twilight zone.  At long last we made it to a larger road and faster pace again, and then suddenly, stopped once again at perhaps our thousandth stop, I turned to our right and there looming before me was the epitome of  the equestrian supply mecca, Dover Saddlery. Sanctuary had been found and praise was made.

We spent some quality chilling out time there and I found some things that I hoped would help with the saddle fit issues that I have been having with my mare. It is never a bad thing to savor the smell of well tanned leather and the retail therapy was good. Once our humor was mostly restored, we ventured the remaining sixteen hours uneventfully back to town,via interstate this time to make up for our lost time exploring NJ. Gracie had had fun with Margaret and Stella and had returned to her brighter self, and, armed with our new experiences and memories, we all made our way back home to the farm.

  

Decisions...

Yesterday was beautiful in its opening moments. Bluebirds were sitting on my shoulder and the hardest decision I thought I might have for the day was what flavor my smoothie for the morning might be. Then I had planned for a bit more of the saddle experimenting I had begun earlier in the week trying to see what fit Cistine. I fed Heidi, the GSD, and Gracie, the diminutive Yorkie, and sat to watch them and drink my coffee. Heidi finished her bowl and was wandering around the kitchen and eventually ended up near my stool. Gracie came over to join us. Then, out of no where came the attack. Heidi placed a huge paw on top of Gracie’s back and suddenly Heidi had Gracie in her mouth.

Gracie’s shrill screams were curdling and I instantly, but in that freeze frame time standing still mode, pounced on Heidi and tried desperately to get her to release the little dog from her teeth. I don’t know how, but did, and Gracie ran away with the screams of an animal in sheer terror piercing the now not so still morning air. I put the shepherd away in our room and went to find Gracie to assess her injuries. She had some bite marks on her neck and she was already in obvious deep shock so I grabbed her and left for the vet’s office while my daughter called ahead to let them know to expect us.

I drove in a daze. Where had this attack come from? And why? These two unlikely pups, theirs a pack of two, had gotten along so incredibly well since Gracie joined us, playing together, and even the day before I had seen them cuddled up in the cool grass under the martin houses, waiting for me to finish barn chores. This, I had not seen coming, and I was stunned.

The attack had not been Heidi’s first to other dogs over the years, nor second, each time violent, terrorizing, and brutal but always with some provocation. A shepherd bites once and holds on and requires a very serious effort to get them to release their prey. Fortunately for Gracie this attack had been made from a very old dog with broken teeth and her death would have been the most likely outcome had it come from Heidi in her youth.

I left Gracie in the hands of the vet, but before leaving I spoke with my vet about the possibility of euthanizing Heidi. I knew that my thoughts were emotionally driven but I had to admit that I could not allow the risk of another possible attack, to Gracie, any other dog, and certainly not my grandchild who frequents our house. Even though Heidi had shown nothing but tolerance for little Margaret’s climbing on her bed and cuddling up with the “big dog”, my trust in her was gone and even the thought was intolerable. I drove home devastated in my dilemma. It was my responsibility and my decision to make, and either way was not good.

Over the years of dog ownership I have had way too many suffering animals put to sleep. The first was another shepherd, the dog who never left my side during my high school years. I returned from college once to find a pitiful suffering shell of my old friend and I took her to the same clinic Gracie was taken to. I held that old dog in my arms and felt the life slip silently away. Since then I have had to repeat the same painful dance with life and death many times, each time excruciating in its sadness of loss but with the knowledge that in their death the dogs were relieved from the bounds of their suffering or illness.

The contemplation of euthanizing Heidi was different though. She suffered daily getting up and down stairs with joints that no longer worked and hurt her constantly despite the pain meds I stuffed her with, and her quality of life was very low. The difference was that she had not given up yet as the others had when it was their time, relieving me of some of the difficulty of the decision . My decision for Heidi was a heavy and overwhelming burden that weighed on me through the rest of the morning. Heidi was my best friend, my shadow, my companion. She was my, dog. How could I really imagine intentionally killing my buddy? I spent the hours in a blind funk until I made the choice, and then I cried deep and hard.

Knowing her hours to be her last, in a very surreal way, I spent them focused on making them good for both of us together. Heidi knew something was up and never took her eyes off me nor left my side. We went to the barn for her last visit. She swam in the pond and even watched, the ever vigilant shepherd that she was, as we dug the grave we would put her in later in the afternoon. I groomed her thick coat and fed her a full bowl with chunks of steak mixed in, this her last meal. Finally the call came from the vet that Gracie could come home. I loaded the big dog in the back seat of her truck and we headed down the too familiar road to the vet for her last ride. My head was throbbing and tears were burning my face and Heidi sat contented on her bench seat, her throne for ten years, doing what she loved the best, going for a ride.

As we pulled up to the clinic, she must have smelled the place and knew it. Heidi let out one of her typical shepherd sounds that is part sigh and part question, looked at me, and then back out the window. The vet came out to the truck to give her the first shot which sends them into a deeply relaxed state. We held her and patted her broad and beautiful head and said our goodbyes. The vet gave the final shot and with a few lingering breaths, then one last exhale, she was gone. My beautiful, gorgeous, intelligent, friend was gone and would be no more, forever. We gathered the very lucky to be still alive Gracie and left to go home with a now silent shepherd laying behind us.

In the hours after I had let my anger and horror subside at the attack, I pondered so many things, weighing them all and came to the terrible decision that I made based on two things. One, I could not trust the dog to not repeat this behavior, and two, that she was miserably making it through each day in pain that I can not gage because she was the most stoic beings I have ever been around. I feel horrible and have a pressing guilt that perhaps if had done something different in her life that it wouldn’t have had to end this way. I will never know that answer. It was what it was, imperfect, beautiful and at brief times horrifying, but I loved that dog and she me. We buried her with her favorite toy so that she can play with it forever in her final sleep and we covered her with dirt and tears.

Today Gracie is more alert with the pain meds fading, but is traumatized, scared, and confused. She timidly keeps looking for her buddy, the buddy who taught her the ways of being a dog, where to potty, what to avoid, what to chase,  and how to survive being a farm dog. Heidi was the one who took her under her wing and was always her back up. Theirs was a complicated and comic relationship with their size differences and  breed types, and despite that it was sweet and good. Heidi was Gracie’s buddy and mentor, but who, inexplicably attacked and very nearly killed her. Gracie’s trauma, on many counts, will take some time for her to heal.

 It will take time for me to heal, as well. 

RIP Heidi.  

  

Saddle Whoas

Any kid who has gone through a basic science class knows how experiments are run. There has to be a set of controls so that a theory can be tested and in the end all things can be measured, evaluated, and a conclusion or hypothesis can be resolved. That is  until that resolution is proven to be a false answer by a further experiment. It is a logical way to deduce and figure stuff out. That was my plan of attack today, but variables played a rather large factor, regrettably, and so my experiment for today was inconclusive.

No beakers, no burners, and no white coats in a lab, what I needed to begin to figure out began in the barn with the backs of three very different horses. As of late I have begun to notice a pattern of behavior that was running in similar fashion with each of my horses, to varying degrees, but with enough of it that is was time to find out what the issue was. My suspicion was leaning towards a saddle fitting problem, as I have three mares with three very different backs, and one saddle that has one fixed shape or tree.

A saddle is basically a frame that rests on the long muscles that run the length of the rib cage on a horse. It is covered with leather, usually, and padded on the bottom to accommodate the shape of the horse’s back. It has to clear all of the bony processes and provide a comfortable way to lug a live load around. This is no small feat and the evolution of saddle design is long and is far from over. Like a hiker wearing a heavily loaded backpack that is ill designed and which inevitably causes sores, bruises, and strains, so too is the importance of a good basic fit and design for a saddle. It must fit both the horse, and the rider, so that they can work together in harmony, and both be pain free. 

My saddle is a Stubben, one of the best made, with top quality leather and workmanship on a spring, or semi-flexible, tree. Every time I climb aboard it is like sitting down into the most comfortable leather easy chair ever, which always makes me sigh. It has zero leg rolls, (which place a rider’s leg in a predetermined spot on the horse’s sides), it has a fairly flat seat, and the leather is soft, supple, and is a well tanned black. My saddle allows my legs and my seat the freedom to go wherever I want them to go and not be rigidly held in place as though I was off to go jousting, like some saddle versions do. I bought the saddle years ago and have thrown it on everything in my barn and have had no issues with it fitting any horse, until now.

As I mentioned before I have three mares: Kitty, the oldest, an alpha of the herd, a short , round, bright eyed bay; Sunset,

next in age, a red tank with lots of chrome, with a work ethic that never stops, solid, and is a part time clown; and last a younger mare, Cistine, a very tall, elegant, sensitive, and very willing mare that floats over the earth she covers with her long strides. The first two have similar backs, broad and well muscled, they are power models. The younger mare is a thinner and longer lined build and has steeper withers which drop off to a much narrower top line, and this, is where my quandary began. Remember the one size saddle doesn’t fit all thing?

Horses are notoriously bad liars. I have known some dogs who were pretty good and pulling the wool over my eyes but horses, no. If they are scared of something they either leave or go nuts trying. If they are hungry they eat, and if they feel bad, they don’t. If they are sore or are hurting they will let you know that too. Lately I had been getting similar signals from all three that something was irritating them and the common denominator was regrettably, my saddle.

I borrowed a saddle from a friend to use in my experiment to see if indeed my saddle was the cause of my horses‘ new behavior. This particular saddle has no rigid tree and in theory shapes itself to any horse’s back bringing comfort to any equine back. My plan was to A-B this saddle with mine in as controlled of a situation as possible. I had let them all have the week previous off to rest any sore muscles and hopefully have a clean slate to test with.

My hope for a controlled situation was first vexed with a cold front that popped through over night and brought in chilly temps and gusty winds, just right for making the steadiest of beasts more excitable and stupid. The second was that my neighbor across the fence thought today would be a good time to run their four wheeler through their back pasture. The driver and another person were talking and moving about causing the horses much distraction even before we got started. Her head was high and muscles were tense on Kitty, who I saddled first with the borrowed one, as we walked out to the arena. My plan was to lunge them, one, so that I could see how they moved and what their opinion of it was, and two, avoid being tossed if they either really liked it and bucked, or if they really  didn’t like it and bucked with determination. Either way being a bystander seemed the more observant, and safer, way to run the experiment.

After finally sort of getting Kitty’s attention, difficult, her reaction to the saddle was difficult to determine. Another variable I had forgotten was that my older two girls hadn’t seen a lunge line since they were started many years ago, so this whole process was going to be exciting to them. It was. Kitty took off around me, though careful not to pull too hard, bucking like a rodeo bronc, digging her short little legs in and letting go with explosive jumps and leaps and bounds. I was very glad I was merely observing these airs above the ground, but I could not draw any conclusion of whether she liked the freedom of the saddle or was just being a nut because of the weather and distractions. I put her away and got out Sunset  to repeat the process.

Sunset was less distracted by the neighbor across the fence but when I asked her to trot a circle around me, there was a pause, followed by her taking off in similar leaps and bounds as Kitty. I was befuddled now because these two mares have had saddles on them since their youth and have never bucked with me on them and I don’t remember such theatrics when I did lunge them. The borrowed saddle didn’t look any different but something was causing them to find the sky, and the question remained as to whether they thought the saddle was yucky, uncomfortable, or if it was really super comfortable and liberating. It looked like it fit okay but I did notice that on them it tended to slide forward a bit, so maybe that was an issue. Still unclear on this test I put Sunset away and tacked up Cistine.

Cistine seemed to like the shoulder freedom at the trot and her stride lengthened but at the canter I could tell she found the new shape weird and she tightened up her back considering a buck, and kept a cocked ear in the direction of the saddle. I put her old saddle back on to compare and her stride shortened up again, but she seemed happy enough. I put her back in the barn and was left to ponder my lack of any conclusion at all.

Tomorrow is another day and another experiment. Perhaps the newness will have worn off, the wind will die down a bit, and the neighbor will refrain from being a mysterious distraction so that I can draw some bit of information from these horses. I think I will remain a grounded observer until I can tell if their action today was buoyancy or annoyance, or both. If only they could speak, what would they tell me?  

to be continued.... 

  

Bubbles

I have sat down to write a bit several times this week, and each time an alluring distraction has led me down the various rabbit trails that run through my life. To write is hard, really damn hard. Where the rabbit trails and distractions of the day have to be fought and beaten back so that there is one quiet moment that allows the thoughts to be captured is the hard part. Every single day there is a story to tell, a moment to grasp and jot down so that it won’t fade away like the dream you think you will never forget, but you do.  And the days just go right on by and the memories continue to be born and die, all in a whirling rush that makes it so hard to stop for a moment to contemplate them.

I feel a bit of guilt that it takes a selfish decision to allocate the time to sit and write, to chronicle. Perhaps in future days my time keeping a log of some of the few stories I have jotted down will give some insight to those who will follow me as to what life was like here on this farm, and the periphery of my days. I wish that there were written journals from my family members who came before me, to know the moments and thoughts of their lives. Stories from my elder relatives are all that I know of, verbal renditions that change with each telling, growing fuzzier, the truth and the facts fading as memories do. 

I have enjoyed writing since I was very young. Before I could read or write, I wanted to be read to over and over, and like an addict there was no quenching my thirst for words and stories. I still remember one of my earlier books about a little boy who had a red blanket and in each cardboard page there was a cut out where I could touch the soft fuzzy blanket all the way at the very end. My parents, and my grand father especially, used to hide it from me so that they wouldn’t have to bear reading it to me one more time that day, but I always managed to get it back. Pretty quickly I was writing my own stories, primary focus was horses of course. My voracious appetite for reading and writing came in handy as I got older and in school it showed up well in my grades, the teachers mistaking literacy for intelligence and aptitude.  

Now it has become my job to read to my grand daughter. In, what seems like an all of a sudden flash of understanding, little Margaret is now absorbing words, and is putting pictures, thoughts and words together at an exponential rate. She is learning like a sponge and wants a word for everything she sees, and she forgets nothing. Books are her favorite and if no one can read to her at the moment she studies the pages of her sacred books in quiet contemplation, soaking it in. She will never find boredom as she grows up if her love of words continues and my guess is that it will.

Her parents recently asked us if we were up to a bit of baby sitting duty on a few nights. Well, heck yeah, we told them and began to pick up the sharp objects and whatever inappropriate items that a curious little girl might want to peruse and put them away. We were given a heads up that she would be asking for bubbles for entertainment. Not being well supplied with bubble making equipment and, being the dutiful grand father that he is, Mark went on a mission to solve this problem and came home with small bubble jars with the wand inside it, the one bubble at a time basic. He also bought a bubble gun which we found fired a continuous stream of perfectly round and consistently sized bubbles as long as you held the trigger, easy to get quantity but was somehow lacking in mystery. The best potential bubble devise he bought though, was the wand.

The wand came in two parts, not including the soap, a plastic dish which looked suspiciously like an upside down Frisbee and a large plastic loop with a long handle. The idea was to pour the soap into the upside down Frisbee and let the hoop down into the soap to get a film across the ring for some potentially super sized bubbles.

After she was dropped off for her visit Margaret made the rounds checking out her toys inside the house, then she started saying “side” which we finally figured out was short for out-side, so in compliance with her wishes, out we trod. Mark pretty quickly got the bubble making going to her delight, and very much to our amusement and laughter at her obvious delight. As a bubble floated across the porch she would squeal and laugh and say in the cutest possible way a baby could say it, “BUB-bles!”, at which point we would helplessly laugh too. After playing with the small bubble generators for a while it was time for the hoop and the big bubbles.

We set up out on the front yard between the house and the pond. The wind was blowing from the south at a pretty good clip so the wind would theoretically blow the bubbles towards the pool area. We began by settling the hoop into the soap and then slowly picked it up allowing the wind to push the film into the beginning of a huge long bubble. Most of my attempts popped before leaving the tray of soap but some formed tremendously long tubes of color that gracefully undulated across the yard. A few were nearly thirty feet long or so and two feet in diameter and had a very ghost like appearance and movement. Some broke off into large misshaped prisms that floated slowly along with the passing wind. On these large ones I could see the reflection of the things it passed as it drifted by, a perfect oval mirror of the house behind me, the spring grasses, the sky above and all things in between, the smiling faces of me, Mark, and Margaret’s aunt “Cray”, and the face of the little girl who chased them with delight on little legs that tried so hard to catch them, but couldn’t.

 Margaret would squeal again and again and try to chase these lovely bubbles but they usually popped right before she got them. She would run back and wait for the next ones and repeat the same. We all were laughing and in such a deliciously nice place. There may be few things as good for the soul as taking time to make silly bubbles. To do so, and in the process of, make a baby laugh and happy is icing on the proverbial cake. It was a very good moment to savour, and like the bubbles, it too was beautiful, magical, floating, and ultimately, ephemeral.

Sinuses and Cinnamon

I had really thought I was immune to falling prey to such things as the effects of an unreal amount of pollen that has been floating through the air for the past month or so. I have listened to the whining of my friends who are prone to the sinus clogging, head ache inducing, sneezing, watery eyes, misery from their allergies and have felt sympathy for them and have to admit having been a bit smug in not having had to share their experiences with such, until now. Now, I do feel their pain, and then some. My head is exploding as I write, a throbbing so badly that I think a nice drill bit between the eyes might be a good thing to ponder.

I can remember very few times when I have actually gotten a seasonal allergy. I woke yesterday with a stuffy nose and figured that was courtesy of having had lunch with our granddaughter the other day. She had been carrying around a case of the day care snots for some time now and so I figured that she had shared some of it with me. Bless her heart. She is generous that way, but by the evening that a simple stuffy nose began to feel like there was an elephant standing just under my left eye. This was no cold. I guess I had finally breathed enough of the pollen that my body gave up to its effect. So I headed to our medicine cabinet to find relief of some form.

Like I said, I do not get sick often and am not prone to allergies, except for flying stinging things. After getting the bandaid boxes out of the way, way back in the back of the cabinet I found the boxes of cold and sinus remedy stuff. The one I really wanted to use said that it had expired in 2000, so I kept looking until I found one that had only recently expired and took one. Then I woke this morning to the full brunt of a major sinus attack. My head reeled with pain when I lifted it, and still does despite the various drugs I have ingested in failure to combat the intense and incessant throbbing. 

My younger daughter took some pity on me and gave me an oil to put under my nose for clearing the breathing tubes. A while back she had dated a guy who was into Chinese and homeopathic medicine. He was certifiably nuts, but he did give her this oil that was supposed to cure what ails you, and she suggested that I try it, so I did. A very strong smell of eucalyptus, menthol, peppermints, and cinnamon hit my nose when I sniffed it. I was told to put a drop under my nose, which I did, and instantly I could feel the nasal passages responding to the scent. Then where I had put the drop on my skin began to tingle, and that made me remember another time when I had encountered cinnamon oil. 

I don’t remember what grade I was in at the time, maybe seventh or so. I had gone over to a friend’s house for the afternoon when school had let us out. Lyn’s  older brother was there and he also had a guest and the two were sitting in the den with a bag of marshmallows and a small bottle of something. They were taking the marshmallows and putting a drop of the liquid onto the little puffs of sugar and then popping them in their mouths. It looked like a fine plan to me and the smell was of cinnamon toast, my favorite, so I asked for one too.

I should have known better, one from the fact that this was an older brother, whether it was Lyn’s, or mine, is not the point. In the rules of engagement with older brothers a younger sister needs to always be looking out for possible pranks. Then secondly the exchange of smiles and glances between them was the next clue to something coming up.

Bill, I think the other guy’s name was, pulled a marshmallow out of the bag and poured a very generous helping of the oil onto it, and handed it to me. I put the thing in my mouth and instantly thought I might die then and there. I spit it out but the burning liquid had already done its damage. My entire mouth and my chin and lower face were on fire where ever the oil had touched. The unchewed marshmallow fell in my lap and stained my windbreaker. I remember looking at them and wondering how in the world they thought that was going to be hilarious. I was shocked at how mean spirited what they had done was. I ran to the sink for water to wash the stinging away but it did little to make it stop. The scent never left that coat, which I never wore again, and I could not stomach the smell of cinnamon for years after that. I left that house in serious searing pain, and in no small amount of confusion, feeling betrayed and stupid for having been the brunt of such a cruel joke.

Later I learned about toothpicks that were soaked in cinnamon oil that were either sold, or made, and one day one was presented to me. I nearly threw up at the smell, the scent memory still lingering. There was a hard candy ball available too, bright red “Red Hots”, that were very hot with the cinnamon oil taste and I never could figure out how people enjoyed them. It was many years later that I made up with cinnamon powder enough to use it cooking or to dust a piece of toast. The little drop under my nose today was enough of a memory jogger that I nearly panicked when I realized what it was, but I have to say that my nose is semi-functional at this point, just wish I could say the same about the head ache.   

The swirling winds outside keep the never ending supply to this year’s pollen moving through the air. The yellow stuff has seeped into the house, has filled the barn, has hidden the color of my truck, and has covered any and every surface, including but not limited to the lining of my nose. My old mare Limerick came up to the gate at feeding time the other day with her nostrils absolutely encrusted with solid yellow rings around them. She seemed grateful that I wiped the mess off. The pollen that has landed on the ponds’ surfaces has made sickly yellow green patterns as it has pushed around by the wind and water, but  at least, it, won’t make it to a vulnerable nose anymore.

The forecast, thankfully, is for rain soon and the stuff will be washed away for a day or two and hopefully too, that soon the trees will stop filling the air and my nose, and be done. This allergy stuff is surprisingly not fun to deal with. I had forgotten. My sympathy for those who regularly go through this, is much higher and is empathized with now, and any of my previous smugness, gone. Seeing how as I am vulnerable after all, I guess  it is time to restock the medicine cabinet and buy some kleenex, or get a bigger towel. AAAAAAchoo.

A Spring Interlude

Before I fully open my eyes each morning, I listen. Long before the sun has popped up, the world outside my window is gray and it is very quiet. My German Shepherd lays by my bed and looks out the window beside the bed and watches this world out side, keeping guard, always on duty. She patiently waits for me to rise, but I remain in bed to hear to the day’s beginning. Another good pull of the covers and I drift.

As the sun makes its slow ascent, the animal kingdom outside begins to wake and the noises begin with a few tentative peeps from some tiny unseen birds and gradually increases to a raucous symphony of many bird songs, from Cardinals, Red Shouldered Hawks, and many more unidentified troubadours. It is still too cool for most of the other woodland sounds of crickets and frogs but their songs will soon join these in a harmony of the spring ritual, one as old as time, and each year, a new beginning. 

So far this season we have five Purple Martins claiming gourds which hang on the pole for their housing for breeding season, three males and two females. It remains to be seen just how this arrangement is going to work out, but perhaps another female will join them in time. Their songs are once again filling the air as I walk back and forth to the barn to feed the horses. These perennial songs have serenaded me when I have been in the garden taking out the spent winter crops to make way for the summer seeds, and they are usually gone before the corn is ready to pick by mid summer. Theirs is a deeply comforting sound that I have heard now for many years, and associate with the welcome beginning of spring.

By paying attention to the sounds out here on the farm, I occasionally get to see things that had I not heard and turned my head, I would have missed. The other day I was standing in the garden pondering my over investment in collard plants last fall. The few tiny sprouts that I planted have grown freely and have now taken over the garden. We have eaten all that we can stand, I have given away bags and bags of them, frozen what I have room for in the freezer, and still they keep on growing. Anyway while I was mulling thoughts of how to murder a  bunch of collards, I heard overhead a strange, but kind of familiar squeak.

I looked up, and was stunned, to see two Bald Eagles flying together, one a white headed mature bird and the other still in immature, most likely second year old feathering. They circled each other climbing higher in the sky and then suddenly both folded their wings and dropped like rocks falling towards each other. They flung out their wings and each grabbed the other by the talons and fell in a dizzying spiral, screaming out the squeaking whistle that had first drawn my attention. Finally they let go of each other and began circling and rising again to repeat their courtship dance. Riding the thermals and the winds from the north they quickly flew out of my sight, and just like that were gone. Had I not heard them I would have surely missed this incredible sight. They were amazing, huge, and surprisingly agile in their aerial display and I was very glad I didn’t miss seeing such a special treat. 

It is officially spring now, mid March, and today is cold, rainy, and yucky. Yesterday by contrast was cool, but blue and bright. I happened to be in town doing errands and I was nearby one of the oldest neighborhoods in Montgomery, a lovely cottage covered  garden area of towering ancient oaks, pines, and magnolias. Having a few minutes to spare I found myself turning down one of the many winding lanes under the branches of some massive oaks.

Hanging on these branches were long and graceful strands of the soft silver and greenish grays of the Spanish Mosses. These strands swung in the breeze and cast dancing shadows that moved across the tiny lawns and gardens below. A hint of a pale green haloed the trees with tiny leaves just emerging, but it was the gardens below that I had ventured to see. 

I am sure that spring every where is welcomed as a respite from winter, no matter how mild or how severe, but the early spring in the South is special and can be no less than extraordinary depending on where you are. By combination of the right climate and soil, Montgomery, and other lucky areas in the South, have areas which are home to a unique combination of plant life. These plants bloom prolifically for only a short period of time, but they do so in a dazzling, and spectacular display of crazy colors and shapes. 

This neighborhood, Old Cloverdale, is one such lucky place where the charming older houses are tucked away, on randomly laid out roads, hidden under the shadows of these massive and ancient oaks, and at this time of year, their yards are ablaze with the blooms of azaleas in every hue, and size. The shrubs wash the yards with broad strokes of pure outrageous color from whites and pale pinks, to scarlet, violet, purples,  and oranges. These banks of color blend together and are continuous through out the entire neighborhood, running together like a water color wash down a page. 

Punctuating the azaleas are the taller camellias, now also covered in full outrageous blooms of reds, whites, and mixes. Below them both are the seas of various bulbs with their bobbing heads of yellows and oranges on stalks of fresh green. An occasional Dogwood tree gracefully stretches its limbs covered with its pristine white, or pink, four petaled blooms through the scene giving visual pause from the garish color below it. 

I drove past my grandparent’s yard, now owned by someone new. I was very sad to see that so many of the lovely camellia shrubs had been removed. I remembered my walks with my grandfather as he admired the blooms on the shrubs he had loved so much. There was one shrub left though, on the front of the house that I could see through the new fence. It was covered with large, deep red, ruffled heirloom blooms, but sadly it had been pruned and looked rather pitiful in its newly misshaped form. My time running out, I drove on away, my lovely interlude was over.

Spring is about flowers, but it is also, fishing time. Last weekend, St Patrick’s Day, we spent a pleasant afternoon with our daughter, son in law, and little Margaret in the small pond on the farm. We were fishing for, what we hoped would be, a first of the season, fried fish dinner. Margaret took her turn driving the boat while some of us threw hooks in the water. The bream, and the bass too, were biting well and we caught what we needed, a bit sunshine, enough fish, togetherness, and a nice memory of a beautiful spring day in the South.