In which Boyd Martin moves into my barn

Actually. . . . not that Boyd Martin.  I do know Boyd and it would be absolutely FINE if he did move into my barn.  Boyd Martin could stay.  We'd provide him food, water and a dry place to sleep.  All I ask in return is rodent removal.  Squirrel counterinsurgency. Reptile patrol.  I'm sure Boyd would do well. 

Roughly six months ago a neighbor left the area.  Left behind at least one of her barn cats.  A big handsome streetwise tuxedo cat beast of the feline persuasion.  We'd see him flitting through the woods occasionally.  Toward the end of March he marched into the barn one day, looked around and said "Hi honey, I'm home!".  Just like that we acquired our barn cat. 

Meet BoydMartin.  He's the coolest cat around.  Meets me every morning when I go out to feed, follows me around and we carry on a running conversation about the weather, the horses, politics and his nocturnal escapades.  He is a mighty hunter.  Just ask him and he will tell you.  There have been a never ending offering of disemboweled, dismembered, decpaitated mammals left very proudly as further proof of his prowess.  If there is a happening at the barn, BoydMartin is in the middle of it. 

BoydMartin has a sense of adventure.  He's the self appointed supervisor of all things barn at Pegasus Ridge.  Unload hay, BoydMartin has the overwatch.  Schooling in the dressage ring, BoydMartin is sitting at C, glad to provide an evaluation.  Makes sure all the horses get the right things in their feed tubs.  Oversees stall cleaning, pasture dragging and mowing.  BoydMartin helps in the carriage shed.  He's also been known to check out the wash and wax job on the trucks.  All in all BoydMartin is a solid citizen and a welcome addition to the tiergarten that we call home. 

And the name?  Boyd Martin has a cat called Manny.  We thought it only fair that Manny have a cat named BoydMartin. 

In which I introduce Baghdad Bob

Baghdad Bob- the most interesting camel in the world. 

 

He gets around and is frequently the life of the party.

 

 

 

He enjoys a rousing game of Covert Camel.

 

 

 

He's been seen in all the right places with all the right people.

 



 

He's a good sport, and a good sportsman.

 

An ardent supporter of those around him.

 

Baghdad Bob.  His charm is so contagious vaccines have been created for it.

 

 

 

Stay Thirsty My Friends

 

 

 

 

 

In which Diemer International is revealed

After some public shaming on an international chat board I have been galvanized to get after it and update this blog.  I discovered that I started this post last summer and never published it, no doubt a victim of maternal brain suck, as much of my life over the past 20+ years has been.  Except that since the son doesn't live here anymore I may not be able to claim that excuse.  Menopausal brain suck?  Ah well.

Last Summer was the summer of Diemer International.  Diemers Abroad.  One fateful day, Monday, July 16th, there were Diemers on three continents.  The one located in North America was doing some major facebook sniveling. 

I had the honor to serve as team manager for the U16 (that's under 16 for the uninitiated) national polocrosse team.  We spent 20 days in New South Wales, Australia, and Team USA played in three carnivals in the South West Slopes Zone of the Polocrosse Association of Australia. 



Now, you have to ask yourself, how desparate is someone to visit the Land Down Under that she would willingly volunteer to ride herd on 8 teenagers for three weeks.  Not to mention a 16+ hours plane ride coming and going when this person has taken a vow.  It's like a vow of poverty.  Never pee in the lavatory on an airplane.  Once, a long time ago, I read a story (fiction) about a passenger who got stuck on the loo inflight. 

The team met in Dallas and we endured the flight to Brisbane and on to Sydney.  Quantas gets many many thumbs up for being a first class airline.  I would fly with them again any time.  Landed in Sydney, relieved to discovered that all did indeed follow instructions regarding electronic travel authorities, and after a four hour mini-bus ride we arrived in Harden, NSW.  Did I mention when we left the US the eastern seaboard was enduring record highs?  100 plus temps each day?  Weather in Harden - cold and rainey.  High 40.  Overnight lows in the 20s.  First order of business, a trip into Young for purchase of merino wool long underwear.  I lived in them for the entire three weeks.  The team played well the first weekend, winning two out of three matches, and at the end of the weekend we headed off to our respective host family haciendas for a week of real australian living. 

Real australian living, as far as I can tell, usually involves sheep.  Lots of sheep. Moving sheep.  Counting sheep. Breeding sheep.  Shearing sheep.  Moving sheep again.  It also involves being off the grid as much as possible.  Huge cisterns to collect rain water for bathing, drinking and clothes washing.  Wood stoves for heating.  Lots of tea.  Brekkie.  Instant coffee.  Did I mention overnight lows in the 20s?  I slept in my merino long underwear. 

The floats are different, the lifestyle is different.  The polocrosse play is spectacular and the television is distressingly the same.  

At the same time I was coming and going down under, the son was headed below the equator to a different continent.  The Open National Polocrosse team headed out to Zambia, and played a series of test matches against the Zambia national team.  While the results weren't what Team USA had hoped for, there were great photo opportunities and it sounds like it was a trip of a life time.



In which the Big Horse becomes the answer to someone's dream .

Growing up and moving on. . . putting paid to hopes and dreams.

Well, that sounds dramatic. . . The reality is that while one set of hopes and dreams has been cancelled, another set has been answered.  The big horse (aka Bo, aka Cold Harbor) has a new dance partner.  My mother used to say if it's meant to be it's meant to be and this has all the earmarks of "meant to be-ness. "

Last December we took Bo from the Queen of Darkness down to Aiken to meet Dom and Jimmie Schramm.  Dom is from Queensland, Australia and tells me his "hometown" is outback all the way.  He relocated to the states in 2010 and made the very smart move of marrying Jimmie Holotik.  The pair are chasing their own dream and it's been lots of fun to be a part of that.  An unfortunate accident ended Dom's hopes of campaigning his own Oxlea Aargo and when Aargo retired to the hunt field Dom found himself without an upper level partner to compete.  Enter the big horse.

Dom and Jimmie are currently based out of Quarter Moon Farm in Cochranville, Pennsylvania.  He and Boyd Martin are good mates and Boyd, who formerly had Bo, has been terrific about offering advice and coaching Dom.  Thanks to rule changes this year from the Federation of European Idiots, we have had to revamp our year end goals, but Dom and Bo are getting to know one another.  They have had a light but very successful spring campaign, with top placings at Preliminary and Intermediate, including a double clear XC round at Southern Pines HT II.  The very tough and very impressive new course at the Carolina Horse Park produced only three double clears at the Intermediate level.  Bo and Dom had the afterburners on and made the course look like a cake walk.  Next on the calendar is the Virginia International CCI*, a step down, but necessary to check the boxes to get to the year end goal.  Dom is a real thinking man's rider, and determined to make the best of every opportunity handed him.  Jimmie is the perfect partner, and keeps the lid (mostly) on this wild and crazy guy.  They started a hugely popular and award winning You Tube channel last year, called Evention - you can see Bo on some of the episodes now, the barn is filling up and they no longer are living in an apartment filled with spiders.  Success comes in many forms.

Chase the dream and pay it forward. . .

In which I putter on about lots of things

Whinge.  To whine or complain.  Today I am whinging because I smashed my little toe this morning on the dining room table.  It's turning a lovely shade of purple.  It throbs.  It hurts to but a shoe on.  I probably have cracked something. 

I realized this morning it has been ages since my last blog promoting drinking and driving.  The 12 year old scotch did the trick once again in early May.  Monster Pony, the 'gator and I traveled to Tryon to the Carolina Carriage Club HDT.  New location, and lots of new location issues, but a really fun show with clever and challenging courses.  Dressage was by far the MOST challenging, with warm up on a hillside, and a half mile hack down the road to a stone dust dressage ring carved out of the woods.  It was level.  It was dusty. It was deep.  Not our best score, although I was quite pleased with how Bryn went.  Cones was challenging and showed really good use of the terrain.  We had a silly ball down at 18, two from home.  I was just thinking. . . YES!  double clear is within my grasp!!  That will teach me to think! Marathon was a blast, with some wide open hazards that allowed us to really put the pedal down.  Scoring took forever, and we finally packed up and headed home without knowing results.  Thirty mintutes from home I got the phone call from Alicia Henderson, the organizer, telling me we had won our first recognized driving competition!!

Bryn has had a light summer, and we are just now getting stuck into work for our fall competition schedule.  I have just two on the calendar - love both events and am looking forward to both of them!



The new face in the paddock is Fred.  Fred is a five year old welsh gelding, and I am having a lot of fun starting him from scratch (with lots of help from trainer and friend Craig Kellogg).  We have progressed over the last four months from being halter broken (Fred led a sheltered life until he moved to Raeford) to dragging a tire around in the woods. Fred has had several name changes - migrating from Feral Fred to Friendly Fred.  Fred meets carriage in September and I am really looking forward to working with and competing this flashy guy. 

Another new face at the farm is JR's Boy.  Boy is a nine year old dark brindle greyhound and the track record holder at Derby Lane in St. Petersburg, Florida.  We weren't really on the look out for a second greyhound, but I have always had a soft spot for the seniors, particularly after having Pops spend the end of his days with us.  I mention Pops because he is the reason Boy had to come to us.  Pops was JR's Proud, racer extraordinaire with a fantastic stakes winning record and 91 recorded get to his credit.  Pops sired many top racers - and one of his best was Boy.  When I saw Boy's name listed on the up for adoption roster at Senior Sanctuary I knew he had to come to us.  He is funny, LOUD, boisterous, and larger than life.  We hold regular conversations at five in the morning, I am usually in the bathroom and he is intently doing the staredown, playbowing and demanding snappy comebacks.  I don't do snappy at five am.  It's a challenge. 

The big horse is in the house for awhile. . . or at least in the neighborhood.  He is enjoying a protracted visit with the Queen of Darkness, whose name shall be changing to Annie Sullivan The Miracle Worker shortly.  Thanks to Lynn Doki and Dr. Megan Ross Bo has got the beat.  Three that is.  Shaken, not stirred.  Can flying changes be just around the corner?  Our goal is to bring that charming Australian an easier horse to ride on the flat, and hopefully in the end reunite Bo with the guy he brought to the dance to start with. 

I have lots more to blog about - but will save Diemer International for next week.  In closing, the lovely photographs were done by our good friend Meri Hyoky.  She is in town for a short while longer before returning to her new home in Lesotho and is available for photo shoots.  Great eye and great to work with!  Two thumbs up!





In which I discover the secret of a great dressage test

I won't keep you in suspense.  Scotch.  12 year old Scotch.  The Queen of Darkness agreed to function as a carriage appointment last Friday in what ended up being our season opener.  She showed up, booze in hand, and said "Here, have a snort".  Being the obedient student, I did.  I have sort of suspected that being half lit was the answer, the last dressage test I drove was enhanced by marshmellow flavored vodka and cranberry juice.  Thanks Reba. . . but the scotch is da bomb!

While giving new meaning to "driving drunk" we managed to produce a soft and relaxed test and a carrer best score of 51 and change.  Bryn's driveability remained the entire weekend - we planted ourselves firmly in third place.  Stubbornly stayed put the entire weekend, including going into cones with three balls plus in hand. 

Next time I am giving the scotch to the pony as well!

In which I have a lightbulb moment

Not a nerve, not a chord.  Not sure what. . . . but a recent post on a driving digest by a noted judge struck something in me. The gentleman wrote at length about the concept of "tracking up".  His judging premise du jour is tracking up above all else.  I know this to be true as he was the judge at C in my last recognized driving competition and we were heavily  penalized at every movement.  One comment in almost every box.  Not tracking up.  At the same time, the judge at E, a classically trained dressage rider well on her way to Senior status, pinged the pony for lack of impulsion (not tracking up) , but also rewarded his relaxation, rhythm and submisson. Judge at C - thumbs down,  Judge at E - thumbs up.  I haven't decided whether the practice of having multiple opinions in dressage is an encouraging or discouraging situation.  Of  course, someone is surely apt to make at least one positive comment, thus rendering the other judges' outlooks as warped, uneducated or otherwise ignorant.  Insert disclaimer here:  Judging is never easy, and I hope that if I ever get the opportunity to sit at C, I can come up with observtions and scoring that will help competitors better their partners. It took me 3 1/2 months to realize the judge at C, in a convoluted sort of way, did just that. 



Which brings me to Dressage Anonymous and the Six Step Program.  While pondering all of this, coupled with my irritation over "not tracking up" - don't tell me what you see, tell me what I need for a better score! and tempering all that with the knowledge judges must comment on what they see on the day - so unfair!  Can't I just bring a video in of my last lesson with the Queen of Darkness and let them judge that!!  I dug up an old eventing book by Jane Wallace called The Less Than Perfect Horse.  It's out of print now, but well worth re-reading.  The early chapters are all devoted to the six steps to self carriage, and NOW finally, I am beginning to have a grasp of what all that means.  It's a little like being able to speak a foreign language, but not truly understand what you are saying.  There has been something lost in the translation for sure, and finally, 20 years after I bought the book, I have stumbled across the rosetta stone to intrepret it. 

Relaxation, Rhythym, Contact, Straightness, Impulsion, Collection. 

Brynnie and I spend a lot of time stuttering up and down the first four steps.  Sometimes we get them out of order.  A lot of times step one and step four are a struggle.  More and more we get to the point each day where we can take the next step up to impulsion, teetering there precariously, trying to find our balance.  It's exciting to think that maybe, just maybe, we can plant ourselves firmly on that next rung.  Take the pledge.  Stand up and say hello, our names are Bryn and Dana and we are on the road to recovery. So while I have to thank the judge at E for confirming where I am on the training ladder, I must also acknowledge the judge at C for reminding me there is a training ladder, to understand where I am on that ladder, and to acknowledge that steps on the ladder can't be skipped.



In which I expand on random thoughts

I have decided that my dressage lesson yesterday is a living reenactment of Robin Williams' famous treatment on the origins of golf.  His piece starts out with an explanation of how incredibly difficult it is to understand the average Scotsman, and segues into a long winded explanation on the creation of golf.  Mr. Williams expounds at length about hacking away through the gorse, getting so mad "yewl have a stroke".  Wait, that's what we'll call it  - stroke.  And at the end there will be a little white flag - "jes' ta give ya hope." 

I think that is what dressage is.  Hacking away in the underbrush, having strokes and every once in awhile getting a view of that little white flag.  Hope lives!

Driving is all about scribing the arc.  If you can be accurate on a circle you can be a combined driver.

See above - except for the part where you have to REMEMBER everything.  Dresage test, the way to drive through six obstacles, plus alternate routes, and back up plans for the oh shit that ain't gonna work moments and then 20 something sets of orange cones with yellow balls on top of them.  20 something sets of orange cones that look EXACTLY alike.

I walk more doing CDEs than I ever did walking cross country courses. 

One of my favorite lines from any movie - "I am older and have more insurance!"

Trying to help my spouse learn a dressage test is painful. He is also hacking through the underbrush.

I like dance lessons.

I hate that the instant I start on a diet my body goes into survival mode and stubbornly refuses to part with one ounce.

I am very happy my son got the job he was looking for, and more relieved that his father and I won't have to foot the bill for his upcoming trek to Zambia.  Go Team USA!!

My kitty has tortitude.

My pony does not.

Florida in 34 days!!!

In which I ponder the necessity for dressage.

Ok.  I admit it.  I think dressage is really a four letter word.  And I think my dressage instructor is the Queen of Darkness.  And I am not at all sure that it was a wise thing to engage a USDF Grand Prix rider to help out with driven dressage. Isn't driven dressage all about the hats and the outfits anyway?

 The Queen of Darkness keeps coming up with all these ideas that would make the average combined driver roll over in the grave.  Leg yield, rapid fire transitions from the shoulder fore position, upper body positioning (mine), shoulder positioning (his), canter transitions (we don't even canter in driven dressage until Advanced - Hellooo), canter work to strengthen back muscles and build topline, thumbs on top, don't collapse your ribcage, stop contorting your body to the left, get him more on the outside rein, yes I know he is heavy right now - it's where he is at, six pack pony abs, half halt from your stomach. . .

The latest torture was the introduction of a shallow serpentine at the canter.  Seriously.  In preparation for mastering the counter canter.  Inside shoulder back.  Half halt on the third beat.  I can't count that fast - this is a 13.2 pony after all! What do you mean you want this driven from the outside rein.  Brynnie - are you listening to ANY of this?  Think you might cooperate a little???

And yet. . . I have been working with Queenie for about four months.  Pony boy is getting six pack abs.  I can sit up straight, keep my thumbs on top.  He can actually use his back - the space between the back strap and his back is miniscule.  All this in a forward frame with throughness.  And how we laugh.  She has the best phrases - his hind quarters are not just a friend following closely behind.  Expand the toolbox.  If all you have is a screwdriver then everything has to look like a screw. 

So, after yesterday's beat down, I will gird my loins, put to the presentation carriage and head back out for another round.  Because, just like his eventing cousins, Brynnie's ability to make those quick turns, and hold the line in smooth arcs really does all begin in the dressage court.



In which I finally do a little catching up!

It has seriously been a while since I have posted anything - and while the blog hasn't changed, my life certainly has rocketed on a rapid pace.  The POS Ranger has been sold, geocaching on hold at the moment, and my life is a runaway train. 

Competition season is over.  As a friend said, this is the time of year when the horses are lame and the checkbooks are empty.  Not the case here but it is time for a welcome break and some re-tooling for next season.   Brynnie and I finished up a great year at the prelminary level, completing six competitions (five of them CDEs) and coming home in the ribbons, 4th or better, in five of the six.  It's been a great journey with him, and every day we drive we cement the partnership a little more.  I feel sorry for those eventers who will never complete a long format event, the time Bryn and I spend together prepping for our 13-14 kilometer marathons build a relationship that is hard to duplicate.  So without further ado. . . the 2011 Carolina Challenge Cup Winners - Preliminary Single Pony!



My heart horse Bo finished up a successful year with Boyd Martin - with a 15th place finish at the Fair Hill CCI**.  His dressage continues to improve daily and he has come so very far in the year he has been with Boyd.  I miss him very much but I know he is getting great care and the crew at Windurra enjoy having him around.  He successfully completed two advanced horse trials this summer with ease and top ten finishes.  He will be back out in 2012 with his talented stable mates and it should be a great year!!





The husband's horse spent the summer at Windurra learning his craft with great success - ending on a high note completing two training level events.  Bru, aka Krugerrand, is one of the nicest, calmest horses I have ever come across.  Lovely to ride, nice jumper and a pleasant boy all around.  He and Manny made their debut in the hunting world at opening meet this past Thursday, and handled most everything in stride.  Right up to the part where Manny forgot to steer, Bru jumped the four foot jump wing and popped Manny out of the tack.  Xrays are all clear, good drugs are involved, Bru is none the worse for wear and I have a promise they will only hilltop for the rest of the season!!

My son has passed in and out of my life once again.  Being a parent is one of the most bittersweet experiences I have had, and I struggled every day with the concept that my dreams for him are not his dreams for himself.  It was a pleasant departure this time, we chat from time to time and I hope that he finds his own path in life.  He should know that I love him with all my heart and that, just like that stupid song he doesn't like, sometimes goodbye is a second chance. 





In which my heart horse takes me for a ride!

Boyd Martin and Cold Harbor have been named to the USEF short list for the 2011 Pan Am games.  I am definitely thinking this is one of those be careful what you wish for deals.  I have know since Sunday, it's been killing me not to say anything, and now it's out there in public for all to see.  Whoa.  I adore this horse and he and his charming Aussie pilot have amassed quite a record this spring.  Whatever will be will be and in the interim it's gonna be a hell of a ride!

In which I speak about polocrosse

My life for the last few weeks, well two to be exact, have been consumed by polocrosse.  It is an obscure equine sport - a child of a lessor god in some people's eye.  Created in Australia after observing a british riding school, the sport is played across the commonwealth, and came to the US in the mid-80s.  My association with this polo/lacrosse hybrid started in 1998, when a rather imposing District Commissioner of the local pony club informed me that as I had access to a fenced pasture, I was to host a polocrosse clinic.  Jeez - we already had eventing and foxhunting.  I was absolutely not interested in ANOTHER equine sport.  But, as not to cross the DC, who scared the hell out of me, I acquiesed.  As the day progressed it was clear that the little and not so little pony clubbers had gained another partipant in the clinic.  The husband of the madwoman was eagerly taking part, asking questions learning rules.  Within weeks the Carolina Polocrosse Club was formed, we were members of yet another equestrian organization, and plans were being made for tournaments and pony club rallies, travel to distant cow pastures on borrowed horses.  Over the years, we have gone from staying in hotels, stabling horses and cleaning leather tack to totally embracing the polocrosse way of life - camping out, turning horses out in electric pens and white biothane tack.  We have made friends all over the world, and the madwoman's husband has developed an uncontrollable urge to accost any and all owners of large flat fields for permission to play on them. 

Jump forward to two weeks ago.  My son, home after a year in another world, applied to and was selected for his fifth international team - pretty neat for a kid who isn't yet 21.  He's been to Australia and South Africa, and this time around is playing for the USPC in England as I type.  His teammates descended on us, well me, last week, - it's the happiest and most content I have seen him in a long time.  I hope polocrosse will be his salvation, as combined driving was mine.  He's talented, cocky and a natural.  He practices very little, and can still pick up a racquet and hang with the best of them.  Outclassed his old man quite some time ago. 

The team is apparently have one of those "growth" experiences, communication is limited and it appears from all reports they have been handed horses that are of far less quality, while the other teams in this competition are playing their own mounts, with no provisio for switch rides or rotation of horse pools as is commonly done in international test matches.  The games have been heartbreakingly close, with the US team coming up short each time.  I wish I could say my experience with USPC this time around has been a good one - but I find my self disappointed in the lack of support, thought and oversight that has been put into this trip.  I expect that this experience will be fodder in the long run for great tales, fetes of accomplishment that will grow larger the farther away from the week at hand we get.  It's been hard to sit by and not say or do anything, and to let my son be his own advocate.  If you know me, you'd be surprised at just how quiet I have been about the whole thing.  What I have seen is my son step up and become a leader, whether on a conference call or on the playing field.  No matter what the outcome of this week, I am very proud to claim him as the madwoman's son. 



I head to USPC Championships shortly, in what will most likely be my swan song with that organization.  I love organizing, fancy myself to be good at it,and I am looking foward to running polocrosse championships one last time.  Dilemma as well - I plan on speaking to the powers that be about issues, hate people that complain without offering to be part of the solution, and yet I don't want to be part of the solution.  I am sure a path will present itself to me, and in the meantime I think it is time for a nap.

In which we attempt another round of Geocaching and Survive the Great Ranger Radiator Escapade.

Last opportunity for geekness for awhile, perfect early morning after some monster storms last night, appropriate targets selected.  Heigh Ho Heigh Ho. . .

One of the really special things about geocaching is the opportunity to find interesting out of the way sites right in your own backyard.  This morning's grand adventures started out just that way.  We picked three caches within a close distance to one another, and started with the one entitled Poison Ivy.  After reading the description carefully and realizing we had no heavy gloves we opted to attempt Pothole in the Woods instead. 

General area located, GPS gpsing, off into the wilderness we trekked.  Soon found ourselves standing directly on top of where the cache claimed to be located.  After about 15 minutes of wandering around in circles, with much muttering, swearing and snorting involved, it was determined the area of focus should be broadened.  Came face to face with a large traffic cone, in the middle of the woods.  WTH?  Took several mintues for it to register this was our intended target.  More muttering from the retired military guy about military geocachers.  Log signed and on to cache number two.  Still no gloves, but we decided to give it a try anyway, what's poison ivy between good friends? 

What we found was a lovely rural cemetary, full of area history, life and dreams and in at least once instance, a mother's broken heart.  The poison ivy turned out to be artificial and we learned a bit out this particular cacher, who is new to our area.  His third hide site was nearby - three for three - hoo-rahh!

Now, children, it gets ugly.  We decided to try for three more, just south in the Gamelands area near a military training site.  Made a wrong turn on the gamelands, with failing GPS (oh how I HATE AT&T and my aging iPhone!) and a poor road map.  The geocaching vehicle du jour is a POS 2002 Ford Ranger.  Doesn't run particularly well, gets lousy gas mileage and is both very underpowered and very light in the back end.  (Note: please see above reference to monster storms prior to proceeding). 

At this point we have made several wrong turns but are confident because at least one of us claims to have a general idea of a. our location and b. our destination.  This portion of the adventure has required some large puddle/stream crossings and after one very deep water hole the POS 2002 Ford Ranger sputters to a stop.  Drowned.  After repeated attempts to restart, accompanied by much swearing and sputtering, we proceed up a fairly steep incline.  (NOTE: please see reference above to light in back end and underpowered.)  Halfway up the hill we find ourselves buried up to the rear axle in soft sand.  More swearing and sputtering ensues.  POS 2002 Ford Ranger is eventually extricated and backed down the hill.  Decision is made to attempt the next cache at all costs.  Cue dramatic music.  To Be Continued. 

In which I contemplate the other woman in the bedroom

Ha! Not what you were thinking was it!  Gabbie is the Empress of Immenseness and she lives solely and strictly in our bedroom and bathroom.  She defends her territory with the fierceness of a mother lioness defending her cubs, and admonishes us for transgressions real and imagined like Sister Euphenia at Our Lady of Perpetual Grace Academy.  No opposible thumbs, thankfully so at least no ruler. 

In which you meet the human love of my life and Sunday morning pursuits

He's the guy I have been living with for the past 35 (ack!) years.  My soulmate.  Companion in crime.  Sparring partner from time to time.  And that's one of the other women in his life, Pancha.  Miss P.  Belligerent Bitch.  Queen Latifah.  She has many names, come to think of it, so does he!

One of the very many things the love of my life does is indulge me in silly pursuits.  One of the silliest is geocaching.  Geocaching is a real world, outdoor treasure hunt.  Players try to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, using GPS-enabled devices, and then share their experiences online.  Really.  That's a direct quote from the website.  It's the ulitmate in outdoor "geek-dom".  Gives us a great opportunity to yell at each other in the great outdoors, trek through the underbrush in search of pill bottles, pieces of PVC pipe, ammo boxes, tupperware containers, tiny little capsules with magnets, bird houses (some geocachers have WAY TOO MUCH time on their hands!) and along the way collect useless pieces of swag, travel bugs, real bugs, ticks, chigger bites, and experience close encounters with snakes, wasps and the local constabulary.  The love of my life won't let me collect the caches along main roads as apparently we resemble terrorists. 

Geocaching run this morning at 6:30 am yielded four finds in an hour.  After a year, I am finally getting the hang of the high speed made especially for geocaching GPS we bought last summer.  That didn't come with anything resembling useful directions.  The iPhone app is equally useful, although very annoying as cell phone service is spotty at best here.  What this goofy pastime does give us is a common goal, and a view to places in our area we had no idea existed.  Magellan Geocaching GPS $200, Lumber River State Park $10 in gas and 30 minutes, time with my guy - priceless. 

All dressed up at the jog for the Jersey Fresh CCI**

In which I introduce the equine love of my life

My heart horse.  Silly really, as I find him difficult to ride, but there is something about his goofy face that touches my soul.  I live to feed him peppermints and miss him when he is not in my barn.  He calls to me twice a day - it's cupboard love, I know that. 

He is Cold Harbor, aka "Bo".  Somewhere around the place I have a photo of him as a gawky four year old, named Hobo.  Hairy, gangly and just down from the Great White North, Bo is a Canadian Sport Horse, which seems to be horsespeak for "mutt".  He will turn 11 sometime in July, and I've been his owner for 6 years.  He was originally partnered with my son and they enjoyed a rare relationship together.  Bo ended up in a crazy, charming, confident Australian's eventing barn. What started as a temporary arrangement to get through the spring season has developed into a partnership of the first water - erste Sahne - as my german husband would say and now we eagerly await what the future will bring.  He has close relatives who reached greatness, only time will tell if he can follow their lead. 

Funding an upper level event horse is pricey, and I count my pennies at every turn.  Funny how the little decisions we make in life can have long lasting repercussions.  We opted to bring Bo back home for summer vacation after his last big event, to save a little money, and give me the opportunity to stuff peppermints at a truly unhealty rate into his snout.  The choice may well have been life saving as six of Bo's barnmates perished in a barn fire a week later.  I can't bring myself to ask if he would have been in that night, and I don't truly want to know.  May God bless those horses who perished, and grant their connections the peace and healing that time brings. 

Bo heads back to the crazy, charming, confident Australian in about a week's time.  I will miss his face in my barn, but look forward to watching him do circles in the sandbox, and run and jump the big fences and the funny colored poles.  And count the days until his face is in my barn once again.

In which I venture into Blog Land

So.  Here I am.  55 years old and venturing off into blog land.  Everyone else is doing it.  How hard can this be?  Cue silence.  You can hear a pin drop.

So.  Introduction.  55 years old.  Unemployed, well at least not working outside the home.  I do work, functioning as the personal concierge for numerous beasts, one or two with two legs and several more with four. 

So. Location.  Outside a small town in south central North Carolina.  Raeford is the Turkey Capital of the US.  Really.  There are more turkeys raised and processed here than anywhere else, or so they claim.  I do know there is a Turkey Festival that takes place every Spetember and that for the last 13 years, I have avoided making an appearance at the Fest. 

The main cast of characters in my life include my husband of almost 34 years, my almost 21 year old son, five horses, one pony, three house cats and a greyhound.  The equines are supposed to provide a diversion, the cats comfort and the greyhound love and affection.  Sometimes.