I’d been sick just before Christmas. I swear it was because my immune system wasn’t prepared for Middle Eastern germs: a co-worker, an Indian Muslim, went on his pilgrimage to Mecca right around our Thanksgiving. He came home coughing and hacking and sneezing all over anyone and everyone – and he and I have cubicles in the same area, a narrow corridor that leads to the back door. I was able to resist his germs for a while, but I finally succumbed about one and a half weeks before Christmas, was really sick the weekend before Christmas, and was finally feeling better around Wednesday.
I have a Christmas True Story to share with you:
Christmas Eve day I started to install a new car radio in Geoffrey’s car, a gift from me that I was able to get by cashing in some Credit Card “points”, something I’ve never tried before. The stereo is last year’s model but a lot newer than the one Geoffrey had, with new features including a USB port in the front so he can plug in his iPod or anything else that has music on it, and listen to his own music. The one he had was dying a slow death: the display has been out for a long time, and without the display it was impossible to tell what was going on, and if you hit the wrong button and changed settings, you couldn’t tell what you’d done and couldn’t fix it. I knew this would be an appreciated gift, especially if it was installed for him.
I tried to prepare: I knew the new one should “fit”, I’d checked about that before I got it. But there’s “fit” physically and “fit” electrically: I had no faith that the connector coming out of the car would be a match to, or even slightly resemble, the connector coming out of the new radio. An internet search for “1998 Subaru Legacy Outback radio wiring” provided me with a list of colored wires coming out of the car as part of the radio wiring and what function they served. There was a similar diagram on the new radio, so I figured it would be a piece of cake, match function to function. I’ve pulled the radio out of my truck, that had been no trouble at all.
I hadn’t bargained on the Subaru dashboard. I poked and prodded it for a while trying to find the way in, but it was not yielding it’s secrets that easily. Another internet search yielded a detailed report of how another poor sap managed to get in there on the same model and year, so armed with that information I returned to the car.
He’d removed the A/C stuff, then the cup holder, which allows you to pull out the faceplate around the radio, storage area, and ash tray. However, when I looked at the cup holder area, I figured he’d done a bit more than he needed to do, and started there instead.
I had to open the cup holder all the way. Once that is pulled out all the way, you have access to a couple of screws. I unscrewed them (with a bit of contortion – this is NOT an easy car to get around in, especially with a stick shift) and removed the cup holder. Those screws also held in the top of the faceplate, so progress was being made.
However, the next thing that needed to be removed was the ashtray holding assembly. It was attached at the bottom of the faceplate, right next to the stick shift, with the screws going upward into the box in which the radio was housed. Have you ever attempted to unscrew a couple of screws that are pointed up when you have about 4 inches of play between the screws and the ground (well, not the ground but the shift housing) with the shift between you and the console? I struggled with that for at least an hour, trying all kinds of regular and jury-rigged tools (a Philips screw-head bit clamped in a wrench and held in with electrical tape was my most creative), and no joy. It was a Phillips head screw, but I could barely get my hands in there to place the screwdriver correctly. Pretty soon I was starting to doubt if I was even turning it the right way.
Finally, I tried a straight-head short shaft screwdriver, and finally felt a good “bite”. Sheesh. But, it got those stupid things out. Yay, now I should be able to get to the radio!
But nooooo. The cigarette lighter assembly was built into the faceplate. It did NOT want to come out of the hole in the rest of the dash, and the lip of the faceplate that hooked into the rest of the dash wouldn’t move enough to allow it, or come out with it in. It had a couple of wires attached to it that if they disconnected could drop into the bowels of the back of the dash, never to be recovered, so I didn’t want to remove them or knock them loose. Finally, after another 15 minutes or so of wiggling, twisting, pulling, analyzing, and repeating over and over and I still don’t know what I did, it popped out.
Now I could get at the housing box the radio was housed in. Six screws later (four in front, 2 about 7 inches in the back, and which I knew I would never be putting back in) I finally saw the wiring harness.
The connector wasn’t a match to the new radio. Not a big problem, though it sure would have been nice if it had been that easy. It hadn’t been a match to the old one, (an after-market radio that Geoffrey had had installed when he first bought the car) either, so there were a bunch of spliced on male connectors that I could use with the new radio, we just needed the female connector parts. Geoffrey went off to Radio Shack to pick them up. I didn’t have the wiring diagram from the old radio to use for reference, and there was such a mess of tangled spaghetti in there, I pulled all the old ones off to be able to see what was what.
And I discovered that none of the existing wire colors corresponded to any of the colors I found in that first search on the Internet for 1998 Subaru Legacy Outback radio wiring.
I tried, lord knows I tried, to approximately match them. I probably spent another half hour or so trying to get red-with-green-line to be “well, it’s red, but that looks like a black line but maybe it’s really DARK green”. Some might have been right, but most just didn’t make any sense. I was again stymied.
Back to the computer.
About another half hour later I stumbled upon what seemed the right info: a diagram of the connector itself coming off the car with the pins numbered and their assigned function detailed. Yippee, it didn’t matter what the wire colors were, I could just match to the pins! Even better, the functions seemed to make sense in their ordering - right front speaker positive, above right front speaker negative - so I was pretty certain I’d found the thing I needed.
I wired it up. Geoffrey had been popping in every once in a while to check on the status and help with the stuff that didn’t require contortions, and he was there for the maiden launch. We turned it on. And it WORKED! Well, one of the connectors had worked loose so one side of the car speakers weren’t working, but we found that, fixed it, and now I just had to put everything back together.
I screwed the radio tight into its housing, shoved the wires back in the dash, put the radio housing in, screwed it in. I didn’t even bother trying to put the 2 in way in the back - that would only have been possible with a magnetized screw driver, which I didn’t have. They would most likely have ended up being one of those “what’s that metallic rolling around noise” and the housing was solidly in there. I was on a roll.
I got the cigarette lighter back into its hole (no small feat). Victory was just a few screws ahead. I went to put the top of the faceplate in place…
Arrgh!! Crutchfield’s had said it would fit, it’s supposed to fit!! The radio was about an eighth of an inch wider than the faceplate hole.
I had started this at around 10:30 in the morning. It was now nearly 7 in the evening. I’d been doing all this in the unheated but not as cold as outside garage, by flashlight and a 60 watt bulb in the ceiling of the garage. The flashlight was going dim, and the ambient light was gone completely, I could barely see. My brain (and body, from all the contorting) was fried. I could not see a solution. I suggested to Geoffrey that we shave out some of the faceplate inner edge, but he wasn’t too thrilled with that idea.
I still had to bake a carrot cake – I’ve always made a carrot cake for Geoffrey for his birthday (November 22), but what with my dad’s issues after getting his pacemaker, all of which coincided with the birthday, we’d deferred the cake. I promised it for Christmas, instead. I wasn’t about to renege on that promise.
So we left the radio for the night, half installed but working enough that Geoffrey could set it up to his liking and play with its features: HD radio, input from a flash disk or an iPod, other stuff new. He kept saying “It’s so nice to have a working display!!” The simple things in life…
For the rest of the evening we brainstormed as I baked. Geoffrey’s theory was that the radio needed to be set further forward in the housing. I didn’t think that would work, it was just too wide, and the same width all the way back. Geoffrey pointed to an inset ridge in the old radio, and thought that was where the frame needed to sit. I had my doubts, as I didn’t remember a similar ridge in the new radio. We went to bed without a solution as far as I was concerned; Geoffrey was pretty sure he’d solved it.
The next day was Christmas, so we had to defer the radio project for a while longer. I needed to cook, Geoffrey to go up north to break my dad out of Rehab. That went pretty smoothly, all in all – they’d been working on getting him steadier on his feet and back to using a walker, and I’d told the PT that we had some stairs, so they’d been working him on stairs for a few days too. So getting him in the house was a lot less of an ordeal than Thanksgiving – the stairs were taken slow and steady, and we got him in with barely any fuss at all. A cane was really all he needed all day; though we did bring his walker along too, he never really used it.
He enjoyed the dinner, and the fire in the fireplace, which I’d gotten going after Geoffrey left; it was burning merrily by the time they got home. He wasn’t as thrilled with the movie we chose to put on after dinner. A year ago he may have enjoyed it – “1941”, a Steven Spielberg comedy with John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd in it. But after this last time in the hospital, his brain seems to not be able to keep track of too much, and this movie has a bunch of sub-plots that it skips around in. His verdict at the end was: “This movie sucks!”
Oh well… with his chair near the fire and toasty warm, he stayed awake through most of it, so it at least kept his attention. If I had put on one of his favorite movies, “Donovan’s Reef” or “Broken Arrow” (I think that’s the one), or any one of about 10 movies he watches over and over again, he’d have snoozed through most of it.
Around 5PM he was getting antsy to get back – he was worried about something, whether it be the idea of me driving in the dark or some issue he might have been having that he wouldn’t tell us about, I’m not sure. I talked him into calming down long enough to have a sliver of cake(I’d made it with sugar so I didn’t want him to have too much) and a glass of milk, which he enjoyed and ate with gusto, I packed him a sandwich and some grapes on the theory that he’d missed dinner, then we bundled him up and I drove him home, getting him back to his bed around 6:30 or so. He told me to call him to let him know when I got back; I tried, but he wasn’t answering the phone. I think he’d fallen asleep and though he was wearing his hearing aids he doesn’t really maintain them and I think the battery was dead – I’d been yelling myself hoarse to communicate with him all day.
While I was gone, Geoffrey’d pulled the radio out again, and tried out his theory. It didn’t work.
But, with a fresh, well fed brain, he realized he’d been on the right track: it didn’t need to go forward, it needed to go BACK in the housing, so it would be flush with the frame. By the time I got home, he’d put it back together, including the dreaded upside down screws in the ash tray (it was easier than getting them out, he could use his fingers to start them) and the radio project had been finished.
A nice Christmas, all in all.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Fun Show at Crystal Farm
And it was a blast! There will be photos up at some point, but I don't have them so I have to wait until the Crystal Farm website gets updated.
Saturday, Halloween, Frani and Jim had organized a fun show for the lesson kids and the boarders. The morning was dedicated to the lesson kids, and I didn't get there until 11 so wasn't able to really appreciate it. If there's another next year, I'll get there to watch the kids - the ones I saw were great, and such good little troopers!
I was amazed at how many cars were there when I pulled in - if there had been trailers too, it would have been like going to a club-organized fun show. I had no idea there were so many kids in the lesson program.
They have an indoor, but it was warm with a nice wind, and though not sunny it only threatened rain all day, so the show was held in the ring outside. They'd spent days trying to pick out all the rocks from the ring (here in New England, rocks are a bumper crop and you never have to fertilize), and the ring looked pretty nice. Jim had dragged it too, so it was nicely groomed.
The lesson horses were saints: there were 17 classes for the kids, and a couple of them did all 17. They got extra love and attention that night. They all get used regularly so they're in pretty good condition for it, but it still was a long day for them.
There were short breaks between classes of course: we're talking a bunch of kids from about 6 to 13, their parents, and the barn help and some of the boarders trying to call everything to order. Some of the younger kids had people accompanying them in the class, just to keep things from getting out of hand.
When I say "Fun Show", I'm not kidding: the kids got judged pretty fairly but they made sure every one of them got a good distribution of colored ribbons. They were all really well-behaved, and did wonderfully. There were happy smiles everywhere.
Refreshments were provided: soft drinks and water and Dunkin Donuts coffee for the parents, and cookies, muffins, donut holes, and such - so there was ample opportunity to re-stoke the sugar high when needed.:)
Tico being primarily white, I had to stop watching the show and go see how much of a manure-stained mess was awaiting me. It wasn't quite as bad as it could have been, but I spent a bit of time trying to scrub out the rust-colored stains on his butt, belly, face and front legs, with minimal success since it really was too cool for a real bath. The trials and tribulations of owning a gray horse...
I then spent some time with Dusty, because I had a feeling I wouldn't have the energy to spend much time with him after the show. He's always appreciative of a nice rubdown, but makes it clear that the rubdown comes second in importance to carrots. He was of course provided with those, what he considers his basic needs. He's starting to look like a big woolly bear - if he's any indication, this is going to be a bad winter.
It was about 1PM, when the boarders part of the show was supposed to start. I tacked up Tico, and brought him out to the ring to show him what was going on out there. Being as cute as a button and knowing it, he attracted some attention from the bystanders, and got lots of pats. It turned out the kids show still had a number of classes left, so after Tico basked in what he considers his due attention for a few more minutes, I brought him back in, untacked him, and threw him back in his stall.
Once the last of the lesson kid classes was over, and the kids and their parents and friends had left, Jim and Frani brought out lunch and "adult" refreshment for the boarders.
I was expecting a friend, whom I'd invited a while ago to come see the horses but who hadn't been able to get the time until this weekend, so was keeping an eye out the tackroom window, but found time to have a nice glass of Merlot.
When Mary, my friend, showed up, I brought her back to visit Dusty and Tico. She'd known Dusty back before I bought him too, and though he's aged she thought he looked pretty good for a twenty six year old... and he does. She met and approved of Tico the schmoozer as well.
We caught up for a bit, and I showed her around the barn. Mary stayed to watch the show, and she enjoyed it. I'm trying to convince her she needs to get back into horses, now. :)
Soon we were told the boarder's part of the show was about to start, so I changed my shirt for a clean, fairly presentable printed collared shirt, and tacked Tico back up and took him into the indoor to mount up. He was a bit affronted at this: he figured he was done for the day, the lazy boy. But he got over it.
The boarders and staff were split up into two groups: those of us who ride primarily english, and those of us who ride primarily western. I've been riding primarily western because my english saddle is now too wide for the still wide-bodied but not quite as round Tico, and doesn't fit him right.
We were all just automatically entered in each class - there was to be a "Pleasure", "Egg and Spoon", "Equitation" and "Command" class. If anyone told us the order ahead of time, I never heard it, which was fine - we were all just enjoying ourselves... and did I mention, we had been drinking wine? :) It was all very "Go with the Flow", and we were all laughing and joking with each other. When one group was in the ring, the other was on the sidelines shouting encouragement. Jim was providing a lot of funny commentary, too.
Dorothy had been worrying about Pongo being able to be up for the show: he's older than Dusty though in better shape; dentally challenged but he's got a strong back and is a tough old appaloosa. She didn't think he'd be able to canter for very long when the command was given, especially as the day wore on. Riding just for fun, he'd only give her a few steps of canter, then come back down to the trot.
We all were a little dubious, truth be told.
Well, Pongo showed us all what he's made of: first class, when she was asked to canter and Dorothy gave Pongo the cue, he went right into it, and held it until the "now trot" command was given. This was met with a rousing cheer from the crowd: "Yay, Pongo!" Then, the other direction: correct lead, and more cheering from the crowd. Every class it was the same: when asked, he cantered. Pongo is a horse in a million, and he'd shown a lot when he was younger, and he knew this day was "different".
Suzanne and River, it was the same thing: River knew this wasn't your run-of-the-mill hack around day, and rose to the occasion. He's a former eventing horse and has some arthritis issues, but you'd never know it by the way he was moving - they looked great.
Linda and Avita were their usual lovely selves: Avita is a sweet little chestnut Morgan who always gives her all, and she was lively and lovely and Linda rode her with her usual grace and class. What a sweet team!
Katie and her horse Honey, a Tennessee Walker, were at a bit of a disadvantage: Honey run-walks, she doesn't trot. But they did really well in Egg and Spoon - they took the Blue Ribbon!
The first class, I found out later, was the "Pleasure" class. The horse is judged for his willingness to go and happy demeanor throughout, while being asked to walk/trot/canter with other horses around. In other words, no pulling nasty faces at other horses, and if the command is given to trot or canter, don't try to buck your rider off because you're having a bad day and don't wanna. :) The riders job is to smile and look like this is the only place in the world they ever want to be, even if the horse IS having a bad day and expressing himself about it.
I was in the second group, so was riding with mostly Western riders, with the exception of Michelle, the instructor, who was riding Nash English.
Shelley, who events but whose horse Topaz hurt herself a bit so is off work for a while, rode one of Frani's reining horses, Simon, western. Simon is a very cute and VERY short palomino, so Shelley was not only riding an unfamiliar style but a horse about a foot shorter than her horse... well maybe not quite that much, but Topaz is a big girl.
Tico seemed to know the situation was special, too: he turned into Mr. Western Pleasure (old style, not peanut rolling wog* or trope**). Aside from blowing a lead in the later Equitation class, he was a little star - and the blown lead was my fault I'm sure. We got 4ths in "Egg and Spoon" and "Command" class, but came in second in both Pleasure and Equitation. For a horse who can't keep moving when he feels the urge to poop*** and will stop dead in order to take care of business, not bad, not bad at all!
Thanks again, Frani and Jim and Crystal Farm!
* and **: In AQHA (American Quarter Horse Association) and other la-di-da shows, the "Western Pleasure" classes were intended to show the horse going slow, steady, and happy. Even the "fast" gaits were supposed to be slow - as in "under control". This got bastardized,and now even the "English Pleasure" classes have the poor horses trained to do these really torturous-looking, absurdly slow, unnatural and ultimately crippling gaits that detractors (I'm one of them) call "wog" and "trope". The western "jog" is a slow trot. A nice jog is very comfortable. The "Western Pleasure" bastardization of it, the "wog", has the horse dragging their feet, their heads nearly touching the ground, and the horse barely moving.
Similarly, the "trope". The true western lope is a slow, easy canter. The "trope" looks like a hellish combination of trot and canter, four-beats rather than three, with the horse looking completely lame as it moves along, barely bending it knees. It is completely uncomfortable looking both for the horse and the rider, and contrary to the original description of a what constitutes a Pleasure horse.
AQHA *claims* they don't advocate these abominations, and the rule book says the judges are to reward "forward movement" (which these don't resemble in the least). But the big name trainers still train it into young horses, and the judges still pin it.
*** Show horses are expected to keep on moving at the instructed gait when in the show ring, no matter what. A horse who can't poop while moving doesn't go far. Dusty used to always make sure to poop outside the ring; Tico is of the opinion that when the urge hits, satisfy it. I have to admit I wouldn't want to have to poop and keep moving, and we aren't exactly show-focused anyway, so I let it slide.
Saturday, Halloween, Frani and Jim had organized a fun show for the lesson kids and the boarders. The morning was dedicated to the lesson kids, and I didn't get there until 11 so wasn't able to really appreciate it. If there's another next year, I'll get there to watch the kids - the ones I saw were great, and such good little troopers!
I was amazed at how many cars were there when I pulled in - if there had been trailers too, it would have been like going to a club-organized fun show. I had no idea there were so many kids in the lesson program.
They have an indoor, but it was warm with a nice wind, and though not sunny it only threatened rain all day, so the show was held in the ring outside. They'd spent days trying to pick out all the rocks from the ring (here in New England, rocks are a bumper crop and you never have to fertilize), and the ring looked pretty nice. Jim had dragged it too, so it was nicely groomed.
The lesson horses were saints: there were 17 classes for the kids, and a couple of them did all 17. They got extra love and attention that night. They all get used regularly so they're in pretty good condition for it, but it still was a long day for them.
There were short breaks between classes of course: we're talking a bunch of kids from about 6 to 13, their parents, and the barn help and some of the boarders trying to call everything to order. Some of the younger kids had people accompanying them in the class, just to keep things from getting out of hand.
When I say "Fun Show", I'm not kidding: the kids got judged pretty fairly but they made sure every one of them got a good distribution of colored ribbons. They were all really well-behaved, and did wonderfully. There were happy smiles everywhere.
Refreshments were provided: soft drinks and water and Dunkin Donuts coffee for the parents, and cookies, muffins, donut holes, and such - so there was ample opportunity to re-stoke the sugar high when needed.:)
Tico being primarily white, I had to stop watching the show and go see how much of a manure-stained mess was awaiting me. It wasn't quite as bad as it could have been, but I spent a bit of time trying to scrub out the rust-colored stains on his butt, belly, face and front legs, with minimal success since it really was too cool for a real bath. The trials and tribulations of owning a gray horse...
I then spent some time with Dusty, because I had a feeling I wouldn't have the energy to spend much time with him after the show. He's always appreciative of a nice rubdown, but makes it clear that the rubdown comes second in importance to carrots. He was of course provided with those, what he considers his basic needs. He's starting to look like a big woolly bear - if he's any indication, this is going to be a bad winter.
It was about 1PM, when the boarders part of the show was supposed to start. I tacked up Tico, and brought him out to the ring to show him what was going on out there. Being as cute as a button and knowing it, he attracted some attention from the bystanders, and got lots of pats. It turned out the kids show still had a number of classes left, so after Tico basked in what he considers his due attention for a few more minutes, I brought him back in, untacked him, and threw him back in his stall.
Once the last of the lesson kid classes was over, and the kids and their parents and friends had left, Jim and Frani brought out lunch and "adult" refreshment for the boarders.
I was expecting a friend, whom I'd invited a while ago to come see the horses but who hadn't been able to get the time until this weekend, so was keeping an eye out the tackroom window, but found time to have a nice glass of Merlot.
When Mary, my friend, showed up, I brought her back to visit Dusty and Tico. She'd known Dusty back before I bought him too, and though he's aged she thought he looked pretty good for a twenty six year old... and he does. She met and approved of Tico the schmoozer as well.
We caught up for a bit, and I showed her around the barn. Mary stayed to watch the show, and she enjoyed it. I'm trying to convince her she needs to get back into horses, now. :)
Soon we were told the boarder's part of the show was about to start, so I changed my shirt for a clean, fairly presentable printed collared shirt, and tacked Tico back up and took him into the indoor to mount up. He was a bit affronted at this: he figured he was done for the day, the lazy boy. But he got over it.
The boarders and staff were split up into two groups: those of us who ride primarily english, and those of us who ride primarily western. I've been riding primarily western because my english saddle is now too wide for the still wide-bodied but not quite as round Tico, and doesn't fit him right.
We were all just automatically entered in each class - there was to be a "Pleasure", "Egg and Spoon", "Equitation" and "Command" class. If anyone told us the order ahead of time, I never heard it, which was fine - we were all just enjoying ourselves... and did I mention, we had been drinking wine? :) It was all very "Go with the Flow", and we were all laughing and joking with each other. When one group was in the ring, the other was on the sidelines shouting encouragement. Jim was providing a lot of funny commentary, too.
Dorothy had been worrying about Pongo being able to be up for the show: he's older than Dusty though in better shape; dentally challenged but he's got a strong back and is a tough old appaloosa. She didn't think he'd be able to canter for very long when the command was given, especially as the day wore on. Riding just for fun, he'd only give her a few steps of canter, then come back down to the trot.
We all were a little dubious, truth be told.
Well, Pongo showed us all what he's made of: first class, when she was asked to canter and Dorothy gave Pongo the cue, he went right into it, and held it until the "now trot" command was given. This was met with a rousing cheer from the crowd: "Yay, Pongo!" Then, the other direction: correct lead, and more cheering from the crowd. Every class it was the same: when asked, he cantered. Pongo is a horse in a million, and he'd shown a lot when he was younger, and he knew this day was "different".
Suzanne and River, it was the same thing: River knew this wasn't your run-of-the-mill hack around day, and rose to the occasion. He's a former eventing horse and has some arthritis issues, but you'd never know it by the way he was moving - they looked great.
Linda and Avita were their usual lovely selves: Avita is a sweet little chestnut Morgan who always gives her all, and she was lively and lovely and Linda rode her with her usual grace and class. What a sweet team!
Katie and her horse Honey, a Tennessee Walker, were at a bit of a disadvantage: Honey run-walks, she doesn't trot. But they did really well in Egg and Spoon - they took the Blue Ribbon!
The first class, I found out later, was the "Pleasure" class. The horse is judged for his willingness to go and happy demeanor throughout, while being asked to walk/trot/canter with other horses around. In other words, no pulling nasty faces at other horses, and if the command is given to trot or canter, don't try to buck your rider off because you're having a bad day and don't wanna. :) The riders job is to smile and look like this is the only place in the world they ever want to be, even if the horse IS having a bad day and expressing himself about it.
I was in the second group, so was riding with mostly Western riders, with the exception of Michelle, the instructor, who was riding Nash English.
Shelley, who events but whose horse Topaz hurt herself a bit so is off work for a while, rode one of Frani's reining horses, Simon, western. Simon is a very cute and VERY short palomino, so Shelley was not only riding an unfamiliar style but a horse about a foot shorter than her horse... well maybe not quite that much, but Topaz is a big girl.
Tico seemed to know the situation was special, too: he turned into Mr. Western Pleasure (old style, not peanut rolling wog* or trope**). Aside from blowing a lead in the later Equitation class, he was a little star - and the blown lead was my fault I'm sure. We got 4ths in "Egg and Spoon" and "Command" class, but came in second in both Pleasure and Equitation. For a horse who can't keep moving when he feels the urge to poop*** and will stop dead in order to take care of business, not bad, not bad at all!
Thanks again, Frani and Jim and Crystal Farm!
* and **: In AQHA (American Quarter Horse Association) and other la-di-da shows, the "Western Pleasure" classes were intended to show the horse going slow, steady, and happy. Even the "fast" gaits were supposed to be slow - as in "under control". This got bastardized,and now even the "English Pleasure" classes have the poor horses trained to do these really torturous-looking, absurdly slow, unnatural and ultimately crippling gaits that detractors (I'm one of them) call "wog" and "trope". The western "jog" is a slow trot. A nice jog is very comfortable. The "Western Pleasure" bastardization of it, the "wog", has the horse dragging their feet, their heads nearly touching the ground, and the horse barely moving.
Similarly, the "trope". The true western lope is a slow, easy canter. The "trope" looks like a hellish combination of trot and canter, four-beats rather than three, with the horse looking completely lame as it moves along, barely bending it knees. It is completely uncomfortable looking both for the horse and the rider, and contrary to the original description of a what constitutes a Pleasure horse.
AQHA *claims* they don't advocate these abominations, and the rule book says the judges are to reward "forward movement" (which these don't resemble in the least). But the big name trainers still train it into young horses, and the judges still pin it.
*** Show horses are expected to keep on moving at the instructed gait when in the show ring, no matter what. A horse who can't poop while moving doesn't go far. Dusty used to always make sure to poop outside the ring; Tico is of the opinion that when the urge hits, satisfy it. I have to admit I wouldn't want to have to poop and keep moving, and we aren't exactly show-focused anyway, so I let it slide.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
A Reminder of My Misspent Youth
Today was a gorgeous day. A little breezy, in the 70s, the sun shining. I got to the barn around noonish.
I groomed Dusty first, giving him a long workover with the rubber mitt, really massaging his withers and shoulder and butt. He made the horse faces of appreciation.
I also wormed him, and he made the horse faces of disapproval: tense lips and chin, ears half-back, the hairy eyeball... completely disgusted. As usual, he would sniff but refused any and all treats for about 15-20 minutes afterwards. Shuffling carrot bits and Kashi Bar crumbs around in his grain bucket, he was a pitiable picture. But he got over it - they were gone when it was time to be turned out.
Tico'd been doing his usual jealousy faces at Dusty while I'd been giving Dusty attention, seesaw bucking in his stall: butt up, shoulder up, butt up, shoulder up, ears back, threatening to kick the wall (he's been seriously screamed at when he DOES kick the wall so he doesn't do it that often anymore).
He got growled at a bunch of times today, and each time - my attention now on him - his ears would go forward and he'd give my his angelic face, "Who, me? Wha?" and poke his nose out through the hole by the grain bucket, mugging for a treat. Brat. Sometimes, he got them. OK, most of the time. I'm a sucker for a cute face.
I put Dusty away and got Tico out. I brushed him, cleaned his feet, put on his leg wraps, saddled him up, coated him in fly spray, and headed outside. Of course, this all took more than an hour - I'm a slow groomer, and easily distracted - I like to play with him: tickle and kiss his nose, scritch his ears, make him move his legs by pointing at them, have him do silly tricks, for which he earns carrot bits, so he's a more than willing participant.
I mounted up in the indoor and we headed out the back door. About 5 steps out, he stopped.
Sometimes I indulge him. He likes to sight-see, so I sat still in the saddle while, head high, he gazed fixedly to the right. One of the trailers usually parked there was gone, maybe he was noticing that, I'm not sure. Then, turning to the left, he looked over in the direction of some of the turnouts, where horses were standing around, heads down, ignoring each other. Then again, to the right; then straight ahead.
I was getting a bit tired of the view, so I nudged him. He didn't budge. I nudged again. Nothing. I poked with the spurs and he woke up and started walking, just as Elaine, one of the other boarders, was walking towards us. "He's practicing to be a statue today", I said to Elaine, and she chuckled.
We wove on down the path between the turnouts, heading to the gate to the back field. The clover along side the turnouts was calling to him, I was preventing him from eating it, and so we sort of oozed along from one side of the path to the other, eventually making it to the back ring. Once there our path was a bit straighter - no grass to tempt him, and he knew that in that back field there was a lot of taller grass he could snipe a grab at walking along.
Have I mentioned that he's a pig?
Anyway, we got out to the back field finally, and started walking along. There are paths out there that go alongside the power lines, I was heading out to follow them. I had no other plan in mind - I considered going on the trails in the woods but I'd done that yesterday. I thought I might just take it easy - the view was wonderful, with some trees already turning red and yellow, and the taller golden stalks of grass waving with the easy breeze, the sun shining down... a perfect early fall day.
When we got to the part of the path that paralleled the power lines, I thought I'd ask for a trot. Tico willingly went into it, then up into a canter.
The wind was whistling by my ears, almost deafening, as he went into a full gallop. Wheeee! We galloped from the far end of the field up to where the path gets gravelly; that's where I asked him to stop. He did, eventually - my fat boy whose favorite gait is usually "whoa" had his head up, ears pricked, and actually pranced! He'd enjoyed himself.
I turned him around and we galloped off again, down the same path, until we got to where someone had dropped a tree across the path. I pulled him up (him still reluctant to stop), and we did it again. And again. Up and back.
I felt both afraid (he was, after all, the horse who helped me to invent the Superman Emergency Dismount) and super-alive. The wind whipped my face, stinging my cheeks. I know I'm 54 and shouldn't be riding like this. I know it's crazy and it's dangerous, and most importantly I know I'm mortal. The last time I rode a horse like this, I was an indestructable teen. And Dusty, in sedate hand-gallops, never felt this wild, this close to untamed.
On the final gallop, from the graveled area to the downed tree, I thought "I wonder if he's tired?" He's in better shape than he used to be, but if pressed to describe what kind of shape he was in, it's still pretty much "round".
I reached forward with the reins, midway up his neck, and leaned a bit forward. I never touched him with my legs; just the opposite, I was trying Very Hard NOT to touch him with the spurs at all.
He shifted into Sixth Gear. I could feel him both coil up and stretch out, close to the ground, flying. Oh. My.God. OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD!!!!!!! Yeah!!!!
About 20 feet before the downed tree, I started to yell "whoa" and sit back. He galloped on. I sat back more, really trying to grind my butt into the saddle, and took hold of the reins. We turned off to circle to the right, at a *slightly* slower gallop. I finally got him stopped about 20 feet from the gate back to the barn.
He walked a couple of steps, then jogged, and tried to go faster again. "No, no, we're done for the day", I said, and walked him on past the gate to the track on the other side of the field, to get him walked down a bit.
I let him stop and nosh a few times, too. He'd given me an incredible adrenaline rush, it was the least I could do. :)
I groomed Dusty first, giving him a long workover with the rubber mitt, really massaging his withers and shoulder and butt. He made the horse faces of appreciation.
I also wormed him, and he made the horse faces of disapproval: tense lips and chin, ears half-back, the hairy eyeball... completely disgusted. As usual, he would sniff but refused any and all treats for about 15-20 minutes afterwards. Shuffling carrot bits and Kashi Bar crumbs around in his grain bucket, he was a pitiable picture. But he got over it - they were gone when it was time to be turned out.
Tico'd been doing his usual jealousy faces at Dusty while I'd been giving Dusty attention, seesaw bucking in his stall: butt up, shoulder up, butt up, shoulder up, ears back, threatening to kick the wall (he's been seriously screamed at when he DOES kick the wall so he doesn't do it that often anymore).
He got growled at a bunch of times today, and each time - my attention now on him - his ears would go forward and he'd give my his angelic face, "Who, me? Wha?" and poke his nose out through the hole by the grain bucket, mugging for a treat. Brat. Sometimes, he got them. OK, most of the time. I'm a sucker for a cute face.
I put Dusty away and got Tico out. I brushed him, cleaned his feet, put on his leg wraps, saddled him up, coated him in fly spray, and headed outside. Of course, this all took more than an hour - I'm a slow groomer, and easily distracted - I like to play with him: tickle and kiss his nose, scritch his ears, make him move his legs by pointing at them, have him do silly tricks, for which he earns carrot bits, so he's a more than willing participant.
I mounted up in the indoor and we headed out the back door. About 5 steps out, he stopped.
Sometimes I indulge him. He likes to sight-see, so I sat still in the saddle while, head high, he gazed fixedly to the right. One of the trailers usually parked there was gone, maybe he was noticing that, I'm not sure. Then, turning to the left, he looked over in the direction of some of the turnouts, where horses were standing around, heads down, ignoring each other. Then again, to the right; then straight ahead.
I was getting a bit tired of the view, so I nudged him. He didn't budge. I nudged again. Nothing. I poked with the spurs and he woke up and started walking, just as Elaine, one of the other boarders, was walking towards us. "He's practicing to be a statue today", I said to Elaine, and she chuckled.
We wove on down the path between the turnouts, heading to the gate to the back field. The clover along side the turnouts was calling to him, I was preventing him from eating it, and so we sort of oozed along from one side of the path to the other, eventually making it to the back ring. Once there our path was a bit straighter - no grass to tempt him, and he knew that in that back field there was a lot of taller grass he could snipe a grab at walking along.
Have I mentioned that he's a pig?
Anyway, we got out to the back field finally, and started walking along. There are paths out there that go alongside the power lines, I was heading out to follow them. I had no other plan in mind - I considered going on the trails in the woods but I'd done that yesterday. I thought I might just take it easy - the view was wonderful, with some trees already turning red and yellow, and the taller golden stalks of grass waving with the easy breeze, the sun shining down... a perfect early fall day.
When we got to the part of the path that paralleled the power lines, I thought I'd ask for a trot. Tico willingly went into it, then up into a canter.
The wind was whistling by my ears, almost deafening, as he went into a full gallop. Wheeee! We galloped from the far end of the field up to where the path gets gravelly; that's where I asked him to stop. He did, eventually - my fat boy whose favorite gait is usually "whoa" had his head up, ears pricked, and actually pranced! He'd enjoyed himself.
I turned him around and we galloped off again, down the same path, until we got to where someone had dropped a tree across the path. I pulled him up (him still reluctant to stop), and we did it again. And again. Up and back.
I felt both afraid (he was, after all, the horse who helped me to invent the Superman Emergency Dismount) and super-alive. The wind whipped my face, stinging my cheeks. I know I'm 54 and shouldn't be riding like this. I know it's crazy and it's dangerous, and most importantly I know I'm mortal. The last time I rode a horse like this, I was an indestructable teen. And Dusty, in sedate hand-gallops, never felt this wild, this close to untamed.
On the final gallop, from the graveled area to the downed tree, I thought "I wonder if he's tired?" He's in better shape than he used to be, but if pressed to describe what kind of shape he was in, it's still pretty much "round".
I reached forward with the reins, midway up his neck, and leaned a bit forward. I never touched him with my legs; just the opposite, I was trying Very Hard NOT to touch him with the spurs at all.
He shifted into Sixth Gear. I could feel him both coil up and stretch out, close to the ground, flying. Oh. My.God. OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD!!!!!!! Yeah!!!!
About 20 feet before the downed tree, I started to yell "whoa" and sit back. He galloped on. I sat back more, really trying to grind my butt into the saddle, and took hold of the reins. We turned off to circle to the right, at a *slightly* slower gallop. I finally got him stopped about 20 feet from the gate back to the barn.
He walked a couple of steps, then jogged, and tried to go faster again. "No, no, we're done for the day", I said, and walked him on past the gate to the track on the other side of the field, to get him walked down a bit.
I let him stop and nosh a few times, too. He'd given me an incredible adrenaline rush, it was the least I could do. :)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Bats
This is not a story about horses. I've just had my memory jolted recently in regards to some close encounters of the bat kind, and I thought I'd write about them.
My parents (and after the divorce, my mother) owned an old, large, three-family house. The house had been built in the mid-eighteen hundreds, and had some decidedly old "features". Ceramic knobs on the beams in the basement were an integral part of the wiring, for instance.
We grew up in the first floor apartment; the other two apartments were both accessed on the second floor, with third floor rooms in each. In one of the apartments we inherited tenants with the house, and they were there almost until my mother passed away - one himself passing away, and the other moving into a nursing home just before my mother died.
We went through a number of tenants over the years in the other apartment. That apartment had a door in the ceiling of the third floor hallway right at the top of the stairs. It gave access to the attic - a regular door, not your typical attic door. In order to access it, you needed to place a ladder at the top of the stairs, beneath the door. If the ladder toppled, you'd go down about 20 stairs and end up sprawled in the bathroom.
Both apartments also had little crawlspaces into the attic with half doors up in the third floor rooms. When I was a kid I loved those little doors - they were like Munchkin doors.
We also had another set of tenants: bats. Quite a few of them. In the summer, in the early evening, we'd see them circling around, diving, veering, catching their mosquito supper.
Anything that ate mosquitoes is all right by me. I liked our bats.
Over the years, various tenants would report bat sightings. Once, the very-pregnant wife got a shock when she went to open a window, only to find a bat hanging from it. Our first inkling that the bats were active again would be panic-filled tenants pounding on our side-door which accessed the stairway to the upper apartments. Screaming in fear or anger or both, demanding death to bats - I always thought it was funny. Miserable brat, I was.
The attic was off-limits to tenants, so my father, the delegated bat-executioner, would climb up a ladder at the top of the stairs, open the door in the ceiling, and haul himself up. The attic space was maybe five and a half feet high, and my father 6'1", so he'd always have to crouch over. In some places, there wasn't any real floor, just cross beams.
He would open the hatch to the widow's walk to get some light in, as well as bring an electric torch. Beaming the light into all the nooks and crannies, he would try to find the bats (he claimed, though he never found any) and any holes where the bats got in and out; and if he found anything that looked a likely access point, he'd patch it or stuff something into it and declare victory. He'd tell the tenants again to not leave the Munchkin doors open, and not to go up into the attic or even open the door to it.
As far as he was concerned, if they ignored his warnings any bat visitations were on their head.
And the next night we'd still see the bats coming out of the eaves at dusk to feast on the mosquitoes.
Fast-forward a number of years. A tenant had been a problem, had been trying to intimidate and threaten my now failing mother. I'd had to get involved with the jerk - sometimes I would be there and he wouldn't know it. When he'd start hammering on my mother's door and screaming obscenities I'd whip the door open and snarl at him and he'd run up the stairs so fast you'd think I'd held a gun on him - the asswipe was too much of a coward to confront a young woman, only had the balls to harass an elderly one. After finally getting them out, my mother decided she didn't want another tenant.
But she was sick and getting frail, and I decided to move into that apartment to keep an eye on her, take her to her doctor's visits, and be close by if she needed help. I didn't give any thought to the bats - we hadn't had a report of a visit for a few years.
One hot summer night, asleep with nothing on me but the bedsheets, I woke up terrified: something had just gone from my knee to about my chest, a soupcon of a touch, a flittering, a tingle... and then was gone.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!!!" I thought to myself as I jammed my eyes closed, pulled the sheet over my head, and lay there trying to not move at all, straining to hear my attacker.
The room had gone ominously quiet. I lay perfectly still, too afraid to move. Then I heard it: scritch scritch scritchscritchscritch scritch...
Thoughts going through my mind: "What the hell is he doing?? Where is he? I really need to turn on the light! There's no way I'm going to move! Hello, stupid: he knows you're here, it's not like not moving is gaining you anything! Get a grip! Turn on the fucking light! It's probably a mouse!"
Finally, I managed to pull the covers down off my face and look around. The scritching noise abruptly stopped when my sheets rustled, and I turned my bedside lamp on. I sat up and saw no one.
Boy was I glad no one had been around to witness what felt like hours spent cowering under the sheets. Relieved, feeling a bit sheepish, but still with a little niggling fear that whoever it was was standing in the living room around the corner, out of sight, but there... I forced myself to move, to get up and look - to face my arch-nemesisisis.
Just before I put my foot to the floor, I looked down. There, almost completely camouflaged on the dark brown section of the rug at the foot of my bed was a small bat trying to act nonchalant.
I had no experience dealing with bats in my bedroom. Little did I know that I would live to acquire that experience... but I digress.
I didn't have any gloves handy and didn't want to touch him bare-handed. Going out to the kitchen, I grabbed a paper bag and a tennis racket.
I'm still not quite sure why a tennis racket, except that it gave me a couple more feet to put between my hand and the bat. Using it, I tried to coax it into the paper bag.
The bat was having none of that: he clung onto the rug for dear life.
I nudged a bit harder. He clung a bit more desperately.
Finally, I managed to dislodge him and quickly closed the top of the bag, hoping that he was in the bottom and not squished in the folds. I threw a robe on and flew downstairs, opened up the door, and with the opening facing away from me shook the bag.
No bat. I shook it again. Yup, something's in there. I tipped it over, nothing. I tapped the bottom of the bag, and finally, the bat flopped out. He seemed alive, but wasn't moving.
I left him on the porch, and checked the next day. He wasn't there anymore, and I really hope he survived.
That was the first visit. I got a few more through that summer, sometimes finding them clinging to curtains, even walking around (I think they were juveniles - they didn't appear to be able to fly).
Once, as I was cooking up a batch of chili and had just lifted the cover to check on it, one flew down from the stove fan and landed on my jeans pocket.
After I got over my surprise (it isn't every day a bat uses you as a perch), I started to head out my back door and down the stairs. As I was going down the stairs, the bat started to climb. Up my shirt. Slowly, inexhorably.
"Stay THERE! Stay THERE! Stay THERE!!" I was chanting with each step. My mother, sitting in her kitchen on the other side of the stairway, called out "Who are you talking to, hon?"
I didn't answer, I didn't want to make any extra noise and startle it. I stepped out onto the stoop, grabbed the bottom of my shirt and started to dance around, flipping the shirt madly around, jumping up and down. I can only imagine what that looked like to a casual observer.
Finally he got the message and let go. He also ended up on the porch, a bit more violently than I'd intended. When I went back to check after telling my mother what had happened, there was no sign of him.
When thinking about these bat visits and my dumping them on the stoop unceremoniously, I sometimes wonder if maybe they all were really too young to be outside. I hope Miss Kitty, our calico cat, wasn't responsible for them dying a horrible death after I tried my best to "save" them...
Odd that I dredged up this memory today - it's the 17th anniversary of my mother's death.
My parents (and after the divorce, my mother) owned an old, large, three-family house. The house had been built in the mid-eighteen hundreds, and had some decidedly old "features". Ceramic knobs on the beams in the basement were an integral part of the wiring, for instance.
We grew up in the first floor apartment; the other two apartments were both accessed on the second floor, with third floor rooms in each. In one of the apartments we inherited tenants with the house, and they were there almost until my mother passed away - one himself passing away, and the other moving into a nursing home just before my mother died.
We went through a number of tenants over the years in the other apartment. That apartment had a door in the ceiling of the third floor hallway right at the top of the stairs. It gave access to the attic - a regular door, not your typical attic door. In order to access it, you needed to place a ladder at the top of the stairs, beneath the door. If the ladder toppled, you'd go down about 20 stairs and end up sprawled in the bathroom.
Both apartments also had little crawlspaces into the attic with half doors up in the third floor rooms. When I was a kid I loved those little doors - they were like Munchkin doors.
We also had another set of tenants: bats. Quite a few of them. In the summer, in the early evening, we'd see them circling around, diving, veering, catching their mosquito supper.
Anything that ate mosquitoes is all right by me. I liked our bats.
Over the years, various tenants would report bat sightings. Once, the very-pregnant wife got a shock when she went to open a window, only to find a bat hanging from it. Our first inkling that the bats were active again would be panic-filled tenants pounding on our side-door which accessed the stairway to the upper apartments. Screaming in fear or anger or both, demanding death to bats - I always thought it was funny. Miserable brat, I was.
The attic was off-limits to tenants, so my father, the delegated bat-executioner, would climb up a ladder at the top of the stairs, open the door in the ceiling, and haul himself up. The attic space was maybe five and a half feet high, and my father 6'1", so he'd always have to crouch over. In some places, there wasn't any real floor, just cross beams.
He would open the hatch to the widow's walk to get some light in, as well as bring an electric torch. Beaming the light into all the nooks and crannies, he would try to find the bats (he claimed, though he never found any) and any holes where the bats got in and out; and if he found anything that looked a likely access point, he'd patch it or stuff something into it and declare victory. He'd tell the tenants again to not leave the Munchkin doors open, and not to go up into the attic or even open the door to it.
As far as he was concerned, if they ignored his warnings any bat visitations were on their head.
And the next night we'd still see the bats coming out of the eaves at dusk to feast on the mosquitoes.
Fast-forward a number of years. A tenant had been a problem, had been trying to intimidate and threaten my now failing mother. I'd had to get involved with the jerk - sometimes I would be there and he wouldn't know it. When he'd start hammering on my mother's door and screaming obscenities I'd whip the door open and snarl at him and he'd run up the stairs so fast you'd think I'd held a gun on him - the asswipe was too much of a coward to confront a young woman, only had the balls to harass an elderly one. After finally getting them out, my mother decided she didn't want another tenant.
But she was sick and getting frail, and I decided to move into that apartment to keep an eye on her, take her to her doctor's visits, and be close by if she needed help. I didn't give any thought to the bats - we hadn't had a report of a visit for a few years.
One hot summer night, asleep with nothing on me but the bedsheets, I woke up terrified: something had just gone from my knee to about my chest, a soupcon of a touch, a flittering, a tingle... and then was gone.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!!!" I thought to myself as I jammed my eyes closed, pulled the sheet over my head, and lay there trying to not move at all, straining to hear my attacker.
The room had gone ominously quiet. I lay perfectly still, too afraid to move. Then I heard it: scritch scritch scritchscritchscritch scritch...
Thoughts going through my mind: "What the hell is he doing?? Where is he? I really need to turn on the light! There's no way I'm going to move! Hello, stupid: he knows you're here, it's not like not moving is gaining you anything! Get a grip! Turn on the fucking light! It's probably a mouse!"
Finally, I managed to pull the covers down off my face and look around. The scritching noise abruptly stopped when my sheets rustled, and I turned my bedside lamp on. I sat up and saw no one.
Boy was I glad no one had been around to witness what felt like hours spent cowering under the sheets. Relieved, feeling a bit sheepish, but still with a little niggling fear that whoever it was was standing in the living room around the corner, out of sight, but there... I forced myself to move, to get up and look - to face my arch-nemesisisis.
Just before I put my foot to the floor, I looked down. There, almost completely camouflaged on the dark brown section of the rug at the foot of my bed was a small bat trying to act nonchalant.
I had no experience dealing with bats in my bedroom. Little did I know that I would live to acquire that experience... but I digress.
I didn't have any gloves handy and didn't want to touch him bare-handed. Going out to the kitchen, I grabbed a paper bag and a tennis racket.
I'm still not quite sure why a tennis racket, except that it gave me a couple more feet to put between my hand and the bat. Using it, I tried to coax it into the paper bag.
The bat was having none of that: he clung onto the rug for dear life.
I nudged a bit harder. He clung a bit more desperately.
Finally, I managed to dislodge him and quickly closed the top of the bag, hoping that he was in the bottom and not squished in the folds. I threw a robe on and flew downstairs, opened up the door, and with the opening facing away from me shook the bag.
No bat. I shook it again. Yup, something's in there. I tipped it over, nothing. I tapped the bottom of the bag, and finally, the bat flopped out. He seemed alive, but wasn't moving.
I left him on the porch, and checked the next day. He wasn't there anymore, and I really hope he survived.
That was the first visit. I got a few more through that summer, sometimes finding them clinging to curtains, even walking around (I think they were juveniles - they didn't appear to be able to fly).
Once, as I was cooking up a batch of chili and had just lifted the cover to check on it, one flew down from the stove fan and landed on my jeans pocket.
After I got over my surprise (it isn't every day a bat uses you as a perch), I started to head out my back door and down the stairs. As I was going down the stairs, the bat started to climb. Up my shirt. Slowly, inexhorably.
"Stay THERE! Stay THERE! Stay THERE!!" I was chanting with each step. My mother, sitting in her kitchen on the other side of the stairway, called out "Who are you talking to, hon?"
I didn't answer, I didn't want to make any extra noise and startle it. I stepped out onto the stoop, grabbed the bottom of my shirt and started to dance around, flipping the shirt madly around, jumping up and down. I can only imagine what that looked like to a casual observer.
Finally he got the message and let go. He also ended up on the porch, a bit more violently than I'd intended. When I went back to check after telling my mother what had happened, there was no sign of him.
When thinking about these bat visits and my dumping them on the stoop unceremoniously, I sometimes wonder if maybe they all were really too young to be outside. I hope Miss Kitty, our calico cat, wasn't responsible for them dying a horrible death after I tried my best to "save" them...
Odd that I dredged up this memory today - it's the 17th anniversary of my mother's death.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Buzz and Jetty
Buzz died after falling down the shit hole. Not immediately, but it was the beginning of the end.
He'd always warned us: "Watch your step, don't fall down the shit hole!"
I suppose I should explain. The barn he was renting was a real New England old style, and really old, barn. It was built in such a way that the main entry was level with the drive while one side of the barn faced the street. The other side faced the field, and on the field side there was a whole other level of the barn evident - a basement of sorts. In past years it had been retrofitted by the owners for I think pigs; before that it probably had had stalls on that level.
The barn was old enough that the upper floor, though the planks were thick and solid and worn so smooth that they almost seemed to be one big plank, sagged quite a bit. Buzz was constantly vigilant about checking the joists he had put in in the basement that were holding the floor up; but where joists weren't, dips were. It was a floor with character.
There was a trap door in that floor, right outside the tack room - about 2 1/2 ft square and about 6" thick, with a big iron ring to lift it up with. In the winter, when the snow piled up so high that trucking wheelbarrows full of manure out to the back of the field became impossible, Buzz would lift the trap door and dump the manure down that hole. In the spring, with the snow gone, he'd spend weeks traipsing it all back out to the back of the field.
That was the shit hole. In the dead of winter he'd hoist the heavy trap up with a hay hook looped through the ring, to dump the brimming wheelbarrows. It seemed as if he was opening up a portal to the pits of hell: the malodorous steam would billow up in the cold air, the warmth of it hitting our faces as we giggled nervously, trying from a few steps back to see down through it to the manure mountain below. We were all a bit afraid of and fascinated by the shit hole.
So it's kind of ironic that Buzz himself fell down the shit hole. It must have been late winter, since he didn't fall too far, but he did scrape his leg up badly. He didn't take care of it, it got gangrenous, and he ended up in the hospital. He delegated care of the horses to Karen, since she lived so close it only made sense, I suppose. My memories of this time are a bit hazy; I think I also had a new boyfriend at the same time, my first, and so my attention was elsewhere. A typical self-involved teen.
I don't have a good sense of the time line: I think he was in the hospital for a couple of months before he finally died; but I also seem to remember he came out for a bit, then went back in. He had lost a lot of weight before he died, so he probably had more wrong with him than that he'd fallen down the shit hole, but I don't think anyone ever told us (or at least me) what the whole truth was. His was the first wake I'd ever attended, and I remember thinking how that body wasn't Buzz at all - it was too tiny, and too waxy, and too wrong.
After he died, his family and Karen argued about the horses. She said Buzz had told her she could keep them; I don't know if he did or he didn't, but he never put it in writing and they were his family so they had the last word.
They had the oldest ones - Little Dick and the little gray pony Smokey - trucked off to the killers, and I suppose must have sold most of the others, though I don't know that for a fact. I do know that they ended up keeping Jetty and a little white welsh pony named Jessie.
I don't know why they kept them - they had no love for them - unless it was just because Karen had been such a pain in the ass they did it for spite. And because I was Karen's friend, I wasn't allowed to see Jetty either.
I don't remember how it happened - I think I just got up the nerve to try again, and stopped at Buzz's ex-wife's house where they were being kept - but about a year later I was allowed to see Jetty.
They'd almost killed him. He was so thin, I could see all his ribs, and his hip bones jutted out like wire coat hangers. I begged them to let me start bringing food, and they said "Sure, it's your money". So I started bringing food for Jetty and Jessie.
For about a month, I'd bring over grain and some hay. I'd gotten maybe a hundred pounds back on Jetty - his condition wasn't great, but he wasn't quite so skeletal any more. For the first time in over a year I climbed on his back for this photo -
I'd thought the photo in the previous post was my only one of Jetty; I'd forgotten this one, which I just found recently looking through an old photo album.
He seemed so frail, at first I wasn't sure if he could support my weight, and I didn't want to ask him to move. But he knew he had a rider up, and he arched his neck and tucked his head in, proudly. I got off him quickly but I was encouraged: he seemed to be rallying. I went home happy that day.
A few days later, I brought over some worm medicine for them. I mixed a bit in Jetty's and a bit in Jessie's grain. Jetty ate it hungrily, but Jessie was suspicious. I left it there, hoping she'd eat it later. Neither one of them had been wormed in a long time.
After I left, Buzz's family saw that she wasn't eating her grain and, even though I'd told them that I'd mixed wormer in it, fed that to Jetty as well - they didn't want any to go to waste - as if they'd been the ones to actually put up the money for it.
Jetty colicked that night - the double dose of worm medicine (and it was very harsh stuff back then) was too much for his already stressed system. They called me, and I walked him for hours, and I called Billy Cash, Buzz's friend, who came over and got mineral oil into him, and whiskey (these were the things the old-timers did for colic), and we walked and walked into the night.
I went home exhausted; he didn't seem as stressed so they told me to go home. The next morning they called to tell me he'd died.
He was a good horse.
He'd always warned us: "Watch your step, don't fall down the shit hole!"
I suppose I should explain. The barn he was renting was a real New England old style, and really old, barn. It was built in such a way that the main entry was level with the drive while one side of the barn faced the street. The other side faced the field, and on the field side there was a whole other level of the barn evident - a basement of sorts. In past years it had been retrofitted by the owners for I think pigs; before that it probably had had stalls on that level.
The barn was old enough that the upper floor, though the planks were thick and solid and worn so smooth that they almost seemed to be one big plank, sagged quite a bit. Buzz was constantly vigilant about checking the joists he had put in in the basement that were holding the floor up; but where joists weren't, dips were. It was a floor with character.
There was a trap door in that floor, right outside the tack room - about 2 1/2 ft square and about 6" thick, with a big iron ring to lift it up with. In the winter, when the snow piled up so high that trucking wheelbarrows full of manure out to the back of the field became impossible, Buzz would lift the trap door and dump the manure down that hole. In the spring, with the snow gone, he'd spend weeks traipsing it all back out to the back of the field.
That was the shit hole. In the dead of winter he'd hoist the heavy trap up with a hay hook looped through the ring, to dump the brimming wheelbarrows. It seemed as if he was opening up a portal to the pits of hell: the malodorous steam would billow up in the cold air, the warmth of it hitting our faces as we giggled nervously, trying from a few steps back to see down through it to the manure mountain below. We were all a bit afraid of and fascinated by the shit hole.
So it's kind of ironic that Buzz himself fell down the shit hole. It must have been late winter, since he didn't fall too far, but he did scrape his leg up badly. He didn't take care of it, it got gangrenous, and he ended up in the hospital. He delegated care of the horses to Karen, since she lived so close it only made sense, I suppose. My memories of this time are a bit hazy; I think I also had a new boyfriend at the same time, my first, and so my attention was elsewhere. A typical self-involved teen.
I don't have a good sense of the time line: I think he was in the hospital for a couple of months before he finally died; but I also seem to remember he came out for a bit, then went back in. He had lost a lot of weight before he died, so he probably had more wrong with him than that he'd fallen down the shit hole, but I don't think anyone ever told us (or at least me) what the whole truth was. His was the first wake I'd ever attended, and I remember thinking how that body wasn't Buzz at all - it was too tiny, and too waxy, and too wrong.
After he died, his family and Karen argued about the horses. She said Buzz had told her she could keep them; I don't know if he did or he didn't, but he never put it in writing and they were his family so they had the last word.
They had the oldest ones - Little Dick and the little gray pony Smokey - trucked off to the killers, and I suppose must have sold most of the others, though I don't know that for a fact. I do know that they ended up keeping Jetty and a little white welsh pony named Jessie.
I don't know why they kept them - they had no love for them - unless it was just because Karen had been such a pain in the ass they did it for spite. And because I was Karen's friend, I wasn't allowed to see Jetty either.
I don't remember how it happened - I think I just got up the nerve to try again, and stopped at Buzz's ex-wife's house where they were being kept - but about a year later I was allowed to see Jetty.
They'd almost killed him. He was so thin, I could see all his ribs, and his hip bones jutted out like wire coat hangers. I begged them to let me start bringing food, and they said "Sure, it's your money". So I started bringing food for Jetty and Jessie.
For about a month, I'd bring over grain and some hay. I'd gotten maybe a hundred pounds back on Jetty - his condition wasn't great, but he wasn't quite so skeletal any more. For the first time in over a year I climbed on his back for this photo -
I'd thought the photo in the previous post was my only one of Jetty; I'd forgotten this one, which I just found recently looking through an old photo album.He seemed so frail, at first I wasn't sure if he could support my weight, and I didn't want to ask him to move. But he knew he had a rider up, and he arched his neck and tucked his head in, proudly. I got off him quickly but I was encouraged: he seemed to be rallying. I went home happy that day.
A few days later, I brought over some worm medicine for them. I mixed a bit in Jetty's and a bit in Jessie's grain. Jetty ate it hungrily, but Jessie was suspicious. I left it there, hoping she'd eat it later. Neither one of them had been wormed in a long time.
After I left, Buzz's family saw that she wasn't eating her grain and, even though I'd told them that I'd mixed wormer in it, fed that to Jetty as well - they didn't want any to go to waste - as if they'd been the ones to actually put up the money for it.
Jetty colicked that night - the double dose of worm medicine (and it was very harsh stuff back then) was too much for his already stressed system. They called me, and I walked him for hours, and I called Billy Cash, Buzz's friend, who came over and got mineral oil into him, and whiskey (these were the things the old-timers did for colic), and we walked and walked into the night.
I went home exhausted; he didn't seem as stressed so they told me to go home. The next morning they called to tell me he'd died.
He was a good horse.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Tale of Two Slushes
Sent to the younger sister of one of my partners in crime at Buzz's barn. She'd posted about just watching True Grit again, and that her favorite scene was where John Wayne puts the reins in his teeth and charges at the villains with a rifle in one hand and a pistol in the other.
I don't know if Karen ever told you about the time we went to the variety store on 129 (Mike's Corner Variety, right?) for slushes, against Buzz's direct orders to stay off the road.
She and I think it was Cherry Berry went in for the slushes, while I held the horses. When they came back, Karen handed me my slush and hers, so I put the reins in my teeth (on Jetty) and she went to climb on (I think Heidi).
Heidi started to move off, so Jetty thought we were going home, and turned and started trotting/prancing off (remember how he never walked)?
My reins-in-my-teeth ride ended less than stellarly: I fell off, still clutching the slushes, right on the only hard part of that mostly dirt parking lot: a big slab of concrete. Karen and Cherry raced off to get Jetty who was running down the middle of 129 (we didn't want him running into the barn riderless, or Buzz would have banished us) while I lay on the concrete moaning.
They caught him, and brought him back, and I rode him home (really wishing he'd just friggin WALK for a change). I'd bruised my tailbone, and it was probably the most painful injury I'd ever had.
Here's a photo of Jetty - the only one I have, sadly. He was much more handsome than this Polaroid made him appear; he had lovely proportions, not a huge head and small butt. That's Karen on Honey, behind us.
I don't know if Karen ever told you about the time we went to the variety store on 129 (Mike's Corner Variety, right?) for slushes, against Buzz's direct orders to stay off the road.
She and I think it was Cherry Berry went in for the slushes, while I held the horses. When they came back, Karen handed me my slush and hers, so I put the reins in my teeth (on Jetty) and she went to climb on (I think Heidi).
Heidi started to move off, so Jetty thought we were going home, and turned and started trotting/prancing off (remember how he never walked)?
My reins-in-my-teeth ride ended less than stellarly: I fell off, still clutching the slushes, right on the only hard part of that mostly dirt parking lot: a big slab of concrete. Karen and Cherry raced off to get Jetty who was running down the middle of 129 (we didn't want him running into the barn riderless, or Buzz would have banished us) while I lay on the concrete moaning.
They caught him, and brought him back, and I rode him home (really wishing he'd just friggin WALK for a change). I'd bruised my tailbone, and it was probably the most painful injury I'd ever had.
Here's a photo of Jetty - the only one I have, sadly. He was much more handsome than this Polaroid made him appear; he had lovely proportions, not a huge head and small butt. That's Karen on Honey, behind us.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Recent Day at Crystal Farm
It was late morning. When I got there, I was told that Tico had already been turned out and Dusty hadn’t gone out because the turnouts had been too wet in the morning.
No big deal - I figured, switch Dusty for Tico in that turnout, Dusty will get to stretch his legs and I can ride Tico.
When I saw Dusty in his stall, I changed my mind: he was coated in mud and loose hair. I decided I’d vacuum him first (I have a Shop Vac just for that use) and get the dead hair and mud off him, then I'd switch them around.
There was a LOT of loose hair and dirt, I had to empty the vacuum after doing one side of him, then again after the other.
Of course a few carrots and Kashi bars were passed his way all the while, and praise for being such a good boy, just standing there. Then I picked his feet and we started to go out.
It was then that I saw Tico in all his muddy splendor.
I hadn’t recognized him at first – he was so coated in mud I wasn’t sure if it was Tico or the appaloosa Comet, another boarder, I was seeing. But there was a blue halter on the muddy face, and when I called his head came up and he came running over.
The switch went well - Tico can sometimes be a twit with Dusty, he's very jealous of any treats Dusty gets, and has been known to act out about it in his stall. I didn't want to see any such bad behavior with them out in the turnout, so I made sure to give Tico a treat, switch the lead line, and keep a good hold of his halter to make him pay attention - and he did.
The amount of dried mud on him, I didn’t want to just move it around and have it end up crusting on his skin so I decided to vacuum him too.
This was not a decision I made without some trepidation. He’s not good about being vacuumed and we've had some cross-tie breaking incidents involving the vacuum.
The vacuum has never done anything to deserve this kind of attitude.
While I've been accused of being a bit of a fluffbunny in my dealings with horses, I don't have a lot of patience with a horse who was good about something *once*, and then not. He'd apparently come to the conclusion after some thought that he didn't care for being vacuumed. Breaking crossties and going on walkabout on the property was definitely the option he preferred when the vacuum was presented.
Not being vacuumed was not an option as far as I was concerned. Still, I just didn’t feel like having to fix broken crossties again; so Tico, the vacuum, and I (with a pocket full of carrot bits), all went into his stall together.
I turned the vacuum on. He eyeballed the vacuum and cowered against the wall. He did a little tippy-hoof dance, and shot me the stink eye. I produced a carrot, and approached, vacuum nozzle in hand. The carrot reached his face as the nozzle touched his skin. His skin jumped, but he stayed put.
We continued this approach, for a bit - he'd get a piece of carrot if the eyeball was too buggy, but the vacuum was relentless. When he'd start to really get himself wound up, turning, or backing up, I'd growl "Whoa!" and he'd stop - he'd listen. Which makes me even more sure that it was all an act: if he was truly afraid he'd have knocked me down and gotten the hell outa Dodge.
I had to get him turned around to get the other side, and it all started again of course. The equine brain is a wonderful thing: things they see with only the left eye are completely surprising when they're turned around and catch their first glimpse - again - this time with the right eye.
With the continued application of well-timed carrot bits, we got through the ordeal. By the time I was done, he was still standing against one wall, but with his head down, relaxed.
So I took him out onto the crossties, and noticed a big nasty streak of black on the inside of his back leg. Crap! Out came the warm water, and he got a quick cleaning *down there*. :)
Of course this all took some time and I had things to do. I debated not riding at all, but decided I’d just do 15 minutes. I brought him out back, and we trotted and cantered a bit, and he was pretty good – a bit high headed, but moving up and not doing anything really naughty. There were gusts of wind, and everyone knows they carry horse-killing monsters, but all in all he was pretty well behaved.
I was just about to go back to the barn, but I thought I’d try something.
One of the other boarders had set up some jumps out back, including a tiny thing – basically they’d taken a couple of the X-shaped bottoms from some jump standards, turned them on their sides and set a rail across them. It was about one foot, maybe a foot and a half high.
Since this is a horse who doesn't like lifting his feet up all that high (and so every so often trips over things real or imaginary) I decided I’d have him walk over it, to get him to lift his legs.
We walked up to it. I gave him a chance to really look at it.
The first time, he bumped his front legs, not lifting them up high enough. He stopped for a moment after getting his front legs over, then tried his backs.
With his back legs again, he rapped against the rail. I think he was hoping he’d knock it down with one of his back legs and wouldn’t have to step up with the other, because he kind of ended up almost standing on it on the way over, and then getting a bit tangled in it. It stayed right where it was.
He didn’t like that at all.
I asked him do it again. His front legs he lifted right up and over, quite handily.
Then we stopped. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head.
I didn’t do anything, just sat there waiting to see what he’d do.
He started to move... sideways. As nice a sidepass as you’d like to see. Until we got to the X, which was of course wider and higher than the rail itself.
He stopped again, thinking. He must have stood that way another 20 seconds, before I gave him a little nudge.
He *very* carefully lifted first one back leg, then the other, up over the rail, not even a tap.
For that, he got to grab some grass on our way back to the barn.
No big deal - I figured, switch Dusty for Tico in that turnout, Dusty will get to stretch his legs and I can ride Tico.
When I saw Dusty in his stall, I changed my mind: he was coated in mud and loose hair. I decided I’d vacuum him first (I have a Shop Vac just for that use) and get the dead hair and mud off him, then I'd switch them around.
There was a LOT of loose hair and dirt, I had to empty the vacuum after doing one side of him, then again after the other.
Of course a few carrots and Kashi bars were passed his way all the while, and praise for being such a good boy, just standing there. Then I picked his feet and we started to go out.
It was then that I saw Tico in all his muddy splendor.
I hadn’t recognized him at first – he was so coated in mud I wasn’t sure if it was Tico or the appaloosa Comet, another boarder, I was seeing. But there was a blue halter on the muddy face, and when I called his head came up and he came running over.
The switch went well - Tico can sometimes be a twit with Dusty, he's very jealous of any treats Dusty gets, and has been known to act out about it in his stall. I didn't want to see any such bad behavior with them out in the turnout, so I made sure to give Tico a treat, switch the lead line, and keep a good hold of his halter to make him pay attention - and he did.
The amount of dried mud on him, I didn’t want to just move it around and have it end up crusting on his skin so I decided to vacuum him too.
This was not a decision I made without some trepidation. He’s not good about being vacuumed and we've had some cross-tie breaking incidents involving the vacuum.
The vacuum has never done anything to deserve this kind of attitude.
While I've been accused of being a bit of a fluffbunny in my dealings with horses, I don't have a lot of patience with a horse who was good about something *once*, and then not. He'd apparently come to the conclusion after some thought that he didn't care for being vacuumed. Breaking crossties and going on walkabout on the property was definitely the option he preferred when the vacuum was presented.
Not being vacuumed was not an option as far as I was concerned. Still, I just didn’t feel like having to fix broken crossties again; so Tico, the vacuum, and I (with a pocket full of carrot bits), all went into his stall together.
I turned the vacuum on. He eyeballed the vacuum and cowered against the wall. He did a little tippy-hoof dance, and shot me the stink eye. I produced a carrot, and approached, vacuum nozzle in hand. The carrot reached his face as the nozzle touched his skin. His skin jumped, but he stayed put.
We continued this approach, for a bit - he'd get a piece of carrot if the eyeball was too buggy, but the vacuum was relentless. When he'd start to really get himself wound up, turning, or backing up, I'd growl "Whoa!" and he'd stop - he'd listen. Which makes me even more sure that it was all an act: if he was truly afraid he'd have knocked me down and gotten the hell outa Dodge.
I had to get him turned around to get the other side, and it all started again of course. The equine brain is a wonderful thing: things they see with only the left eye are completely surprising when they're turned around and catch their first glimpse - again - this time with the right eye.
With the continued application of well-timed carrot bits, we got through the ordeal. By the time I was done, he was still standing against one wall, but with his head down, relaxed.
So I took him out onto the crossties, and noticed a big nasty streak of black on the inside of his back leg. Crap! Out came the warm water, and he got a quick cleaning *down there*. :)
Of course this all took some time and I had things to do. I debated not riding at all, but decided I’d just do 15 minutes. I brought him out back, and we trotted and cantered a bit, and he was pretty good – a bit high headed, but moving up and not doing anything really naughty. There were gusts of wind, and everyone knows they carry horse-killing monsters, but all in all he was pretty well behaved.
I was just about to go back to the barn, but I thought I’d try something.
One of the other boarders had set up some jumps out back, including a tiny thing – basically they’d taken a couple of the X-shaped bottoms from some jump standards, turned them on their sides and set a rail across them. It was about one foot, maybe a foot and a half high.
Since this is a horse who doesn't like lifting his feet up all that high (and so every so often trips over things real or imaginary) I decided I’d have him walk over it, to get him to lift his legs.
We walked up to it. I gave him a chance to really look at it.
The first time, he bumped his front legs, not lifting them up high enough. He stopped for a moment after getting his front legs over, then tried his backs.
With his back legs again, he rapped against the rail. I think he was hoping he’d knock it down with one of his back legs and wouldn’t have to step up with the other, because he kind of ended up almost standing on it on the way over, and then getting a bit tangled in it. It stayed right where it was.
He didn’t like that at all.
I asked him do it again. His front legs he lifted right up and over, quite handily.
Then we stopped. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head.
I didn’t do anything, just sat there waiting to see what he’d do.
He started to move... sideways. As nice a sidepass as you’d like to see. Until we got to the X, which was of course wider and higher than the rail itself.
He stopped again, thinking. He must have stood that way another 20 seconds, before I gave him a little nudge.
He *very* carefully lifted first one back leg, then the other, up over the rail, not even a tap.
For that, he got to grab some grass on our way back to the barn.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Jetty
I'm going to be skipping around a bit, I guess. I was just reading a post from mugwumpchronicles.blogspot.com about an old horse named Annie, and she reminded me of an old horse who taught me a lot, when I was growing up.
He was one of Buzz's horses, and named Jetty.
I've found the only photo I have of Jetty, me riding him. Karen is on Honey, the palomino.
He was actually much more handsome than this Polaroid makes him look. His head was not that huge, and his butt not that small. I remember being appalled at this when it was taken, but I'm glad now that I saved it.
Jetty was not in the usual string of horses we little girls were allowed to ride. To ride Jetty, you had to earn the privilege. I worked my way up the ranks, first with Zero the sociopath pony, then Oscar the ugly palomino (who taught me that a horse will ALWAYS run back to the barn), then Little Dick the hackney stud pony (who helped put me on Buzz's good side, winning him 6-packs of Schlitz from unsuspecting patsies), until I reached the pinnacle: I was Jetty's rider. No one else was allowed to ride Jetty but me.
Jetty was beautiful. He was about 16H. A big red bay with black mane and tail, his coat shone dark copper in the sun. He was also pretty old - Buzz said he was about 25, 26 years old. When you looked at his back, you could believe it: he had a prominent wither with a bit of a swayback. He'd had a bowed tendon at some point in his life but it was now fully healed; and though it didn't bother him, he would twist his left foot out to the side in a little flipper-like movement when he moved.
Leading him along, he looked like a regular old horse, but once I clambered onto his back, he become the quintessential "noble mount", head tucked, neck arched, flaring nostrils - bigger than life, awe-inspiring. This horse never walked. His slow speed was "prance", and after that we had trot, then an incredible extended trot, then canter and gallop.
And then there was the "canter in place": if I held him back and asked for a canter with my leg, he would - only we wouldn't go anywhere. He'd also switch leads at a touch of my leg, every stride if I asked.
Idiot that I was back then, I didn't realize that a lot of what Jetty did was dressage - and higher level, at that.
What Buzz told us of his history was this: he'd been a lead horse at the track, and had been owned by Billy Cash, a track blacksmith at Suffolk Downs (I think it was Suffolk, not Rockingham). Buzz said he'd bowed the tendon there, and Billy Cash was going to have him put down because it was a bad bow and he didn't think he'd be able to get him sound.
But Buzz, who'd been trying to get Billy Cash to sell him for a long time, persuaded Billy to give Jetty to him. He wanted to try to get him sound.
And this is what he did: he set up a big sling, and supported Jetty in that sling for weeks to keep the weight off his leg, while wrapping it every day, until finally Jetty walked off sound. And aside from the flipper movement to the side, you wouldn't have known the leg had been injured.
This all happened before I started going to Buzz's barn. I hung on every word as he described putting up the sling, and getting it around Jetty's belly, and how some horses can't be slung up like that because they panic but Jetty was a perfect patient and he brought him around. Then he'd give Jetty a beer.
We all accepted Buzz's story because we were kids, and it sounded good to us. And it was all "a few years ago", we couldn't conceive of the possibility that Jetty's history could go back further. It's only in retrospect, thinking about the way that horse could move, that leads me to believe there had to have been more.
He was a good horse.
We would ride down to the Old Airport in Billerica: me on Jetty; Karen on either Honey (a palomino mare Buzz had brought home one day from the Shrewsbury Auction) or Heidi, a grade mare Buzz told us was Little Dick's daughter; Cherrie on either Heidi or another horse (I'm having trouble remembering all their names, sadly).
The ride over, Jetty would start to lather up: he never stopped prancing, you see. Karen would sing - usually "Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo", really loudly and really off-key. We'd laugh and joke, talking about family and boys and school and everything else. The ride down Aldrich Road always seemed both shorter than expected and longer than it was the day before, because we all anticipated what was to come. Even the horses would start to get excited as we approached the turn-off.
Turning in to a tree-lined path, we crossed through woods towards "the Pits". These were deep holes in the ground where we believed granite had been taken out years before, and that filled with water in the spring. There were often a bunch of older kids hanging out there, drinking and carrying on - it was always a bit scary passing them. But beyond them, we would arrive at the long, wide dirt path that went behind the abandoned hangar on Hopkins Street.
There, we'd race. Riding like indians and pretending we were jockeys, crouched over necks, their manes whipping our faces, our own hair streaming behind us and our grins wide and wild, we'd race until the dirt road ran out.
Then we'd turn around and do it again.
Jetty never won, though he tried. I'm not sure if it was age or that he'd pranced for nearly two miles, but I always was a little sad for him - I could tell he wanted to be fastest, he wanted to win, for me.
He was a good horse.
We had a lot of adventures over at the Old Airport. Hopefully I'll write about them sooner than I did this one.
He was one of Buzz's horses, and named Jetty.
I've found the only photo I have of Jetty, me riding him. Karen is on Honey, the palomino.
He was actually much more handsome than this Polaroid makes him look. His head was not that huge, and his butt not that small. I remember being appalled at this when it was taken, but I'm glad now that I saved it.
Jetty was not in the usual string of horses we little girls were allowed to ride. To ride Jetty, you had to earn the privilege. I worked my way up the ranks, first with Zero the sociopath pony, then Oscar the ugly palomino (who taught me that a horse will ALWAYS run back to the barn), then Little Dick the hackney stud pony (who helped put me on Buzz's good side, winning him 6-packs of Schlitz from unsuspecting patsies), until I reached the pinnacle: I was Jetty's rider. No one else was allowed to ride Jetty but me.
Jetty was beautiful. He was about 16H. A big red bay with black mane and tail, his coat shone dark copper in the sun. He was also pretty old - Buzz said he was about 25, 26 years old. When you looked at his back, you could believe it: he had a prominent wither with a bit of a swayback. He'd had a bowed tendon at some point in his life but it was now fully healed; and though it didn't bother him, he would twist his left foot out to the side in a little flipper-like movement when he moved.
Leading him along, he looked like a regular old horse, but once I clambered onto his back, he become the quintessential "noble mount", head tucked, neck arched, flaring nostrils - bigger than life, awe-inspiring. This horse never walked. His slow speed was "prance", and after that we had trot, then an incredible extended trot, then canter and gallop.
And then there was the "canter in place": if I held him back and asked for a canter with my leg, he would - only we wouldn't go anywhere. He'd also switch leads at a touch of my leg, every stride if I asked.
Idiot that I was back then, I didn't realize that a lot of what Jetty did was dressage - and higher level, at that.
What Buzz told us of his history was this: he'd been a lead horse at the track, and had been owned by Billy Cash, a track blacksmith at Suffolk Downs (I think it was Suffolk, not Rockingham). Buzz said he'd bowed the tendon there, and Billy Cash was going to have him put down because it was a bad bow and he didn't think he'd be able to get him sound.
But Buzz, who'd been trying to get Billy Cash to sell him for a long time, persuaded Billy to give Jetty to him. He wanted to try to get him sound.
And this is what he did: he set up a big sling, and supported Jetty in that sling for weeks to keep the weight off his leg, while wrapping it every day, until finally Jetty walked off sound. And aside from the flipper movement to the side, you wouldn't have known the leg had been injured.
This all happened before I started going to Buzz's barn. I hung on every word as he described putting up the sling, and getting it around Jetty's belly, and how some horses can't be slung up like that because they panic but Jetty was a perfect patient and he brought him around. Then he'd give Jetty a beer.
We all accepted Buzz's story because we were kids, and it sounded good to us. And it was all "a few years ago", we couldn't conceive of the possibility that Jetty's history could go back further. It's only in retrospect, thinking about the way that horse could move, that leads me to believe there had to have been more.
He was a good horse.
We would ride down to the Old Airport in Billerica: me on Jetty; Karen on either Honey (a palomino mare Buzz had brought home one day from the Shrewsbury Auction) or Heidi, a grade mare Buzz told us was Little Dick's daughter; Cherrie on either Heidi or another horse (I'm having trouble remembering all their names, sadly).
The ride over, Jetty would start to lather up: he never stopped prancing, you see. Karen would sing - usually "Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo", really loudly and really off-key. We'd laugh and joke, talking about family and boys and school and everything else. The ride down Aldrich Road always seemed both shorter than expected and longer than it was the day before, because we all anticipated what was to come. Even the horses would start to get excited as we approached the turn-off.
Turning in to a tree-lined path, we crossed through woods towards "the Pits". These were deep holes in the ground where we believed granite had been taken out years before, and that filled with water in the spring. There were often a bunch of older kids hanging out there, drinking and carrying on - it was always a bit scary passing them. But beyond them, we would arrive at the long, wide dirt path that went behind the abandoned hangar on Hopkins Street.
There, we'd race. Riding like indians and pretending we were jockeys, crouched over necks, their manes whipping our faces, our own hair streaming behind us and our grins wide and wild, we'd race until the dirt road ran out.
Then we'd turn around and do it again.
Jetty never won, though he tried. I'm not sure if it was age or that he'd pranced for nearly two miles, but I always was a little sad for him - I could tell he wanted to be fastest, he wanted to win, for me.
He was a good horse.
We had a lot of adventures over at the Old Airport. Hopefully I'll write about them sooner than I did this one.
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