Christmas morning.
We've spoken already with all six of our grandchildren and it just turned 8:30. The four who live closest by called us before we even got a chance to check in with them, and their excitement raced through the phone. We will be leaving here shortly for the 30 minute drive to their home so that we can experience their joy face to face.
The other two, who are the youngest, have recently moved with their parents to Philadelphia from Jacksonville, just in time to get everything set up in their new home and ready for Santa's arrival. Yesterday when I spoke with Mack and Bret, I explained that because of his route, Santa comes to Philadelphia before he gets to Florida. I think they liked that idea a lot.
This, indeed, is what this season is all about for me. How blest I am, for sure.
Last evening, we did what has become a Christmas Eve tradition by driving over to the nearest grandchildren's house to go to church services with them, ended each year by a crowd in front of the church, everyone holding lit candles and singing "Silent Night." And, then it is to their house where we all eat tacos or burritos in great anticipation of Santa's arrival. I really don't understand how wide eyed children can fall asleep with all of that adrenalin flowing. But, they always do.
When we got back home here to our little farm afterwards, I lit a fire in the pit outside and Annette and I sat there and had champagne, gazing up at the full moon, hidden from time to time by passing clouds. And, we counted our blessings. It took quite a while to cover the list.
Annette and I told each other that this year, we would not swap presents. We already have so much, we said. It was a false pact based on a wink.
We think each year that we can fool each other, but as Christmas grows closer, packages somehow seem to mysteriously appear under our tree. It always happens.
I think it is kind of like the four grandchildren--Carson, Connor, Coleman and Ashton--who always come home from Christmas Eve church services and start in right away asking their mom if they can open "just one" present. And, she always says, "No, not until the morning." She knows she does not mean it, and they know she does not mean it...but it is something the five of them do every year, and they do it as if it is the very first time.
Our children are lucky. Within a certain amount of reason, they let Santa know through various ways just what it is they would like for Christmas, and Santa and all of Santa's helpers do whatever it takes to make those wishes come true.
In doing so, we all also recognze--including the children--that not every child is as fortunate, nor every family as supportive. In fact, a lot of everyone's focus during the year is around those children and families who struggle.
But, for this brief and excitement packed few hours, these children get to own their Christmas and all of the wonderful feelings and things that come with it. That's how it should be.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Merry Christmas, 2007
Well.
It is now two days before Christmas, 2007.
It is a time of each year when the swirling in our lives seems to intensify temporarily before becoming still...soft...calm. Soon, a peace will return. It will happen tomorrow about the time the sun sets and brings on the night darkness of Christmas Eve.
It's as if we have learned since childhood that now, we can only sit and wait. Just be still. Listen. Anticipate. And, hope.
It is about this time each year when I begin looking back at the past 12 months, trying to take a little inventory. I tend to focus on the good things that happened; what went right more than what went wrong. It's much more fun that way. And, because I live such a lucky life, I get to enjoy lots of smiles.
Certainly, 2007 has been a year of much happiness and joy for me. If you read any of the essays on this site, I hope that will be most evident to you.
First and foremost, my wife Annette lives inside my heart and I find myself feeling deeply enriched with her every act. Surely, if you read what is here, the way Annette envelopes me and all of those around her with joy and tenderness will be as clear to you as the hot Florida sun on a July day.
Last night before we went to bed, we sat around a fire pit outside and listened to Christmas caroles. The cloudy night's air was a little cool, making the warm glow from the fire's coals welcomed.
In the darkness of the night, Annette and I could not see our horses in their pastures and paddocks. But from time to time we could hear some of them moving and stirring. We could feel their presence, almost as if they were sitting in chairs next to us, enjoying the music of the season along with us; thinking, like us, how fortunate we all are to be here in this place.
Three of our dogs were there at our feet, feeling the fire and all curled up and asleep.
The Christmas lights were all glowing on our entry fence up the drive, as well as atop our little red barn, house, and party screen room.
A blooming moon about to be full was hanging up there, only a small slither of it visible from time to time through the thick clouds.
And, as the Christmas music flowed out over us, the fire crackled next to us, and a couple of horses whinnied and neighed in front of us, I smiled.
Merry Christmas.
It is now two days before Christmas, 2007.
It is a time of each year when the swirling in our lives seems to intensify temporarily before becoming still...soft...calm. Soon, a peace will return. It will happen tomorrow about the time the sun sets and brings on the night darkness of Christmas Eve.
It's as if we have learned since childhood that now, we can only sit and wait. Just be still. Listen. Anticipate. And, hope.
It is about this time each year when I begin looking back at the past 12 months, trying to take a little inventory. I tend to focus on the good things that happened; what went right more than what went wrong. It's much more fun that way. And, because I live such a lucky life, I get to enjoy lots of smiles.
Certainly, 2007 has been a year of much happiness and joy for me. If you read any of the essays on this site, I hope that will be most evident to you.
First and foremost, my wife Annette lives inside my heart and I find myself feeling deeply enriched with her every act. Surely, if you read what is here, the way Annette envelopes me and all of those around her with joy and tenderness will be as clear to you as the hot Florida sun on a July day.
Last night before we went to bed, we sat around a fire pit outside and listened to Christmas caroles. The cloudy night's air was a little cool, making the warm glow from the fire's coals welcomed.
In the darkness of the night, Annette and I could not see our horses in their pastures and paddocks. But from time to time we could hear some of them moving and stirring. We could feel their presence, almost as if they were sitting in chairs next to us, enjoying the music of the season along with us; thinking, like us, how fortunate we all are to be here in this place.
Three of our dogs were there at our feet, feeling the fire and all curled up and asleep.
The Christmas lights were all glowing on our entry fence up the drive, as well as atop our little red barn, house, and party screen room.
A blooming moon about to be full was hanging up there, only a small slither of it visible from time to time through the thick clouds.
And, as the Christmas music flowed out over us, the fire crackled next to us, and a couple of horses whinnied and neighed in front of us, I smiled.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Smile. You will live longer.
My 63 year old wife Annette and one of our grandsons, 10 year old Connor Mack, ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches today sitting in the tree tops in a fort she has had built overlooking horses in two of our pastures.
And, as usual, I smiled.
This is no ordinary tree fort. That would not do. It actually surrounds a pair of side by side oak trees with two rooms that are connected with a swing bridge. And, because it is Christmas time and this is a gift to all of our six grandchildren, it is wrapped in green garland touched off by a wreath and a big red bow.
Connor Mack is one of the triplets. The other two are Coleman and Ashton. When Connor Mack saw the finished fort late yesterday afternoon he gave the enthusiastic and appreciative response his Nana had anticipated. And, after riding the tire swing and failing to scale the rope climb, he speculated that his ten year old sister Ashton could make it all the way up. "She's good that that stuff," he said.
The other triplets, along with their 14 year old brother Carson, will see the tree fort, tire swing and rope climb later in the week. Two other grandchildren, 7 year old Mack and 5 year old Bret, may have to wait until summer. They have just moved with their mom and dad this past week from nearby Jacksonville to far away Philadelphia.
But, this is not about the tree fort or the tire swing or the rope climb, or even our grandchildren. It is more about me smiling.
I get to do that a lot, which is a very good thing. I am absolutely convinced that smiling and laughing contribute to a longer life. Certainly it is foundational to a happy life.
And, around Spirit Woods Farm, out little horse place here on a state forest in west central Florida, and with my wife Annette, I find that I am enveloped in so many things that cause me to smile.
Take last Thursday night.
Because there is so much work to do when you have a farm, we have some help. His name is Ceasar, and he is from Mexico. Over the last several months, Ceasar has become very important to what we want to do, and who we want to be. In some ways, he is almost like family, and we feel very fortunate that he came into our life. Ceasar is a tremendous help to Annette and has a great loyalty to her. He will do anything for her...mostly because he knows she will do anything for him. He has a full time job and comes here on afternoons and weekends.
Ceasar has three young children, and often he brings them to the farm with him when he comes to work. There is 12 year old Little Ceasar, 8 year old Maria, and 7 year old Princess. I swear that is her name. They are all three cute, courteous and smart. And, like their father, they have a serious work ethic, especially for children.
Ceasar speaks little English, although he is very legal. But, his children go from English to Spanish to English with the ease that I count to ten. And often they serve as interpretors. However, somehow Annette has learned to communicate with Ceasar as if they've developed a language of their own.
When Ceasar's childen are here on our farm, Annette makes sure they have fun.
The three of them attach themselves to her as if they are an extra set of arms. It is "Ms. Annette" this and "Ms. Annette" that. Over and over and over. She talks, they listen. They ask, she answers.
And, last Thursday night Annette and I had a Christmas "fiesta" for Ceasar and his three young children. I mostly just showed up and had fun. Annette spent hours over days shopping and wrapping gifts for all of them. And, she cooked burritos for dinner.
It was a wondrous night. The children were talkative and excited...and grateful. Ceasar left our screen room where we were partying to go and cry in private because of his pride and his appreciation. He loves his children and is a terrific father.
Because it was a school night, about 8 o'clock Ceasar and his children climbed into Ceasar's old truck and headed out toward their home, taking their gifts with them and leaving my smiles and memories with me.
Shortly after they were gone, we had different guests.
You see, we also have a now a 16 year old young lady who spends a lot of time at our house; sometimes 3 and 4 days a week. Her name is Lisa and she lives in Tampa with her parents. Lisa has 5 brothers and sisters.
She is here for 3 reasons. She loves horses and we have them. She loves Annette and I have her. And, her parents let her come stay with us.
Unlike Ceasar and his children, Lisa's story is not one of economic difficulty or uncertaintity. Far from it.
Like Ceasar, however, she has come into our lives and has become very important to how we are and what we want to be.
Late in the day last Thursday, Lisa's 19 year old brother Robert brought her to the farm for a five day visit. Like most 19 year old boys with a cool car, Robert also had a couple of young ladies with him. After getting Lisa here, the four of them visited with us a short while, then Robert took all of the girls, including Lisa, with him to dinner while we had our Christmas fiesta with Ceasar and his children.
After Ceasar and the chidren were gone, Annette and I sat in our swing in the screen room and had a glass of wine, and we smiled. That was great fun, we thought. Those are wonderful children, we thought. How do we help them more, we asked?
And, we took a deep breath and tought about going inside and getting ready for bed.
That's when Lisa and her brother and his two lady (read that girl) friends drove up. No way, I thought, do they want to hang out with us and visit. Robert lives one hour away and he had to deliver his two friends after letting off Lisa.
Wrong.
The four of them came into the screen room, and there we sat with these young people. It was wonderful. We talked and we laughed and we swapped stories. And, as I sat there in my swing, looking out over the heads of these young friends, I saw the white of our Christmas lights and I listened to the Christmas music playing softly in the back ground.
I thought about what a wonderful day we had. I thought about a wonderful live we live.
And, I smiled. Once again.
And, as usual, I smiled.
This is no ordinary tree fort. That would not do. It actually surrounds a pair of side by side oak trees with two rooms that are connected with a swing bridge. And, because it is Christmas time and this is a gift to all of our six grandchildren, it is wrapped in green garland touched off by a wreath and a big red bow.
Connor Mack is one of the triplets. The other two are Coleman and Ashton. When Connor Mack saw the finished fort late yesterday afternoon he gave the enthusiastic and appreciative response his Nana had anticipated. And, after riding the tire swing and failing to scale the rope climb, he speculated that his ten year old sister Ashton could make it all the way up. "She's good that that stuff," he said.
The other triplets, along with their 14 year old brother Carson, will see the tree fort, tire swing and rope climb later in the week. Two other grandchildren, 7 year old Mack and 5 year old Bret, may have to wait until summer. They have just moved with their mom and dad this past week from nearby Jacksonville to far away Philadelphia.
But, this is not about the tree fort or the tire swing or the rope climb, or even our grandchildren. It is more about me smiling.
I get to do that a lot, which is a very good thing. I am absolutely convinced that smiling and laughing contribute to a longer life. Certainly it is foundational to a happy life.
And, around Spirit Woods Farm, out little horse place here on a state forest in west central Florida, and with my wife Annette, I find that I am enveloped in so many things that cause me to smile.
Take last Thursday night.
Because there is so much work to do when you have a farm, we have some help. His name is Ceasar, and he is from Mexico. Over the last several months, Ceasar has become very important to what we want to do, and who we want to be. In some ways, he is almost like family, and we feel very fortunate that he came into our life. Ceasar is a tremendous help to Annette and has a great loyalty to her. He will do anything for her...mostly because he knows she will do anything for him. He has a full time job and comes here on afternoons and weekends.
Ceasar has three young children, and often he brings them to the farm with him when he comes to work. There is 12 year old Little Ceasar, 8 year old Maria, and 7 year old Princess. I swear that is her name. They are all three cute, courteous and smart. And, like their father, they have a serious work ethic, especially for children.
Ceasar speaks little English, although he is very legal. But, his children go from English to Spanish to English with the ease that I count to ten. And often they serve as interpretors. However, somehow Annette has learned to communicate with Ceasar as if they've developed a language of their own.
When Ceasar's childen are here on our farm, Annette makes sure they have fun.
The three of them attach themselves to her as if they are an extra set of arms. It is "Ms. Annette" this and "Ms. Annette" that. Over and over and over. She talks, they listen. They ask, she answers.
And, last Thursday night Annette and I had a Christmas "fiesta" for Ceasar and his three young children. I mostly just showed up and had fun. Annette spent hours over days shopping and wrapping gifts for all of them. And, she cooked burritos for dinner.
It was a wondrous night. The children were talkative and excited...and grateful. Ceasar left our screen room where we were partying to go and cry in private because of his pride and his appreciation. He loves his children and is a terrific father.
Because it was a school night, about 8 o'clock Ceasar and his children climbed into Ceasar's old truck and headed out toward their home, taking their gifts with them and leaving my smiles and memories with me.
Shortly after they were gone, we had different guests.
You see, we also have a now a 16 year old young lady who spends a lot of time at our house; sometimes 3 and 4 days a week. Her name is Lisa and she lives in Tampa with her parents. Lisa has 5 brothers and sisters.
She is here for 3 reasons. She loves horses and we have them. She loves Annette and I have her. And, her parents let her come stay with us.
Unlike Ceasar and his children, Lisa's story is not one of economic difficulty or uncertaintity. Far from it.
Like Ceasar, however, she has come into our lives and has become very important to how we are and what we want to be.
Late in the day last Thursday, Lisa's 19 year old brother Robert brought her to the farm for a five day visit. Like most 19 year old boys with a cool car, Robert also had a couple of young ladies with him. After getting Lisa here, the four of them visited with us a short while, then Robert took all of the girls, including Lisa, with him to dinner while we had our Christmas fiesta with Ceasar and his children.
After Ceasar and the chidren were gone, Annette and I sat in our swing in the screen room and had a glass of wine, and we smiled. That was great fun, we thought. Those are wonderful children, we thought. How do we help them more, we asked?
And, we took a deep breath and tought about going inside and getting ready for bed.
That's when Lisa and her brother and his two lady (read that girl) friends drove up. No way, I thought, do they want to hang out with us and visit. Robert lives one hour away and he had to deliver his two friends after letting off Lisa.
Wrong.
The four of them came into the screen room, and there we sat with these young people. It was wonderful. We talked and we laughed and we swapped stories. And, as I sat there in my swing, looking out over the heads of these young friends, I saw the white of our Christmas lights and I listened to the Christmas music playing softly in the back ground.
I thought about what a wonderful day we had. I thought about a wonderful live we live.
And, I smiled. Once again.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Cocoa's first ever visit to the petrinarian.
(Mike Tolbert wrote this story for his grandchildren, 4 year old Bret and 6 year old Mack in the summer of 2007. Remember this: little Bret has told her mother that when she grows up, Bret wants to be a petrinarian—known to most folks as a vet).
We live on a small farm with a little red barn and lots of animals.
We have 18 horses. One of them is a three month old filly (girl) named Sugah. Another is a six month old colt (boy) named Spirit. And a third is a one year old filly (girl) named Rosie.
Then, we have two tiny miniature horses named Savannah and Butter Cup, along with some very nice horses that we ride in the forest behind our farm.
My favorite horse is Rebel. He is big, and he’s black and white.
Nana’s favorite horse is Fancy. She has a flowing white mane and white tail and she’s brown and white.
We also have one cat and four dogs.
It was time for all of our dogs to get their annual shots.
For some of them, like one year old Cocoa, who is a lanky and loose limbed clown-like canine, this was their first trip off the farm. It was also their first visit to see the petrinarian.
Now, let me tell you about our dogs.
First, there is our old yellow dog named Hammie, who is almost 16 years old. If she was human, we would say that Hammie is 112 years old because one dog year equals seven human years.
Can you imagine that? Who is the oldest person you know? (Probably granddaddy, huh?) And he is nowhere close to 112 years old.
Of course, we have always kind of thought Hammie was human. She understands everything you say…and she talks to me, I swear.
Hammie still moves around well for her age. She is alert and active. Hammie eats her dinner every night and she has two favorite places to rest: in the barn tack room beneath the saddles, and behind the hay in the hay barn.
Our other three dogs play with Hammie. But they are respectful of her age and they don’t play too rough.
Since the petrinarian has recently visited our farm and given Hammie her shots, we did not plan to take her with us on this trip with the other dogs, but Hammie had other ideas. She loves to ride in the truck.
Our youngest dog is Oprah. We just got her about a month ago.
Oprah is a tiny little Jack Russell. She has a black face, white body, long nose and a short black tail that is constantly wiggling.
Oprah is quick. She can jump high, and she loves playing games with our cat, whose name is Kitty.
This was to be Oprah’s first shots because she is so young.
Oprah’s best buddy is Cocoa, that lanky chocolate colored cut up who is half bird dog and half lab. Cocoa’s long tongue hangs out most of the time. Cocoa has sad looking eyes…but she is always happy.
We got Cocoa when she was just a puppy. What a funny dog. Cocoa is always playing and she loves to run and jump into the water troughs where the horses on our farm drink.
Big Cocoa watches after little Oprah. She is kind of like Oprah’s baby sitter. And they play together all of the time, chasing each other and wrestling all around the farm.
Then there is our black dog. Her name is Chloe. She is a sweetie. Chloe is a quiet dog. She listens closely when you talk to her and she just loves to be rubbed and petted.
We adopted Chloe when she was about nine months old. Her owner had to move all the way to Michigan and could not take Chloe with her, so we brought her to live on our farm. We are so glad we got her.
Chloe loves our horses and she is always checking on them. Her favorite is our 5 month old colt named Spirit. Chloe and Spirit play together, and believe it or not, they chase each other around the paddock.
So, those are our dogs.
Now, let me tell you about the morning we tried to load them all up and take them to see the petrinarian to get their shots.
Chloe, the sweet black dog, was pretty easy to get loaded into the truck. We showed her where we wanted her to go and she jumped into the back seat and found a place to sit.
Oprah was easy, too, because Nana was holding her. That meant Oprah had nothing to do except get in the truck with Nana when Nana decided it was time.
But, before Nana and Oprah could get into the truck in their front passenger seat, old Hammie decided she was going, too, and she jumped up into the truck and had a seat. It surprised us because we did not know Hammie could still jump that high.
I tried to coax Hammie out of the truck. But, Hammie would not move. She sat perfectly still and looked straight ahead. No matter how much I begged her to get out, she just sat.
And sat.
And sat.
And, so, we decided to let Hammie just sit and go with us.
The only dog left outside the truck was Cocoa. Now, remember. Cocoa is long and lanky. Her paws are as big as a catcher’s mitt. She weighs almost 80 pounds. And, she is very strong.
Cocoa had decided she was not going anywhere. Not to the petrinarian’s. Not even to the end of the drive way.
Cocoa was not getting into the truck. It did not matter if her other dog friends were already inside there in the back seat and ready to go. No way am I getting in the truck, Cocoa said.
I plead and beg.
I yell and scream.
I try to lift Cocoa up.
I try to pull her in.
I try to push her up and in.
Nothing works.
I offer her treats, but the other dogs eat them first.
I am thinking of leaving Cocoa behind and only taking the other dogs.
Then, I try once more.
I lift and push. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
This dog is not going to win, I thought. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Cocoa’s in the truck.
Let’s go, Nana.
When we arrived at the petrinarian’s office for this very first visit, the waiting room was already filled with other dogs and cats waiting for their shots.
So, we decided to let our dogs stay in the truck with Nana until we knew it was time for them to see the petrinarian. When he is ready to see us, we thought we’d bring the dogs in, one at a time, until they were all there.
“Mr. Tolbert,” the petrinarian’s assistant said, “We are ready for your dogs.”
Great, I thought, and went to the truck, which was parked just by the front door.
Okay, I told Nana. Here is the plan. You carry Oprah inside. I will bring in Chloe, and then I will go back and get Cocoa.
So, that is what we did, and it worked. It was perfect.
I left Nana, Oprah and Chloe there inside with the petrinarian and his assistant, and I returned to the truck to get Cocoa.
But, Cocoa had other ideas about getting out of the truck.
“No way,” she said.
“I am not getting out of this truck. Not for any thing. And, certainly not to go in there with all those other dogs and cats. And, I am not dumb enough to go in there and get stuck with a needle for shots.”
Cocoa braced herself on the back seat and said, “Are you kidding? Get out of here because you are not getting me out,” Cocoa exclaimed.
Whoa, I thought. Cocoa, you are the dog. I am the master. You are my best friend, but I am in charge here.
Do you remember the lead ropes we use when we walk the horses? They are strong and long. Well, that is what I had attached to Cocoa’s collar. Something that I thought would be sturdy and help me get her moving.
So, I tried to pull her out. I pulled. I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
I begged her to come out. I beggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggged.
But Cocoa planted her big paws firmly into the seat, stiffened her body and said, “NO WAY. “
I pulled. And Cocoa pulled back.
And, the people sitting inside the petrinarian’s office with their dogs and cats watched it all through the big glass windows. And, they laughed and laughed.
Then, I put the lead rope around Cocoa’s body so that it was around her bottom. I pulled. I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
She moved, but she stiffened even more.
I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
She moved some more and I got her just to the edge of the back seat, right there at the door.
I am winning, I thought.
Wrong.
That’s when Cocoa stiffened even more and put her big paws on the car door and pushed back. She pushhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhed.
And I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
Finally, I won. She rolled out onto the ground.
I wonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
I felt so good. Man, I wonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
But, as I was walking Cocoa into the petrinarian’s office where all of the people were sitting, laughing at us, with their dogs and cats, Cocoa looked up at me with those lazy eyes, her tongue hanging out and a smile on her face.
“Wait until next time,” she said.
POST SCRIPT: We’ve not ventured again to the petrinarian, but Cocoa has a new attitude about riding in my truck, especially if she is allowed to sit up front with me. We do have another dog now, Buddy, who is my constant traveling companion. Buddy is a big black dog with a softness in both her eyes and her spirit that is wonderful. Chloe is no longer at our farm. We have loaned her out to a good friend who badly wanted a very nice dog to care for at his home.
We live on a small farm with a little red barn and lots of animals.
We have 18 horses. One of them is a three month old filly (girl) named Sugah. Another is a six month old colt (boy) named Spirit. And a third is a one year old filly (girl) named Rosie.
Then, we have two tiny miniature horses named Savannah and Butter Cup, along with some very nice horses that we ride in the forest behind our farm.
My favorite horse is Rebel. He is big, and he’s black and white.
Nana’s favorite horse is Fancy. She has a flowing white mane and white tail and she’s brown and white.
We also have one cat and four dogs.
It was time for all of our dogs to get their annual shots.
For some of them, like one year old Cocoa, who is a lanky and loose limbed clown-like canine, this was their first trip off the farm. It was also their first visit to see the petrinarian.
Now, let me tell you about our dogs.
First, there is our old yellow dog named Hammie, who is almost 16 years old. If she was human, we would say that Hammie is 112 years old because one dog year equals seven human years.
Can you imagine that? Who is the oldest person you know? (Probably granddaddy, huh?) And he is nowhere close to 112 years old.
Of course, we have always kind of thought Hammie was human. She understands everything you say…and she talks to me, I swear.
Hammie still moves around well for her age. She is alert and active. Hammie eats her dinner every night and she has two favorite places to rest: in the barn tack room beneath the saddles, and behind the hay in the hay barn.
Our other three dogs play with Hammie. But they are respectful of her age and they don’t play too rough.
Since the petrinarian has recently visited our farm and given Hammie her shots, we did not plan to take her with us on this trip with the other dogs, but Hammie had other ideas. She loves to ride in the truck.
Our youngest dog is Oprah. We just got her about a month ago.
Oprah is a tiny little Jack Russell. She has a black face, white body, long nose and a short black tail that is constantly wiggling.
Oprah is quick. She can jump high, and she loves playing games with our cat, whose name is Kitty.
This was to be Oprah’s first shots because she is so young.
Oprah’s best buddy is Cocoa, that lanky chocolate colored cut up who is half bird dog and half lab. Cocoa’s long tongue hangs out most of the time. Cocoa has sad looking eyes…but she is always happy.
We got Cocoa when she was just a puppy. What a funny dog. Cocoa is always playing and she loves to run and jump into the water troughs where the horses on our farm drink.
Big Cocoa watches after little Oprah. She is kind of like Oprah’s baby sitter. And they play together all of the time, chasing each other and wrestling all around the farm.
Then there is our black dog. Her name is Chloe. She is a sweetie. Chloe is a quiet dog. She listens closely when you talk to her and she just loves to be rubbed and petted.
We adopted Chloe when she was about nine months old. Her owner had to move all the way to Michigan and could not take Chloe with her, so we brought her to live on our farm. We are so glad we got her.
Chloe loves our horses and she is always checking on them. Her favorite is our 5 month old colt named Spirit. Chloe and Spirit play together, and believe it or not, they chase each other around the paddock.
So, those are our dogs.
Now, let me tell you about the morning we tried to load them all up and take them to see the petrinarian to get their shots.
Chloe, the sweet black dog, was pretty easy to get loaded into the truck. We showed her where we wanted her to go and she jumped into the back seat and found a place to sit.
Oprah was easy, too, because Nana was holding her. That meant Oprah had nothing to do except get in the truck with Nana when Nana decided it was time.
But, before Nana and Oprah could get into the truck in their front passenger seat, old Hammie decided she was going, too, and she jumped up into the truck and had a seat. It surprised us because we did not know Hammie could still jump that high.
I tried to coax Hammie out of the truck. But, Hammie would not move. She sat perfectly still and looked straight ahead. No matter how much I begged her to get out, she just sat.
And sat.
And sat.
And, so, we decided to let Hammie just sit and go with us.
The only dog left outside the truck was Cocoa. Now, remember. Cocoa is long and lanky. Her paws are as big as a catcher’s mitt. She weighs almost 80 pounds. And, she is very strong.
Cocoa had decided she was not going anywhere. Not to the petrinarian’s. Not even to the end of the drive way.
Cocoa was not getting into the truck. It did not matter if her other dog friends were already inside there in the back seat and ready to go. No way am I getting in the truck, Cocoa said.
I plead and beg.
I yell and scream.
I try to lift Cocoa up.
I try to pull her in.
I try to push her up and in.
Nothing works.
I offer her treats, but the other dogs eat them first.
I am thinking of leaving Cocoa behind and only taking the other dogs.
Then, I try once more.
I lift and push. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
This dog is not going to win, I thought. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Cocoa’s in the truck.
Let’s go, Nana.
When we arrived at the petrinarian’s office for this very first visit, the waiting room was already filled with other dogs and cats waiting for their shots.
So, we decided to let our dogs stay in the truck with Nana until we knew it was time for them to see the petrinarian. When he is ready to see us, we thought we’d bring the dogs in, one at a time, until they were all there.
“Mr. Tolbert,” the petrinarian’s assistant said, “We are ready for your dogs.”
Great, I thought, and went to the truck, which was parked just by the front door.
Okay, I told Nana. Here is the plan. You carry Oprah inside. I will bring in Chloe, and then I will go back and get Cocoa.
So, that is what we did, and it worked. It was perfect.
I left Nana, Oprah and Chloe there inside with the petrinarian and his assistant, and I returned to the truck to get Cocoa.
But, Cocoa had other ideas about getting out of the truck.
“No way,” she said.
“I am not getting out of this truck. Not for any thing. And, certainly not to go in there with all those other dogs and cats. And, I am not dumb enough to go in there and get stuck with a needle for shots.”
Cocoa braced herself on the back seat and said, “Are you kidding? Get out of here because you are not getting me out,” Cocoa exclaimed.
Whoa, I thought. Cocoa, you are the dog. I am the master. You are my best friend, but I am in charge here.
Do you remember the lead ropes we use when we walk the horses? They are strong and long. Well, that is what I had attached to Cocoa’s collar. Something that I thought would be sturdy and help me get her moving.
So, I tried to pull her out. I pulled. I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
I begged her to come out. I beggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggged.
But Cocoa planted her big paws firmly into the seat, stiffened her body and said, “NO WAY. “
I pulled. And Cocoa pulled back.
And, the people sitting inside the petrinarian’s office with their dogs and cats watched it all through the big glass windows. And, they laughed and laughed.
Then, I put the lead rope around Cocoa’s body so that it was around her bottom. I pulled. I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
She moved, but she stiffened even more.
I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
She moved some more and I got her just to the edge of the back seat, right there at the door.
I am winning, I thought.
Wrong.
That’s when Cocoa stiffened even more and put her big paws on the car door and pushed back. She pushhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhed.
And I pullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllled.
Finally, I won. She rolled out onto the ground.
I wonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
I felt so good. Man, I wonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
But, as I was walking Cocoa into the petrinarian’s office where all of the people were sitting, laughing at us, with their dogs and cats, Cocoa looked up at me with those lazy eyes, her tongue hanging out and a smile on her face.
“Wait until next time,” she said.
POST SCRIPT: We’ve not ventured again to the petrinarian, but Cocoa has a new attitude about riding in my truck, especially if she is allowed to sit up front with me. We do have another dog now, Buddy, who is my constant traveling companion. Buddy is a big black dog with a softness in both her eyes and her spirit that is wonderful. Chloe is no longer at our farm. We have loaned her out to a good friend who badly wanted a very nice dog to care for at his home.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Thank God for old dogs and hot dogs
I should be working right now. But I had to interrupt making a living to write a moment about the joy of living, especially here in this place on our small farm.
I work in our house out of a small room that has a window which lets me look outside and see our little red barn, front pasture and lots of one paddock. And, it is sitting here at my window where I get some of the biggest smiles on my face.
Like just now.
This morning my wife Annette and a neighbor-friend left here around 9 a.m. for a ride in the state forest behind the farm. The forest has just re-opened today after being pretty much shut down a month for horses because of deer hunting. And, Annette could not wait to get out there again.
So, my first view was watching her saddle one of her horses, ride down our driveway to the dirt road that runs about 450 feet in front of the house, just beyond the far pasture. A gray morning fog was still hanging around, and as Annette and her chestnut and white horse rambled quickly up the road to meet her companion, there was a sense of grace and beauty about it all.
Four hours later Annette returned uplifted and invigorated from the ride and her horse was tired and wet with sweat. As I looked out at her from time to time through my window, she was always always moving. Untacking the horse. Putting the horse in the wash rack. Giving the horse a good shower bath and cooling him down. And then she released the horse to roam free and munch on grass in front of the house.
I knew when she left this morning it was without breakfast. And now as I looked at my watch, I saw that it was well more than an hour past lunch. She has to be hungry, but I suspect that eating is the last thing on her mind as long as there are other things for her to focus on.
Finally, she came inside, and this is what has led me to a second wonderful view on her world, another smile on my face, and this posting on my blog.
Probably because it was the quickest and easiest to prepare, Annette put a hot dog in the microwave. As soon as the bell rang signaling it was done, she grabbed it and went back out the door.
This time, when I looked out my window again, she was sitting there on the grass, munching on the hot dog, her horse standing just a few feet away grazing, and our 16 year old dog, Hammie, sitting beside her with an eye on Annette's hot dog.
As Annette ate, she would rub Hammie's head and talk to her horse. And, I said to myself that she will not finish that hot dog; she will give Hammie the last bite.
You must understand that a 16 year old dog is considered pretty old. I've had Hammie since she was about one when I rescued her from a shelter. It seems such a long time ago that this yellow dog with a crippled back leg stole my heart when she came into the shelter waiting room, hobbling with her tail waging.
Today, Hammie is doing well for such a senior. She gets lots of recreation and exercise here on the farm, especially with our three other much younger dogs who keep tabs on her and often include her in their games. And, she rests in her own private spots; one in our tack room underneath the saddles, and the other behind the hay bales in the hay barn.
And, this afternoon as I watched Annette and Hammie sit there on the grass together, I felt extremely blessed.
Annette continued to eat her hot dog and rub the old dog. Then, just as I had suspected she would, Annette reached over with the last bite and handed it to Hammie, who with great joy and appreciation took it in ever so quickly.
I smiled, and thought, thank God for old dogs and hot dogs, and a wonderful wife who loves them both.
I work in our house out of a small room that has a window which lets me look outside and see our little red barn, front pasture and lots of one paddock. And, it is sitting here at my window where I get some of the biggest smiles on my face.
Like just now.
This morning my wife Annette and a neighbor-friend left here around 9 a.m. for a ride in the state forest behind the farm. The forest has just re-opened today after being pretty much shut down a month for horses because of deer hunting. And, Annette could not wait to get out there again.
So, my first view was watching her saddle one of her horses, ride down our driveway to the dirt road that runs about 450 feet in front of the house, just beyond the far pasture. A gray morning fog was still hanging around, and as Annette and her chestnut and white horse rambled quickly up the road to meet her companion, there was a sense of grace and beauty about it all.
Four hours later Annette returned uplifted and invigorated from the ride and her horse was tired and wet with sweat. As I looked out at her from time to time through my window, she was always always moving. Untacking the horse. Putting the horse in the wash rack. Giving the horse a good shower bath and cooling him down. And then she released the horse to roam free and munch on grass in front of the house.
I knew when she left this morning it was without breakfast. And now as I looked at my watch, I saw that it was well more than an hour past lunch. She has to be hungry, but I suspect that eating is the last thing on her mind as long as there are other things for her to focus on.
Finally, she came inside, and this is what has led me to a second wonderful view on her world, another smile on my face, and this posting on my blog.
Probably because it was the quickest and easiest to prepare, Annette put a hot dog in the microwave. As soon as the bell rang signaling it was done, she grabbed it and went back out the door.
This time, when I looked out my window again, she was sitting there on the grass, munching on the hot dog, her horse standing just a few feet away grazing, and our 16 year old dog, Hammie, sitting beside her with an eye on Annette's hot dog.
As Annette ate, she would rub Hammie's head and talk to her horse. And, I said to myself that she will not finish that hot dog; she will give Hammie the last bite.
You must understand that a 16 year old dog is considered pretty old. I've had Hammie since she was about one when I rescued her from a shelter. It seems such a long time ago that this yellow dog with a crippled back leg stole my heart when she came into the shelter waiting room, hobbling with her tail waging.
Today, Hammie is doing well for such a senior. She gets lots of recreation and exercise here on the farm, especially with our three other much younger dogs who keep tabs on her and often include her in their games. And, she rests in her own private spots; one in our tack room underneath the saddles, and the other behind the hay bales in the hay barn.
And, this afternoon as I watched Annette and Hammie sit there on the grass together, I felt extremely blessed.
Annette continued to eat her hot dog and rub the old dog. Then, just as I had suspected she would, Annette reached over with the last bite and handed it to Hammie, who with great joy and appreciation took it in ever so quickly.
I smiled, and thought, thank God for old dogs and hot dogs, and a wonderful wife who loves them both.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Amen, and good night
It's been two weeks now since we dropped off a 12 hands chocolate and dapple Welsh pony to a friend in Livingston, Alabama. It is a horse the friend bought from us for his grandchildren. It was a great decision.
But, this is not about the pony, or about our friend's grandchildren. Instead, it is about a small window in life when you slip back into a place that was once so familiar and is now often so distant, like a stranger you meet on the street and think you may know.
Livingston is in west Alabama, close to Mississippi, and perhaps if it were not for drawn borders on a map, you would never know if it was Alabama or Mississippi because Livingston is a place so much a part and so much like much of the wonderful South where I grew up.
The minute we drove into town, I felt as if I was somewhere I had been many times before. Only, I had never been to Livingston.
It is something like Mayberry with the courthouse in the town square; something like the set for Doc Hollywood. It is a town dominated somewhat by a four year college that has its own rodeo team. A place where some of the nicest houses are within walking distance of its heart, and where neighbors visit each other riding on golf carts.
Talk is slow, doors are seldom locked and people actually talk to each other and go to church on Wednesday nights. And, I guess that is really what this is all about.
I probably took more deep breaths during the 20 hours we were there than during any other similar time in quite a while. The deep breaths, you must understand, are a way of soaking things in, enjoying the moment and the memories.
We spent the evening with our friend, a banker whose office is about two blocks from his restored 150 year old white and high columned house. The house itself was something so special that you could feel the care and sensitivity to history in its staircase, wood floors and and unfinished ceilings.
Our friend the banker, Fred Walburn, lives there with his 94 year old mother, who many years ago taught my wife Annette in a small school in a small town in Alabama. If being there in this old southern place and staying in this old southern town was not enough for me, being there with Mrs. Walburn was both overwhelming and inspiring.
Think about being 94. It is hard to imagine and when you do picture someone there, I'll bet you come up with an old person who is bed ridden, blind and memory struck. Well, that ain't Mrs. Walburn, a small southern belle with the same gleam and twinkle in her eyes that I am sure she used to charm young men over three quarters of a century ago. She has the same grace that has carried Southern culture on her shoulders for many years. And, she owns her quick wit and pushes an intellect that continues to devour knowledge and information.
That night, when we went to bed upstairs in a big room that had been returned somewhat to its original self, I lay there and so many thoughts swam through my mind. There were the familiar smells and feelings from a South I have known so well. There was our friend Fred and his gracious mother who brought a heart beat to all of the thoughts and memories.
And, then, that night as I slept, there was another familiar sound that stirred me. It was the sound of a freight train and its blowing horn as the train made its way through Livingston, a sound that is married to the life and times of so many towns across American, not just the South.
I dozed back into sleep for a while, until the next train rumbled through Livingston and woke me again. I remember smiling in my half sleep. I hugged myself and thought that I was so fortunate at this very moment in my life to be in this special place.
Amen and good night.
But, this is not about the pony, or about our friend's grandchildren. Instead, it is about a small window in life when you slip back into a place that was once so familiar and is now often so distant, like a stranger you meet on the street and think you may know.
Livingston is in west Alabama, close to Mississippi, and perhaps if it were not for drawn borders on a map, you would never know if it was Alabama or Mississippi because Livingston is a place so much a part and so much like much of the wonderful South where I grew up.
The minute we drove into town, I felt as if I was somewhere I had been many times before. Only, I had never been to Livingston.
It is something like Mayberry with the courthouse in the town square; something like the set for Doc Hollywood. It is a town dominated somewhat by a four year college that has its own rodeo team. A place where some of the nicest houses are within walking distance of its heart, and where neighbors visit each other riding on golf carts.
Talk is slow, doors are seldom locked and people actually talk to each other and go to church on Wednesday nights. And, I guess that is really what this is all about.
I probably took more deep breaths during the 20 hours we were there than during any other similar time in quite a while. The deep breaths, you must understand, are a way of soaking things in, enjoying the moment and the memories.
We spent the evening with our friend, a banker whose office is about two blocks from his restored 150 year old white and high columned house. The house itself was something so special that you could feel the care and sensitivity to history in its staircase, wood floors and and unfinished ceilings.
Our friend the banker, Fred Walburn, lives there with his 94 year old mother, who many years ago taught my wife Annette in a small school in a small town in Alabama. If being there in this old southern place and staying in this old southern town was not enough for me, being there with Mrs. Walburn was both overwhelming and inspiring.
Think about being 94. It is hard to imagine and when you do picture someone there, I'll bet you come up with an old person who is bed ridden, blind and memory struck. Well, that ain't Mrs. Walburn, a small southern belle with the same gleam and twinkle in her eyes that I am sure she used to charm young men over three quarters of a century ago. She has the same grace that has carried Southern culture on her shoulders for many years. And, she owns her quick wit and pushes an intellect that continues to devour knowledge and information.
That night, when we went to bed upstairs in a big room that had been returned somewhat to its original self, I lay there and so many thoughts swam through my mind. There were the familiar smells and feelings from a South I have known so well. There was our friend Fred and his gracious mother who brought a heart beat to all of the thoughts and memories.
And, then, that night as I slept, there was another familiar sound that stirred me. It was the sound of a freight train and its blowing horn as the train made its way through Livingston, a sound that is married to the life and times of so many towns across American, not just the South.
I dozed back into sleep for a while, until the next train rumbled through Livingston and woke me again. I remember smiling in my half sleep. I hugged myself and thought that I was so fortunate at this very moment in my life to be in this special place.
Amen and good night.
Good Bye my marsh mellow Monk
I feel as if I just sold one of my best friends. And, it's mixed.
On the one hand, I will miss Monk a great deal. He's a 16 hands chestnut and white Spotted Saddle with the personality of Jay Leno and the charm of George Clooney. Only six years old, Monk has the maturity and grace of a horse much older.
Selling him has been painful, but if we are going to thin our herd of 20 horses, I have to make some hard decisions. None will be more difficult than this one.
I can remember one steamy summer day when I was repairing some fence in our front pasture. A people loving horse who just wants to hang out with you, Monk came striding over to where I was nailing up a board and walked up right behind me. I spoke to him, but continued my work. Bang, bang, bang.
Monk nudged me softly in the middle of my back. I hammered again, ignoring him. Bang, bang, bang. And, once again, Monk nudged me, still gently but with a little more force. I told him to go away and hit the nail. Bang, bang, bang.
For a third time, he stuck his nose into the middle of my back and pushed. For the third time I told him to go away as I hammered again.
Monk had about enough of being ignored by me, and as I hammered at the nail again I felt the beginning of a wedgie. This time there was no nudge. Instead, Monk just reached down, grabbed the back of my jeans and my belt into his mouth and lifted me up. It was like, hey you! So, I stopped my hammering, turned around, rubbed his face and ears and then gave him a big old hug. That was all it took. He turned and meandered slowly away and returned to munching on grass.
Monk is the horse that everyone can ride. If you are an experienced rider you love him because he will move out at your pace. And, when you put him into his gait, you feel as if you are sitting on a mountain of soft and sweet marsh mellows. If you are someone who has ridden very little or not at all, Monk is the horse that will take care of you. That is especially true of children. Not much bothers him, which is a very good thing when we are out in the forest and on the trails.
Frankly, I am surprised that I actually sold him, and I will miss him for a very long time.
But, the other side of this story is about Monk's new home and his new friend. He was purchased by Bob Bush, a 77 year old veteran who recently lost his horse, the love of his life. Bob has a small ranch on the forest not too far from where we live. And, in his search for a new horse, he heard about Monk through a mutual friend.
Monk was gone from our Spirit Woods Farm almost the minute Bob met him a couple of days ago. It was love at first site.
This morning, Bob returned to our farm, saddled up Monk and he and my wife Annette went out for a ride. Two hours later I was loading him into the horse trailer to drive him over to Bob's place.
Monk will be very happy there. First of all, he has a new partner who will give him lots of attention and will never ignore him, never requiring that Monk give Bob a wedgie. Monk's home is nice, and Bob has a mare who will be a good companion.
But, maybe best of all, Bob is going to get tremendous enjoyment and great joy from Monk at a time and age in his life when many older people seem to get lost and lonely without any challenges and adventures. I am 63 now, and I hope that when I am 77 like Bob I have a Monk in my life to help me keep it wonderful.
POST SCRIPT. About 24 hours after we dropped off Monk at Bob's place, he called this afternoon. There was obvious excitement in his voice. He had just returned from a trail ride with several of his friends, his first with Monk. They wanted to know where he got the beautiful horse, he said. Monk was perfect, he said. And, "I led everybody. They never let me do that before." You go, Bob. Thanks, Monk.
On the one hand, I will miss Monk a great deal. He's a 16 hands chestnut and white Spotted Saddle with the personality of Jay Leno and the charm of George Clooney. Only six years old, Monk has the maturity and grace of a horse much older.
Selling him has been painful, but if we are going to thin our herd of 20 horses, I have to make some hard decisions. None will be more difficult than this one.
I can remember one steamy summer day when I was repairing some fence in our front pasture. A people loving horse who just wants to hang out with you, Monk came striding over to where I was nailing up a board and walked up right behind me. I spoke to him, but continued my work. Bang, bang, bang.
Monk nudged me softly in the middle of my back. I hammered again, ignoring him. Bang, bang, bang. And, once again, Monk nudged me, still gently but with a little more force. I told him to go away and hit the nail. Bang, bang, bang.
For a third time, he stuck his nose into the middle of my back and pushed. For the third time I told him to go away as I hammered again.
Monk had about enough of being ignored by me, and as I hammered at the nail again I felt the beginning of a wedgie. This time there was no nudge. Instead, Monk just reached down, grabbed the back of my jeans and my belt into his mouth and lifted me up. It was like, hey you! So, I stopped my hammering, turned around, rubbed his face and ears and then gave him a big old hug. That was all it took. He turned and meandered slowly away and returned to munching on grass.
Monk is the horse that everyone can ride. If you are an experienced rider you love him because he will move out at your pace. And, when you put him into his gait, you feel as if you are sitting on a mountain of soft and sweet marsh mellows. If you are someone who has ridden very little or not at all, Monk is the horse that will take care of you. That is especially true of children. Not much bothers him, which is a very good thing when we are out in the forest and on the trails.
Frankly, I am surprised that I actually sold him, and I will miss him for a very long time.
But, the other side of this story is about Monk's new home and his new friend. He was purchased by Bob Bush, a 77 year old veteran who recently lost his horse, the love of his life. Bob has a small ranch on the forest not too far from where we live. And, in his search for a new horse, he heard about Monk through a mutual friend.
Monk was gone from our Spirit Woods Farm almost the minute Bob met him a couple of days ago. It was love at first site.
This morning, Bob returned to our farm, saddled up Monk and he and my wife Annette went out for a ride. Two hours later I was loading him into the horse trailer to drive him over to Bob's place.
Monk will be very happy there. First of all, he has a new partner who will give him lots of attention and will never ignore him, never requiring that Monk give Bob a wedgie. Monk's home is nice, and Bob has a mare who will be a good companion.
But, maybe best of all, Bob is going to get tremendous enjoyment and great joy from Monk at a time and age in his life when many older people seem to get lost and lonely without any challenges and adventures. I am 63 now, and I hope that when I am 77 like Bob I have a Monk in my life to help me keep it wonderful.
POST SCRIPT. About 24 hours after we dropped off Monk at Bob's place, he called this afternoon. There was obvious excitement in his voice. He had just returned from a trail ride with several of his friends, his first with Monk. They wanted to know where he got the beautiful horse, he said. Monk was perfect, he said. And, "I led everybody. They never let me do that before." You go, Bob. Thanks, Monk.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A little paint and a lot of sweat.
I am in Columbus, Ga. visiting my parents and there is a dapple and chocolate pony we've put up overnight in their back yard. It's something their neighbors have come to pretty much expect anytime that we come here for a visit. Later this morning we will load up the pony and drive him over to Livingston, AL about 50 miles from Tuscaloosa and the University of Alabama.
Often, we stop off here after trailering a couple of horses to North Carolina's western mountains and back to our home in Brooksville, FL, or when bringing a horse back from somewhere after we've made a new purchase, or like this time, taking a horse for delivery that we have sold. Stopping here is a way to break up a long trip and to see my folks at the same time. They are in their mid-eighties. And, like most parents, they are glad we come, no matter what the reason.
My mom and dad live in a modest house in a modest subdivision about 7 hours from our small farm in west central Florida. They've lived here for more than forty years...since right after I graduated from Opelika (AL) High School in 1962. And, I guess I am fortunate that they have a decent sized back yard that is fenced where we can stick a horse or two overnight.
A couple of years ago, we stopped off here with a pair of black and white Spotted Saddles, and when we woke up the next morning, one of them was up the street in a neighbor's back yard. We still don't have a clue as to how he got out.
And, sometimes when we are here with a horse or two, the neighbor children come over. This is pretty cool, they think.
And, every time we are here, the next door neighbor's dog starts barking the minute we arrive and does not shut up until after we are gone. It makes me wish I owned a gun.
I wrote in an earlier blogging that neither my wife Annette or I are given to sitting still very much. It seems we are always on the go, and I think this is an indication of that. About five days ago I returned from a 7 day trip that began in Tampa, took me to Minneapolis, then to Winnipeg and on up north in Manitoba, Canada to the Port of Churchill on the Hudson Bay. In case you don't know, that's on the southern shore of the Artic Circle. Then, I returned home by flying into Denver before flying back to Tampa and driving the one hour to our farm. It was a long trip and extremely cold, especially for a Florida guy with thin blood. In a way, it is nuts that I hardly caught my breath before we loaded up three days later with this pony and set off on this trip, which will end on Friday afternoon once we get back to the farm.
We love our farm, and any time I get back there from one of my business trips, I feel extremely fortunate. It is not large and certainly not fancy. Next week we will celebrate our second Thanksgiving there.
When we purchased it in June, 2006, the property was a total mess. In fact, when we did our final walk through late on a Thursday afternoon, Annette cried and I had this sick feeling in my stomach. It had been several weeks since we had last visited, and in the meantime, its condition had worsened considerably from the bad state it was in already. We knew when we decided to buy that it would take a lot of work. But, the site of it on this last check was almost more than we could take. And, I told an upset Annette that she had until 8 a.m. the next morning to decide if she really wanted to take this step. Our closing was scheduled at 9 a.m.
We bought the place and moved here mostly because our daughter, Natalie, her husband Hutch and their four children Carson, Connor, Coleman and Ashton live about 20 minutes away. Annette and I were living in Jacksonville some three hours northeast in a gated community on a golf course. One day, as a throwaway line and thinking it might make me some points, I told her that since she had retired after 38 years of teaching, if she ever wanted to move closer to these four grandchildren, I would sure consider it. After all, I said, she had paid her dues.
She didn't believe me because I had been pretty much involved in Jacksonville for four decades, and we have two other grandchildren who live in Jacksonville. And, to be honest, I am not sure I believed it myself...and part of me thought it would never happen anyway. To raise the bar, I said we would need to find a place where we could live with our then boarded horses, and it would have to be very near a state forest or park where we could trail ride without hauling. That criteria, I felt, would be extremely difficult to meet.
Oops.
Next thing I new, Natalie and her mother were on the hunt, and somehow, they found what is today Spirit Woods Farm, sitting right there on 55,000 acres of the Withlacoochee State Forest and tons of beautiful horse trails. It was a run down piece of property that would take a ton of loving care and sweat. It had potential, but you really had to look hard to see it.
Back then, less than a year and a half ago, this weed infested place in Brooksville was a very long way and very different from the golf course house in Jacksonville. But, not today, thanks to the incredible hard work and dedication of Annette, along with the help of some neighbors who were thrilled for us to be there.
The Thursday night before we closed on the farm at the bank, I told Annette once again that we did not have to do it, we could walk away and it would be just fine. I also said that if she decided to go forward, I promised I would at least get the entire place cut and mowed before the sun set on Saturday, the day after our closing. I had no idea how I would make that happen.
We closed on Friday morning as planned.
The next morning, a man named Bo Bo and his wife arrived with their tractors and set out to cut down the wild and runaway growth that in many places towered higher than the few fences on the property. By sunset, it still needed a lot of work, but our new farm had a buzz cut, and it did look better. To celebrate, Annette and I sat on the tail gate of our truck, drank some wine and watched our first sunset, something that has now become an evening ritual. It was a wonderful beginning.
You have to know that it is very very hot and humid in west central Florida during the first week of July. And, that was exactly the case when we bought this farm. Imagine, among all of the other ugliness of the place, a two stall barn sitting in front of the house and visible from the road that looked as if squatters had been living in it for half a century. It was depressing.
Now, in my line of work, one of the first things I preach to my clients who want to make changes is that they need to send an immediate signal--an undeniable sign--that things are going to be different. They should demonstrate that hange is coming and it is starting right now, not tomorrow. You have to also understand that my line of work is cerebral, not physical, and I have never been given to doing things like building stuff or working in the yard, especially when it is hot. But, I looked at that depressing, ugly brown barn and said I was either going to tear it down, or paint it. Right then.
It was paint, I decided. Red paint with white trim. I went to Lowes and I bought as much red and white paint as I thought I would need. It turned out not to be enough so I bought more. And more. And I painted and painted. And, I drank water and more water. And there were times during that 100 degree Saturday when I thought I would just simply fall over dead.
I didn't die, and before the day ended and we had our second sunset of wine on the tailgate of our truck, the barn was no longer nasty. Instead, it was a bright and sparkling red with white trim.
The next day, that red barn and our mowed pastures and paddocks were like magnets attracting neighbors up our driveway to welcome us...and to thank us for making a difference in their small rural community. One of the visitors we will remember forever is when a lady who lives across from us came up the drive in her horse drawn buggy. It was the first of many of those kinds of joyful sights we have come to enjoy.
Now, if you want to get some idea of how our little farm looks now, you can check out the pictures over there on the left. It is sort of a testament to my wife, Annette, and her love for Spirit Woods Farm and everything that is associated with it, including and probably especially me.
Often, we stop off here after trailering a couple of horses to North Carolina's western mountains and back to our home in Brooksville, FL, or when bringing a horse back from somewhere after we've made a new purchase, or like this time, taking a horse for delivery that we have sold. Stopping here is a way to break up a long trip and to see my folks at the same time. They are in their mid-eighties. And, like most parents, they are glad we come, no matter what the reason.
My mom and dad live in a modest house in a modest subdivision about 7 hours from our small farm in west central Florida. They've lived here for more than forty years...since right after I graduated from Opelika (AL) High School in 1962. And, I guess I am fortunate that they have a decent sized back yard that is fenced where we can stick a horse or two overnight.
A couple of years ago, we stopped off here with a pair of black and white Spotted Saddles, and when we woke up the next morning, one of them was up the street in a neighbor's back yard. We still don't have a clue as to how he got out.
And, sometimes when we are here with a horse or two, the neighbor children come over. This is pretty cool, they think.
And, every time we are here, the next door neighbor's dog starts barking the minute we arrive and does not shut up until after we are gone. It makes me wish I owned a gun.
I wrote in an earlier blogging that neither my wife Annette or I are given to sitting still very much. It seems we are always on the go, and I think this is an indication of that. About five days ago I returned from a 7 day trip that began in Tampa, took me to Minneapolis, then to Winnipeg and on up north in Manitoba, Canada to the Port of Churchill on the Hudson Bay. In case you don't know, that's on the southern shore of the Artic Circle. Then, I returned home by flying into Denver before flying back to Tampa and driving the one hour to our farm. It was a long trip and extremely cold, especially for a Florida guy with thin blood. In a way, it is nuts that I hardly caught my breath before we loaded up three days later with this pony and set off on this trip, which will end on Friday afternoon once we get back to the farm.
We love our farm, and any time I get back there from one of my business trips, I feel extremely fortunate. It is not large and certainly not fancy. Next week we will celebrate our second Thanksgiving there.
When we purchased it in June, 2006, the property was a total mess. In fact, when we did our final walk through late on a Thursday afternoon, Annette cried and I had this sick feeling in my stomach. It had been several weeks since we had last visited, and in the meantime, its condition had worsened considerably from the bad state it was in already. We knew when we decided to buy that it would take a lot of work. But, the site of it on this last check was almost more than we could take. And, I told an upset Annette that she had until 8 a.m. the next morning to decide if she really wanted to take this step. Our closing was scheduled at 9 a.m.
We bought the place and moved here mostly because our daughter, Natalie, her husband Hutch and their four children Carson, Connor, Coleman and Ashton live about 20 minutes away. Annette and I were living in Jacksonville some three hours northeast in a gated community on a golf course. One day, as a throwaway line and thinking it might make me some points, I told her that since she had retired after 38 years of teaching, if she ever wanted to move closer to these four grandchildren, I would sure consider it. After all, I said, she had paid her dues.
She didn't believe me because I had been pretty much involved in Jacksonville for four decades, and we have two other grandchildren who live in Jacksonville. And, to be honest, I am not sure I believed it myself...and part of me thought it would never happen anyway. To raise the bar, I said we would need to find a place where we could live with our then boarded horses, and it would have to be very near a state forest or park where we could trail ride without hauling. That criteria, I felt, would be extremely difficult to meet.
Oops.
Next thing I new, Natalie and her mother were on the hunt, and somehow, they found what is today Spirit Woods Farm, sitting right there on 55,000 acres of the Withlacoochee State Forest and tons of beautiful horse trails. It was a run down piece of property that would take a ton of loving care and sweat. It had potential, but you really had to look hard to see it.
Back then, less than a year and a half ago, this weed infested place in Brooksville was a very long way and very different from the golf course house in Jacksonville. But, not today, thanks to the incredible hard work and dedication of Annette, along with the help of some neighbors who were thrilled for us to be there.
The Thursday night before we closed on the farm at the bank, I told Annette once again that we did not have to do it, we could walk away and it would be just fine. I also said that if she decided to go forward, I promised I would at least get the entire place cut and mowed before the sun set on Saturday, the day after our closing. I had no idea how I would make that happen.
We closed on Friday morning as planned.
The next morning, a man named Bo Bo and his wife arrived with their tractors and set out to cut down the wild and runaway growth that in many places towered higher than the few fences on the property. By sunset, it still needed a lot of work, but our new farm had a buzz cut, and it did look better. To celebrate, Annette and I sat on the tail gate of our truck, drank some wine and watched our first sunset, something that has now become an evening ritual. It was a wonderful beginning.
You have to know that it is very very hot and humid in west central Florida during the first week of July. And, that was exactly the case when we bought this farm. Imagine, among all of the other ugliness of the place, a two stall barn sitting in front of the house and visible from the road that looked as if squatters had been living in it for half a century. It was depressing.
Now, in my line of work, one of the first things I preach to my clients who want to make changes is that they need to send an immediate signal--an undeniable sign--that things are going to be different. They should demonstrate that hange is coming and it is starting right now, not tomorrow. You have to also understand that my line of work is cerebral, not physical, and I have never been given to doing things like building stuff or working in the yard, especially when it is hot. But, I looked at that depressing, ugly brown barn and said I was either going to tear it down, or paint it. Right then.
It was paint, I decided. Red paint with white trim. I went to Lowes and I bought as much red and white paint as I thought I would need. It turned out not to be enough so I bought more. And more. And I painted and painted. And, I drank water and more water. And there were times during that 100 degree Saturday when I thought I would just simply fall over dead.
I didn't die, and before the day ended and we had our second sunset of wine on the tailgate of our truck, the barn was no longer nasty. Instead, it was a bright and sparkling red with white trim.
The next day, that red barn and our mowed pastures and paddocks were like magnets attracting neighbors up our driveway to welcome us...and to thank us for making a difference in their small rural community. One of the visitors we will remember forever is when a lady who lives across from us came up the drive in her horse drawn buggy. It was the first of many of those kinds of joyful sights we have come to enjoy.
Now, if you want to get some idea of how our little farm looks now, you can check out the pictures over there on the left. It is sort of a testament to my wife, Annette, and her love for Spirit Woods Farm and everything that is associated with it, including and probably especially me.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Looking out the window; seeing my soul
It is just before noon here on a sunny and beautiful Friday...and I am already tired. If you live on a farm you will understand. Keep in mind that I don't do that much of the work around here. My wife is the heavy lifter, mostly because of my travel schedule. In fact, I leave tomorrow morning for Winnipeg and posts north of there for a whole week. BRRRRRRRRRR.
But, this morning I took it upon myself to pitch in. It began with putting out hay for our 20 or so horses; going to the feed store for 1,000 pounds of grain and unloading it in the barn; and moving a 17 month old filly and 7 month old colt to a bigger pasture where they can play together for a while. The filly was pretty easy. The colt was another story all together. So much strength and power for something so very young. By the time we made it to the pasture, my 63 year old arms were very tired and there was a new and distinct pain in my back. No question we must get Spirit, that is the colt's name, into some ground work pretty quickly.
Spirit's mom is Whiskey. She is the very first gaited horse I ever rode and the first one that I purchased after spending my horse life on quarter horses and paints. It was instant love. Now she is one of the horses my wife rides while I maintain my steadfast loyalty to Rebel, a wonderful black and white gelding. We bred sweet Whiskey to a black and white stud named Cocoa, and she presented us with a beautiful black and white colt, Spirit.
This is one of the great joys of moving from life on a golf course to life on a farm. Whiskey was in her 11th month of pregnancy and doing fine. We knew that she was getting close to giving birth and on a Sunday night in March, just before we went to bed around 11 p.m., I checked her once more. It did not appear to me that she had dropped enough so there would be no baby on the ground that night.
I was wrong.
We kept her isolated from the other horses in a paddock just behind our house. And, about dawn on Monday morning, when I stepped out of bed to go to the rest room, I happened to look out the window on my side of the bed. Oh my God. There stood Whiskey, so close I felt I could almost touch her. And by her side nursing was this new born. It was the kind of moment that you never, ever forget. When we rushed outside, we quickly noticed that Whiskey had dropped the colt in another part of the paddock, out of sight from my window. It was to us as if she had walked that baby over and planted herself and him there at my window so that I would be sure to see him at the first opportunity.
Before we bought this farm and moved here, Annette and I went to dinner one evening at a restaurant in an old farm house in Pine Mountain, Ga. Off the back dining room was a large window that gave wide open views to the pasture right behind the house; a pasture with several horses all grazing right up close for us to see.
Wouldn't it be great, we thought, if someday we lived in a place where you can look out of your window and see your horses. Guess what. Now we can. In fact, we can look out most every window in our house and see a horse, partly because we have too many horses.
Right now, sitting here at my desk and writing this, I can see the filly and colt grazing together where I just moved them. I can also see a gorgeous Spotted mare named Fancy in the round pen where my wife is about to work with her. And, off to the right, I am able to see one of our two TWH brood mares, a slick, black beauty who is the mother of a 5 month old black and white weanling filly we call Sugah. Put all of that with a day like we are having here in west central Florida and you can understand why concentrating is difficult sometimes.
There are times I feel that when I am looking out my window like this, I have a special view of my own soul.
But, this morning I took it upon myself to pitch in. It began with putting out hay for our 20 or so horses; going to the feed store for 1,000 pounds of grain and unloading it in the barn; and moving a 17 month old filly and 7 month old colt to a bigger pasture where they can play together for a while. The filly was pretty easy. The colt was another story all together. So much strength and power for something so very young. By the time we made it to the pasture, my 63 year old arms were very tired and there was a new and distinct pain in my back. No question we must get Spirit, that is the colt's name, into some ground work pretty quickly.
Spirit's mom is Whiskey. She is the very first gaited horse I ever rode and the first one that I purchased after spending my horse life on quarter horses and paints. It was instant love. Now she is one of the horses my wife rides while I maintain my steadfast loyalty to Rebel, a wonderful black and white gelding. We bred sweet Whiskey to a black and white stud named Cocoa, and she presented us with a beautiful black and white colt, Spirit.
This is one of the great joys of moving from life on a golf course to life on a farm. Whiskey was in her 11th month of pregnancy and doing fine. We knew that she was getting close to giving birth and on a Sunday night in March, just before we went to bed around 11 p.m., I checked her once more. It did not appear to me that she had dropped enough so there would be no baby on the ground that night.
I was wrong.
We kept her isolated from the other horses in a paddock just behind our house. And, about dawn on Monday morning, when I stepped out of bed to go to the rest room, I happened to look out the window on my side of the bed. Oh my God. There stood Whiskey, so close I felt I could almost touch her. And by her side nursing was this new born. It was the kind of moment that you never, ever forget. When we rushed outside, we quickly noticed that Whiskey had dropped the colt in another part of the paddock, out of sight from my window. It was to us as if she had walked that baby over and planted herself and him there at my window so that I would be sure to see him at the first opportunity.
Before we bought this farm and moved here, Annette and I went to dinner one evening at a restaurant in an old farm house in Pine Mountain, Ga. Off the back dining room was a large window that gave wide open views to the pasture right behind the house; a pasture with several horses all grazing right up close for us to see.
Wouldn't it be great, we thought, if someday we lived in a place where you can look out of your window and see your horses. Guess what. Now we can. In fact, we can look out most every window in our house and see a horse, partly because we have too many horses.
Right now, sitting here at my desk and writing this, I can see the filly and colt grazing together where I just moved them. I can also see a gorgeous Spotted mare named Fancy in the round pen where my wife is about to work with her. And, off to the right, I am able to see one of our two TWH brood mares, a slick, black beauty who is the mother of a 5 month old black and white weanling filly we call Sugah. Put all of that with a day like we are having here in west central Florida and you can understand why concentrating is difficult sometimes.
There are times I feel that when I am looking out my window like this, I have a special view of my own soul.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
There is better than stupid, bad horses
(Mike and Annette Tolbert have a small horse farm in west central Florida that sits on 55,000 acres of the Withlachoochee State Forest. Annette is a retired grammar school teacher and Mike is a consutant for strategic marketing communications. They have too many horses, four dogs and a cat).
Well, I don't know about you, but when you get to be my age, sometimes you get tired. Sometimes you get tired of just about everything. Even if you love your career and work, a rest would be good. Even if you love everything outside your work, like family and friends and riding horses, you get to a point when you just want to stop for a while, sit down and take deep breaths. I think I am at that point. But, even if I knew for sure that I was there, I am not certain I would know exactly what to do.
After all, both my wife and I have built our lives around doing stuff...always doing something...sitting still is hardly an option.
Maybe that is why I have so much loved riding my horses. You aren't really sitting still because the horse is moving. But, you are sitting. You still have to think, although I must confess that being in the saddle has often caused me to day dream, which I suppose is some form of thinking. I think of winning the Lotto and what I would do. I think about my clients and how we can do more and better. I think about my children and how I miss seeing them. But, it is not all day dreaming. When I am riding my horse, for sure, my pulse and heart keep beating and a lot of the fun is when I can get that adrenalin pumping pretty good by getting my horse to move along at a rapid pace.
But, mostly I love getting on my horse and breathing fresh air; moving along trails on him, up hills and into valleys in such a smooth way that you almost feel as if you are floating. If you, too, have a great horse, you know what I mean. On the other hand, if you are so unfortunate as to have one of those horses that is a chronic pain in the ass--and there are lots of them out there--I hope one day you can enjoy riding on the back of the best. If you put up with a nutty horse, you certainly deserve to ride one that is wonderful.
The first horse I rode was a black stallion. I talked about him in an essay a couple of days ago. But the first horse I owned was a chestnut and white paint mare named Deal, Painted Deal. What a great way to get started. She took very good care of me, understood my limitations and seem to make exceptions for my inexperience. There was a time when I staged a horse show inside the Gator Bowl at Jacksonville before a football game. There were 70,000 people in the stands and as I sat on Deal I was scared to death. Man, that was a lot different that strolling down quiet trails. But Deal took care of me...my adrenalin hit an all time high...but she took care of me.
And, there was another time I rode an iron gray quarter horse mare named Purdy in a parade on New Year's Eve, just before one of the big football games. She was prancing on the pavement and along the riverfront when some drunk with a huge balloon stuck in a pin and burst it right at Purdy's face. Oh shit! It scared me out of my jeans. But, Purdy took care of me.
Of course, there are always exceptions. There were a couple of occasions when Purdy could have done a better job of taking care of me. The first was back in 1992 around Halloween. I was riding her out where I boarded early one morning when the 12 year old girl who lived with her parents at the ranch came running out and said she was going to be late for her school bus, which was about to stop for her about 1/2 mile away. Get on, I said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her onto the horse behind me. My good intention was to race her up to the bus stop. Now you have to know that this child was an excellent rider. It didn't matter. She tightly wrapped her legs around Purdy and pushed her feet up close into her private parts. That's all it took to set off this horse. Yahoo. High into the air and down. The force of it all threw me off and the child as well. She landed on top of me. The pounding of it all broke three ribs. Again. Damn.
I don't know to this day if the little girl made her bus.
Then, there was the time in 1995 when I hauled Purdy out to this ranch where later in the day there was going to be this huge barbecue for a candidate for mayor, who was also my client. I thought I would take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a morning ride in a beautiful spot. All was going fine until a strong gush of wind blew dust and leaves everywhere, and in the process, blew off my cowboy hat, right over Purdy's neck and under her feet. Okay, here we go again. Up in the air and down on the ground, this time in an ant bed. Besides the bites, I broke my collar bone in four places.
You'd think that I would learn.
Actually, that is the last time I have had broken bones. Trust me. I remember each and every bit of pain every time it has happened. And, as hard as I try not to, I still think about those breaks and pains every time I am in the saddle. Not enough to keep me from riding. But, enough to keep me from riding stupid, bad horses.
It's About How You Look, Not the Pain
Well, it is a drizzly wet and gray day outside my office window here at Spirit Woods Farm. A black bird is perched on a rail of the round pen just off our red barn, and the horses that I can see from here are quiet, in their normal positions of heads down and noses to the grass as they graze.
In my real life, I am not a farmer. I am a consultant for strategic marketing based on communications. For the past six years my focus has been on internal communications that help create a more employee based and engaged culture for a corporate organization. Sounds boring, but it is really exciting, especially when you can help senior management see that the life blood of any successful organization is the spirit of its people, and then show them how to tap into that wonderful resource to drive positive change. And, this morning, as part of my work stuff, I have been sitting on hold with an airline attempting to change my flight reservations on Sunday from Tampa to Denver and now from Tampa to Winnipeg. The music on hold is getting old, which is why I am using this time to write some more here.
My wife runs our small farm. We call her the manager and C.E.O., and in fact she carries business cards that say just that. She takes great pride in presenting one of those cards to someone. It has been an interesting journey from a gated community on a golf course in Jacksonville to this farm in Brooksville. About the only thing similar is that we have lots of gates here as well. Annette taught second grade for about 38 years, and she has put the same passion and energy into this farm that she did into the classroom. Our horses are much like her young and impressionable students, and she treats each of them as if he or she is the most special horse on the property. Each horse has a separate dinner menu, depending on its age, sex and other factors. I don't really think it matters, but she takes the time twice a day to dole it out in exact doses.
I ride a single horse, Rebel. He's a black and white Spotted Saddle, about 16 hands, and is like driving a Cadillac in the forest. Annette rides several different horses, sometimes a pair of different steads in one day. It is pretty amazing to me when I think about it. This tiny little woman who had never ridden until 3 years ago tacks up these huge horses and moves them around the property and forest trails like she has been sitting in a saddle forever. Annette is always looking to learn something new, both about riding as well as farming. Question after question after question to whoever can give her an answer. We are fortunate that we have a number of nearby neighbors who are veteran accomplished riders and always are willing to help and teach her.
And, she never tires. I am at that age when things in my body hurt, like my knees and that small spot at the base of my neck between my shoulder blades. After I ride for about 90 minutes I have to get off and stretch. About 3 hours is plenty for me. But, not my little wife who will ride from sun up until sun down if she can...and sometimes she forgets to come in until she sees the moon sitting up there as a reminder.
In fact, one of her riding partners has a small light on top of her helment just in case she does not get back before dark. I have discouraged Annette from following that lead because I also want to discourage her night riding. There is just too much that can go wrong to take the chance. Besides, we live in Florida where the day time weather is very good, even when it is blistering hot.
I remember the first time Annette was thrown. We all go through it, you know. It was right at the time she first started. Our friend put her on this beautiful Palomino in the round pen. I watched for a while as she walked him around. She was doing fine and the friend was in there with her, giving instructions. So, I went on about my business. A short time later, I was walking through the barn and at the other end of the aisle, I noticed Annette and the friend walking toward me. As they passed, both sort of nodded. I stopped and turned around to say something, and when I did, I saw the dirt and mud all over Annette's backside. And then, when I approached her, I saw the pain on her face. She had taken a tumble...but she sure did not want me to know. That tough upper lip kind of thing. She was afraid I would not let her ride any more for fear of her getting hurt. (Like I can keep her from doing anything she wants to do.)
Recently, she hit the ground for a third time. Determined to ride a new horse, she took him into the front pasture to try him out where she would have more room. My suggestion of first riding him in the round pen was unheeded. She was doing just great, walking him and then she got him into a beautiful gait. Annette was feeling her oats and so proud of herself. Then, she kicked him up a little to get him into a cantor. It was pretty. But, there were two problems. First, she did not pay attention to her position in the pasture, which was near a tree on one side and closing in on the fence in front of her. When she did see what was in front of her, she turned him like she would do her other horses by laying the reins on his neck good and pushing with her leg against him. But, the second problem did her in. Black Jack, the horse, has had reining training, and that normal direction from Annette was overstated to him. So, rather than simply make a nice round turn, Black Jack quickly veered to the right as he thought he was instructed. And, you got it. Annette was tossed.
As I ran over to where she lay on her backside, I could hear her moaning in pain. I noticed as I stood over her that she had landed in some horse manure. I looked down and asked, "Are you okay?" To which she replied, "How did I look before I fell? Was I sitting straight? Did I look good?"
In my real life, I am not a farmer. I am a consultant for strategic marketing based on communications. For the past six years my focus has been on internal communications that help create a more employee based and engaged culture for a corporate organization. Sounds boring, but it is really exciting, especially when you can help senior management see that the life blood of any successful organization is the spirit of its people, and then show them how to tap into that wonderful resource to drive positive change. And, this morning, as part of my work stuff, I have been sitting on hold with an airline attempting to change my flight reservations on Sunday from Tampa to Denver and now from Tampa to Winnipeg. The music on hold is getting old, which is why I am using this time to write some more here.
My wife runs our small farm. We call her the manager and C.E.O., and in fact she carries business cards that say just that. She takes great pride in presenting one of those cards to someone. It has been an interesting journey from a gated community on a golf course in Jacksonville to this farm in Brooksville. About the only thing similar is that we have lots of gates here as well. Annette taught second grade for about 38 years, and she has put the same passion and energy into this farm that she did into the classroom. Our horses are much like her young and impressionable students, and she treats each of them as if he or she is the most special horse on the property. Each horse has a separate dinner menu, depending on its age, sex and other factors. I don't really think it matters, but she takes the time twice a day to dole it out in exact doses.
I ride a single horse, Rebel. He's a black and white Spotted Saddle, about 16 hands, and is like driving a Cadillac in the forest. Annette rides several different horses, sometimes a pair of different steads in one day. It is pretty amazing to me when I think about it. This tiny little woman who had never ridden until 3 years ago tacks up these huge horses and moves them around the property and forest trails like she has been sitting in a saddle forever. Annette is always looking to learn something new, both about riding as well as farming. Question after question after question to whoever can give her an answer. We are fortunate that we have a number of nearby neighbors who are veteran accomplished riders and always are willing to help and teach her.
And, she never tires. I am at that age when things in my body hurt, like my knees and that small spot at the base of my neck between my shoulder blades. After I ride for about 90 minutes I have to get off and stretch. About 3 hours is plenty for me. But, not my little wife who will ride from sun up until sun down if she can...and sometimes she forgets to come in until she sees the moon sitting up there as a reminder.
In fact, one of her riding partners has a small light on top of her helment just in case she does not get back before dark. I have discouraged Annette from following that lead because I also want to discourage her night riding. There is just too much that can go wrong to take the chance. Besides, we live in Florida where the day time weather is very good, even when it is blistering hot.
I remember the first time Annette was thrown. We all go through it, you know. It was right at the time she first started. Our friend put her on this beautiful Palomino in the round pen. I watched for a while as she walked him around. She was doing fine and the friend was in there with her, giving instructions. So, I went on about my business. A short time later, I was walking through the barn and at the other end of the aisle, I noticed Annette and the friend walking toward me. As they passed, both sort of nodded. I stopped and turned around to say something, and when I did, I saw the dirt and mud all over Annette's backside. And then, when I approached her, I saw the pain on her face. She had taken a tumble...but she sure did not want me to know. That tough upper lip kind of thing. She was afraid I would not let her ride any more for fear of her getting hurt. (Like I can keep her from doing anything she wants to do.)
Recently, she hit the ground for a third time. Determined to ride a new horse, she took him into the front pasture to try him out where she would have more room. My suggestion of first riding him in the round pen was unheeded. She was doing just great, walking him and then she got him into a beautiful gait. Annette was feeling her oats and so proud of herself. Then, she kicked him up a little to get him into a cantor. It was pretty. But, there were two problems. First, she did not pay attention to her position in the pasture, which was near a tree on one side and closing in on the fence in front of her. When she did see what was in front of her, she turned him like she would do her other horses by laying the reins on his neck good and pushing with her leg against him. But, the second problem did her in. Black Jack, the horse, has had reining training, and that normal direction from Annette was overstated to him. So, rather than simply make a nice round turn, Black Jack quickly veered to the right as he thought he was instructed. And, you got it. Annette was tossed.
As I ran over to where she lay on her backside, I could hear her moaning in pain. I noticed as I stood over her that she had landed in some horse manure. I looked down and asked, "Are you okay?" To which she replied, "How did I look before I fell? Was I sitting straight? Did I look good?"
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Affairs with mares in my life
Of all the certainties that I have learned in my 63 years, none is more definite than the notion that people who have horses really love them. That is certainly true for me, although I can confess that my own passion is incredibly over matched by the absolute devotion--even obsession--that so many people enjoy.
Because I know that millions have a love affair with their horses, just as I do, I am hoping that in this space I can share with you some of my own experiences; experiences that often guide my life and have such a great impact on its quality. I share the belief expressed by Winston Churchill (and often attributed to Ronald Reagan) that the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.
There is just something about a horse; so large and strong; so graceful and soft, and my God their beauty can be breathtaking. When you sit atop one and race across an open field or along a mountain ridge or through the woods you can field the energy beneath you as the wind blows over you. It is so soothing and exhilarating both at the same time that you often forget potential disaster is only a foot slip or unsuspecting spook away.
Today, my wife and I live on a small horse farm that sits on 55,000 acres of the Withlachoochee State Forest in west central Florida, not too far from the Gulf of Mexico. In July, 2006, when we closed on the farm, we had only three horses that we had boarded in Jacksonville. Getting our own place and living with our own horses was a big step for us, especially when you consider that my wife taught second grade for 38 years and had never spent a single day around horses before she retired.
But, here we are, and as the days passed during the last year, we have added a horse here and a horse there. In fact, we woke up about a month ago and counted 21 different horses on our ten acres. And, did I mention that we also started with two dogs and as "farmers" soon found ourselves with five, plus a cat?
Now, I know from talking to others that what happened to us has happened to many others. It becomes an addiction. Just one more, okay? There has to be some kind of group therapy out there, a 12 Step program, for people like us.
Our "herd" is made up of gaited horses, mostly Spotted Saddles and Tennessee Walkers. We also have a couple of minis, a 16 month old filly, six month old colt and another filly how is four months old. When I started riding and for the first nearly 25 yeas, I rode quarter horses and paints. But broken bones and creeping age caused me to discover gaited horses and it has extended my life.
Let me make it perfectly clear that I am no cowboy. I don't ride to show, and you could not pay me to race around barrels at break neck speed. I ride only for pleasure. That has been my only motivation since I got a late start in the saddle back in about 1980. And, it has been so much pleasure; riding with friends through forests, tip toeing on ledges 13,000 feet up the Rocky Mountains on a horse you just met, or prancing among the tree tops in the Great Smokies.
Horses happened to me because I reached an age in life when I knew that I had to find something to do that would get me outside and exercised. Golf was out of the question. Too boring and too little patience on my part. In fact, today I own a home on the 13th fairway of a golf course, but I don't own golf clubs. No way I was going to become a runner, either. I claimed asthma as my excuse, but it was more like laziness that got in the way. Nope to tennis, too.
And, so I thought, what about horses? I'd never been around them as a kid or young adult. In fact, I had a respectful fear of them that dictated distance between us. But, why not try? So, on one spring weekend in 1980 I rented a horse and went on a beach ride along the Atlantic Ocean in North Florida. I fell more in love with what I got to see from that seat on top of the horse than I did with the horse, enough so that I decided to give it a further go.
Now, you have to understand that one of North Florida's great and legendary cowboys is a friend of mine. His name is Elmer Rudd and he has raised world champion quarter horses all with names and pedigrees that equine academics would recognize instantly. Elmer even sold Roy Rogers Trigger II. He has belt buckles as big as waffles, and his hands are the size of an elephant's ear. So, I of course called by cowboy friend Elmer and told him I wanted to buy a horse.
"Whoa. You don't know that," Elmer said to me. "You don't know anything about horses. Come out here to the ranch and let's talk." And, so I went to Rudd's 4E Ranch and we talked. Try it out first, before you spend a lot of money, he cautioned.
Then, Elmer took me to one of his barns where he introduced me to a solid black and very shiny stallion (another confession: I did not know it was a stallion, and even if I had, it would have meant nothing to me). Ride this guy, said Elmer, to see if you really like it. He's a nice horse and his owner owes a ton of money in back board. Elmer then sold me a used saddle for $150, showed me how to put it on from the left, gave me a quick lesson in cinching up and then gave me quick instruction on putting a bit into his mouth. With that, he basically said, good luck.
I can remember things about those earliest days that should have driven me away from horses and toward something like badminton. One day, when I was riding this shiny black horse down a road near Rudd's ranch, we came to a pasture where there were three other horses. They ran toward the fence and started whinnying. My horse responded and pulled his head toward the three, who by now were pressed up against the fence. Old friends, I thought, letting my horse work his way toward the three horses and the fence.
Wrong. I learned later, after I got up off my backside and finally got control of my horse again after about 30 minutes, that one of the horses was a stud and the other two were his mares. My own stallion posed a serious challenge...but remember that I did not know anything about horse behavior, much less stallions. You can bet that this story was told over and over again around the farms and ranches in North Florida for some time.
On another occasion, I took my 8 year old son out to the ranch to show him the horse and watch me ride. I saddled up, walked the horse and then started into a great cantor. It was great, and I knew that my son had to be impressed. Then, I hit the ground with a huge thud. What I later learned was the "D" ring on my used saddle broke, causing the saddle to quickly roll sideways to the left, slinging me to the ground. I was momentarily knocked out and when I came to, the horse was standing over me. It was not his fault. My son was horrified.
Now, it is time for my dinner on this Tuesday night at the end of October. The horses have been fed. The sun has almost set behind graying clouds and soft winds that move the grass like the waves of the sea. And, so, I am going to end this for now with an ambition to start again, maybe tomorrow.
Because I know that millions have a love affair with their horses, just as I do, I am hoping that in this space I can share with you some of my own experiences; experiences that often guide my life and have such a great impact on its quality. I share the belief expressed by Winston Churchill (and often attributed to Ronald Reagan) that the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.
There is just something about a horse; so large and strong; so graceful and soft, and my God their beauty can be breathtaking. When you sit atop one and race across an open field or along a mountain ridge or through the woods you can field the energy beneath you as the wind blows over you. It is so soothing and exhilarating both at the same time that you often forget potential disaster is only a foot slip or unsuspecting spook away.
Today, my wife and I live on a small horse farm that sits on 55,000 acres of the Withlachoochee State Forest in west central Florida, not too far from the Gulf of Mexico. In July, 2006, when we closed on the farm, we had only three horses that we had boarded in Jacksonville. Getting our own place and living with our own horses was a big step for us, especially when you consider that my wife taught second grade for 38 years and had never spent a single day around horses before she retired.
But, here we are, and as the days passed during the last year, we have added a horse here and a horse there. In fact, we woke up about a month ago and counted 21 different horses on our ten acres. And, did I mention that we also started with two dogs and as "farmers" soon found ourselves with five, plus a cat?
Now, I know from talking to others that what happened to us has happened to many others. It becomes an addiction. Just one more, okay? There has to be some kind of group therapy out there, a 12 Step program, for people like us.
Our "herd" is made up of gaited horses, mostly Spotted Saddles and Tennessee Walkers. We also have a couple of minis, a 16 month old filly, six month old colt and another filly how is four months old. When I started riding and for the first nearly 25 yeas, I rode quarter horses and paints. But broken bones and creeping age caused me to discover gaited horses and it has extended my life.
Let me make it perfectly clear that I am no cowboy. I don't ride to show, and you could not pay me to race around barrels at break neck speed. I ride only for pleasure. That has been my only motivation since I got a late start in the saddle back in about 1980. And, it has been so much pleasure; riding with friends through forests, tip toeing on ledges 13,000 feet up the Rocky Mountains on a horse you just met, or prancing among the tree tops in the Great Smokies.
Horses happened to me because I reached an age in life when I knew that I had to find something to do that would get me outside and exercised. Golf was out of the question. Too boring and too little patience on my part. In fact, today I own a home on the 13th fairway of a golf course, but I don't own golf clubs. No way I was going to become a runner, either. I claimed asthma as my excuse, but it was more like laziness that got in the way. Nope to tennis, too.
And, so I thought, what about horses? I'd never been around them as a kid or young adult. In fact, I had a respectful fear of them that dictated distance between us. But, why not try? So, on one spring weekend in 1980 I rented a horse and went on a beach ride along the Atlantic Ocean in North Florida. I fell more in love with what I got to see from that seat on top of the horse than I did with the horse, enough so that I decided to give it a further go.
Now, you have to understand that one of North Florida's great and legendary cowboys is a friend of mine. His name is Elmer Rudd and he has raised world champion quarter horses all with names and pedigrees that equine academics would recognize instantly. Elmer even sold Roy Rogers Trigger II. He has belt buckles as big as waffles, and his hands are the size of an elephant's ear. So, I of course called by cowboy friend Elmer and told him I wanted to buy a horse.
"Whoa. You don't know that," Elmer said to me. "You don't know anything about horses. Come out here to the ranch and let's talk." And, so I went to Rudd's 4E Ranch and we talked. Try it out first, before you spend a lot of money, he cautioned.
Then, Elmer took me to one of his barns where he introduced me to a solid black and very shiny stallion (another confession: I did not know it was a stallion, and even if I had, it would have meant nothing to me). Ride this guy, said Elmer, to see if you really like it. He's a nice horse and his owner owes a ton of money in back board. Elmer then sold me a used saddle for $150, showed me how to put it on from the left, gave me a quick lesson in cinching up and then gave me quick instruction on putting a bit into his mouth. With that, he basically said, good luck.
I can remember things about those earliest days that should have driven me away from horses and toward something like badminton. One day, when I was riding this shiny black horse down a road near Rudd's ranch, we came to a pasture where there were three other horses. They ran toward the fence and started whinnying. My horse responded and pulled his head toward the three, who by now were pressed up against the fence. Old friends, I thought, letting my horse work his way toward the three horses and the fence.
Wrong. I learned later, after I got up off my backside and finally got control of my horse again after about 30 minutes, that one of the horses was a stud and the other two were his mares. My own stallion posed a serious challenge...but remember that I did not know anything about horse behavior, much less stallions. You can bet that this story was told over and over again around the farms and ranches in North Florida for some time.
On another occasion, I took my 8 year old son out to the ranch to show him the horse and watch me ride. I saddled up, walked the horse and then started into a great cantor. It was great, and I knew that my son had to be impressed. Then, I hit the ground with a huge thud. What I later learned was the "D" ring on my used saddle broke, causing the saddle to quickly roll sideways to the left, slinging me to the ground. I was momentarily knocked out and when I came to, the horse was standing over me. It was not his fault. My son was horrified.
Now, it is time for my dinner on this Tuesday night at the end of October. The horses have been fed. The sun has almost set behind graying clouds and soft winds that move the grass like the waves of the sea. And, so, I am going to end this for now with an ambition to start again, maybe tomorrow.
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