9:00 AM - out of bed, shower and shave. Quick comb of wet hair, pull on fresh
laundered white t-shirt. Step into faded "cowboy cut" Wrangler jeans, pull on
some scuffed, dirt-caked 'Tony Lama' roper boots and White Straw Cowboy hat.
Grab the book I've been reading, and a thermos. Look out the window, guessing
weather. Glorious sunshine. Down and out to the street. Slight breeze and feels
like 70's on thermometer - perfection. Around the corner to Ford pickup truck.
Toss book and thermos on old style bench seat. Pull down Sunglasses from visor.
Coffee!..yes coffee! Two blocks down to gas station/mini mart. Fill a to-go cup and
thermos both. Outside and pull down tailgate, sit and light a smoke. Sip hot coffee
and feel the caffeine do it's work. Slow starter here, a diesel engine requires
some warm up. Think of the day. Finished with the Monday to Friday corporate
grind. Respite from battles with software and their computer hosts. Watching
traffic - where are all these people going? Each a different destination and the
moments of their day part of the grand play in its performance.
Life's rich pageant.
Motor off two blocks, turn left and drive Front St. along the river. Glance
out at those weekend boaters floating along on pontoons. Coolers full of beer
and food. Barbecues and jet skis. A pleasant way to spend a Saturday, but
for me there is a young 'Medicine Hat' Paint Horse in my care whose needs are
joy for me to fulfill. Turn right onto bridge, on RT 11/15, in fifteen minutes farm
country will fill the windshield. Keep on going? One will pass through Gettysburg,
Pa. - town and environs the legacy of our greatest struggle. Too many ghosts,
one can feel a somber presence on the brightest days there. Keep on and soon
enough the white fenced aristocracy of Maryland 'horse country' will be visible.
Not my destination though, a tiny hamlet known as Dillsburg is over the next
rise. Pull off and into parking lot of local supermarket. Straight to the produce
section for three of biggest bags of carrots available. Over to Deli for ready-made
sandwiches, through snack aisle for chips and pretzels, Dairy section for gallon
of iced tea. Quick and efficient, on to "10 items or less" lane. Dump these
as the "cute as a button" teenage girl working checkout observes my purchases,
then me and inquires "Do you have a horse?" "Yes I do" smiling at her.
"I want one SO BAD!" "Keep believing that Darlin, I'm sure I'll see you
riding around here somewhere " Her smile so bright I feel like Santa Claus.
Back on the highway, two miles down and take exit for a winding
county road. Such a pretty drive, looking out at green fields and young corn.
Over one more rise and turn up a gravel drive. Stop outside the barn. Turn
off ignition and listen. Quiet, no vehicles around, everyone off somewhere.
No other boarders about, the place is my private Idaho. Grab my bags ,book
and thermos. Head into open doors of barn south end. See straight through to
open north end doors. Stalls empty as they should be. Morning feed come and
gone. Geldings and Mares turned out together - no studs here. Older and younger
horses mixed - all according to the pecking order we know so well. Who is
buddies with who? Yes they can be so cliquish, but then are we much better?
Into the tack room, open fridge and place goods inside. Stand and smell
the leather. Bridles and bits, saddles, pads and blankets, reins split or one
piece. Toolboxes of grooming supplies. Saddles on stands, it must be said
I got lucky with mine. It is a roper's saddle, fit for my ultimate goal.
Bought it from a boarder here. Money not an issue for him as it is for
me. Billy Cook Saddlery of Oklahoma - not a Mercedes Benz but perhaps
a Cadillac. Had one month's use, then retired for want of something different.
He may be that particular horse person who will blame everything but himself for
not scaling Olympian heights first time out. A good deal it is though, a third off it's
new price and not yet broken in. Lock eyes with the calico cat perched on
saddle blanket laid across my saddle. On approach he jumps down and runs off.
It appears he and my horse have bonded, he is often seen in his stall - either laying in hay
or up on a ledge. Inter-species love is fascinating to me, especially as this is
predator-prey in nature. (Though size difference does seem to negate the whole
concept ! ) Perhaps it's just because they're both painted? Both lucky to have the
glamour of coloured markings. Magic fingerprints they wear.
A rich caramel , basket stamp weave, hand-tooled into
the leather. Deep burnt orange suede for the seat. Silver engraved
horn-cap and just enough conchos for the right amount of flash.
Saddle blanket is a Mexican weave of black, cream and burnt orange.
Yes, this combination works. The dandyish fop in me insists that
we look good as we do stupid things ! Fingering saddle strings
inspires daydreams of future days. [["Strings to tie on a bedroll
and slicker. Saddlebags full with my 'possibles', lariat and canteen,
rifle scabbard , up a mountain trail. Camp fire and bedroll with
hard leather pillow and my pony staked out with the lariat till
morning. Tin cup coffee and church among the evergreens. "]]
Step into the alleyway over to my stall. Take a peek at its condition.
Horse trainers will look at the droppings in stalls to ascertain intelligence.
Their theory is that the neater their 'bathroom etiquette' , higher marks
for sensible temperament can be given. A messy stall = messy mind
so to speak. Mine lies somewhere in the middle, although on two
occasions he has left a message in his water bucket. Not yet fluent
in equus , I am not sure what he was telling me. As far as odors go
my boy has caused discomfort for all. There was the day , in his
fearless way , a small cat-like creature black and white in color wandered
into his pasture and greeting this critter in his friendly way was rewarded
with a dose of skunk perfume. Not willing to shell out the bucks for
CASES of traditional tomato juice washing, I merely gave him one
heck of a scrubdown with laundry detergent and let him stink and
be kept apart for a few days. He survived with no apparent harm done.
One just hopes he learned to distinguish this particular creature from all
others that may be encountered in the woods around here.
Refill of coffee from my thermos and stroll to north end of barn.
Doors full open and as I stroll out to the outdoor arena it amuses me to
think about human ingenuity. A tractor sits idle at the far end of the arena
with an old metal bedspring attached. This device being used to 'drag' the
arena sand to level and smooth over from previous riding sessions. Call
it the 'ZAMBONI' of the horse world. Farm life will also quickly inspire
alternate uses for just about any implement found. It tickles me , this
imagination, and leaves one pondering endless human creativity.
Walk over to middle pasture fence and take the 'opry seat' (cowboy
slang for top rail of a fence). Hook my boots on middle rail and just LOOK.
Is this a dream? If not, my earliest wish came to life. Since a boy of 5 or 6
years old my fervent desire was to have a horse to love and to ride. Not
coming from farm stock this fever springs from some other family well
not often visited. There is still with me a memory of my father taking me
for a trail ride. He did not ride, but took me somewhere and I was put on
a horse and went out for an hour or so with a man in a cowboy hat on
another. A horse indeed, this was no pony. I cannot remember any
fear or anxiety at all - it was the most natural feeling for me to sit up high
on the animal. Out into some woods we rode and on return I still remember
that my father was taking a nap under a big shady tree. Years later I would
hear how much I begged and pleaded for a horse (never a pony) until I gave
up. My father supposedly started to seriously consider starting me on riding
lessons , but apparently I lost my steam and turned focus to other sports.
Surely he breathed a sigh of relief at this. It seems this dream of mine was to
be buried deep for many years. But now? It is realized, I am the owner of
a horse. As icing on this cake - he is a paint ( or 'pinto' to many ) the Indian
Horse of the movies. And I always rooted for the Injuns' Turning my head
to the leftmost of the three pastures I spot him. Far down the tree line ,
head down and grazing. My heart smiles, it is true, he is mine. For those
not afflicted with the fever it is impossible to impart the depth of connection
horse people feel for this species. In these modern times, since the advent
of engines , humans have lost their everyday connection to horses. Our
grandparents may tell of the milk or ice wagon plying big city streets.
Those older generations where even the most urbane of citizens had daily
contact with horses have respect and fond memories of them. How much
have we lost since the stink of engines fills our air?
Quiet, I just watch. Tail swishing, body shivers to shake off flies.
A leg lifted, foot stamps the ground. Other horse wanders over and grazes
closer. Is this affection? Drawing close to a friend? I believe so, how
much they give us - they surely give each other. Time to say hello, I
hop down and step over to gate of his pasture. Rattle the chain, he looks
up and sees me. Off at a gallop down to me! God how I love this ! In this
he tells me everything I need to know. Novice that I am, does this enthusiasm
of his prove my able and loving stewardship? I choose to believe so and my
confidence and dedication are strengthened. "Hello young son! How are you?"
Stroking his neck, up to feel his velvet ears. How and where he lets me touch
him speaks to me of his trust. Snuffling and rooting at me with his nose. Lipping
the sleeve of my t-shirt. How I yearn to speak to him, to be Dr. Doolittle for
just ONE minute! Shall do my best, my touch is that of friend offered with
love. Talk my human talk anyway, with no evidence of proof he understands,
I tell him things.
Of my week at work, my worries and joys, people in my life and secret longings
he hears in silences. He is my friend - one I can tell all the secrets of the heart.
'Top Hat Charades' is the name registered with the American Paint Horse
Association. I don't really like this name, but not sure what to do about it for now.
All of us here call him 'Rades' and it suits me fine. He is of Texas cow-horse
stock, his dam hauled here from there. Heritage that fires my imagination.
Soon enough he's back off to graze some more. In to the barn and
from the tack room I dig for hoof pick and brush. Stuff the pick in jeans
pocket and grab the brush, my book , lunch bag and head back out to his
pasture. Unwrap the chain , step through and wrap again. Walk halfway
up this pasture to the big oak along the tree line. Sit down and pull a
sandwich from the bag and some chips. Leaning against this ancient trunk
is bliss, fine spring weather, blue skies and soft breeze. Tasty sandwich and
sweet southern tea, all is right in the world. Horses grazing are my guardian
angels - their presence fills the soul. Would I stop time and have moments
to live over? No finer could be asked.
Books - my other friends. One can be here AND there at the
same time. I am reading of Hong Kong as I sit in Pennsylvania farm land.
Junks and sampans are images floating through my mind. Looking up from
this book a robin is in view flying up into the leaves. How rich are my
senses at this moment? Putting the book away for awhile and pack
food wrappings away for proper disposal. Lay down flat on the ground
looking up at small cotton candy clouds as I listen to the earth beneath
my body. Pull my cowboy hat down over my eyes and retreat into reveries
intimate and bittersweet, of the woman I have loved now gone. Will I ever find
another? Will she ride with me? Will she feel this 'Dance with Pegasus' ? Will
we look through the same eyes of different colors? Is this too much to ask?
Coaxing my heart for patience, pleading faith to this yearning for love.
Drifting, as the clouds above me.
How long have I slept? Does it matter? No..not at all. Sweet vista
greets my eyes. Slowly do I sit up, still in rhythm with Earth's heartbeat.
There he is, as he has been for millennia. Though for centuries his freedom
to roam surrendered to humans in exchange for ceaseless labor and cruel abuse.
Dying in wars he had no side to stand with. As food for those with the
taste. Of all creation who has given more than this most handsome of
animals. Holy duty commands me to give the kindest of care, as some
small gesture of atonement for centuries of slavery. Slow do I walk towards
him, feeling for the hoof-pick in jeans pocket. Brush in hand as well.
"Good afternoon young son" Touching a leg I feel downward to his foot.
"Let's have a leg then"…no response, so I pinch the tendon on his lower
leg. Up comes a hoof and as I'm bent over, pull his leg across my thigh.
Scrape the muck out from around the frog, check these thick fingernails
for cracks or chips. "Looking good son, no worries here" Step to his
hindquarters and lift a back leg. Tail comes up…."Alright fella " I laugh.
"Have your fun!" Hissing sound turns my head away. Timely breeze
dispels his message. Chuckling as I finish with his feet, put the pick
away and pick up the brush. Head down to graze, I bend to brush his
slender neck, up to withers and over his back. Using both hands I feel
all of his body - feel muscle and soft fat. Hard bone and toothpick ankles.
Run fingers through a mane, nibble there as his kind would groom each
other. Lean my torso against him, feeling his mass. Calm is he as
I hop up to sit him bareback. Not to go anywhere, just for him to feel the
weight. This young one is not filled out yet, I can almost touch
my toes together under his barrel. Precarious balance under saddle
is worse. Time to grow rounder and taller is needed before we'll be a
good fit.
Knowing of , and learning the sure ways of old-time ranchers who
believed in letting them get fat and strong until 4 years old. Start them
in the saddle at 2 years with limited time and "kicked out to the hills" for
long, playful summers. Hardy ranch horses, big and fit - who could
"cover some country". Feeling my way in most of this, but coming
at something with love is always the right trail to ride. Soon enough
back on two feet. Touching and scratching him in all the places he
can't reach. This is the cornerstone of my plan - his trust in me. All else
flows from this. Intuition has more mojo than we give it credit for.
Ride with the spirits to the highest ground.
Time for some hijinks!....quick trip back to the tack room
to fetch my lariat. Come back into this pasture as the other horses
here spy me.They can see what's in my hand and are not really liking
it. As I build a loop these two walk away from me. Twirl the loop and
they are off at a trot. Swing the loop fast enough to cut the air and
they're OFF! At a gallop! "Big babies !" I am thinking. Young son
still head down and grazing. Toss the lariat at the ground a foot away
from his head. Doesn't flinch. Toss at his body, hitting his belly.
Doesn't flinch. Toss over his neck. Doesn't flinch. Wrap around his
Legs. Doesn't flinch. Twirl it fast and furious inches above his head.
Doesn't flinch. Why? I do not know. Character of a cow-horse is
here as there must be no fear of the rope. Others stand far away
and watch! "How can he stand that? Doesn't he see the flying
snake?! Crazy man, crazy !" Time and cattle will tell though.
No cattle here to work with, but they're just down the road
And I've companeros to "learn the ropes with" - pun intended.
Gut instinct tells me he'll be fearless in a herd of cattle and
will relish it for the game it will be. Young son will be teaching
me all about ridin n' ropin. Tis' always the horse will teach the man.
"All right you two - I'm not the scary flying snake, floating
paper, umbrella-popping monster here to eat you. You know me,
just forgot for a minute." Zip back to tack room, hang up the lariat
and grab bags of carrots. Walk over to far right pasture first. EVERY
horse in the barn gets equal share. Hop the fence with a bag and they
come running. I've had to smack one or two sometimes from being
too aggressive in their crowding me for these orange nuggets. Over
to middle pasture where all eyeballs are zeroed in on me. Barely
over the fence and I'm surrounded! They do love carrots! If only
young children would emulate horses when it comes to veggies.
Now over to young son and rule is broken - yes. He gets ONE
EXTRA - the last of the third bag. If he can count, then he knows.
Hungry horses are not to be denied.
What would one make of all these doings of mine? Simple really ,
time spent with horses is soul food. Pure and honest in all things
are they, homo sapiens would do well to emulate fellow creatures
in acting out primal instincts. Perhaps childhood dreams beckoned,
dormant desire for that knowledge destiny wished to impart. Does
not matter what meaning is here, trust in revelation's arrival is what
is important.
And so here I am, beautiful spring day gliding towards dusk.
Philosophy of all concerned in agreement - out of stalls as much as
possible. These are animals first of all, and to rob them of sweet air
and earth is mistreatment. Choosing to leave now, keeping my private
time with this herd a communion with spirits I cannot yet name.
Climb into cab of pickup truck, a minute to capture all with the
mind's camera. Shatter this silence with engine ignition and turn
down gravel lane. Soon enough back on the highway, headed north
to the river. Tires humming, heard through open windows, vignettes
flash across the screen of my id. Up those mountain trails, sitting
at a fire. Wide open space, sitting horseback as the sun is devoured
by far horizon. Blasting out of the box, rope twirling, chasing a
cow! Young son standing behind me, nudging me with his nose.
City skyline in view, what plans for the evening? Drawing blanks,
bereft of desire. Alone for the evening, sweet comfort in pleasures of this
day. Sustenance? Yes, simple fare will do. Eat by the river and
give thanks to my maker.
