In Which New Boots Have Unexpected Consequences

New Mountain Horse tall boots!

Yay!  And OW!

For the non-horsey: tall boots are cut at least an inch too high, because the leather will soften and drop around your ankles a bit.  This means they cut into the tender area behind your knee, while awaiting maximum drop, and rub the crap out of your heel tendons.  Blister city.

These weren’t too bad.  I walked a whole twenty feet before developing my first blisters. (Trust me, boots exist that are capable of blistering most of your leg in under five feet, flat.)

I invested in super padded self-stick gauze bandages.  They’re keeping my blisters from getting blisters.  Win-win. (It takes iron will-power to break in new boots.  New boots do everything they can to break you right back.)

Yesterday, I forgot to pack an extra pair of footwear for the barn, in case I had to walk farther than 50 feet. (The gauze pads give me 30 feet of extra walking range!)

I rode Hudson, and we had a terrific workout. I think we actually made an entire circuit of the arena in a semi-correct position.  Hudson worked up a sweat.  I worked up a sweat.

The boots were incredibly comfortable up here:

Hudson and I usually go pick up Woodrow to pony before we start, or after we’ve finished.  It gives Woodrow an extra 20-30 minutes of walking (he’s in PT) and Hudson gets company for the booooring part.

20 minutes into our cool-out ponying walk, Hudson is still steaming.  Ordinarily, this is the point where I’d get off, untack, and just hand walk the boys.

I look down at my boots.  So not going to happen.

I drop the reins on Hudson’s neck, tuck Woodrow’s lead rope under my leg, and text Bella:

Jane: Hmm…ponying.  H isn’t cooling out.  Ok to switch seats, pony H off W?

I wasn’t sure if weight-bearing had been added to Woodrow’s physical therapy. I stare at the screen in my hands, while using my seat to direct Hudson around the arena. God I love this horse.  A horse you can pony from and text on at the same time? Goldmine. I wait for the return text bing. Resist the temptation to play Bejeweled.

Even I can’t justify playing a game on my cell while riding.

Bing.

Bella: Sure!  Go for it.

I’ve only been on Woodrow once, months ago.  I don’t usually do first rides bareback in a halter, but it felt fine…?  He had been mildly surprised, but it went well. I’ll do the same thing today.

I untack Hudson, still steaming, and halter him. When I do not take the expected course up to their paddock, they glance at each other, ears swiveling in a horse code (similar to Morse code) of chatter. I try to ignore them talking behind my back. It makes me feel like a school marm.

Woodrow: Dude. What’s she doing?

Hudson: No idea.  Bizarre. You hungry?

Woodrow: Always.

Hudson: Stupid. We could be eating.

Woodrow: Hey, there’s still some lunch left.  Try leaning.

Hudson: Leaning?

Woodrow: Lean toward the food?  Like…you know…hint.

Hudson: I do not lean. Leaning is beneath me. I yank.

Woodrow: Whatever. Too late. Look where we are.

Hudson: Damn.

I’m standing on the mounting block, calculating distances, trajectories, and potential Jane-velocity.  Woodrow is only slightly shorter than Hudson.  Not entirely sure I can “leap” instead of “lower” myself on his bare back.  I try to factor in that I’ll be leaping while holding another horse.

Hmm. I change the angles in my head.

One of the trainers takes pity on me and offers me a leg up.  After my last fiasco getting a leg up, I turn her down flat, but thank her profusely for holding Hudson, so the only thing I have to work out is how to get ON Woodrow.

Turn  mounting block on its side, pretend I’m ten….

I’m on in 2 seconds, with no embarrassing misses. Age denial: it’s a good thing.

Woodrow is bulked up like an Offensive Lineman. He’s a tank! How great is that? Tank horses are comfortable. I can hear Hudson sniff: leaner horses are more graceful.

(Not true, but I’m not going to hurt his feelings.)

The trainer smiles and hands me Hudson’s lead rope. Woodrow’s head is high in the air, very still, one questioning ear turned toward me. I laugh. It’s adorable:

Woodrow: Hi….?

I pat him on the neck.

Jane: Hi! We’re going for a walk, cutie pie.

I expect this to answer his question. I am so wrong. The conversation has just started.

Woodrow: Yeah. Um…I think you made a mistake.  This is how it goes? You ride that horse, and I keep you company. Not in my owner’s manual that you have clearance?

Woodrow (to Hudson): Cutie pie?

Hudson shrugs.

Jane: No, it’s fine, I called your mom. We’re just going to walk. You and Hudson are just trading jobs.

I squeeze with my legs, and lay the lead rope against his neck: let’s go that away.

Both ears swivel back at me. Not a hoof moves.

Woodrow: Nooo…I think this is wrong…? That horse lugs you around.  I stroll and rubberneck.

Huh.  Meanwhile, Hudson has begun tossing his head, uncharacteristically surging forward and back, antsy to get going.  I stare at Hudson.  One of Woodrow’s ears swivels, pointing at Hudson.

Woodrow: Hey.  She’s smart after all! Who knew? (Sotto voice: Hudson, she looked at you when I pointed!)

Woodrow: (back to me) That’s right. You ride him.  See? He wasn’t lost.  You didn’t look hard enough.

Pause.

Woodrow: You can get off any time.

Hudson is eyeballing the soft dirt of the arena. Uh-Oh.  I see horsey dust angels in the bubble over his head.

Hudson: I’m naked!  Naked naked NAKED!  OOOooooooo….I love being naked. Mom? Look the other way for just a sec, K?

Woodrow: Dude. I’m naked too. And she’s on me.  Think you can focus, and help out with that?

Hudson: Uh. No.  Hey. THAT looks like a good spot to roll.

Woodrow: No one is rolling. Not if I can’t.

Although he hasn’t responded to my squeeze, clucking noises, or neck rein, Woodrow and I are on the same side. No. Rolling.  I pull his lead to the side and tattoo his ribs lightly with my calves.

Woodrow: What? No!  You still think you should be up there?  MISTAKE.

Hudson: Haha! Neener neener.  It’s not a mistake. C’mon, let’s GO. We used to do this all the time with Dinero. Look guy, NBD, okay?

Woodrow: Who the heck is Dinero? And dude, don’t yank me.

Jane: He’s right W, let’s go. You have to cart me around for a while.

Hudson: Told you.

Jane: Hudson, shush. You’re not helping!

Woodrow: This is so wrong. Fine.  I’m walking.

Pause.

Woodrow: Hey. Cute mare, twelve o’clock. Check out the wash rack!

Hudson: Dude. Awesome.  She’s hot.

Suddenly, we’re walking briskly toward the wash rack. Um. Gelding I’ve don’t know very well (from up here) touching noses with mare I don’t know? So not going to let that happen.

I rein him away, rather abruptly.

Woodrow to Hudson: Told you this was wrong.

Hudson: Damn.

We walk.  Every now and then Woodrow slows a bit and swivels an ear back to me.  Couldn’t be clearer.

Woodrow: NOW are we done…?

I cue him to keep moving out.

Jane: No. And you just made the time longer.

Woodrow: Shoot.

Hudson: Now you know what I have to put up with. And stop asking. I’m hungry.

Jane: Hudson, SHUT UP.

Hudson: (innocently) Geeze, just talking.

Woodrow: Dude. How do you stand it?

Jane: Guys? Helllllo.  I’m right here.  I can hear you.

Woodrow and Hudson, simultaneously: SO?

New boots. The source of blisters on many levels.

But SO worth it.

(I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time!)

A Garden Gnome Morphs Into a Sentient Being, and Mr. Chips Calls for His Close Up

Hoping I might have missed a photo of Mr. Chips, I go though the Lost Box of photos again, pulling apart any that stick together.  I have an idea what era I might have a photograph from, so look for the house I was living in at the time.

I’m tired.  It’s 2 am. There are so many photos. Hundreds and hundreds.  This puzzles me, as they are mostly bad photographs.  I start a stack of pictures to toss.

I root through another bad clump of blurry pics, and see a familiar streak of silver.  I had an Airstream travel trailer.  I don’t ever remember towing it.  I parked it in a pretty spot that looked out over the land, built a little deck, and gardened around its perimeter.  I used the trailer as a summer guest house.

I had Mr. Chips and the trailer at the same time.

Sigh.  Such a bad picture.  I scan it anyway.  A memento of a lost era.

I open the file on my computer, and try to remember that time in my life.  I’d done things like place rubber finger puppets on sticks so they’d poke up above the flowers like hovering birds: silly blue monster heads with wavy arms, shy green monsters peeking through their fingers.  I wanted to have pretty and laughter all at once.  Pink curlers grew in a cultivated row, tucked behind  a fenced off cage of tomatoes.   I was careful: all the flowers were edible and non-toxic.

I stare at the photo of nothing much, wishing it was so much more.

Strange.  I don’t remember having a garden gnome with a peaked hat.  Aren’t garden gnomes green with red hats?  I look closer.

Mr. Chips On Ice

It’s the hottest summer on record.  Yesterday it was 105 degrees.

Day One: Hold funeral for box fan.  I can do this.  I don’t need no stinkin air-conditioning!

Day Two: Standing outside doors of big hardware store at 6:25 am, while it’s still a cool 90 degrees. Open open open!  I need that fan.  6:30 am: hostile clerks hide behind counters: WE ARE OUT OF FANS PLEASE PLEASE LEAVE US ALONE. Do you..? NO WE DON’T KNOW WHERE THERE ARE ANY.  GO AWAY.  How about…? NO AIR CONDITIONERS! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A CAVE?!?

Day Three: Grid is overloading: there are rolling brownouts.  No air-conditioning at work.  We get permission to lose the nylon stockings.  Hallelujah.  It’s Thursday.  Going to the movies tomorrow.  All evening.  Get cool.

Day Four: I lose four pounds sweating at work.  I’m in air-conditioned heaven, watching Star Trek for the third time, with my fingers in my ears and my eyes closed. Only movie in the theater that hadn’t sold out.  I try to sleep.  The theater goes black.  It’s instantly boiling.  Power outage.  I will myself to bear the heat until the stampede for the door subsides.

Day Five: 115 degrees.  Starting to see things.  Pretty shimmery things. Oh.  It’s the heat on the tarmac.  There are black lumps on floors everywhere.  The tarmac is melting and sticking to people’s shoes.  We’re all running from store to store, in search of a balmy 95 degrees to cool off. Overheated cars line the side of the roads.  There’s a run on gallon bottles of water.

I’m worried about the horses.

Mr. Chips and the Valkyries

There was a second work of music that Mr. Chips liked nearly as much as “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

It’s been driving me crazy that I couldn’t remember the music.

Today I tried to get motivated to clean the house.  And it hit me. Mr. Chips second favorite work of music: The Ride of the Valkyries.

I’m probably the only one of you who couldn’t have guessed Mr. Chips would like this.

I thought it was terrific housecleaning music.  It used to energize me to clean, and motivate me to finish.  Yup, it was energizing. It was also overbearing and irritating.  Perfect!   I cleaned in record time.

Someone must’ve given me a “Classic Works” album of “Great Composers Greatest Hits” for Christmas one year, and that’s how I came to own music I pretty much…hated.

I went looking for it on YouTube, to add it to Mr. Chips Greatest Hits page.  All I knew was the title and the composer.  (This explains the amnesia.  Mental block.  Not a Wagner fan.) Found a good orchestra version. (It’s on his playlist)

I, uh, never did bother to learn anything about Wagner or some famous opera he wrote.  (um, that would be The Ring.  The one that brought us Brunhilde(a)?)

I scrolled down YouTube results a little more, and found an opera version of The Ride of the Valkyries.

Ooooo.  Subtitles.  In English.  Now I’m curious. Here’s my chance to learn what the Valkyrie thing is about!

I sit back and try to relax as a passel of intimidating-looking, designer-gowned, opera divas file out on stage.  Cue the orchestra, and there it is!  The music Chips loved.

Then one woman starts singing.  And the subtitles appear.

What?!?

No flippin way!

Mr. Chips Meets Piano

I was still relying, in that college sort of way, on the backbreaking volunteer labor of my more macho friends. The piano was being delivered, but my friends were going to help me get it in the house, thereby saving me $200, which they desperately hoped I’d spent on beer and snacks. Not being a guy, my brain went more toward tea and cake, but I did manage to come up with the beer and…cookies.

Murphy’s Law was in full force that day, patrolling the streets, escorting my piano up to its new home. There was trouble getting it out of my parents house.  Going into the truck, one of the professional piano movers had  an oops moment, forcing the other professional mover to catch the full weight of the piano. Out went his back. (Piano was a studio upright, sort of the equivalent of a nice 17hh warmblood.  Tall and beefy.) Mover called. It’s on the truck.  I hear moaning in the background. They can haul it up, but will shave off $200 if I can get someone else to get it down the ramp and into the house.

I dialed up the most macho guys I knew, rented a piano dolly, picked it up at the rental place, and met everyone at my house in an hour and a half.

We wait. Nothing.  (Pre-cell phones.)  They were awfully late.   My guys drank a lot of beer, and ate a lot of cookies, making terrible faces at the combination.  Still waiting.

Phone rings.  It’s the radio dispatcher from the moving company.  Truck was late: one mover down, then a flat tire on the freeway: a highway patrol officer pulled over to help – via leaving his bar lights flashing and leaning against his patrol car.  He supervised the healthy guy struggle with a tire on the shoulder of a 12 lane freeway.  Standing there, Officer discovered a broken tail light.  He doled out several tickets (illegal pulling over on a freeway, tail light out, peeling registration tag).  For good measure, he breathalyzed the moaning guy to make sure the moaning wasn’t because he was dead drunk.  The fact that PIANO MOVING was painted on the truck in four-foot high letters didn’t faze him.   He checked the back for stolen goods.  Once cleared to go, an entire day’s pay was effectively used up in the first 20 minutes.  They still had two hours to go.  I’m lucky they did not drive my piano over a cliff.

FTF: Going Native

It’s French Toast Friday!

Being biologically half Native American, I’ve always been interested in tribes that kept horses.  My ancestors lived in the woods and were big on fishing and birch bark canoes.   I never heard a word about horses.    Talk about bad luck.  I was lucky enough to be born Indian, which I (wrongly) considered an almost guaranteed entree into the cowboy/horse world.  (Curse you, Lone Ranger.)

Vaguely knowing there was no latent ancestral horse wisdom to tap into didn’t stop me from being convinced, as a child, that all living Indians had horses.  Good grief, even all the TV Indians had horses! The way I saw it, I was entitled to at least a pony, because darn it,  I was at least half Indian.   What’s the closest thing to half a horse?  A shorter horse, duh.

Why couldn’t we just line the bathtub with newspspers (instant stall with drain) and let the pony mow the grass in the backyard during the day…free food, no mowing.  What’s the problem?

My grandmother took me fishing.  Sigh.  I learned to FISH.  In the ocean.  Great.  What is the point of being Native American if you can’t have a dang horse?  Pointless, pointless, pointless.