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! :-)