one horse dies

A friend sent me a link to this article in the NY Times.

I'm not the only one feeling sad about the death of a horse I didn't know.

I know, okay? There is no logical reason to feel sad about Barbaro's death...and yet as this article suggests, maybe it's not Barbaro, maybe it's because of every horse is pure of heart.

Yes, I did tear up during the Flicka trailer, (the new one, the one that will probably be completely stupid) and even though I've seen it many times, I always cry during Old Yeller, and yes, even though I've read it several times, I'm sure I'll cry again the next time I read Where the Red Fern Grows. Actually, I'm glad these things still get to me. I hope they always do.

Back to work...back to prepping for my class and logging and editing Roadside Texas and writing the next new thing and getting JOB sold and completing a freelance assignment and sorting through the stack of paperwork on my desk.

born to run

I am not a fan of horse racing, I'm a fan of running horses and Barbaro was born to run.

I don't want to think about the ethics of using animals to make money, pushing them through race after race, or the money spent to try to reconstruct them so they can at least be used for stud purposes, but one can hardly help thinking of all of that.

Barbaro's x-ray is not unlike mine, a rattletrap, train track of rods and pins.

Let's hope that we all learned a little something from Barbaro, more than that he was a fine racehorse, maybe that we have to be a little easier on the fast runners.

horses

On Friday, Annalise and I had a horseback riding lesson. It was too muddy for a trail ride, so we rode in the "ring'. She rode a lithe former racer named Tigger. He was small and fast. I picked out "Texas", a quarter horse who is so tall I had to stand on a 4 foot stool to get in the saddle. He was smart and feisty and I started thinking of how I might be able to have him be my horse for real, which is kind of unrealistic right now.

I was one of those horse crazy girls and I still am. I spent many a Saturday and Sunday afternoon with Diamond, my Tennessee Walker/pasture horse. I begged my parents for a horse everyday for about three years and I saved my babysitting money to buy feed and horse stuff. I had a budget and a plan and I spent hours revising it, trying to convince them that this was a good idea. (Not really that different from the career I've ended up in when you think about it.) Finally they broke down and bought Diamond for $150 (including saddle, bridal and blanket) from a friend who bought her for their kids before they completely lost interest in her.
Not me. I braided her tail and combed her mane and polished her hoofs. I rode her through bean patches playing hide and seek with the other pasture folks and rode her out to buy Orange Nehi sodas at the little shop near the pasture. I shared my apples and carrots and stories with her. I told her everything. I learned how to stand on her back when she walked and I often rode her bareback laying down across her back. We practiced barrel racing and pole racing, though she wasn't really the racing type, she would get excited and run as fast as she could, which wasn't fast at all. (In the bean patches, however, she was very very fast.) Those days were the best days.

Horses, even small ones, are powerful, yet they want to work with you. They have emotional memories. A horse that has been treated well will remember people favorably. A horse that has been treated roughly is a different story. You'll have to earn and keep their trust. Most horses are stubborn and they will test you and try to scare you. They can knock you down in an instant and win any fight, yet at heart, they want to work with you.

Yes, I've heard all the stories about girls and horses. Whatever.

For me, it was that time away from the day to day in town. It was getting out to the pasture and the smelly barn and slipping the bridle on and riding out to get an Orange NeHi soda. It was cantering through the pasture on my white horse, and those stupid runs through the bean patches. Mostly it was just lazing around the pasture knowing that everything was going to be okay.

Christmas memory

In the bustle of Christmas, the 1,000 piece puzzle we always try to finish in two days, the rich food, the football games on television, here's what I love most:

• getting time to visit with my Dad and hear his stories and have him insist on getting the truck out to help me look for the horse cause it's cold and windy
• finding the box of Granny's knitting needles and yarn and dividing it up, then having my niece teach me a bit about knitting
• my mom's cooking
• time with friends from far away and hearing their new music, their new stories, seeing their beautiful faces
  
• the train set around the tree that stays on the track most of the time
• my Dad's crazy Christmas decorations
• a fire in the fireplace
• visiting with the friendly calves, Inky and Britney who run up to us in the front yard for snacks and scratches on the forehead (soon they'll be full grown cows and it won't be so cute, but for now...what the heck)
• going on a long ride on Dakota in the brisk cold late afternoon, all through the pasture with Bubba the donkey following along behind us - not wanting to be left behind - and watching the sky turn to a soft dusky orange and feeling grateful and happy
• coming back inside and making cocoa from scratch and standing in front of the fireplace to warm up