Being Bored...

I once told my mother, on a long hot summer afternoon, when out of school session and no friends could be found to play with, that I was bored. I will never forget the amazed and befuddled look on her face and she turned back to me in astonishment. “Bored????” she spit out. To which I suddenly felt very sheepish and could have easily cut a hole in the floor and climbed in, covering my head and closing my eyes to my apparent error in voicing my situation. She went on to say something about me doing ANYthing, or just going SOMEwhere. I don’t remember the specifics too well. All I remember from that day was her look, and her admonishment of my telling her I was incapable of entertaining myself. I turned and left her room, and did some serious thinking that day.

 Since that day I have rarely had the occasion to be bored again, when left to my own volition. (That said, I do not do organized group meetings for that reason.) I found that by feeding my curiosity and learning to be creative, that I could take my own responsibility for how my minutes were spent and enjoy them. 

As a kid I learned to draw horses. It was gratifying to draw one and have my grandfather tape the drawing to their kitchen wall, and so I did many, many more of them. I read like a fiend, and then began writing my own fables, delving into my imaginary world no one else could see, bringing stories onto paper for someone else to read. I quickly learned that an audience giving feedback is powerful fuel for the creative, so back to work I would go. My interests have expanded since then, and I have learned to do a little bit of a whole lot of things, and while master of none of them, the challenge to improve keeps me entertained and somewhat sane.

Recently, Mark and I had the good fortune to have a visit from perhaps one of the most influential and inspirational people to my life, in a round about way. Our visitor, Steve, makes most folks' pitiful effort to avoid boredom in life, pale and trivial. He is, the Renaissance guy, and he, is always doing something, really well.

From the time I first met Mark, in art class in college, I had heard a continual reference to this guy Steve, who had been in the army with him. They had been photography instructors on base in New Jersey together and had become good friends. The list of creative things that Steve could do was not only that of a super man, it was ridiculous at the level he perfected each and every one. He greatly influenced Mark whether Steve was showing Mark how to fly a falcon, how to paint a watercolor, how to cut a stone and cast a ring in lost wax, doing pottery, and this is to only mention a very few, besides working in photography. Together they were always busy and always doing something feeding their curious minds. Steve set a bar of excellence that was at first, off putting and his attention to infinite detail, intimidating. It is in his uber overachieving, influence first to Mark, and then later Mark’s sharing it with me, that has led me to try things I would never have even thought of, and, to try to  also do them well. 

The first time Steve came to visit us was many decades back now. We lived then on farm in a tiny house that we rented while we were still in college. My horses were out in the pasture, and our new chickens roamed the yard and their laid eggs by the front porch. It was a old house and had seen quite a bit of neglect, some of which we intended to fix up, some of it we hadn’t even noticed or thought of, until Steve came.

I woke the first morning to the sound of a hammer outside our window. Looking out I saw Steve out there fixing the gate to the chicken pen. Having taken it upon himself to see what needed to be done, he simply did it. 

He had brought with him some wines that he had made at his home in Seattle, a few reds and also a particularly incredible raspberry elixir. He sent me out of the kitchen one night and fixed a salmon, that he had caught in Puget Sound, frozen, and wrapped in paper towels and stowed in his suit case. Now thawed, wonderfully cooked, and delicious, he pared the fish with this dry and rich raspberry wine. It was heady stuff, and memorable still.

Over the next decades we kept in touch by phone usually over the holidays or on Mark’s birthday. Steve visited every decade or so as his job as head of the graphics department for Boeing brought him to Huntsville to the rocket center there, and once in the south, we weren’t to far away. His wine making improved to an amazing level, and he was hired to teach courses in winemaking at a college back home.

We had never met his wife Deb, and over the years had heard about her, and their baby girl, who is now grown. So it was great on this visit that she was able to join him in a post retirement loop around the country in a VW camper. Again he brought more incredible wine. Together one night, they made a risotto with porcini mushrooms that they had gathered on their farm before leaving, and a pan forte he had made for dessert. My mouth drools at even thinking about the pan forte with its crunchy, not too sweet, and crazily spiced, goodness of cardamon and pepper.The lovely roses they bought for us were put in a pot that Steve had thrown back back in their army days and the flowers stayed fresh long after their all too short visit.

In a spring cleaning down in the barn this weekend, we opened some boxes that had not been opened since we moved here twenty years ago. To my surprise, one of the items was a watercolor that I had done back in college and it was my very first attempt at painting a bird. Actually it was two kestrels, a male and a female that Mark had trapped, as a direct result of his falconry skills learned from Steve. The birds were in the biology lab being studied for a project Mark was working on with his ornithology professor. This painting was the beginning of many years of my painting raptors, and eventually of my learning to train a hawk to the fist, once again Steve’s influence to blame.

It is good to have people to push you, to inspire you to try something, anything. Who knows where it will lead you. And “Don’t be bored,” as my mother said. Mark and Steve are two who certainly live that mantra. I am so lucky to have been influenced by them, and continue to be still.

Repetitions, Again

It was officially spring this past week, and Saturday was one of the finest types of days that one could envision. It was warm enough for a t-shirt and yet cool enough to be so pleasant that wearing a light sweater was an option. With a sky of cool blue, grasses beginning to green up the pastures again, and trees wearing haloes of electric shades of chartreuse, it was lovely. It said spring was indeed here once more, and that is a good thing.

On a rainy day preceding this particularly lovely spring day, I was in need of an upgrade to my cell phone, but quickly I found that I had a problem because my phone was already stuffed full and had room for nothing more. The photo roll was the culprit, so this meant I needed to ditch some photos, and lots of them. I began scrolling the thousands of shots stuck on my phone and began hitting the delete button in ernest amazement at how many stupid shots were taking up all of this room. Quickly though as I scrolled, a pattern emerged as the years rolled by in a captured image progression.

With each spring, recorded in my phone over the past several years, I seem to have taken the same basic shots, over and over each year. In spring I have taken shots of the flowering trees, the camellias, the

garden cleaning out for summer,  and then through the summer with repeating shots of being at the beach, or the mountains. Then the fall shots come with the repetition of the leaves in color and the occasional snow angel drawn into the few rare snows.

Scattered through out these repeating shots are the succession of the dogs who have run through my life, my horses, various meals waiting to be served, lots of shots of blue washed skies draped with wispy clouds, and more recently are the additions of my grand daughters. But all are spaced through the time line in patterns of rhythms in predictable repetition. I have responded to these things by taking a photo, over and over and over, again. Like spring, here, again. Click, and its on my camera phone, again. It probably won’t take me long to fill the camera back up, and probably of the same subjects, again. There was one thing, however, that wasn’t on the repetitive illustrations of my world yet.

Behind our house this time of year the woods below us fill with water and the whole floor of the woods shimmers when the sun sets beyond it, casting long shadows of the still bare trees on the surface of the dark water. It is lovely from our vantage, but intimidating. Since we have lived on this property, now twenty years, there are some areas that we have never set foot on nor even seen, due to it being either, very hard too get through thick brush, or because of our fear of snakes, mosquitoes, bears, alligators, etc. Out of the blue the other day, Mark very bravely donned a tall pair of boots, headed down the hill, and went out into the water and woods with his camera and tripod. He returned an hour or so later as the sun was fading, quite excited about what he had found and said that the next day I should join him there in the woods.  

Reluctantly, based on the afore mentioned reasons to not go into a swamp, I followed him into the mid-boot high water. Snakes were on my mind, but it quickly became obvious that we were entering into an enchanting water world, despite the possibility of stepping on a slithery creature. Swamp irises and palmettos stood in bright green clumps and cypress trees grew tall and straight, surrounded by their rings of mysterious knees. A stand of birches lined the edge of the water to our left and their trunks were covered in papery bark of gorgeous pale pinks, salmon, and tans. We walked on further into the woods trying to not disturb the leaves that lay below the surface of the tannin stained water.

At one point we stopped to asses where we were relative to the house. I had a general idea which way it was was and it was amazing to see that even though, we had not gone terribly far, from where we stood, the house was obscured now. With no frame of reference, it was quite easy to imagine being lost for some time in here. There were only the tall trees in sunlit black water as far as we could see.  And we walked on, fairly stunned ad surprised at the size of this previously unknown water feature we had on the land. 

We came to an area where some of the trees stood much taller, way taller. Here the water was deeper on our boots and there were deep ruts still cut into the mud below these giants. These were the tracks of the loggers who had cut these woods to shreds well before we bought the place. Why the loggers, who cut with no discrimination, left these mega-giants standing, is any one’s guess but my guess is that the mud was too difficult to bring the larger trees out from. Whatever their motive for leaving them, I am glad to know that such giants are a stone’s throw from my back porch, even if I can’t see them from there.

There, probably, won’t be many more days that will be cool enough for me to be brave enough to go back in to see the swamp and its lovely trees without sharing the time with dragon sized mosquitoes and hefty snakes, but it’s great finding it’s there. For all of the years we have explored our land, that area was out of the way, and cleared trails led to other places more easily accessible. To find that we have a fifteen to twenty acre swamp that starts just below the back porch is pretty neat and it is always nice to find a surprise. Knowing there is a bit of wildness so close by is a wonderful thing.

And yes, I did take some pictures with my cell phone, but just not as many.

   

Vengeance

The question on the farm that has been begged for answer going on a few months now was, where in the heck a short or a fault in the hot wire fencing was. Repeatedly over this time I have studied, repaired, retightened the tape, replaced the controller, and had hoped, I had it fixed. The  next morning my efforts looked to have worked and the fence was untouched, but, then the next morning I would look out to see sagging places in the top strip of electric tape, showing clearly that one certain big brown mare had very little regard for the still inert plastic tape in her way to eating the green stuff on the other side of the fence. That silly mare knew when I had changed something about the fence and was careful not to touch it until her whiskers sniffing the wire told her it would not bite. Once she was sure it really wasn’t on, over the fence she would stretch her long neck pushing both the hot wire, and the mesh wire fencing below that, down.

My once erect wooden fence posts have all been loosened by her pushing the line and she has stepped on and crawled up the woven wire mesh fencing below the hot wire nearly to the point where she could step over the whole thing. When I heard the entire line from here to the barn moan with her leaning over it the other day, my frustration level hit the that point, where it was time to fix it or kill her. If the day saw no other thing done but this, by golly this mare was not going to ruin my fences any further.

My former neighbor, and sadly long gone friend, Col. Morris used to say that a farm needed a face lift about every twenty years. In his long life he solved this by simply moving to a new one every twenty years or so and starting over. We have now lived on this farm twenty years, as of January, and to say this place needs a complete overhaul, from fixing roof leaks, repainting, and general repairs on both the house and barn, is a gross understatement. Those pesky issues could wait but this hot wire issue though, had top priority. There is great truth that “ Good fences make good neighbors”, but also good fences keep horses where they belong, and other critters out. And thus the quest to fix the fence began like every job out here does. It begins with tools, which ones do I need, and where the heck any of them might possibly be. 

My theory had been that the grounding system to the fence was bad. So I jumped in and dug all thirty feet of that up, rewired it with new wire, and plugged the charger back on only to find it still no go. Quite frustrated with this result,  I put on my glasses and began to study the wire carefully from the charger then down the line. I found a huge problem where the current runs via a large wire, under a gate opening, and then up the next post to run the next lines of tape. There it was, at the bottom of the post where the line went downward, a broken wire, and the remaining wire that was still buried under the red packed clay and,  was no where to be seen. 

I got a pick ax out of the tool room and began digging a new trench through this twenty year old, well packed red clay gravel gate opening. Very quickly, I had to wonder my sanity. Here I was, at “my age” out there flailing a heavy steel pick at dirt that was packed harder than well aged concrete, just to keep a silly young horse from single handedly tearing up my farm. “Do I really like horses this much?” I was asking myself as I wheezed and leaned on my pick ax for air. I was not sure.   

I buried the new wire while the big mare stood watching my every move, made the new connections, and turned the charger on. Again no zap. The day was getting longer by the minute but I still kept at it. Eventually I had repaired, fixed, and replaced every variable that I could but my tester kept telling me that a very low current was going out.

I was about to cry, when I heard a very loud POP! I looked to the source of the noise to find my silly big brown mare with a very surprised look on her face. Her upper lip was curled up over her nose and she stomped and kicked in anger at this new situation and the surprise shock she had gotten when she had stuck that pretty little nose on the hot wire. Vengeance, was finally mine.

The fence has not been touched again by that silly big brown mare, and I have a pretty high level of  confidence, that it will stay that way until, the next time. 

A Box of Mirrors

Back in the days when I was a kid and my mother “dressed” me up to go shopping for clothes, a store that we frequented was a department store called Bronson’s. Bronson’s was situated in the middle of Normandale, the first suburban mall built in our town. Normandale was a very modern open air mail with covered walkways, fountains, courtyards, and green spaces, and lovely shops filled with jewelry, clothes, toys, housewares, and all of the things one could want all within walking range of each other. It was a very “Mad Men” architectural setting of green ceramic tiles and great expanses of glass framed by thin shows of steel supported by large beams and arches of free form concrete. 

The largest of the shops was Loveman’s, the anchor department store that had the most of a bit of everything, and always had a several week long visit from Santa Claus each Christmas. The store had a huge front upstairs window facing the parking lot below, and there for all to watch, Santa would sit in his huge chair and greet each frightened child, hear their wishes as they tried to look past the fake beard to find the truth, smile for the photo, give them a lollipop, and send them on their way back to their adoring parents.

I bought my first make up there. Feeling very grown up, I bought my first boy friend a tiny bottle of Brut cologne there. There was a strategically placed counter of warmed choices of toasted nuts, cashews, peanuts, walnuts and pecans, all right by the escalators where every one had to ride to the second floor and back with the scent of these warmed nuts luring you towards them. If you succumbed to their call, these warm salty goodies were measured out with a small metal scoop and were put in small paper bags to carry around and enjoy while you shopped, or waited on your mom to do so. 

On the other side of the escalator the cabinet of goodies continued with sugary things of all sorts. It was the first place I encountered  cherry flavored spaghetti shaped strands of chewy strings with the consistency of gum drops but these you could eat inch by inch. They came in bundles wound together, a prize to work through for hours.  

In this modern mall, Normandale was host to Mel’s camera shop which was wallpapered with large photos of Ansel Adam’s Yosemite portfolio. Next to Mel’s, or maybe a few stores down was the fancy dress shop that my aunt liked, where models would model the dresses one liked to see, so that a lady could drink her tea and not have to try on a darned thing. Dress chosen, it was put in a lovely box and then carried home. There was a hardware shop further down with shovels, nails, and parts to fix this and that. Other shops included Zales, the jewelry store, The Record Store, which sold vinyl records and appliances, Woolworth's, a discount dime store, Toy Land, my favorite,   and many others that stayed for decades and others that came and went as retail tends to do.

Normandale’s being built was a beginning of the end of the urban retail, with its convenience and glamour, and it sparked the unleash-able, leap frog, suburban crawl of new modern neighborhoods with strip centers and other newer malls. Gradually the shops all followed these newer malls and Normandale was abandoned. It now stands as a sad symbol of changes that happen as fads rise, and then they fall. Loveman’s huge glass windows are broken and Santa no longer comes to visit. Bronson’s changed its name and moved to a fancy place out east and call themselves “The Name Dropper”. Normandale is a ghost world now of faded glory and only its memories remain alive.

But back to Bronson’s, back to when Normandale, and life in general, was in its glory days. 

There was a display case in Bronson’s, on the left side of the store as one entered, built of dark polished wood with a shadow box type opening on the top and drawers below. The shadow box was lit from inside and was fully lined with mirrors. When I stuck my head into the opening and looked to the right I saw an infinite number of my faces reflected there, and also a bit of the opposing reflection of the back of my head from the mirror on the other end. If I turned to the left, this infinite reflection was the same and try as I might I could never count how many of these repeating reflections there were.  My head, reflected there, always remained in the way of my seeing them all. It was a fascinating thing to me and I can still recall my amazement at this box of endless mirrors, having spent many of my mother’s shopping hours with my head stuck inside this infinity puzzle box. 

The magic and mystery of shopping, that surrounded this place called Normandale, back in the days of my child hood, was tied and linked to this amazing box of mirrors, and the visual memory of the box is as real to me now as it was then. It’s mystery provoked me to think in ways that had not occurred to me at that time, about infinity,  and also about perspective.  I could only see the magic of the box when I put my head in to see it, and I wondered what it did when I didn’t. Did the mirrors continue their magic without me?

When I began to think about things as a kid, I realized at one point being amazed to learn that my parents were once kids, and their grand parents too. I  thought that time simply began with my birth, and that all of the players in my life began then too. Myopia has its down falls and revelations and it was shocking to find that my birth did not start time.

Now I have begun to see my life from the present, to the days of my youth, and all of the events that passed before I was even here, each as single reflections in that box of mirrors, all lining up and all heading away from now, back into the infinity that came before me. I look the other way and see fuzzy glimpses of the future and see that they too line up as single reflections of possible days that will happen with infinity into that which hasn’t happened, yet. It is from my perspective that this time line runs, equally running in both directions. I am just in the middle of the magic box of mirrors, observing.

ps.  Happily, on Tuesday, this week, in the very early hours of the morning, our second grand daughter, Marilyn, was born, adding yet another happy and wonderful event to the time line we call our life.  She is a tiny and beautiful, and we all look forward to being a part of her journey from here.

Mustang Sally and Snow Daze

Today, Wednesday, is our second snow day. The weather channel alarmists had said earlier that we might get several inches of the white fluffy stuff but when the storm track shifted, we got rain, and then icy sleet, followed by about a half inch of snow. The dusting of white is covering a solid crunch of ice as I walk back and forth from the barn. Slick and hard, everywhere is an awesome opportunity for busting one’s bum. The horses have lived in their blankets now since this  all began, and are warm and cozy despite the midday temps still in the low twenties.  

Monday, by stark contrast before the storm, was a balmy sixty degrees or so, sunshine and blue skies. So as no to waste such nice weather and, having heard the forecast for the next few days, I ventured out to ride my mare, Sunset. We were walking along heading to a trail head, when another of my hilarious horses came galloping up behind her as we strolled down the lane next to that horse’s pasture. The other horse’s intent, of course, was to incite Sunset to gallop with her, and throw in a few bucks. Sunset bounced and jigged, and she felt like a powder keg about to blow, but didn’t. With a bit of distance away from the galloping trouble maker and we went on and had a nice ride from there. It was a pleasant ride with no plans for any real training for the day, just a

jaunt to see what was out and about, a stretching of the legs and a chance to go to a peaceful place for my brain, if, I didn't get  myself bucked off. 

I rode to a piece of the farm that we rarely visit now, the site of where we once parked a mobile home when we first moved to the land, now twenty years ago. Small saplings grow there now, our temporary house on wheels long gone away. Thick underbrush surrounds these small trees and narrow game trails lead deeper into the brush from the field where we stood. A good number of these small trees had their bark rubbed off from some male deers that had scratched their antlers upon the trees, either relieving an itch or marking a spot, I am not sure which. 

After my ride with Sunset, I figured on a bit of multitasking to prepare for the upcoming snow days. After all it was being hailed to be a declared state of emergency by the governor and one does need to prepare for such. I gathered the empty gas and diesel cans I could find and loaded them in the pick up. I figured to stock up on fuel, wine and other basics, and also to take the stacks of cardboard boxes and bags of paper and plastic to the recycling center.

This particular recycling center that we use, was opened many years ago to help create some

jobs for the handicapped, the mentally and physically challenged, people in our area. There was no formal recycling done in those days as it all went into to the dump, or the side of the road. And so the center was opened for those who wanted to voluntarily recycle, but who had no where to do so, and thus it provided jobs for these challenged people to sort through and process all of the enormous amounts of stuff that could and should be recycled. It was a win win back then in many aspects, and still is.

Over the years though, I have taken our recyclables to this place many times, and have always felt guilty about feeling an unease in being around the workers, these people. When I drove up,  always, every one of them would look at me with blank faces and unrevealing eyes. Their blank stares unnerved me, this lack of connection. Having been taught it is impolite to stare, I avoided their eye contact, uncertain of what to say or do. I always felt a relief to have been done with it and be gone. The awkwardness I felt, was unpleasant.

That changed one day when I drove through the building as always, and stopped where the unloading place was. I turned off the truck and stepped out to my surprise, to hear a radio playing “Mustang Sally”. Joining in on this song were twenty or so folks of varying mental capacity, all singing at the top of their lungs, dancing, and wearing smiles that covered their faces with joy. I felt humbled by their being so incredibly, unabashedly, deliriously happy in this unexpected moment. They were in a place and time that I could not go to, and I drove away that day questioning my feelings of guilt at my intellectual superiority and, my vastly superior life, or was it. I had to wonder, who was in the better realm of consciousness.

In truth, I realized, in ways I envied them. Like little children who have not yet learned the real truths of life, when the fairy tales have been not been stripped of their magic, and all things are still good and pure, they seem to live in a world of a limited vision to the reality of most “normal” peoples”  and seem to be happy and oblivious. Their innocence is sweet, and theirs is a place they will never leave. They will live in childhood for their entire lives, never leaving Never Never Land, or the land somewhere over the rainbow.

One of the fellows there is a friendly guy who always introduces himself and extends a hand for me to shake, every time he talks to me. This is just before he asks “Who was That Girl?” referring to the sitcom in the 70’s. Marlo Thomas was the correct answer for that one, and I generally get that same question asked several times in the brief time I am there. What I have come to learn, though, is that he is a walking encyclopedia of the 70’s sitcoms and their actors, a savant of sorts of some rather obscure information and he is very entertaining.  

Another fellow there always is decked out in clothes, and hat, emblazoned with the University of Alabama logos. He says “Roll Tide” frequently to himself and to no one in particular while he does his work unloading the bags of stuff I have brought. When I recently echoed his call with another “roll tide” of my own, he smiled and squirmed with delight and repeated yet another enthusiastic call for the tide to roll.

Yesterday as I drove into the lot of the center several of the guys were standing outside, perhaps waiting on a bus or something. As soon as I stopped, they began to approach the truck with their usual zombie faces. I got out of the truck and said with a smile, “Hey guys! How’s it going?” To which most of them smiled back and answered something, others were quiet, but all seemed delighted that I noticed them and spoke to them. My friend who is the 70’s sitcom genius, introduced himself, again, shook my hand and asked me some more questions that I should have known, but had forgotten answers for. "Who is Lindsey Wagner?"

I drove away from there on Monday, with a smile on my face.

A Clear Blue Sky Without a Cloud

From Thanksgiving until the week after New Years, I have always felt a disjoint from my day to day routines, and primarily from my horses. Yes I do see them, feed them twice a day, but the regular riding part just doesn’t seem to get to happen. There is all the family time and getting together and all of those distractions, but also, this time of year is when the weather begins changing in significant ways, first turning hot, sticky, and humid and then stormy, cold, and blustery, followed by a few nicer days, in repeating weekly patterns. This year, I think the last time I got on one of my beasts was the week before Thanksgiving, until yesterday.

Horses are not like cars that one can park for months, get in and turn the key on, and drive away. They revert, they become less broke, less engaged with human interaction, and here this means me. They get a look in their eyes that is distant as though they were observing life out in the beyond. They get a bit disrespectful of my space as I lead them to feed, or take out to pasture. Nothing rude, but I just become a non important part of their world for a while. The coming back from “Christmas Break” is part that I dread. I know ahead, from experiences passed, that I will have a bit of reintroducing myself to do. I usually have to pick a duel, or do something to get them to notice me again. The weather looked to be taking a break so yesterday I intended to get reacquainted my horses finally.

Yesterday was one of those January days that bloomed as the remnant of a cold front that had come through and gone, leaving behind a pleasantly cool, dry, crystal clear blue sky, with only a slight breeze. Out in the pasture before I brought them in to feed, all three of my mares stood together with hind legs cocked each resting a massive hip, ears relaxed, and lips loose. They were mentally asleep soaking in the sweet feel of the warming rays of morning sunshine.

I heard the scream of a Red Tailed Hawk overhead and stopped to look up. Against the backdrop of the dark blue cloudless sky circled, not one, but three hawks. Their white bellies glowed from being lit by the low January sun, their red tails showed a pale pink, and their wings were strongly rimmed in black. Slowly they circled together until drifting from my sight, a signal that spring thoughts are already happening in their world.

After they had eaten, I took Kitty out of her stall first. She is the oldest and the self appointed queen of the herd, of royal lineage doing time in a south Alabama barn with little to do than cart me around the ring when I saddle her up. I bought her and broke her when she was three, and in the fourteen years since she has never done anything in bad intent to me. Her one and only bucking episode was once when I was walking her through some very tall grass near the pond. Out of no where, she suddenly welled up like a rising balloon, and jumped into the air with a very unexpected explosion. I desperately grabbed every and any thing I could and miraculously stayed somewhere near the saddle as she came back to earth, all the while mulling the what just happened thoughts and whys. Later, when I ran the tractor through that tall grass to cut it, I revealed what she had jumped from. A huge, big fat black, water moccasin was laying there arrogantly defying my tractor and the cutter behind it. She must’ve smelled it and  jumped away from it nearly unhorsing me in the process. It’s a very good thing that I did not land on it. Anyway that snake did not live to scare her or me again after being fricasseed by the bush hog. 

We had a short and very pleasant ride, picking up pretty close to where we had been, given that she is older and is not as fit as she once was, but neither am I, so it was good. Next to go was Sunset, Kitty’s pasture mate and ardent admirer, a  heavy girl, and a strongly opinionated red mare with lots of chrome and a partial blue eye.  

I had had my come to Jesus ride with her the day before when I had ridden her up to the front field and we were confronted by the sight of my neighbor’s cows grazing what they could of the dry brown grasses that remained across the road. Her head came up and she turned to stone as she gazed in horror at these strange black aliens. I was oblivious to her at this moment, of course, and planned my response at what I already knew was coming, the part where she takes a direct flight home. As she turned to leave I pulled a right rein and there she found herself in a circle, going nowhere. Once that activity became boring, and the cows had ceased to be the focus of her universe, she turned an ear towards me and life was good again. We finished with a nice ride with the cows giving us casual glances from time to time and we strolled on a loose rein back to the barn. I had guessed that, after our previous day’s warm up ride, I might have a nice ride with her yesterday and did, covering the basics and a few tricks too, and were done.

My next real surprise ride was with my youngest mare Cistine, who I had anticipated to be full of beans and who might need some quality time on the lunge line before I put my toe in the stirrup. I took her out to the ring to let out the gas, and she responded by quietly doing my bidding, with no bucks, pronks, or silliness. I got on and had the most pleasant ride with her I have ever had. Who would have thunk it?

As I turned the horses out after our rides I opened the stall gate for Kitty. Instead of walking out, she turned and gently placed her entire head on top of mine  softly resting her thick jaw bones there, cradling my skull.  I obliged by scratching her under her jaw. We stood there for many minutes communicating in that special way that two totally different species can do through strong silences and touch.

It is my close interaction with my horses that has always kept me grounded and sane and is the thing I miss the most when it is interrupted by holidays, weather, and distractions. Yesterday just came as an unexpectedly wonderful time catching up and getting reacquainted with my mares. As Steinbeck once wrote, “Life was back in greased grooves again”. A balance regained, a day enjoyed, and the sunshine absorbed. Maybe my horses liked it too.

In Closing '13...

When I reached for my coffee cup this morning, my right upper arm, quite unexpectedly, screamed a silent “OUCH!” to me. What had I done to deserve this new pain, I wondered. Oh yeah, I reflected, it was the kid. Quality time baby sitting it was. In trying to help out our daughter suffering with a sniffling, sneezing, head stuffed up cold, we had offered to keep little Margaret for a few hours yesterday. The few hours turned into an over night visit, which is great because it takes time to get past the point where its all about hello and what do you want to eat, play with, watch on tv, etc. When the rhythms of her day become settled, well perhaps that is not the right word as settled is seldom her thing, but when she allows the time to sit and be read to or to be held, that is sweet. But back to my screaming arm and why and how it came to be. Holding her of course.

In a post afternoon nap stupor she wanted to be held. In a cuteness that can not be described with any level of reality, she looks up, holds her arms to you and says, “I hold you” with a strong emphasis on the “I” then “hoed you”, and you comply, of course. Little Margaret is now two, and nearly, or maybe there, at thirty pounds, and while I am used to lugging heavy feed sacks and pushing thousand pound horses around, I have long been out of training for holding a thirty pound kid on one hip for long periods of time. So yesterday, as her cobwebs cleared, and while she watched her grand dad, Uno, introduce her to the wonders of Play Dough, I held her. I finally gave up when my arm was dead, finger tips numb, and my thigh muscles were in spasms, and put her on a stool to continue the Play Dough session with her Uno.

Later, last night, I wondered why my arm shook when I reached to the ice maker with my glass, and noticed an unexpected and uncontrollable quivering to my hand as it waited for the clear cubes to drop in. My arm has never been the same since a rowdy horse pulled it from its roots years ago now, dislocating the top of the arm to the middle of my sternum, blowing the joint to shreds, pulling and pinching nerves to their end, changing my daily life forever. Surgery tried to amend but came short, so I have learned to cope with a defective limb, but was surprised at this new level of trembling and quivering. This morning, my pain reminds me of the source of this strain,  the holding of the kid, and it is a sweet pain.

We talked last night, Mark and I, of how the seasons have come to pass so quickly and how there really isn’t any point in taking the Christmas tree down because next week will be Christmas again. Margaret is now two, having passed this milestone in early December. She is now the self proclaimed “Dr. Super Margaret” having gotten both a super girl cape and a toy stethoscope from Santa. It was, only yesterday that we opened the door to the delivery room to find her newly born laying on her mommie’s chest. Now, she is a toddler, running on tippy toes through the house and around the farm yard, squealing, laughing, and bringing us joy as we follow her and try to keep her away from all of the things that might hurt this precious package of life.

So today our house is a wreck, and now sadly quiet, with her gone. I have this morning’s oatmeal in my hair and everything below waist high in the house has been relocated at least three times. The piano bench has been painted yellow and her toys lay strewn from room to room, and, my arm hurts. The fact that our band has a gig tonight and I, as the drummer, and will need it to be semi-functional for a few hours, is going to be interesting. In all though, this grandparent thing with the exclusion of having to change some really special diapers, is good.

And so the year is closing out with a new one hot on its trail. Birthdays have come and gone and Santa’s visit was brief as they all seem to be. This year’s Christmas had a few more elements of chaos than normal, but that begs the question, “what is normal?” Certainly none for me have ever been the same. The family changes with births, deaths, and with marriages and with them, the traditions. Traditions are a nice framework to go by, but they all morph as the need directs, and I suspect that next year will have its own significant changes in many ways.

One very big change we know of and are waiting on, is a new addition to the grand kid pool. Our youngest daughter is expecting a girl on Ground Hog day. The new baby is to be named Marilyn after Mark’s mother, the grand mother who our daughter never got to know having been born years after Marilyn had died. A recent 3-D ultrasound picture we saw, showed baby Marilyn to be quietly resting, floating in time, waiting for her grand entrance into life. Another human, another being, unlike any other.

Life in a continuum, goes on.