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Tugboat

I went to watch Ceara ride Tugboat in a dressage show yesterday. I have never seen him look so happy, more fit, more relaxed or so loved in his life. He is one lucky pony! And to think on top of that he will someday be a movie star!!!!

After I get the 35mm film developed I will upload a ton more photos, these are what I had on the digital.

One of the things I wanted to point out, which you will be able to see on the other photos to come, is that Ceara and her trainer, Carolyn, have worked very hard on getting Tugboat to be able to let his neck go long and low in a free walk across the diagonal. Tugs has such a muscled neck, I remember when Paige rode him at Jr. Young Riders and there was NO free walk what so ever! Ceara is a dedicated equestrian and has done a fabulous job with him.



Like I said, what a lucky pony!



Well deserved smiles after their first test, which brought them a first place! Congratulations Ceara and Tugboat!!!!

Horse Girls Part II

Today I went to a friend's baby shower. This is a friend whom I have known for about 15 years, since she was a little teenager running around the barn where I got back into the horse business. My friend who I make my trips to Wyoming with, whose mother was my mentor when I went to manage CHC. I used to sit in the barn office in the evenings and talk to her while she did her homework and my younger son, James, was learning to post on Chocolate Chip. Now she is getting ready to have a baby of her own ~ a boy.

Kate runs a farm like I did when I had Parker, my first son. I gave her the same gift someone gave me which allowed me to continue to work in the barn while Parker was snuggled up right against my chest in his carrier.

Most of the people at the shower were "barn people." Horse girls, all of us. Some of us in our 70's and still riding (Tammy's sister Jackie, for one). Nany of us middle age, not riding as much as we used to if at all. Then there were the younger girls who wear ankle bracelets and dangly earrings and flip their hair the way horse girls do. One of them, an adorable teenager named Michaela, was a toddler when I first met her. She ran around the barn after her mother in her diapers and boots, and rode an old pony named Watergate. I was stunned to realize she was who she was because in my mind, she should only be about 10 years old. She's close to graduating from high school now, I guess.

I realized something while I was there. The job I have now, at the florist, I try to create bonding outings or get togethers with the girls who work for me. It is important to a team, I think. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But when I managed the horse farms, I didn't have to create anything. I never had to worry about one of the girls getting sassy with me or copping an attitude when I asked them to do something. So completely different. But the thing is, the common bond we all share is that we are all horse girls. We are there because we want to be there, not because we have to be there.

It is all the same, I can see. It hasn't changed. Horse girls are horse girls are horse girls. Tomorrow I will write about one of my ancesters who read Black Beauty, then saw a horse being mistreated and stood up for the horse in court. That was back in the 1800's, so apparently horse girls were the same back then.

The Magic Shirt

This may look like an ordinary, run of the mill red polo shirt to someone else, but this shirt has magic powers for me. Horse people tend to have superstitions with clothes, or tack, or colors, and this is mine.

This is my writing shirt, and amazing things happen when I put it on. It was my father's shirt, and I get some of my best writing done when I wear it. It's like magic ~ I sit down at the computer and the words just flow from my heart and soul and spill out onto the paper looking like a seasoned writer's polished novel. I am so happy with everything that I write when I wear it, I almost feel like I am testing the Gods of writing when I don't.

It's my lucky shirt, my creative muse, my happy place and comfort food all rolled up into one. I think I'll wear it to the Princeton conference the end of this month.See how the editors I will meet like it.

Arabian Foals

I was very happy because I thought I was going to get to go see Dallas over the weekend. But then the snow storm came, so I took the time to get some old photos out and organized. I came across this photo of an ancestor of Dallas. The gray mare's name was Ra Leila. The foal with her would have been a half sibling to Dallas's great-grandmother, Sar Ramora, through their sire, Sar Farafic. My brother Jamie took this photo.

There is something so photogenic about an Arabian. Especially an Arabian foal.

The photo on the right is Dallas, who is now 6 years old. I need to see her soon.

On Friendships and Horses - and Marianne

I had news of my old friend the other day, news that brought Marianne back to the forefront of my mind. I have not been able to shake the image of her since.

I moved to Houston when I was 13, leaving behind my first boyfriend and my first pony. It was an awkward time in my life. For health related reasons I couldn’t go to school for the entire year I should have been in 7th grade. I was already different, a Yankee from Connecticut, but to have a weird thing like that hanging over me … well, just imagine how hungry I was for friends.

The first time I saw Marianne she was riding bareback on her horse across our front lawn. Marianne kept her roan gelding at her house at the end of our road. My horse, Lori Lye, was boarded at Mr. Garrison’s stable about a mile away. I don’t remember exactly what was said that first day, but I do have a clear memory of watching her canter away, and the feeling deep in my body that something magnificent was about to happen in my life.

Almost everyday after that Marianne and I rode together. She would show up at my house shortly after school and reach her hand down to help me swing my youthful limbs up behind her on Sandy. And off we would go.

Riding with Marianne wasn’t like riding with my barn friends. We didn’t practice our perfect Western Pleasure lope for horse shows, and we didn’t time ourselves racing around barrels in the arena. We rode bareback, preferring the security of gripping our horses’ bodies with our legs, rather than being burdened by the constraints of a saddle. But what we did do, what we did learn when we rode together, was the art of friendship.

I was so in awe of her. She was spirited and generous; haunted and lovely. I followed her everywhere. We meandered down the dirt paths along the bayou near our homes, under the canopy of oak trees dripping with beards of Spanish moss, not aware of the heat and humidity that plague me now.

We were heroines. We were going to save the planet ~ or at least our tiny corner of it. When builders began the work of clearing the woods where we rode, we galloped along the dusty paths on the far side of the bayou, pulling up wooden construction markers by their brilliant orange ribbons. We truly believed we could keep the new housing development from being built; concrete, bricks and pavement that would take away our favorite riding places. Cantering along, we would reach down, trusting our horses to carry us honorably, as we grabbed the orange ribbons and tossed the stakes into the swirling waters of the bayou as we galloped away.

In the dark of night, the sound of pebbles hitting my window pane told me Marianne was waiting for me outside by the magnolia tree. I’d tip-toe past my parent’s bedroom, climb up behind her on Sandy, and together we rode across the lawns of our neighbors, guided only by the moonlight. In this way we traveled through our adolescence with the blissful ignorance of Peter Pan.

Coming from a family of six I was accustomed to older brothers who hid from me, who didn’t want me interfering with their lives and their friendships. But I learned a good lesson about the strength of family from Marianne in the way she loved her little sister.

Sister had a fat little pony named Ajax with hair as white as her own. Often Marianne and I would be trotting down the road only to hear little hooves galloping behind us, and Sister’s voice calling out, “Wait for me! Wait for me!” as she struggled to catch up. Where my own brothers would have run faster to get away, Marianne always pulled up and waited.

When Sister was with us there were places we wouldn’t go because Marianne thought it might be too dangerous for her. There was an unspoken blanket of protection around her, and I don’t know if Sister knew it, or felt it, but it was there. No one was more important to Marianne.

On weekends we rode our horses to Town and Country Shopping Center and tied them to the bushes outside the stores. We’d ride through the Jack-in-the Box to get our lunch, and once we had our picture on the front page of the Houston Chronicle. There was no where we couldn’t go, nothing we couldn’t do when we rode our horses together.

There was a point in time when Marianne and I took different paths. If I could go back and change it and tell her to follow me, things might have worked out differently. But something tormented her. To this day I don’t know what it was, except that it drove her in the wrong direction toward the wrong people who damaged her life.

By the time I buried my beloved Lori Lye I had lost track of her. The family had moved away from the neighborhood and I only heard bits and pieces of news from time to time. None of it was ever any good, and with each sad story my heart sank a little deeper for my free-spirited friend who was shackled by something intangible, something she couldn’t canter away from anymore.

But I never stopped loving her. She had accepted me, the odd new girl from Connecticut, when others stayed away. It was Marianne who gave me some sense of normalcy in the midst of my very crazy world. Her friendship offered the same approval and unconditional love that I now get from my two beautiful golden retrievers. The kind of love that is rare between humans.

Eventually it became too painful to think of her, to know of her life the way it had turned out. The Marianne I heard about was only a shadow of the girl who offered me friendship and the shotgun seat behind her on Sandy. So I stopped thinking about her. When memories would rise to the surface, I stuffed them away with the idea that I would re-examine them later, at another point in my life. Maybe later I could face the fact that I knew she had turned a corner, had chosen the wrong path, and I hadn’t reached my own hand out to save her. I had turned and walked away. It is not what she would have done for me.

I stopped thinking of her until I heard from her sister. This time, the news was good. Marianne seemed to have found solid footing. Her first boyfriend, the older one who intimidated me, had found her after 30 years and had taken her to live with him. The email from Sister said he loves and cherishes her, treats her well and is making her healthy again. But the best part of her email to me, the part that let me know Marianne really would be okay, was the last line when she wrote, “And he even bought her a horse.”

Since then I have thought of nothing but Marianne. I’ve seen photos of her grown children. I search their faces to see pieces of the girl I knew, and I am happy. I will call Marianne today, and I will ask how her horse is. Then she will know who I am.

Tugboat, Charlotte's Web and Black Beauty

Really now, who will be able to resist a spirited pony named Tugboat, who has a personality like Wilbur the pig, and can tell a story like Black Beauty?

Happy New Year!

Inspiration for writing can come from many places. Here is a perfect example. The seed for this story was planted when I found a poster of a pony mare and her foal in a store in Jackson, WY last summer. I knew when I bought it I would write something about it someday, just had to wait for "the right time."

The right time happened one October morning when I returned from a visit with my parents. I had spent four days taking my father to his treatments at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City, and thinking about the huge void I knew would come someday when he was gone. The following story is what came from these two, completely separate experiences working together in concert in my head. Enjoy.

SILENT NIGHTS

By Nanci Turner Steveson

With three great heaves the filly was born, slipping silently onto the snow. The mare lay on her side, half hearted whinnies stuck in her throat. She knew the foal had been born too soon, and would be weak. But she also knew she should move quickly if they were going to find shelter before the next snowstorm raged across the sagebrush flats.

The mare lifted her head and looked back. The filly’s wet neck bobbled as she tried to muster the strength to hold her head up. A white diamond, perfectly centered on her forehead, danced in the moonlight. She coughed once, took two sharp breaths and squeaked out a whinny.

Satisfied the foal was alive, the mare gave herself a few moments to rest before pushing her body up, leaving a red and white form packed into the snow. It was hard to move with only three good legs. The fourth, her front right, dangled uselessly beneath her. Fresh blood dripped from just below her shoulder and turned the snow the color of a holly berry. Jumping on three legs, the mare turned and began licking the filly’s warm, wet body. She had no idea where the rest of her herd was, but she could smell the fury of a storm that had stalled just beyond the mountains, and heard the cry of the wolves following the scent of her blood.

Inside a lodgepole pine cabin, an old man lay alone in his bed. Thick blue blankets were pulled up to his chin, his eyes turned toward the window. The other side of his bed lay undisturbed, the pillow fluffed, blankets and sheets still tucked neatly into the side. Sleep eluded him again, so Clayton did what he always did on sleepless nights. He stared at the stars out the window and began to count. It didn’t help him sleep; in fact it didn’t even make him feel any better. It just passed the time until the rooster crowed and he could get up and start another silent day.

The mare pushed the filly along in front of her, stopping every few yards to rest and allow her to nurse. The foal’s curly tail flipped from side to side as she bumped her nose against the bottom of her mother’s belly and found the swollen teats. Steam rose from her tiny, damp back and disappeared into the frigid night air as she drank ferociously, until her mother began to hobble forward again.

Clayton kicked the covers off and sat up on the edge of his bed. It would be hours before the rooster crowed, but he couldn’t lay still one minute more. Grabbing a red and green quilt from the chair, he paused briefly when his fingertips touched the soft fabric. Every stitch had been sewn by the hands of his beloved wife as she lay dying in their bed. It was her last gift to him.

Clayton shuffled to the easy chair in front of the fireplace, wrapping the Christmas quilt around his shoulders. The embers glowed bright orange under the grate, but there wasn’t enough fire to generate any heat. Hoping for sleep, he let it die out instead of going outside for more wood. He would do that tomorrow. There was another storm coming and he would want firewood stacked inside. It was the only thing he did differently since Maggie had passed.

Looking at the scrawny evergreen he had cut still laying on its side by the door, he knew he wouldn’t put it in the stand before Christmas. He had intended to, he had even retrieved the box of ornaments from the attic. But it sat, unopened, on the table next to the tree. Christmas had come too soon after Maggie’s death. Pulling the quilt tighter around his body, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the corner behind him.

The smell of sage and clean snow filled their nostrils as mare and foal made their way slowly across the flats toward a stand of trees, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The mare heard the wolves and knew they were following. The filly hugged her mother’s side as they started down a slight hill, the moonlight fading in and out as storm clouds moved across the sky.

Hours later Clayton heard three chimes of the clock and opened his eyes. His breath floated before him like a vision. Shaking his head, he got up, dropping the quilt on the chair. Opening the front door, a rush of icy air slapped him in the face.

“Damn!” he said, slamming the door closed. “Why the hell didn’t I bring the wood up earlier?”

No wood on the porch meant he’d have to go to the shed behind the barn. And it was so damn cold! Before putting on his jacket, he stopped in the kitchen and measured out three scoops of coffee. No sense trying to sleep. He’d get a hot fire going and try to figure out how to wrap a present. His son would be bringing the grandchildren in three days, and children expected Christmas to go on no matter who died.

The mare leaned her body against a cold, wooden post. The loss of blood left her disoriented and weak. She could feel the filly’s tiny head pushing under her belly in search of food, just as her body started to slip. The foal pushed harder and stamped her tiny hooves on the snow.

Clayton’s boots crunched as he made his way across the yard to the shed. The light from the house didn’t shine far enough, but he had walked the path a million times over the fifty years he and Maggie had owned this ranch. Coming around the back side of the shed, his feet slipped from underneath him and he fell, breaking the fall with his hands. His leather gloves came up sticky and red. Putting his hand to his nose he smelled blood; he had slipped on blood. Even in the dark he could see a figure at the base of the fence. A dead pony mare lay silently in the snow.

“Holy shit….” he mumbled. Crawling on his hands and knees toward the mare, he could see the leg cut open just below the shoulder. Damn near cut in half! She must have bled to death. The eerie sound of wolves howling floated across the prairie. Better pull her into the shed, Clayton thought. She was small enough; he figured he could manage alone. He didn’t want a pack of wolves hanging around. He’d have to get rid of the pony’s body before his grandchildren came, anyway. They were city kids, although damned if he knew how that had happened.

After dragging the pony into the shed and locking the door, Clayton went back for the wood, stepping carefully around the bloody snow. Reaching down for a log, he came face to face with the little bay filly who lay upright behind the wood pile, looking at him as if she’d known all along Clayton would be coming for her.

“Whoa, look at you, little one.” He saw the stub of the filly’s umbilical cord, still attached to her belly. “You can’t be more than a few hours old.” The filly shivered, too young to know to be frightened. Clayton took off his jacket and lay it over her body, looking around for some way to carry her.

“Stay here, don’t move,” he said, holding his hand out in front of her face.

Jogging gingerly across the yard, he laughed to himself and repeated the words again. “Don’t move? Ha! Clayton just where do you think she’d be going?” Once inside he grabbed the Christmas quilt Maggie had sewn for him and ran back out the door.

“Here you go, little girl, let’s get you fixed up,” he said, crouching in front of the filly. Clayton hesitated, holding the quilt up close to his face. Maggie’s gentle perfume still clung to the fibers. It was the last thing he had that made him feel he could still touch her. The newborn foal’s scent would take that from him forever.

The filly nickered, her head bobbing on her neck, large dark eyes looking at Clayton with both innocence and confidence at the same time. It was the same way Maggie had looked at him everyday for the last fifty-two years. Unfolding the quilt, Clayton wrapped it around the tiny body like a sling, then carried her across the yard to the house.

By the time the rooster crowed hours later, snow had started to fall. A fire snapped in the fireplace, and the filly slept on a braided rug, still wrapped in the quilt. The only sound she made was soft sighs of contentment. Clayton had spoon fed her warm goats milk before she fell asleep. It was all he had to offer. Now he sat in the chair watching the fire, his own cheeks red from the heat.

When the rooster broke the silence, Clayton looked over at the forgotten tree by the door, and the box of ornaments on the table. Raising himself up, he lifted the stand from the box and, grabbing the tree by the top, began to slide the dried trunk in between the rings that would hold it upright when he set it in front of the window. Maggie had always insisted they string hundreds of white lights on their tree, and place it in front of the window, “Just in case someone’s lost their way in the dark.”

Desiderata

Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others, even dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater
and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love for in the
face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in
sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself
with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue
and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul.

With all its shams, drudgery,
and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.

Strive to be happy.

Companion Ponies

I can't tell you too much about the Shetland pony named Little Katie and how she saved the life of a giant Hanoverian gelding named Nick, because their complete story is told in the sequel to my middle grade novel, The Tugboat Chronicles. But I want to make a point about the value of companion ponies, and show how there really is a job for any horse.

For a variety of reasons, Nick, a former event horse, was in a deep depression when I first met him. He was a mere shell of the one time gorgeous 17H show horse, and lived in a stall by himself.

Little Katie is a tiny Shetland pony whose career has been spent meeting children in classrooms, making nursing home visits, and keeping lonesome horses company. Little Katie is so small she could walk right underneath Nick without her back brushing against his belly. But when we decided to put the two of them together in the same stall, Nick's life turned around and he slowly began to get better.

I have a friend who donated her un-ridable horse to a hunt club who put his quiet nature to good use teaching the hound puppies how to manage themselves around a horse. Another person donated her horse to a therapeutic riding program, and he is now giving intellectually challenged kids and adults the opportunity to explore the world of horses. And yet another well loved barrel racer whose leg injury meant she could never be ridden again, went to live in the backyard of a wheelchair bound former equestrian as her companion.

Peoples spirits are lifted, lives are changed, hope is regained and loneliness abated by the presence of a horse or a pony. Other horses who need companions make faster recoveries when allowed to live as nature intended, in the company of other equines. Although it might take a little time to find just the right place for a horse in need of a new job or place to retire, there are opportunities out there.

If you aren't sure how to find a home for your horse, start by contacting your state university agriculture department. If your community has a therapeutic riding program, find out if they are in need of horses. Or, type "where to donate a horse" into a search engine and you will have hundreds of organizations to contact.

A good resource for information and to be sure you are donating your horse to a reputable organization is the Equine Protection Network. Another favorite is Habitat for Horses, sponsored in part by Willie Nelson and his daughter, Amy.

Vote "YES" on Question 2 in Maryland!

It feels like the equestrian industry in Maryland is standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for Tuesday's election to know whether or not to jump. Already so many Marylander's travel to Delaware, West Virginia and other states to spend their money at the horse races, because those states have slots.

It's pretty simple: no slots, no racetracks, no Preakness, no flourishing horse businesses in Maryland. The horses will go away.

By voting "Yes" to Question 2, the horse racing industry in Maryland will be revitalized, and 55% of the money the state gets from the income of the slot machines will poor into our school systems.

Please, if you live in Maryland and can vote, vote "YES" on Tuesday, November 4th!

Good Decisions

It was the right decision to move my bedroom into the closet. This morning I rose early, couldn't wait to get to the computer and start writing again.

Today is one of those perfect October days one dreams about all summer. It is still too chilly to prop open the window of my new office, but I am surrounded by the colors of autumn outside.
The red maple is going to be stunning within just a few days. Peach and Scout, my two lovely golden retrievers, watched from their fenced in yard as pheasants rose from the tall grassy fields just a few moments ago, the male screeching as his wings beat against the wind.

It is the kind of day when one buys a pumpkin, but I wouldn't have known from my old office downstairs. I wouldn't have been part of it in that cold, fluorescent room. Yes, it was the right decision to live in the closet for now, while I finish my book.

In The Interest of Writing a Middle Grade Novel

Well I suppose I am officially eccentric/crazy/just-plain-weird as of today. I have moved my bedroom into my closet.

Why? Well, two reasons: One, my head hurts at the end of each day after working on a computer for 8 hours under fluorescent lighting at my office. Consequently, when I get home I am in no mood to go back to the computer under more fluorescent lighting, in a room with one small window, dark paneled walls and a tile floor. I haven't written anything in over a month, and I am so close to finishing my novel, I had to move my desk and computer upstairs into my old bedroom with its wall of windows facing the fields and woods out back. It is a beautiful, serene, and sunlight filled view and its just plain and simply better for the juju.

So I don't appear certifiable, you should know my "closet" was probably a nursery when the house was built almost 100 years ago, so it is big enough for my double bed, tv, table, etc. Its actually kind of cozy, complete with the slanted ceilings of a Cape Cod and a mini closet, too.

A fun fact about MD history: when this house was built, a persons home was taxed according to how many closets it had, not bedrooms. Hmmm.

#2 reason is because, being able to say that I "lived in a closet" while finishing my blockbuster pony novel adds a bit of color to my bio when I am a rich and famous author of The Tugboat Chronicles, right? Always have to plan ahead! :-)

Say "No" To Horse Slaughter!

The subject of horse slaughter in America, or transport of horses to slaughter in other countries, is one that will make most horse lover's blood boil. There are many people who are working hard to get laws passed to protect horses in our country from ending their life in this tragic and disrespectful way. Progress is being made, bit by bit, by people who work hard for this cause.

It is sad to know that many of the horses sent to slaughter houses were once beautiful, athletic racehorses who ran their hearts out to make a few dollars for their owners and trainers. Unfortunately, sending a horse off to an auction known to sell to slaughter houses doesn't bother many of these people. Their horses are part of a business for profit, and when they aren't useful anymore, the owners/trainers don't care what happens to them.

Country music legend Willie Nelson has spoken publicly against horse slaughter, and actively supports the Habitat for Horses equine rescue. His daughter, Amy Nelson, has made it her life's mission to get a bill passed in Congress that would make it illegal to transport, sell, deliver, or export horses for slaughter.

But the way to make a change happen doesn't only take place in Washington. It must also come from the hearts of people who can, and are willing to, make a difference.

Suffolk Downs Racetrack outside Boston, MA, has taken a stand, and made the brave decision to ban trainers from its track if they sell a horse for slaughter. This is especially significant because this operation is in the midst of a Phoenix-like rebirth ~ financed by one of the tracks partners, Richard Fields ~ and is banking on trainers flocking to the newly refurbished track in droves.

But a risky move like this, to say "Come to my track and race, but only if you treat your horses with the dignity they deserve," is a policy that might very well change the way racetracks operate in the future. Already one of the country's most well known trainers, Nick Zito, has agreed to bring his horses to the track in part because he supports this policy.

My thought when I first read about Richard Fields and Sam Elliott, Suffolk's vice president for racing, was "Finally!" Thank God someone has the guts to take a stand! Someone has the heart, as well as the power, to turn the tide and begin to make a difference! It is the brave move by a couple of mavericks with heart. And now, let's see who is gutsy enough, who has the courage and decency to follow their lead. Personally, I'm banking on the trickle down effect.

The more publicity this policy gets, the more tracks that may follow this remarkable example of true horsemanship. The more noise made in Washington, the closer we come to horse slaughter being a thing of the past. When people take the first step, as Richard Fields, Sam Elliott, Willie and Amy Nelson have done, it is easier for others to follow. Hopefully this will happen.

But even if it doesn't, even if only a handful of horses are saved from a desperate ending to a life in which they gave all they had, well that's a pretty remarkable beginning. My hat is off to you all! Thank you for making a difference.

For more information about how you can help support Habitat for Horses, see my August 18th blog by clicking here.

Related links:
* Suffolk Downs new policy
* Habitat for Horses web site
* Trainer Nick Zito's support of the ban
* Richard Fields philanthropy
* Willie Nelson's web site

History of Dressage

Years ago I heard the father of one of my students say that watching his daughter ride dressage was like watching paint dry. Not one to let a teaching opportunity slip past me, I asked him if he knew the origins of dressage, and if he understood what the point was, and where it's place was in both military and equestrian history. Of course, he looked at me dumbfounded like he'd been caught making a sexist comment in front of a feminist. I may not be a "classic feminist", but I do understand and appreciate the benefits of dressage training.

Over two thousand years ago the ancient Greeks knew that in order to use their horses to their best advantage in battle, they must be in perfect condition, and be completely obedient to the will of the rider. The soldiers lives depended on it.

With their appreciation for the laws of nature and physics, the Greeks knew they had to be able to use the horse's natural athletic abilities to move quickly from side to side, to dodge a sword swung in their direction, to jump from one place to another, to change direction in an instant, to halt, then burst forth at full speed without any challenges or hesitation from their mounts. And they needed to be able to accomplish this with the simple shifting of a seat bone, the tightening of a calf muscle, or the closing of one finger on the reins. The first published papers on this type of training came from the Greek Commander Xenophon, born in 430 BC. See http://horsemanship.suite101.com/article.cfm/xenophons_the_art_of_horsemanship

The movements that we see today in dressage competitions come from these same military maneuvers. It is an exacting science, and one that only years of training result in the desired precision of movement. All other disciplines of riding, whether jumping, barrel racing, polo, reining or pleasure riding, benefit from dressage training.

A horse that is schooled in dressage will be more supple, will use it's own body more naturally in collection, will develop stronger muscles, healthier heart and lungs, and be more obedient to the rider. Any horse, whether one involved in some sort of competition, or your trail horse you canter through the woods, will be a better mount, and will be more athletic, with even a very basic level of dressage training.

If you want to see what this looks like in person, and get a better understanding why it was so important to the military, I recommend spending an evening at Medieval Times (www.medievaltimes.com) You will enjoy a dinner worthy of any Middle Age court, and see competitions and demonstrations of such magnificent movements as piaffes, tempi changes, passage, half-pass and pirouettes.

For more detailed information about dressage, go to http://www.usdf.org/about/about-dressage/history.asp or http://www.schumachersporthorses.com/history_of_dressage.htm. These web sites will give you a lot of valuable information about the important history and use of dressage in today's equestrian sports.

Oh and that Dad? He started taking riding lessons the next week, and today owns a small farmette where he keeps his own stable of horses.

Show Jumpers vs. Show Hunters, Part II

My niece told me that the two sides of her family were very different: Her Dad's side reminded her of the very "proper" British family, while her Mom's side reminded her of the typical boisterous Irish clan. The difference between show hunters and show jumpers can be compared in somewhat similar ways.

Show hunters, as discussed, have a more polished, quiet and refined manner, and the judging in the ring is very subjective. Not so the very agile, energetic and animated show jumpers. A show jumper will be more elevated, or "up" in front end, and powerful hindquarters should be placed well under its body to help it through tight turns and over larger jumps. Show jumpers tend to be a little more "hot-tempered" than a hunter, as they need the extra boost of enthusiasm to get through the tricky and difficult courses.

The most common myth about show jumpers is that "it's all about speed." Yes, the horse with the best time wins. But it isn't because they were the fastest; it is because they were the most athletic, and their speed combined with the ability to stay focused and respond instantly to the rider's aids while jumping at high speed led them to a clean round with the best time. So speed alone doesn't do it.

Show jumpers are guided over a course of very colorful, elaborate obstacles and are judged on time and faults. There is nothing about the way they look that makes a difference in their final placing, unless it results in a fault. For instance, a horse that hangs his front legs down and doesn't tuck them under his chest, might knock a rail down, which results in 4 faults off their final score. Other faults come from a refusal or run out, circling across his own path (considered a refusal), or going over the maximum time allowed.

Show jumping is one of the flashiest of the Olympic sports. A modified version of show jumping called "stadium jumping," is one phase of eventing competitions (the other two being the dressage phase, and the most popular cross-country courses). Both show hunters and show jumpers will always benefit from the discipline and athleticism that comes from dressage training.

What exactly is dressage? Stay tuned! That's next!

The Difference Between Hunters and Jumpers: Part I

If I've heard it once, I've heard it a thousand times: People mistakenly clump the two types of show horses together and believe that hunters and jumpers are one in the same. I'm sure there are many horses out there that can do both types of jumping, but that is my point: they are two totally different types of riding and are judged based on completely different criteria. Today we'll talk about show hunters. Tomorrow a description of the differences and what makes a good show jumper.

Show hunters are meant to simulate the vintage style of fox hunting, the "gentle person's" sport of the past when ladies rode sidesaddle in long flowing skirts, and men sipped brandy from miniature flasks that tucked neatly into their hunt coat pockets. There is a "politeness" that a judge will look for in a good show hunter, which includes the rider guiding the horse around a courtesy circle before beginning the course of obstacles, all of which should have a natural look to them.

In the ring, a show hunter should canter along at a pleasant pace ~ never rushing, but not sluggish, either ~ and should jump out of it's canter stride effortlessly. They are judged on a combination of things, which include "manners and way of going."

Manners means just that: the horse doesn't chomp at the bit, but rather accepts the riders aids and does as requested. They do not flick their tail, kick out in annoyance, or trot when asked to canter. They are interested in what they are doing, and show this by a keen expression with their ears forward, knees tucked neatly under their chest, and their eyes looking ahead to the next fence.

"Way of going" refers to the length of stride and the ease with which they go over the fences. They should have a touch of the pleasure horse in them, but with a little more spirit and athleticism required. There are five points of jumping an obstacle: Approach, take off, flight, landing, and getaway. The show hunter should leave the ground the same distance from the jump as he or she lands on the other side, and the highest point of the arc should be at the center of the jump. The horse should lift it's forelegs and tuck them squarely under his/her chest, and the topline should have a nice arc from the poll (the knobby spot between the ears on top of the head) to the tail, giving a gentle curved look, like the outline of a football (not sunken, flat or hollow).

A show hunter should never "suck back" when approaching a fence, but should move toward it at a steady, even pace. Neither should they wiggle from side to side, or rush after the landing. A polished show hunter will also switch leads without being asked at the proper place, but this is more often than not something an experienced rider will have to "suggest" at the appropriate time.

Tomorrow we'll delve into what makes a show jumper good, and the differences between the two.

How To Find A Riding School

School is about to start up again, and that means riding stables will be filling their lesson programs with eager students. There are thousands of things that make a riding school good, or not-so-good. In this post I'll only touch on a few important things to look for when "shopping" for a lesson stable (assuming you have already located facilities that teach the kind of riding you want to learn). We'll discuss this more at length in the weeks to come.

* Before anything else, you want to find a lesson program that puts safety first. You are dealing with an animal who weighs ten times what you do (plus or minus), but has a brain about the size of a large walnut (of course there are variables, but I am trying to give you an example). Humans are far more intelligent than horses, and it would be good to understand that. If you approach a horse as the superior being in your own mind, the horse will believe you. And unless he is a reincarnated ax murderer disguised as a pony, he will usually respond to your confidence by being obedient.

* Safety in a lesson program means they will not allow you to ride without an approved safety helmet strapped tightly onto your head.
* It also means they include unmounted Horsemanship Lessons as part of their regular program (to teach you things such as how NOT to get kicked or bitten by your horse!)
* Beginner lessons should always take place in an enclosed ring with a gate that latches, and there should be no more than 6-8 students per professional instructor. For first timers there should be extra help available as well, in the form of Working Students or Instructors in Training.

Never be afraid or feel embarrassed to ask the stable manager any questions. If the manager or instructor isn't interested in your questions, you should not be interested in taking lessons at their facility.

Equine Piroplasmosis (EP) Diagnosis

Florida Agriculture Department announced that a Manatee County horse has been diagnosed with Equine Piroplasmosis (EP) - a disease that the U.S. has been considered free of since 1988. Blood and tissue testing of a seven-year-old gelding that had been euthanized after a three-week illness confirmed the presence of the disease in the animal.

State officials immediately quarantined the farm where the horse lived, as well as two adjacent properties containing horses, pending a determination of their status. An ongoing investigation is being conducted to determine the source of the disease, and whether it has spread beyond the immediate area where the infected animal was housed.

Equine Piroplasmosis (EP) is a blood-borne parasitic disease transmitted to horses by ticks or contaminated needles. The disease was eliminated in the 1980’s, and the tick species believed to transmit EP in other countries have not been identified in Florida in many years. This disease is not directly contagious from one horse to another but requires direct blood transfer. Human infection with equine piroplasmosis is extremely rare.

Acute horses can show signs of depression, fever, anemia, jaundiced (yellow) mucous membranes and low platelet counts. EP can also cause horses to have roughened hair coats, constipation, and colic. In its milder form, the disease causes horses to appear weak and show lack of appetite. Some horses beco chronic carriers of the disease.

Habitat for Horses Needs Your Help!

If your riding stable, or your circle of equestrian friends, are looking for a worthy cause to benefit from fund raising efforts, please consider Habitat for Horses. This is a terrific operation that has done so much for hundreds of discarded and abused horses, it is worth a look.

The folks at Habitat for Horses clearly "get it." They understand horses and work tirelessly to make a difference. They have made a difference, but they need help. Your help. Every little bit counts.

Please click on the title above to view their web site. If you are interested in hosting a benefit to raise funds for horses that need help, please consider this remarkable rescue organization. And if you don't have the slightest clue how to initiate or pull off a fund raiser, please send me a message and I will personally help you lay out a plan based on what is realistic for you.

Helping you host a fund raiser is how I am able to contribute my own time and energy to Habitat for Horses.

Thanks.

Nanci