Whistler's Story

It was May of 2014 when I first met the ponies at that godforsaken place, Whistler and another whose name I can’t remember, that died over the first winter I was trimming them, leaving Whistler alone. They weren’t given any hay, they were supposed to dig thru the snow to get to things they could eat. (I explained that the guy was thinking of Bison, who have feet designed to do that.)  And eat snow for water. Looking back, I’m surprised  Whistler survived at all.

The caretaker of the property was the one who called me in the first place. I never met the actual owner, which was probably for the best, as I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to hold my tongue.

When the 2nd winter was rolling around, I started to mention to the guy that he needed to buy hay for Whistler, that he really wouldn’t need more than about 25 bales to get him to spring. “I don’t have a place to store it, and if I leave it here the owner will just feed it to the sheep.” (There were sheep on the property that the owner raised to eat.) 

“Well, if he’d ever give the little guy up, I’d take him.”  I told the caretaker. He said he’d see what he could do.

 That is how I came to be in my truck, hauling my trailer, on the cold and blustery Friday after Thanksgiving in 2015 on my way to pick up The Whistler, as the caretaker called him. He was actually a wonderful man, doing the best he could in a bad situation. The weather was truly vile, and I had no idea if the poor old pony would even get in the trailer.  When he brought Whistler up, he had no sooner handed me the lead when Whistler jumped in the trailer. It felt more like he didn’t care where he was going, he just wanted out of there! We had a flake of hay in the trailer, my friend closed it up and we hit the road back to the Farm.

He called out the moment we opened the trailer door and he saw the other horses. Because of the lousy weather we had made a pen for him in the indoor arena, complete with a bucket of water and hay, all for him. His previous location had not provided water, as the property was on a lake, he was supposed to go to the waters edge to drink.

In the following days we would find that no one had ever groomed him, and his coat came off in pieces resembling felt. The hairs so matted together that we couldn’t GET a brush thru them.

I don’t remember if the caretaker had told me an age, but our veterinarian put him in his late 30s, judging by his teeth, or lack thereof.

He was introduced to our pony/mini herd and settled in with friends as if he had lived here all his life. For about the first year he had the odd habit called ‘weaving’ by the horse world. He would often stand at the gate and rock back and forth. He quickly learned that people meant food! He was brought in twice a day to slurp up his mash, which got soupier as he aged, and turned into 3 meals a day in an effort to keep weight on him. All in all, he lived a happy life with equine friends, was never alone again, and had many, many human friends that looked forward to loving and taking care of him on a daily basis.

 He developed a squamous cell carcinoma in his right eye, that eventually grew into his nasal passage, and probably further into his skull. We think he was in the 45 yr old range when he really slowed down, and started to react badly when anyone tried to pet or groom him.

Knowing he was old even for a pony, and obviously no longer enjoying life, he was humanely euthanized on October 18th of 2023, literally surrounded by people who loved him.

Footnote: There is a children’s book called Stuffer by Peter Parnall. A lovely story with beautiful line drawings. I have owned this book for all the years since I worked in the bookstores, and I’m relatively certain that it is out of print, but it’s worth asking at a library. It is a sometimes-sad story about a pony and a little girl. She loves the pony but grows up and the pony is sold and ends up in a bad way, mostly waiting to die. Don’t worry, there is a relatively happy ending.

There was a day I was standing and watching Whistler grazing with the other ponies, and I realized that he was really quite striking in his appearance. He had what’s called a bald face, which just means it was entirely white, with most of the rest of him being dark brown, with a white belly, 1 entirely white leg and the other 3 with socks or stockings (white is also sometimes called ‘chrome’ in the horse world). The thought came to me that he had likely, at some point in his life,  been some little girl’s much loved, pride and joy pony. Some little girl’s ‘Stuffer’, who was so named because in the book, the pony was a Christmas gift, a stocking ‘stuffer’.

The thought was both happy and sad. Happy to think of him young and loved, perhaps cantering in a field with a little girl on his back. Sad that he had probably spent time being over used and under fed at who knew how many pony ride places, until he at least had the good luck to land at the Farm. I have the comfort of knowing he’s no longer in pain, hopefully running in green fields with Star and Penny.

Point of View

Recently we have been offering workshops on self-care and compassion fatigue, 2 subjects that are really only one. (to avoid the 2nd, practice the first) But both of them DO require pausing and thinking, as well as some self-reflection and the willingness to understand that there are probably other ways to look at a person, event, or subject. (not something many folks practice in this age of everyone being a critic /being able to give everything a ‘review’) While wrapping up a workshop, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to tell a sweet story based on what some folks saw as odd and out of place here on the Farm.

            As a class was breaking up and goodbyes were being said, a new friend was chuckling because she noticed that I had some fake flowers among all the real ones in the beds and planters. It was not said in ANY kind of a critical way, she just thought it was funny, and I explained that there was a story behind those fabric blossoms.

         Many of our volunteers are retired folk, as often they have more free time, and are taking it to do the things that they had put off while they were busy with work and kids, and horses often fall into that category. A volunteer who ticked all those boxes was with us for a while when she fell (not at the farm) and injured her shoulder. Her time with the horses had come to an end. She kept in touch, and was helping out at one of our workdays, making sure everyone had snacks and was drinking enough water, when she asked if it was ok if she pulled some weeds in one of my flower ‘beds’. I put that word in quotes because since moving to the farm, I had had little time to do anything that remotely resembled gardening/landscaping, even though I had quite enjoyed it when I lived in the city. At the end of the day she asked if she could come back and continue to tidy up, maybe plant some flowers, etc. YES, I replied enthusiastically, and that is how the farm came to have all the beautiful plants and flowers you see when you come to the farm.

             So I guess my friends were a little surprised when they discovered the ‘fake’ flowers alongside the real, and gently teased me about it. Not only does our gardener take care of plants all spring, summer, and fall, but she changes things for all the seasons and holidays. The first Christmas she was doing this, there were Merry Christmas signs and wreaths with twinkling lights. When the time came to take them down, I happened to mention how much joy those tiny twinkling lights often gave me on some of the dark winter nights, and could she maybe leave them up a bit longer?

            From that moment on, there have always been some kind of (solar-powered) twinkly lights, somewhere in the landscaping near the house. I mentioned to someone that something they did brought me joy, and they sweetly continued to do that. I can step out my door at night, perhaps to go check the horses, maybe just taking the dogs out, and I ALWAYS see tiny twinkling lights, and they always make me pause, and be grateful that someone took the time to think about me and do something she knew would make me happy.

            As I told my friends the story, they too, understood all of the complex emotions of gratitude, thoughtfulness, and joy that went into my ‘fake’ flowers. There in the bright daylight they didn’t see the twinkle in the darkness, but they understood what it meant to me, and that changed their perspective.

            So perhaps the next time you look at something and make a judgement, pause for a moment and wonder if maybe, just maybe there might be a different story there.

Goodbye Max

Recently I had to do one of the harder parts of my job, being with a horse as they cross the rainbow bridge. It is an ever popular saying these days, a nice euphemism for putting a horse down. Those of us in the north, or really anyplace that experiences cold weather, speak of “asking a horse to do another winter”, or something similar. In our role as a sanctuary, I usually have a few horses on the list. Better to choose a day than wait for something to happen, and it will happen. They will slip and fall and because they are old, and have been losing muscle, they will be unable to get back up. Or their systems just start to shut down. Much as we always want our beloved animals to be with us forever, they are not designed to live our lifespan, and if we truly care for them, we will say goodbye BEFORE they have that final, traumatic, painful day.

I’d like to say that they lie down peacefully, and we can hold them and tell them how loved they are, and that IS what you should do for your dog or cat. Horses however, tend to be in the 1000lb range, and sometimes, they don’t go down in a peaceful manner. Do I think everyone should experience this? Yes. If you are going to be a lover of horses, I think it’s important to know all aspects of what it means to love and keep them. The idea that it is too difficult and painful? This final day isn’t about you.

We are lucky to have an excellent veterinarian who has a system that may well be exactly what they teach in vet schools, but having been with too many horses for this final journey, I do think he is exceptionally skilled at what we have called him here to do. Our vet is also an educator, so he tells everyone what he is doing and what to expect. First sedation and then the euthanasia drugs. As he gently explained to the people here for Max, his brain will have stopped functioning (he’ll be ‘gone’) before he’s on the ground.

Fortunately, Max went down easily.

As a sanctuary, we have more than our share of old horses, and I’ve been with most of them on their last day. I have been holding the lead when they just stopped. The light goes out of their eyes, and some have fallen over in almost a cartoon-like manner. Once I had a long wait for a (different) vet, and it was late in the night when she finally arrived. Because of the late hour, it was only the 2 of us, and that old gelding pitched forward when he died, knocking her to the ground. In my 40 (professional) years with horses, I have only had 3 horses that died on their own. Another recent, unexpected death involved a horse that went down, but made little effort to get back up. The emergency vet who came out, said she had seen horses linger like that for days. THAT seems cruel and painful, and we let our (again aged) boy go quickly.

And so, on a cold, blustery day in December, we said our final farewells to Max, a 36 year old Tennessee Walking horse that came to us at 30, an age when most people would think of putting a horse down. But he was in good shape, so we put him in our lesson program for kids and he spent the next few years giving children a thrill with his huge stride that was so ground covering it seemed as if they were flying, though it was only one of the many ‘walks’ of a Tennessee Walking horse. But age started to creep up on our friend he started to trip often, and we officially retired him. He remained opinionated for the rest of his days and was quick to let other horses know who was in charge of his herd.

As we struggled to keep weight on him, and he began to worry my volunteers with his ‘loose’ back end, I knew the time had come.

The cliche is true, if you love something, let it go.

As we let our much loved old man finally rest.

Saying Goodbye to Spirit

If you are lucky, sitting with a sick horse is something that you will never have to do. Or perhaps you are the type that turns away from sorrow/potential sadness and pays someone else to do this. Or your life just isn’t adaptable because you have to work to keep said horse. But while I truly hope it is something you never have to experience, it is none the less, something I find myself doing on a regular basis here in the equine rescue/sanctuary world. Sometimes when you get to stand up, you are happy, because something worked, and you have a horse on its way back to health, and hopefully, a happy life. Because we deal predominantly with older horses, I often find that, when it comes time to stand back up, I am reaching for my phone, and having to deal with what is now considered a carcass, which minutes ago was a friend. After the tears. I am aware that the day I don’t ugly cry for a horse is the day I need to quit.

Don’t get me wrong, there are horses that you plan for. I have had conversations with others in the horse rescue community, where we talk about “not asking a horse to go thru another winter”. When you are lucky enough to have old horses (yes, I mean that) it means that at some point, if you are a good horseman, you will make the tough decision to put a horse down.

I am worn out from rising at 5am, to put on the clothes I just stepped out of to go to bed. To go right back out the door and head to the barn I just left. We have been struggling with Spirit for more than a week, and at this moment I don’t know if I should hope to find him up or the alternative. But as I enter the barn and round the corner to peer in his stall, I find him looking at me, ears perked, as if he is waiting to be tacked for a lesson. But further investigation reveals the uneaten mash, and perhaps an inch of water gone from his bucket. I can tell from the shavings on his side that he has been laying down, but there are only 3 or 4 small ‘horse apples’ in his stall. These are not promising signs and I wonder how this bright looking animal can actually be so sick. How can I be having to think about making the decision to put him down, when he is looking at me like this, so perky and full of life? The rational part of my brain knows that he is looking like this because he is full of pain-killers, and when he is not in pain, he looks almost fine, but as they wear off, he will be miserable, with no appetite, and unable to poop due to an enormous mass tucked into his pelvis that is pressing against his bowel, preventing the passing of manure.

He has been seen by 2 different vets, not for a 2nd opinion, but because our regular vet was out of town. That probably helped, but I implicitly trust our own vet as I never feel like he is trying to sell me something. If he says we should transport a horse to a clinic, it’s for a VERY good reason, because he doesn’t have his own hospital, so he won’t be making the money. We have done this 2 other times, trying to give a horse a chance. In neither instance did I bring a horse home, but there were no doubts that I had done all I could.

He has informed me that even if Spirit was young (he’s not) and money was no object, (it is) there would probably be no good outcome in trying to remove the tumor. That often in these cases once they open the horse up, they find tumors elsewhere as well. And truthfully, none of our horses are surgical candidates. In this area it is generally $10K to walk thru the door for an equine surgery. That’s just to start. We can rescue a lot of horses with $10K+.

So I sit with Spirit. I will give him his prescribed meds. I will cry and let my tears fall on his mane as I tell him what a great horse he has been for us, how much his riders will miss his antics, and all the lessons he would have taught them. I will call the vet to give him an update, and we will make a plan. In my heart I know that this episode of sitting with a sick horse is nearing its end, and I try to be grateful that this beautiful boy will no longer be in pain, and my worry and stress will be over, but I also can’t muster those feelings right now. Right now, all I will have is the pain and loss of this beautiful life, but I will turn and continue to care for all the others in this barn, until it’s time for me to sit with them.

EPILOGUE-

Spirit was humanely euthanized Friday evening December 4th, surrounded by people who loved him. He would have been 24 years old on January 9th. He is already greatly missed.

Killian in the Sunshine

It was quite windy and stormy last night. As I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, it seemed suddenly that someone was throwing gravel at my windows, and I realized we were getting small hail. I always think of the horses. Wonder if they are alright, reassure myself that they all have shelters they can get into, hay to eat if they get chilled, and friends to huddle with. A few even have rain sheets on, something I never used to do, but as our springs become longer, colder, and wetter, some of my horses that are older and thinner do get them in an effort to keep their weight up, after what was a HORRIBLE year for hay, ANY hay, not just good hay.

Though it is still windy and cold, the sun is out. After feeding the dogs and grabbing a cup of coffee, I take the big dog and walk up to check on the horses. I held in my own hands just about every board that makes up these fences. I’m proud that their placement gives me a decent sightline to just about all the paddocks, within a few steps. I’m looking to make sure everyone is up. That all the horses are standing and no one is lying down or shivering. One of the hardest things for people to understand is that I would rather have a 5 degree day, than 36 and rain. Horses are actually sub-arctic animals and do just fine in the cold. But get them WET and chilled and you can have a dead or sick animal much quicker. As long as they can ‘loft’ their fur/coat they can stay warm. But if it rains so hard and long and they can’t get out of it, if their fur lays down on them, causing the loss of that layer of insulation, they can be in trouble. Lucky for me, everyone was up and happily eating hay.

As seems to be my habit, I stopped by the paddock with the ponies, mini horses and mini-donkeys. Because of their diminutive sizes, it’s possible for some of them to disappear, by either being on the far side of the round bale, or being tucked into one of their shelters. I couldn’t lay eyes on 2 of them, and while I wasn’t hugely concerned, I did walk closer. The ‘missing’ donkey peeked at me from behind the bale, and I found Killian standing in a shelter, out of the wind in the full morning sun. He is a beautiful shade of rich light brown, with a bit of a tan dapple. I don’t know if that color has a name, but I remember it from ponies of my childhood, when I longed for even 1 of the poor beasts hitched to the wheel of the pony rides. He is most likely a Shetland mix, with a mane that refuses to lie flat and stands up from his neck to blow in the wind like all the horses in a little girl’s dreams.

He stands unblinking in the strong morning sun, framed by the shelter, with his head cocked as if he is listening for something, and he is, for Killian is blind.

Killian’s journey to live here at the Farm is long of timeframe and short in distance. I no longer remember if it was spring or fall when a man walked into the barn while I was giving lessons and asked if we were missing a pony. We weren’t. “Well there’s a pony wandering up by 7 Mile Road” so I told one of my volunteers to grab a rope and some grain and go with the guy. Cars and trucks fly down 7 Mile Road, no matter the 45 mph speed limit, BIG trucks. I went back to teaching the lesson . About half an hour later, my gal reappeared leading a brown pony. One look into his milky white eyes and I knew he could not see, but he was in good shape otherwise, and thankfully was wearing a halter. He called out a high pitched whinny, and a few of my horses answered. I put him in a paddock with some hay, and Pasha. Horses dislike being alone, and I knew a blind horse would like it even less. Pasha was old even then, but has always been a horse I could put in with others because of his gentle nature. By this time it was getting dark, so I planned to look for his owner in the morning.

I drove to 7 Mile road, figuring to start where he was found. How far could a blind pony travel, I thought? Then I looked for places that had horses, or looked like they could have. It must have been a weekday, because I encountered lots of houses with no one home. I finally turned my attention to 6 Mile road and continued my quest. At the house of an elderly man, I was greeted by a barking dog, but after saying hello(to the dog) I asked the man if he was missing a pony. “Yes!” he cried “I was just out looking in the ditches because I figured he had been hit by a car.” “He hasn’t, he’s just fine and he’s at my farm.” The man was overjoyed! He told me he would hitch up his trailer and come to get him immediately, and about an hour later a truck and trailer rolled up to our barn. Inside the trailer were 10 bales of (very nice) hay. Payment for finding his pony and keeping him safe.

About a year later my phone rang, and it was the elderly gentleman. “He’s gotten out again!” and I promised I would be on the lookout for the brown pony. After finishing my morning chores, I thought I would go for a walk along our property line, and look for the animal. Like my gal from the previous year, I took a lead rope and a bucket with some grain. A bucket of feed is a good way to catch any loose horse, but in this situation it was invaluable because I could shake the bucket of grain, and the blind pony would hear it. I started walking toward the tree-line and realized I would have to find a break in it, to get into the next field. As I approached a likely spot, there was the brown pony. His head had come up as he heard me, and he started to move off, but I shook the bucket and called out, “Hey dude, it’s just me. Let’s get you home.” Thankfully, he stopped moving away and let me clip the lead to his halter. I fumbled for my phone to call his owner, “I’ve got him!”, and we started walking back to my barn. This time, as he got out of his truck, the man had a question for me. “I might be going to live with my daughter, would you be interested in taking him, if that happens?”. “Of course.” I answered, without giving it any thought at all.

I’m not sure what image people get in their heads when I say that I rescue horses. It doesn’t usually look like those sad commercials with the dogs, and often it isn’t a case of some ‘evil’ owner starving or abusing an animal. Sometimes it’s an elderly man with a blind pony that he cares about. His situation was about to change, and his options were few. There is no market for a 20 year old blind pony, so he couldn’t just sell him. Euthanizing a horse can cost between $300-$500 and then there is the cost to have the body hauled off, which is another $300(depending on weight). Most rescues rely on adopting horses out, so again we run into the marketability of a blind animal, and most people cannot afford to keep a ‘Pasture ornament’, a horse who’s only use is to look pretty. I suppose that technically, we are a sanctuary. The horses that come to us seldom leave, except to cross the Rainbow bridge. We rehab and retrain if necessary, and they become “program horses” that give riding lessons, or work with people on the ground to overcome whatever difficulties they are experiencing in their lives. But they stay with us, are cared for, loved and part of a family.

We renamed him Killian, which is both Celtic and Latin for blind, and in Irish means Strife, small battle or fierce, all of which I think describe this beautiful boy, standing in the sunshine on this cold morning

Thursday in April

The trees were frosty this morning. Now as the sun is out and warming the bare branches, I look up from my desk to find red and blue lights twinkling at me from the buds. Not many, and if I move my head they disappear, and I know I will lose them as the sun crosses the sky. Or the earth turns on its journey, as an old math teacher of mine would have pointed out.

I often tell folks here at the farm to “Keep your eyes up!” Partly it is for safety, partly it is for moments like these, when the sun hits that melting drop of water just right and suddenly the trees are winking at you with prisms of light only you can see. That as quickly as they appear, they will be gone, so take the time to stop and look with wonder at this beautiful place we call earth. That we call home.

Earlier that morning I stood at my window watching 2 cardinals, a male and female, and a bird I didn’t know scratching in the dirt, and leaf litter under a large cedar tree that grows outside my office. The bird I didn’t know was striped with brown, but had a grey head. It was small and determined. While the cardinals scratched around a bit here and there, stopping to cock a head at some sound, the smaller bird would hop forward, drag the dirt back, peck with purpose, then do it again, and again and again. Quietly, I reached for my bird book and went about looking it up. Thrush? No, not there, wren? Nope. It was so beautiful with all the brown striping and spots I almost passed over the sparrow section, but there he was, my little friend was a Song Sparrow. (Perhaps a she? According to the book males and females look the same, contrary to the cardinals obvious differences.)

During our day camp a few years back, a boy of about 8 years old, pointed and asked, “What bird is that?”

I looked at the bird and back at the boy. “You really don’t know?” I asked. He shook his head. “That’s a Robin.” Perhaps that was when my resolve took hold that I needed to be teaching, not just about horses, but about the world they live in. A world that is full of Robins, and Song Sparrows and Cardinals, as well as the ducks and chickens and horses that are purposefully here. The Red Cedars, and oaks and maples that give shade to all, and seeds and homes to the birds and squirrels. To listen for the Sandhill cranes, and the Red-winged blackbird songs, for they are the true tellers of spring. That we live in a beautiful world, but you must keep your eyes and heart open, to see it.

On Waking at 5AM

My mornings generally start when ever I hear my small dog start to be restless. If she’s up, it must be time to get up. This morning it was 5 am, which is fine. I do much of my best work quite early. I have always loved mornings and was an early riser even as a child.

After feeding the dogs and letting them out, I turned to feed my porch cats.  On any given morning there are between 4 and 8 of them. Barn cats, ferals and recently a new intact male. I don’t know if he is lost or was dumped. He waits as the other cats aren’t keen to share with him. As I finished filling the dishes I looked up towards the barn, and that is when I saw it. The light that made me rush into the house and throw my coat on to get a better look. My good farm dog came with me (not the old one that woke me up) and I started toward the barn.

It took me a bit to get used to the Farm cycles, when I first moved out here. I have always been outdoorsy, and camped frequently until I went into horses full-time, which doesn’t give one much opportunity for
anything else. So the first time I saw lights shining on the side of my barn, looking for all purposes like someone was aiming a spotlight down the length of it, I was alarmed, to put it mildly.  The barn is on an east-west axis, with the entry doors on the west end, with only our paddocks, pastures, and open fields to the west, which was where it appeared someone was, shining a VERY bright light! So I went charging up there wondering what or who I was going to find, and ready to give them a piece of my mind! As I rounded the corner of the old grainery, to where I could get a look at the perpetrator, I was stopped in my tracks. At the end of the farm path leading west into the open field, hanging low, but still a good way above the horizon, was the
biggest full moon I had seen in a long time. I must have inhaled sharply at the beautiful sight, because I soon found myself short of breath.  I have no idea how long I stood there just looking at it, marveling that such beauty exists in the night, when most are fast asleep, unaware of it all. Eventually I realized how lucky I was to have glanced up and thought I had a trespasser.

We all know about the moon. I’d hope most people have stood and looked at it at some point in their lives. But this cold February morning, when I once again saw light on the side of the barn and ran for my coat, I
thought about how fortunate I am to be an early riser, that I keep my head up and pay attention to my surroundings, or I would have missed this glorious sight. Because it is February, the moon is in the north western sky, setting more over one of our pastures, empty now in winter. The horses closer to the
barn, in the paddocks have stopped eating only to look at me, wondering what I’m doing just standing there. I know if I go into the barn to give hay to the stalled horses, that the moon will be gone when I am done. So I stand and take it in, thanking the universe for this lovely start to my day. Then I turn and go back to the reason I get to be here, these horses in the cold, depending on me to throw them their hay.

First blog post : a bit of background

Gin

Truthfully, I was the typical horse crazy kid, but with solidly blue collar parents, living in a neighborhood of small starter homes in the city of Milwaukee.  It was a great childhood, that idyllic childhood of yore that we all talk about, but decidedly urban. Outside playing all day with the neighborhood kids, riding our bikes, skateboarding in the street, tennis against the school wall.  A few times a summer it DID involve begging a mom to make the hour drive west or north to a riding stable, where for $7,  we got to ride for a little over an hour on  Captain, Little Bucky(he really was a buckskin) Brandy, Brownie, or Jack….And for that hour, my best friend and I got to pretend that they were OUR horses, and this was OUR ranch.

We never actually grew out of that phase, though we went our separate ways for college. My 5th grade best friend DID go on to become a Veterinarian, and a bit beyond college I went to horseshoeing school and became a farrier.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Thinking about a summer job after my freshman year of college, my roommate told me about the Girl Scout camp she was going to work at, which had a riding program. I applied for and got the job of assistant riding Director. While I may have slightly exaggerated my skill set, it hardly mattered as all the job truly involved was little more than I had been doing as a kid; Trail riding. Though now I WAS the cool kid leading the group (though actually, I preferred bringing up the rear, where I could see everything that was going on).

At the end of the summer, I wasn’t quite ready to give up having a horse, but there was NO WAY it was in my ramen-noodle college budget. I have no memory of how I found my way to what was arguably the ONLY Dressage barn in far northern Wisconsin, but I did. I DO remember that I wanted to learn how to jump, but the trainer there, Tom, got on his huge chestnut gelding named Bear, and did this amazing dance. I didn’t even know enough to recognize Dressage when I saw it, but I thought, “Yeah, cool, I’ll learn to do that.” In retrospect, I had signed up to be a crash-test dummy, but really, that’s kind of how it works.  I cleaned stalls, did any other thing asked, and rode the horses that came in for training. That’s most of what it was- ride the horse. I’d get lessons on the horse, certainly, to make sure I was doing it right, but mostly I just rode the horse (ok, and came off the horses, that’s the crash-test dummy part)

It was far from glamorous. I think all I had was a pair of harness boots, and of course I always rode in jeans, as I didn’t own a pair of breeches. This was also long before helmets were the norm, though I don’t remember even wearing a cowboy hat.

I still think back on the little mare in this picture. She belonged to the guy that the Girl Scout camp contracted with. Maybe that was where it started, when I first realized that there were people out there that maybe shouldn’t own horses. That had once loved them, as I did, but had somehow lost that love amid the day to day struggle. Maybe…..