The Wild Horses of Newbury
Found by way of Dharma Bums today. This short English film entitled The Wild Horses of Newbury.
Synopsis: Two wild horses appear to attempt to stop a road crew from cutting down ancient trees.
Powerful.
Flickr Photo: jfivo
I Gallop On Goodies
Search
« February 2006 | Main | April 2006 »
March 31, 2006
Counting blue heelers
My husband Dennis is returning from a rare trip back east today, and the kids are with their dad. So, I’ve been on my own all week. An unusual circumstance that has made for difficult sleep.
Now Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler has been taught that the furniture in the house is out of bounds. This house rule she keeps, and each night the generally horsey-smelling heeler is content to sleep like a log in her snug little bed next to mine.
But when the wind came galloping through our ranch last night like a herd of wild horses being pursued by a big thing with teeth, I couldn’t find sleep, no matter how hard I tried. After counting sheep, and a couple of half-baked semi-awake dreams, I said to hell with it, and decided to break my own rules.
A blue heeler is not a bad bedfellow in a pinch.
Snugged up with Matilda, my nose buried in the shaggy fur of her neck while she sighed, sniffed, scratched, snored, and sneaked in a few licks, I thought of heelers, horses, windmills, fields, clear still ponds. And finally found, at last─sleep.
Flickr photos: extremekayakerchick; extremekayakerchick; doggish; extremekayakerchick
March 30, 2006
The Jane West Chronicles
We chased lady luck, 'til we finally struck Bonanza.
With a gun and a rope and a hat full of hope, we planted our family tree.
We got hold of a pot full of gold, Bonanza.
With a horse and a saddle, and a range full of cattle, how rich can a fellow be?
~ Theme Song from Bonanza
The brand new lawn of our brand new subdivision house ended abruptly where the plowed fields began. I stood where green grass met dirt, pulling the Cartwright’s 4-in-1 Wagon behind me. It was flat as a board here. Any kid who wasn’t paying attention might tumble right off the edge of the manicured grass into the field of soybeans, never to be seen again. Might be carried off by the wind rolling across the farmland towards the grain silos bobbing like buoys on the horizon.
Right from the get go, the kids and teachers at Bigelow Elementary School had all started calling me The Little Southern Girl. As if anyone from south of the state of Ohio was Scarlett O'Hara and made her dresses out of curtains. My face still burned when I thought of how they’d teased me about my green-and-white flowered dress my mom had cut down from one of my cousin Janice’s, who was pretty and blond and the head cheerleader at her high school in Healdton, Oklahoma. I’d studied my sneakers as if my life depended on it while two red-haired brothers with freckles snickered at my new white Keds and socks, not daring to open my mouth. I never knew I talked funny or had an accent. I didn’t even know what an accent was—well, unless it meant you came from France or Russia or someplace far away like that—until we came here.
I looked out over the endless field. 640 acres. One square mile—my dad said. It was going to be a long spring. And an even longer summer.
My little sister traipsed behind me carrying the entire Cartwright
“How about here?” my sister said. She pointed to the scrap lumber we’d hauled over from one of the unfinished houses on the cul-de-sac to build the Cartwrights a fort. I was going to answer her when all of a sudden two girls about our age appeared in the yard next door and came walking towards us, stopping just at the demarcation line between their lime-colored grass and the deeper blue green of ours. I nudged my sister in the ribs.
The girls’ eyes were glued to the Cartwright’s 4-in-1 Wagon and its team of plastic horses. Like they'd never seen such a thing before. They didn’t say a single word, just wriggled their bare toes deeper into the grass. And waited.
My sister nudged me back. We whispered back and forth. You do it. No, you do it. I don’t want to, you do it.
You’re older, you do it, my sister finally hissed, giving me a pinch.
After what seemed like an eternity, I ventured, “Hey.”
The larger sister smiled. "Hey," she said. She clasped her younger sister’s hand. They girls were blond and tan in their red and white matching short sets, red terrycloth headbands in their hair.
Emboldened, I drawled, “Ya’ll want to come play with us?”
“Sure,” they said.
My sister was so excited she dumped the entire Ponderosa out of the cardboard box onto the lawn. Little Joe The Full Action Man with his bandana. A black horse. The plain brown horse I always talked my sister into using. Little Joe’s beautiful pinto. Hoss with his vest. Ben had only one hand, my sister explained to the smaller of the two girls. And The Villain was missing half of an arm. We showed them the cracked trunk for gold, the skillet, the pots and pans. Only problem was—no girls, I said—because Jane West was way too tall for the little plastic men. I pulled her out of the box to show them. (She towered over the Cartwright men like I imagined the lady did in the Attack of the 50-Foot Woman
The Cartwright men, my sister and I, and our new friends traversed the length and breadth of both backyards, now officially The Ponderosa, until our parents called us in for dinnertime. Missy and Melanie and their mom and dad had just moved to the neighborhood from the great state of Texas, and they never once said a word about my accent.
Sources: Bonanza—The Website; Big Red Toy Box; The Completely Unofficial Bonanza Collectors Gallery
March 29, 2006
Raccoon touches and the lick of the cow's tongue
Watching my little boy’s quarter horse trying to fit in with a whole new herd this week while adjusting to her new home reminds me of how difficult and scary it was to be the new kid in school. (Which I was several times.) Upon bringing the mare home, she transformed from a calm, collected model of equine decorum to a nervous, scared horse. As much as I wish I could, I can’t just talk to Piñon and let her know everything’s going to be OK, but I can communicate to her that this is a safe place, that she belongs here, and that we’re trustworthy.
How am I doing that?
Touch.
Linda Tellington Jones'
Massage your horse? Yes! I’ve been doing it for years. With very positive results. Think about how good it feels to have your back rubbed. Your feet massaged. Your hair brushed. Well, horses like it too. And it boosts their confidence. I've even solved some behavioral problems with it.
The Tellington TTouch is a specialized approach to the care and training of our animal companions. Developed by internationally recognized animal expert, Linda Tellington Jones
After her TTouch session last night (the touches have names like Clouded Leopard, Python Lift, Raccoon Touches and Lick of the Cow’s Tongue), Piñon and I took a stroll together around the ranch so she could get a closer look at her new home. She followed me placidly on a loose lead. The horse’s nervous edge was gone, no more jigging around because she’s scared, in a new place, with total strangers.
Piñon and I are beginning to develop a rapport. Thanks to the power of touch.
(And here's another tip ... The TTouch works on kids and husbands too!)
Source: Linda Tellington-Jones
March 27, 2006
Breakfast
This looks like kind of an uneasy truce. I am always a little nervous during this adjustment phase of bringing in a new horse. However, as of this morning, the other horses are allowing the newest member of the herd to eat with the rest of them.
Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler and I checked on the herd a little after midnight last night. Trolling up and down the pasture, around the perimeter fence with a lantern, until everyone was accounted for.
We'll spend the rest of this week helping Piñon settle in.
Our old pony Thor, who I'm holding for a few weeks for his new owner, excavates the feeder for the choice hay. It's nice to have the little gent around for a while longer.
March 26, 2006
Pasture politics
In horse herd dynamics, mares rule, literally.
Introducing any new horse to the herd can be fraught with political difficulties. But this morning we're having particular problems with the largest member of our herd, who seems to have forgotten that he's living in a matriarchy.
I guess it's easy to have big feelings of grandeur when you weigh over 1,300 pounds.
March 25, 2006
From the hen house this morning
Fox in the hen house
Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler departs the cozy house at the crack of dawn and doesn't come back inside until the stars come out. She's a very last-ditch kind of dog. She has her very own nest in the barn, where she snoozes in between long bouts of hanging with her horses, which she considers to be her full-time job.
So far, no eggs.
Uhhhh... trick training
I probably shouldn't have taught Toby to be a pick pocket.
Choosing a safe horse for your child
Piñon's previous job responsibilities included safely carrying a ten-year-old boy on hunting expeditions into the Pecos Wilderness. She's also been ridden regularly by a 7-year-old.
We have her on a thirty-day trial. While I think she's going to be very good, a month of checking her out will give us the opportunity to ascertain her suitability for our 8-year-old son. You can't always get a seller to agree to this approach, but it's an excellent way to make sure you're getting a safe horse for your child.
Our son's new horse
Here's 8-year-old C.'s new horse.
The eleven-year-old quarter horse is a she, not a he. And C. surprised us all by naming her Piñon (wiki).
Sweet.
March 24, 2006
The Jane West Chronicles
There’s something profoundly freeing …
about stomping around in your kitchen—rattling pots and pans, trying to figure out what to make for dinner—in your spurs and cowboy boots,
eau de hay and horse wafting along behind you.
Images: Stewart's Attic
Horse shopping
While driving to the stable earlier this week to look at a quarter horse gelding for my 8-year-old son C.
Me: C., have you thought about what you’re going to name your new horse when we find him?
C: How about Bang?!
Me (thinking): Here we go…
J (his 9-year-old sister, wrinkling her nose): You can’t name a horse Bang, C.
C: Well, how about Winchester?
Me and J: —Silence—
C (grinning goofily): Or Gunner?
Me and J (emphatic, together): No, C!
C: Hunter?
Me: Hmmmmmmm. That’s sounding a little better. You could even name a girl horse that, you know.
C: Yeah, but this is a boy horse.
Me: Yes, this is a boy horse. I know.
J: Oh, I know what, C. How about this? (Pause for dramatic effect) How about … Rambo
Me (in disbelief): Oh, J.— How. Could. You?!
C: Rambo! Cooooooooool! I like that. I’m definitely going to name him Rambo.
(Thank you to my husband for adding a Rambo
Flickr photos by: Dave Ward; Dave Ward; Melmoth the Wanderer
March 20, 2006
The galloping sun
I will not jump with common spirits. ~William Shakespeare
Today the sun begins galloping rapidly across the sky, following a higher and higher path each day up until the Summer Solstice.
The days are growing longer now!
Flickr photo by: karen kluge
Spring Equinox
spring equinox -
old horse watches first hawk
glide across the field
~ Edward
Flickr photo by: Hans van de Vorst
Haiku from: Shiki Haiku Salon
March 19, 2006
The Jane West Chronicles
A Little Piece of Cloud
Today. I wake up this morning and look out the bedroom window to see that our mesa has disappeared. In its place, there is a white wooly cloud, the color of Farmgirl’s sheep. It’s possible that I’ve been reading too much science fiction
Summer 1969. Age 8. Tulsa to Las Cruces.
The thin, scorched air nudges me awake. From where I lay in the backseat, damp cheek pressed against my pillow, I watch the telephone lines undulate up and down, up and down, rising, rolling outside the open car windows against the heat bleached sky, an endless black snake wriggling along the highway. My dad is driving us all in Old Merc (my compulsion to name things is genetic) past White Sands, through places with the names Carrizozo and Oscuro towards Cloudcroft. I rub my eyes and see what I’ve been waiting for the entire summer.
Mountains. Heavy with clouds. Just dripping with them.
I sit up. Find that I've been laying on poor Jane West. I put her on the seat beside me. Because of space considerations, including my little sister's need to bring her stuffed monkey Judy Peanuts along on the trip, Thunder the horse stayed home.
My mother looks back at me and my pain-in-the-behind sister, and gives us that dazzling smile. The sheer scarf tied around her head ripples behind her in the wind, mingles with her brunette hair. Her cat-eye sunglasses frame her pretty face, rhinestones twinkling in the mid-day sunshine. I search with bare feet for the mason jar I borrowed from her pantry and stashed beneath the front seat. My toes find it—cool and hard and round.
Now for the plan that no one knows about.
When we drive up into those cloud-ringed mountains and stop at one of the scenic views my dad is telling us about, I’m going to pinch off a little piece of cloud, just for myself, just a fist full, and seal it up in the mason jar. Just like we do with fireflies at grandma’s house. Except no holes punched in the top.
When we get back home, I will let it go in the bedroom that I share with my sister. The small devil is digging into my bare legs with both feet now, her back braced against the car door. She’s cute, but treacherous. I ignore her and decide that the cloud will stay on my side of our bedroom. I imagine that I will let it follow me around in the silent air-conditioned air of our house. I will be the only kid in the whole Magic Circle subdivision who has her own little piece of cloud. And when I sleep at night, it will float above my twin bed.
Occasionally, I think the little piece of cloud might rain on me. I worry some about the possibility of thunderstorms inside our brand new house.
As we drive up the mountain to the lookout place, we peer out the windows of Old Merc down into the desert valley below. I am so excited I can barely think, but that soon dries up as the clouds dissipate into nothing, like ghosts. I cannot put my hand on them. How did this happen?, I think. They are a mirage. Like the shimmering silver pool of water that appears on the highway. The kind that Gilligan sees when he's thirsty or hungry or pining for some nearly forgotten treat on the desert island. The more he tries to sneak up on them on Gilligan's Island, the farther away they are. With Gilligan, the mirage isn't a cloud, but usually some kind of cake or pie or cookies that don’t involve the bananas or coconuts out of which Ginger and Maryanne have to resort to make everything.
I leave the mason jar beneath the seat.
Flickr photos: Specific Gravity
March 18, 2006
Thor the pony has a new five-year-old
After my recent bout of spotted pony angst, I'm relieved to say that by wielding his charm and good looks, Thor has found himself another five-year-old to take care of.
The moment the little girl saw our blue-eyed munchkin in his paddock, I saw it in her eyes, she fell in love! I suspect that for the last few nights, Thor has been galloping through a five-year-old girl's dreams, which is where a pony belongs.
I think the POA and the gentle little girl are a perfect match. So does her mom.
Thor is going to be ecstatic when they turn him out into their mountain pasture knee-deep in grass with his new horse buddies. And we've been invited to visit!
March 17, 2006
Garg'n Uair Dhuisgear
Every lake has its Kelpie or Water-horse, often seen by the shepherd sitting upon the brow of a rock, dashing along the surface of the deep, or browsing upon the pasture on its verge. ~ Graham: Sketches of Perthshire.
Garg'n Uair Dhuisgear. That’s gaelic for “Fierce when roused.” The Robertson Clan war cry.
Just this year, I discovered that with my surname, I trace my ancestry back to this clan. This finally explains why bagpipe music makes me all weepy-eyed, keen to dress in tartan plaid, and just itching to go marching off somewhere. It must also account for my small collection of Celtic bagpipe music
Since it’s St. Patrick’s Day, how about a couple of stories about some Scottish water horses who are also fierce when roused—
The Kelpie is a water spirit inhabiting deep pools in Scottish streams and rivers. It normally takes the form of a small horse—sometimes said to be black, but also "green as glass" with a jet black mane and tail. The Kelpie can also take the form of a human, but it always has something of the water which gives it away—like waterweed in its hair. In its horse form it might wait near a ford to tempt a weary traveller to ride it across the river. It would look like a gentle pony, but anyone foolish enough to mount it would be carried off into the river and drowned.
Another name for the kelpie on the Isle of Man is the Glashtyn. Like all kelpies, the Glashtyn appears as a horse—specifically, a grey colt. It is often seen on the banks of lakes and appears only at night.
Kelpies were also well known for stealing human girls to take as wives, never to see their families again. There is a story of a Kelpie's wife who managed to escape to dry land again, leaving the Kelpie and their baby son. Although she wept to leave her child, she longed for human company, and she knew the Kelpie loved his son and would care for him. She returned to her family who were overjoyed to see her again, thinking that she had been drowned years ago. But as they celebrated, a dreadful storm blew up, with howling winds and lashing rain. Above the noise of the storm they could hear the furious screams of the Kelpie. In the middle of the night, when they storm was at its worst, they heard a loud thump against the door of the house. They did not dare look, in case it was the Kelpie come for his wife. But in the morning the storm abated, and they opened the door to see what had crashed into it in the night... It was the severed head of the baby son.
Some say the kelpie is not always male, but may also take the form of a human woman. In this instance, the kelpie is often referred to as a water wraith and is most often seen clothed in a green dress. She is just as treacherous as a male Kelpie.
The Each Uisge (pronounced "ech ooisky" - each = horse, usige = water [like whisky]) is the fiercest and most dangerous of the Scottish water spirits. While the Kelpie lived in running water, the Each Uisge lived in the sea, sea lochs and fresh-water lochs. In Ireland its equivalent was called the Aughisky.
The Each Uisge would take the shape of a fine horse or pony and stand near the water's edge. If anyone tried to ride it, it would immediately plunge into the deepest part of the loch. The water horse's coat is adhesive so that the rider cannot get off. Once it has drowned its catch the water horse devours the body, eating everything except the liver, which eventually washes up on the shore—so that everyone will know the monster has claimed another victim.
Kind of makes me glad I live in the high desert! No big bodies of water for these water horses to jump out of anywhere around my little ranch, except, perhaps the Pecos River. I'll keep a watch out.
Maybe these irascible beasts won't mess with a member of The Robertson Clan. (Are those tenacious blue heelers on that coat of arms?)
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Sources: Kelpie; Water Horses
March 16, 2006
Your Momma. Is a harpy.
"What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is, Clump," Squills remarked, "that has seized upon old Tilly Crawley. ~ Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray
Following up on Dharma Bums Sloths and Harpy Eagles ...
What do you get when you cross a stinky, slovenly, and disreputable Harpy with the totally hot God of the West Wind?
Xanthus and Balius. The immortal stallions of Achilles.
Go figure.
Images: The Horses of Achilles, Henri Regnault ( French, 1843-1871 ) ; Harpies; Zephyrus
Does anyone have a step ladder?
He's a little over 17 hands, and my boy is still growing. Getting on board the big Percheron this evening seems like a daunting, almost impossible, prospect. And I don't even own a mounting block. Only an old wild-bird-seed bucket turned up on end. (The one that Tobias enjoys carrying around by the handle with his teeth.)
I decide that if I'm to have any chance of getting into the saddle
Funny thing is, I can vault onto a horse this size at a canter on a 20-meter circle. You run alongside the horse near his shoulder on the inside of the circle, match his stride, grab the surcingle handles, punch forward with both feet in time with the horse's inside leg, and the horse's lift gives you a little flight, enough to swing you up through the air and onto his broad back. (I practiced that a whole bunch of times on the vaulting barrel before I was able to do it on a real horse!)
Maybe if he gets up enough speed here in the round pen, I can run alongside and vault on board. Although as I'm just backing Toby, I don't think that would be a good idea.
No where's that old bird seed bucket? I am definitely getting myself a mounting block
March 15, 2006
Gratuitous Mooshing Over The Big Boo (Tobias)
Can a mucho macho draft horse have pretty knees?
A nose as soft as a powder puff?
And breath sweeter than any perfume?
Yes. Indeed.
Well groomed
Have you ever gone to an early morning meeting at the office, sat down at the big conference table ...
and had one of your colleagues extract one (or two) large pieces of alfalfa hay from your hair?
It makes a super good (pet descriptive phrase borrowed from my 8-year-old son) impression.
She ...
She tapped me on the shoulder yesterday afternoon,
as I was heading back into the house after feeding the horses, and said, "Hey! Here I am. La Luna."
I stopped what I was doing, sat on the front porch, and visited with her a while as she rose up over the mountain tops.
Keeping the home fires burning
I don't call her Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler for nuthin'. She's got it handled this morning.
March 14, 2006
The Jane West Chronicles
Late 1970s. What some women might have actually been overheard to say ... or possibly may have said to the author directly ... although wild horses couldn't begin to drag the details out of me. In fact, to simplify, let's just say this is a work of fiction and that names have been changed to protect the innocent. (Thank you, Josie, Jane, and Thunder the horse, for acting out this little drama for us.)
Josie West: Hey Jane, got any advice for a smart young gal who's just about ready to head off into the Wild Wild West?
Jane West: Ummmmm, let me see ...
According to the Jane West Equipment Manual here, there are a couple a things.
- Don't let your nose get shiny out on the trail. A soft matte complexion is preferable.
- Note that the lipstick and blush provided herein just fit into your Authentic Cowgirl Equipment saddle bags.
- If you still insist on playing on the jungle gym on the playground, you'll have to wear shorts underneath that skirt, young lady.
- They say that riding a horse is an excellent way to maintain a trim figure.
And ...
There's something here in the small writing. I'm having kind of a hard time reading it. (Dumb bast- bunnies over at Marx Toys mustn't of thought I'd ever reach middle-age. There's not one pair of reading glasses in this box.)
OK.
Listen up, now, because this is real important. It says here—
"Don't give away the cream, or no one will ever Buy. The. Cow."
Thunder the horse: That's just sheer genius advice there, Jane. A real self-esteem booster.
Got any moo....rrrrr ?
(Saddle up and ride away, Josie West. Ride away!)
March 13, 2006
City different cowboys
It’s a soft-serve-snow afternoon. Yesterday—a blizzard. Today—with our brilliant Santa Fe sunshine, it's like the corner Häagen-Dazs melted down (caramel butter pecan?) in the streets.
A silver timbre fills the air as out-of-state SUVs splash through the potholes of The City Different. They cruise around the drenched plaza, passengers’ noses pressed against tinted windows, and I have to dash between them to get to where I’m going. This is a tourist town after all.
Water runs down the brown adobe shop walls in rivulets. The high desert air is momentarily sweet and wet, but will cast off any remnant of moisture quickly, like my pretty blue-heeler dog after a bath.
An elderly woman on the corner is giving her husband detailed, blow-by-blow directions on how to take a photo of the cathedral that is one of the landmarks on the plaza. The one with the unfinished spires. He’s wielding the expensive looking digital camera like he means business. “Don’t worry about the people. Or the cars,” his wife is saying, pointing randomly at people, cars, trucks. “I can get rid of them.”
I hope she’s talking about using Photoshop.
I dodge a Hummer chock full of Texans, jump a puddle, and land on the sidewalk outside the La Fonda Hotel. Get slowed down by a family strolling five abreast. Two little boys, they must be about my son’s age (8), lead the group. They are dressed from shoulder to toe in Land’s End wear for kids.
But on top of their heads, they are sporting brand spanking new, wide brimmed, black felt cowboy hats, complete with fancy braided bands. Their red and blue preppie down jackets are wide open, their hands are shoved deep into the pockets of their adjustable waist, relaxed-fit jeans, and they are amblin’, strollin’, struttin’ down the sidewalk like little banty roosters. Two sixty-pound Marlboro men from upstate New York. Those boys are pretty proud of their new cowboy hats.
I cruise around them as one of the moms stops to admire a fringe leather jacket in a shop window. I smile at the little boys as I zoom past. Resist the urge to say, "Howdy pardners!"
It's Santa Fe, and everyone’s a cowboy this afternoon.
Flickr photos: mountain mike; mountain mike
March 10, 2006
Super powers
Creating passionate users. You shouldn't get stuck trying to perfect the fundamentals before moving on.
Horsewoman Kathy Sierra describes a girl at her barn whose trainer won’t let her and her dressage horse progress to more interesting work until they’ve virtually perfected the basics. And, she says, both horse and rider are bored out of their minds.
The Parelli approach is, "Keep moving forward, because you'll gain new tools that you can use to go back and perfect the fundamentals." We do this in equestrian vaulting.
When I first began vaulting a few years ago, I was surprised at how quickly the other beginners and I were encouraged to stand on the vaulting horse’s back. Now, mind you, vaulting is one of the safest equestrian disciplines around—you begin at a walk; practice practice practice on the vaulting barrel; do approximatly three thousand pilates situps (especially if your forty-something) to strengthen your core along with lots of balance exercises; often stand for the very first time at walk with a spotter on the horse as well; and eventually work your way up to canter, having been thoroughly drilled in the emergency dismount. At the same time, you’re learning the other compulsory moves (think figures in figure skating).
While the basic stand is in fact easier than many other vaulting exercises, for any new vaulter who performs the move for the first time—even if it’s for only a couple of strides—it’s a “superpower” moment. Standing on the back of the vaulting horse at canter merits lots of victorious arm waving, I-am-#1 two-fisted index fingers in the air, and some serious woo-hooing! afterwards. Although when I finally did it, my vaulting coach (a patrician and elegant former professional ballerina and serious student of dressage), sternly reminded me (while grinning from ear to ear) that decorum is part of our sport, and that some behaviors are simply not apropos in the vaulting arena.
So why amp up the fundamentals with beginning vaulters? Why encourage them to breathe that rarified air?
Well, giving beginners that heady moment at the stand (either at walk or canter) enables them to envision the possibilities. It boosts their confidence. Gives them the courage to try new things. And it’s amazingly fun—greatly decreasing the boredom factor, especially with the little kids. Vaulters can also use their new “superpowers” to fix what might be lacking in the basics.
Feeling a walking or cantering horse’s back beneath the soles of your feet while at the stand, literally riding the horse with your feet, matching her movement with soft knees, pulling yourself up through your core, chest lifted, neck long, eyes straight ahead, finding your center of balance, spreading your arms out like an eagle's wings until even your fingertips are active, gives you a deeply unique understanding of the horse’s movement. And this translates into a deeper understanding and practice of the basics. This is one of the reasons that equestrian vaulting is used to teach so many European children to ride.
My fellow vaulters and I can use our superpowers to enhance the most fundamental part of the horse and vaulter/horse and rider equation—our basic vaulting or rider’s seat!
Now apparently I need to work on that decorum thing.
Source: Creating passionate users.
Flickr photos: bwong; bwong; bwong
March 9, 2006
Spotted pony angst
I have typed and re-typed the classified ad for the local paper approximately one hundred twenty times.
ADORABLE POA GELDING. 12.5 hands. 25 years old young. The quintessential Super babysitter for your little one. Mountain goat. Proven trail and mountain pony. Bombproof. To pre-approved home contingent upon the completion of a thorough FBI background check. To good home only.
Blah blah blah.
At one point, my long story about the little horse I love draft advertisement is approximately 20 lines long and, according to the online classified ad tool, an estimated $200+ to run.
I nearly give up.
How in the world can I say what I want to say in 5 lines for $35 dollars? I remind myself that J. and C. have both outgrown Thor, and the old fellow needs a job. He’s got at least one more kid in him, another summer in the mountains. But it’s more than that.
When we brought the blue-eyed, spotted pony home a few years ago, Dennis and I both laughed about how we’d finally in our forties gotten that pony we’d dreamed about as kids. I’ve told my poor husband this story about a million times and no doubt will tell it to him again—as a third grader, I would pedal my pink banana-seat bicycle for miles from our housing development to a POA breeder’s farm. I’d park myself by the fence and hope to catch a glimpse of the spotted ponies. And prayed to God that I could have just one.
So maybe this has a little to do with the fact that I brought a POA home. And now I’m trying to find him another one. I finally craft an ad that works and doesn’t cost too much. It runs this Friday.
This is going to be painful harder than I thought.
March 7, 2006
Free longing
J. stands in the center of the round pen. Holding a longe whip that can be unwieldy for most grownups, let alone a determined little girl of nine. Caprichosa stands quietly on the outside of the circle, neck arched, black eyes two liquid pools of light, tail swishing back and forth slowly slowly, ears pricked at her kid, mildly surprised to see this little one in the middle of the twenty-meter circle.
We’ve practiced this—
I am Caprichosa. J. is the longer.
I’ve showed J. how to hold the whip, move her body, snap her eyes on the horse’s eyes, when to lower them, soften her stance, round her shoulders.
I trot around and around the pen until I am breathless, huffing and puffing, having J. turn me to the left and then to the right. Sometimes I am disagreeable like I know Cap can be (at least for me). I throw in a few full-of-myself bucks for good measure. I ignore the longer and refuse to stop a couple of times. I speed up, requiring J. to calm me down to a slow trot with her voice, saying, “Eeeaaassy. Eeeeeeaaaaaassy.” As J. slows me down, I think about joining up and then my attention gets caught by something else—look, there’s Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler strolling over to watch—at which point I shout, “J., I’m not paying any attention to you! Send me back out onto the circle!”
For the record, ol’ mom can be quite a challenging equine.
Now it’s for real. No more pretend. I remind myself that J. practically begged me to let her do this. I'm trusting Cap to be in her best babysitting