Break From Routine

With the focus of my life being, for a rare change, about my writing and not my riding, I've decided to have a Throwback Thursday.  Horses are still the number one driving passion in my life, but with three different things wrong with my foot right now, they have to take a back seat for a few weeks more. 

The subject of this week's Throwback is, by necessity of what my computer is willing to load, Merlin.  Merlin, registered name Exit Flight, was a true diamond in the rough.  I picked him up for a meager $250 last spring.   He had some issues, he liked to invade personal space, he had a bit of a limp from the onset of arthritis, and he wasn't too fond of being told what to do.  Now, though, he's the best Thoroughbred gelding I've ever been around.  He is also amazingly tolerant, probably largely from the six weeks we spent together last summer healing a gaping wound in his leg after he got caught up on a horse trailer. He has since gone back to jumping 4 foot oxers and running through Training level cross country courses.  He is, as I said, one of the best, and every day an absolute hoot. So, for those who can appreciate a good laugh I present Merlin dressed up as, well, Merlin.

 

Try, Try Again

There is a general conception of success and failure being defined by outcomes to certain events.  I tend to look at a bigger picture.  If I happened to fall off at my first horse show of the year, by most accounts it would be deemed a total failure.  However, by looking at the bigger picture, I saw what was to be gained from the experience.  My horse successfully (and because it was a schooling show I was allowed back on) cleared the obstacle in question, and we successfully finished all of the remaining obstacles cleanly.  Despite perhaps more logical thinking, the relative success of this endeavor has spurred me on to try bigger, better things.

A moment of back story though, to better understand where this is coming from.  My herd of horses, all five of them (minus one, plus another) have one thing in common.  In their lives with me, they have been asked to jump varying obstacles for the fun of it.  I once saw a bumper sticker that read Jumpers Jump for Joy.  I'll freely admit, that has not always been the case.  I have, at various times, been absolutely terrified by anything over three feet in height.  At one time in my life, it was a measly two and a half feet.  Again, logic might have dictated that I give up on jumping, perhaps even horses in general, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and so I endured.  After a terrible fall last year (over 3'9" fences) I was faced with the very real dilemma of continuing on as I had or trying a different path.  For six months I tried the different path of pure dressage.  Unfortunately, while I admire the principles of the sport and truly love the upper movements, to school only for Second Level or below was, in a word, boring.  I had my now 15 year old Thoroughbred learning piaffe, my Mustang freely offering airs above ground, but to go back and recover the basics made me venture back into those forbidden waters.  This time, however, when I came back to jumping, something had changed.  One would think, after the near back breaking (literally) fall I had endured, I would have freely moved on without looking back.  Such was not the case.  Instead, my Mustang and I are now poised to enter into the registered circuit, a world long held at arm's length due to the idea of failure and the sheer price of it all.  At home, we've jumped his height (he's 14.2 hands, so that would be a 4'10" fence).  My Thoroughbred mare has been allowed back up to 3'9" after accepting that cross rails can be noticed too.  The newest addition, a 17 year old Thoroughbred who is doubling as a lesson horse, has been taken up to 3'3".  The three foot glass ceiling, it seems, has finally been broken.

I suppose the point I'm trying to make in all of this, and since when have I ever made any sense for so long, is that simply seeing a pass or a fail on a single day is doomed to failure.  We cannot look at a single ride on a single horse and judge ourselves so harshly.  We have to be able to look back over the course of weeks and months, and, more importantly, we have to be able to look forward.  I have experienced truly soul shaking failure.  I was unable, after years of schooling, to complete my first Prelim event.  But then, after severe pep talks to myself, I managed to win a Prelim Combined Training class on the same horse.  I've fallen, had horses stop, and cried in frustration and self deprication, but today, I can only see the progress I have made.  If not for those failures, then the success of that 4'10" fence would not be so sweet.  I would not go out for the sheer joy of feeling the difference in my horses when the height surpasses 3'6" or 4'.  I would never have known that because I was not able to look beyond.  For all those who feel limited by their fears, or by past failures, stop dwelling on a single moment in time.  If you love what you do and can do what you love, then do everything in your power to do just that.  Believe me, it is well worth the effort.

BlytheLea

RIP Strabo Tempest aka Fence Destroyer Extraordinaire.   

Attn: Potential Horse Owners

Okay, I'll admit, I am horse mad.  Utterly, completely.  I have altered my life to fit around my passion.  They are the reason I wake up in the morning, and the reason my weekends are usually centered around horse shows rather than social events with friends.  My mother credits horses with me turning out both normal (no drug, boy, or school problems) and "unique" (long story) at the same time.  She encourages mothers to get their daughters into horses.  And then my dad adds the caveat of the cost.

Forget the cost, my word of warning to potential horse owners, be you late in life enthusiasts or beleaguered parents, horses are more than just a trip to the barn on weekends.  When you buy one, they are with you for life.  It's like a marriage, for better or worse.  Of course, some people can buy and sell when the horse lives out its purpose, or find another home when the time comes, but not me.  To me, the horse becomes a part of the family, and you simply do not sell a family member no matter how annoying they are at the holiday dinners.  I don't mean to say that I haven't moved some horses through my life.  To better homes when they had gone as far as I can take them, etc, but my first and oldest, she's still with me.  The one who came after, that no one else truly understood, still with me.  My youngest, who isn't so young anymore, well, I will never live down how she was supposed to be a training project.  She still is.  Eight years later.  But at the same time, she is freakishly talented, and has developed into a near Prix St. Georges level dressage horse.  This from a thoroughbred who once had severe ADHD, is saying something.  I am so grateful for them all, but then there are the ones that you meet on the periphery.  The friend's horses.  The lesson ponies. The horses you care for when others are away.  It is a slippery slope, and leads more to a cliff than a hill.

And so, to add onto the previous warning, let me add one more. I run a barn/training facility when the instructor is out of town.  This includes regular care as well as lessons, and yesterday, one of the greatest lesson ponies of all time decided to colic.  I like her, I truly do, but spending fourteen hours in the sub 0 F weather was about  more than affection. It was a responsibility to make sure she got through the night.  It was a basic, deeply rooted concern that got me up at 2 in the morning to check on her and medicate her again, all the while giving her warm water and soaked hay from the bath tub in the house.  This, fair readers, is what horse ownership is all about.  It isn't about what you would spend or do for your own horse.  No, the true measure is what you would do for someone else's. Would you care for them as if they were your own?  Wait up long into the night even as the temperatures continued to plummet?  If the answer is yes, then congratulations.  I pronounce you ready to buy that horse.  It means a lifetime of love, frustration, and responsibility, but from my own experiences, every second is worth it.

BlytheLea

Nothing Much...Right

So, in the dead of winter, with snow slipping to ice all around, what is there really to discuss in regards to the farm and garden?  Hmm...Nothing Much.

I had decided, though, that the easiest topic to continue on for long periods of time, the topic that occupies much of my daily thought and bores my family senseless, would be my horses.  With a new year comes a new topic, and from now until the foreseeable future, this blog will be about horses. 

To start off, I should give a quick introduction to my herd.  To make matters easy, we'll go by seniority.  Age before beauty?

Tani: Nearly my age, Tani and I have been together for over sixteen years now.  She was a flighty green Standardbred mare when I got her.  Now she's a flighty retired one.  She and I have one key element in common.  We are both accident prone.  For me, it's slipping on the porch and getting a concussion. For her, it's slipping in her pen and getting trapped under a wall.  We could share battle scars, and that conversation could last forever.  Still, aloof, quirky, and yet endearing, she was my first horse, and I am only to happy to be her retirement home now. 

Wish: Tani's best friend, Wish and I have an odd sort of relationship.  As a child, I always wanted Ginger from Black Beauty, not the story's namesake or Merrylegs.  No, I wanted the Thoroughbred with issues.  Well, be careful what you wish for.  Wish and I have done quite remarkable things together.  We showed Training Level Eventing, with two completions and one victory at Prelim level Event Derbies.  We barrel raced, got third at a show in Pole Bending, and she was the first horse I ever felt piaffe on.  Wonderfully talented, and yet perversely opinionated, I wouldn't trade her for the world, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish she was a little bit less like a cat and a little bit more like Black Beauty.

Bo: My Dad's horse, technically, another Standardbred, makes Tani look like she doesn't know how to be destructive and Wish look like she doesn't know how to express an opinion.  We call him Bucky Bo because every time he gets a reprieve from riding, he has to throw a few in the next time.  Sadly, his bucks are pretty pathetic, and he is easy to push on.  His habits are quirky, and usually endearing, but sometimes... Well, let's just say some days I don't mind he's not technically mine.

Samson:  Ah, Sam, words hardly describe this plucky, severely opinionated Mustang.  Pulled from the range at the age of three, Sam has more survival instincts than the rest of the herd combined.  He saves water, eats other's food before his, and has been called a thief.  Short, stocky, with an Andalusian's paces, he prefers piaffe pirouettes to collected trot, and levades to square halts.  He has more talent in one foot than most Lippizans have in their entire body.  He has also shown Novice eventing, jumped four foot courses, but it is his dressage that is truly spectacular.  When he wants to, which isn't often. He is my task master, my instructor.  Working with him is like playing chess with a master when I barely even know the rules.

 Mythriel: Finally, the relative youngster.  She's approaching fifteen this year, and her dark gray coat is now nearly white with plenty of speckling.  A compact thoroughbred, she has been known to have the attention span of a gnat, but a heart as true as any canine.  After all these years, she has finally calmed into a wonderful mare to work with.  She actually wants to cooperate, which, in my herd, is pretty rare.  She's tried her hand at eventing, going up through Training courses in schooling, she's done 3'6" courses at a hunter pace, but her dressage is my pride and joy, and now, after a year of painful crashes, our goal.  She can do every pace required of the two beat-ed variety, now if only we could get all of that out of her canter.

So, there you have it, the herd.  How we get through the winter will be all I talk about, which, if you knew me, would come as no surprise.  Pictures will come, especially of Sam. Believe me when I say, there is just nothing quite like him.  Signing out now...

BlytheLea

In this blistering heat, there isn't much to tell about the garden.  Weeds in some places are being mowed rather than pulled to simply survive to do battle when the heat wave breaks.  Articles all across the internet detail how the heat and drought are ravaging the farms across the country.  The wonderful advantage of living in Washington is that while on the eastern side we might not see an abundance of rain, we do have quite a few rivers.  In Prosser, we operate off the Yakima, in Burbank, the Snake, and farms up and down the state draw off of the might Columbia.  When people talk about alternative energy to coal and gas, I have to shake my head.  Most of my life has been spent on water power from dams.  I have heard about the plight of salmon, but not that of the pollution of "clean coal".  Instead, these rivers that never cease to flow, keep us here in Washington going even while others falter.  I have to count my blessings to be so lucky.  Our garden is thriving, even if a few plants have taken a need to be watered twice a day.  The corn, the crop of the Midwest, here is thrilled to be baking.  It helps differentiate between the plant we want and the weeds around it.  The weather people promise a break, but that hasn't been coming.  When it does, maybe I'll be back out there battling weeds with something other than a lawn mower.  Until then, weeds remain the enemy, but I'll wait to fight another day.

Been a crazy busy couple of days, so other than bemoaning weeds, there is nothing more on the farm or sewing front.  I really need to buckle down and get to designing clothes for Rambo.  Don't ask.  However, I'm running around this week, cleaning stalls here and teaching lessons over there.  When that settles, I can finally sit down with some fabric and my sewing machine. 

Speaking of teaching lessons, and this blog is called Ramblings for a reason, let me just say that "lesson moms" are far worse than hockey or soccer moms.  There is a rule at most horse shows that mothers and coaches cannot coach from the rail.  This rule exists for a reason, but it doesn't stop some mothers from coaching during lessons.  Memorably, last week I met the worst of the worst.  There comes a time in every person's life that they want to say something but cannot pull their jaw from the ground.  That was last week for me.  Please, "lesson moms", if you're going to all the effort to bring your kid to a lesson, let the instructor teach.  If not, then get a horse of your own and save us all a lot of heartache.

Sorry for the detour, readers, but if you have any similar stories, feel free to share. Misery loves company, and I have to prepare for battle with the same "lesson mom" again.  Wish me luck, regardless.

BlytheLea L.E.

Back in the Saddle, sort of

So sorry to have missed out on the blogging world for a few days, but anyone who has ever had horses knows that for all the wonderful things they bring us, they can also put us in bed for days to weeks on end. 

In the grand scheme of accepted superstitions, injuries always happen in 3's.  This year, said injuries have all involved my horses and my back.  First, my injured Thoroughbred (who thoughtfully bowed her tendon Christmas morning), Wish, ran me over and cracked my neck into my spine.  Laid up: 6 weeks. Secondly, I crashed and burned in a 3'6" jump combination on my younger Thoroughbred, Myth.  Laid up: 6 weeks.  Then, just this week, the Standardbred we loving call Bucky Bo clipped my back while trying to get a fly.  Don't ask for details, please.  As it is, well, that's another injury, in yet another part of my back.  This time, though, the recovery time will be shorter.  I'm already considering getting back in the saddle.  It'll hurt, but so far this year, I don't think I've had a day that hasn't.

My family, when this sort of thing happens, tries, in varying degrees of seriousness, to convince me out of riding.  My parents know better, but it doesn't stop from the half hearted try.  I know the sport I have chosen is a dangerous one, but with my track record, I literally have been hurt getting out of bed in the morning.  Better to stick with the devil you know, or something like that.

Where does this put the farm?  Well, luckily, short of a few more weeds, we're at a stage of rest that leaves us time to recover, me in particular.  But, as BlytheLea is about more than just gardening, we are also about sewing and riding, well, I guess everything's going to be on hold for a few days more.

I planned on sharing a photo or two to introduce the culprits, but sometimes my phone just refuses to cooperate about much of anything.  Will have to make sure that is included in a later post. 

BlythLea L.E. rambles on home

Early Morning Sunrise

We at BlytheLea are not morning people.  We simply get up because we have to.  Tragic thing about summer, if you want to get anything done before dying of heat stroke, you have to get up early to do it.  That was teh case this morning.  Up nearly in time to watch the sunrise in order to get the raking done.  Tomorrow will be up at dawn to clean up the mess of today.  Sadly, the window is a small one, but here we are, rewarding our effort with coffee at Starbucks.  Maybe, just maybe, we can make this work!

In other news, our corn is finally sprouting!  Super excited to watch as our corn spirals come in.  As soon as it looks like something other than dirt and sprigs, we'll post an update.  In the meantime, still have the horses to watch out for as the heat rises.  Luckily, the smart ones like to be hosed down.  Okay, so they're all smart, but the two who bear the brunt of this weater tend to be the smartest this time of year!  Well, here's to another day done, and another coming tomorrow.

BlytheLea L.E. & J.R.

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