Facts again, for fun.. Sleepless in The Show Grounds

Here's another example of my great luck in the horse business. I had been thinking on becoming an "A" show groom to further my training/riding education. I was teaching at a "B" Class Stable, and wanted to learn more about how the big guys did it. I was still in University, but needed a semester or two off, due to extreme culture shock. It was a real experience, going as a Very mature 21 year old student, with kids fresh-faced out of high school, into first year calculus. Since I didn't drink alcohol, I was basically an alien being:) Of course, I had always felt like that, so it was no big deal. Social graces weren't way up on my list of accomplishments.
So, I went to a few "A" shows, and watched a trainer who was winning, a lot. The other trainers seemed to show deference to him. I figured, hey, he must be good. Now, I must say I learned a bit with this guy, like how to work 22 hour days, braid 14 horses before 6 am, get 14 horses ready to go to the ring, and bring up 7 at a time, for the trainer to show. I worked my absolute ass off. I was just getting over mononucleosis, can you imagine? "Mono" was also part of why I had to take a few semesters off from university.
It turned out this "trainer" had bought some very nice horses, and they won with him. He hadn't trained them. I learned about tack-nosebands and standing martingales from him. Not good. One horse (that I later rode), was regularly taken in to the arena, and no-one was allowed in to watch what went on. The horse would come out absolutely dripping sweat. Another nice horse, owned by a spoiled brat rich kid, developed a nodding/twitching/flipping-head habit. I knew when it had started. The "groom" aka AssHat I worked with, had punched the horse in the nose, straight up towards the horses' ears. The poor horses' "tick" started immediately. After the show, I told the trainer what had happened. He just tightened up the nose-band. Much later, I asked a good vet if permanent damage could be done from such an injury. Of course, the answer was yes.
I was just a groom. The horse never did do much, and he was a talented critter, before he was punched.
I sure didn't do much learning on how to ride, with this trainer guy. Fortunately, by going to these shows, I did get to watch the really great trainers riding and training. It was tough to do though, given how little time I had to myself.
I remember the first "A" show I was grooming at, and going to the Show office to get the entries done. Upon mentioning my new employer to the staff, I was met with very sympathetic, pitiful looks. Gr8:)
There was one particular horse in the show string that I was crazy about. I loved this horse. Bright Solid Red Chestnut TB gelding, very fine and slim, great jump, sweet, shy personality. I would have given a weeks salary to ride him. My trainer said, at one show, that I could warm the horse up. I was in HEAVEN getting the horse ready for my honour of riding him. Trainer took the honour away, fifteen minutes later. "Oh, I've changed my MIND, spoiled rich kid can warm him up." People like that don't see the workers' face falling, and the tightened smile of extreme disappointment. Another spoiled amateur owner complained to my boss, at one really busy show, that I hadn't hand walked her horse by a certain time. That was one of my "14 horses to do in the morning" days. She'd been in the stands gossiping, the whole freakin' time. Just too darned busy to look at her horse. The horse colicked a little, which of course, was MY fault:) It's so tough when you don't have 12 hands.
OK, I guess I did learn a bit more about economic class structure. Time management. Tight show-braids, not itchy all day. Clean as a whistle horses and tack. Bandaging. Longing at 5am, so the ammie owners wouldn't fall off.
And how to stay awake, for days and days at a time:) I'll bet, through show season, I averaged 14 hours sleep, a week.
I get tired now, just thinking about it:)
Good night!

Part 1 of GoLightly Fiction

I'm still thinking on the facts I'd like to share.
In the meantime, here's the constantly edited version of my GoLightly Fictional Story. I began writing it soon after the real GoLightly was sold.
I'll probably take it down again, as I am my own worst critic.

GoLightly - A Story of Love and Hope
They galloped across the field for home, his cat-like balance floating them over the rough ground, ‘ware hole, and he was sailing across the 5’square cedar-split oxer, just before it registered in her mind. “Okay, that’ll do” Gen thought, and her Golly eased to a walk, her legs feeling the deep draw of her horses’ lungs, and his heart still leaping. How handsome he always was! He was a bright mahogany bay gelding, no white to speak of, tall and rangy, the perfect Irish-bred type. Gen loved his noble head, as he cocked his ears back at her, listening to her thoughts.
She swung easily with him home. She cooled him, hosed the mud, dried his legs, gently curried and groomed him. His hide was tender, laughable in a 17 hand horse. Flake of hay, check his water, and to bed for GoLightly. She looked back at him, after tidying, treats and talks were done, remembering how long ago they’d met. They’d gone through so much together. Sometimes prayers and wishes can come true.

Part 1

Golly was about two, estimated when she’d first looked at him. Standing in the aisle, he’d pretty much filled it, even if he hadn’t been striking and snorting. She felt some internal force to keep moving towards him, although the run-in shed was truly frightening. Scrawny, tall and completely black painted. She couldn’t tell, just that it was the worst smell she’d ever experienced, and the lone horse needed someone quick.

She didn’t consider herself a buyer; she worked “undercover” for her province’s humane societies, by checking the for-sale ads, scoping the worst looking ones, and rescuing whatever she could. She didn’t always find sound solid animals underneath the grime of her volunteer humane work. They all found a home, whether as one of her schoolmasters, or as pasture ornaments. All of her “saves” showed a deep, loving, long-lasting gratitude for humans. Their trust was never shaken again. She always traveled with her German Shepherd Dog, for company and protection. People in the horse trading business can be crazy.

“4yr horse, big, open to offers” like $1.50/lb for meat if you’re into that too, she thought, but the picture got her to pick up the phone, for no horse could be that solid coloured. The horse was indeed painted black. His skin was raw in places, but from over painting, urine-burn spots, or constant abrasion from the black nylon webbing hanging everywhere in the dark, dim stable, she couldn’t see enough to tell. His halter, (kind word for a black nylon rope jammed into, and around his jowls), seemed to shimmer crazily in the poor light, giving him a ridiculous sequined aura. If the owner moved, he spooked, no matter how small the movement was. “What’ve they done t’ya?” she crooned, under her breath, and the horse stared back at her desperately, silently. He was skin and considerable bone, and she wondered aloud at his parentage. The seller replied, “No idea, found ‘em loose one day, and trapped ‘em with food, ‘n here he is.”
“He’s mean, though!!” the man exclaimed, as if the horse had no right to refuse to be painted.
She didn’t ask why the horse was painted black. She guessed he’d been stolen, but his original owners were never found. She brought her trailer, and with the proprietor standing there astounded, he halter broke in 15 minutes and followed her home. She kept the sequined halter, until it finally disintegrated in disuse, as a reminder of his start. GoLightly seemed to follow from that, a natural name for a horse with such a dark beginning.

Golly’s new light life had so much brightness; his eyes raining tears for hours every sunny morning.
Gen couldn’t tell how much damage his vision had borne. She knew he could still smell, by the deep sighs he would blow, after hearing her step and call.
He very gradually accepted her friends and students, but he was comically challenged at socialising with her other animals, particularly his own species.
His astonishment that first moment they arrived home, and the general bedlam of animals and sounds and sights, transfixed him. She let him stand in the yard, and shushed all her greeters as best she could, and watched as he accepted it all, for her. Rusty, her little fox-like mongrel dog, squirmed in for her nursedog-nose-to-knee press of the new arrival. Gen thought Golly’s eyes would pop if he opened them any harder, but he never moved, and Rusty became his second friend that day. He didn’t let anyone else into his circle for weeks, as if he was carefully saving the first two he’d ever had. He became their protector, a massive, mangy creature guarding her and her fox-dog. His trust would wrap around her, warm on her shoulders, as he’d hang his head over the stall door, watching her feeding, mucking, working with her horses. Golly’s eyes, great brown orbs, soft on her back as she’d ride.
He suffered through the re-growth of his chronically burned skin, allowing trickle baths of warm saline water, and his stiff, black, spiky hair gradually disappeared to show his charcoal grey skin. He was the oddest-looking animal in her barn, a giant patchwork of peach-fuzz, crumbly black swatches, and red, raw flesh. He looked like a giant cutout made out of multi-colour roofing shingles, especially when he’d freeze into immobility. The raw wounds took their time, but slowly, by the end of the first year, she recognized the bright bay colour shining its’ way out. His black mane and tail-hair, which were almost absent when she brought him home, shyly began to grow again, but so slowly that his braiding for show would never become even slightly necessary. That thin straggly mane & tail hair was his only life-long-lasting physical reminder of his first two years of life.
He was kept away from the other horses for the first year, his smell and touch would have made no sense to her little herd, and she didn’t want him ostracized forever. The herd could look at him, but no touching was allowed. For his part, Golly kept his eyes firmly down whenever another horse came by, not daring to look again until the animal had passed. His eyes would do their widening, wondering stare. GoLightly was soundless, and would freeze whenever he heard his stable-mates talking to one another, and his thoughts would turn inward for a moment, struggling with the instinct that understood them. His first year with her was healing time. Gen asked nothing of him, other than that he follow her, which he excelled at, and that he stood still while she tended him. She’d loose him in a small paddock, out of touching range of the others, and wonder at his everything-is-the-first-time experiences.

Grass underfoot was heaven, and she’d laugh as he’d gingerly sink first one, then another hoof into this delectably soft surface. His eyes closed with the pleasure his senses were giving him. It was his complete transformation, learning that touching didn’t have to burn, didn’t have to hurt. He loved the warmth of sunshine, even when it stung a bit, healing him with light. His saving grace was his black points, for if they’d been striped with any white, paint would have been their first and final coating. Gen shuddered when she thought of it, glad she didn’t have to know the outcome of such a lunacy. His feet were almost perfect, big, round and strong from life over concrete. His heels stayed wide, and he had managed to stay straight and true through his months? Year? Inside a 10’x 14’ “stall”. The ceiling had been no more than 5½-6’, low enough that his neck took some time to adjust to her bright airy, “tall” stalls. His low head was always within reach of her hands. When GoLightly finally realized he could look up, his amazement at birds was his epiphany, for his eyes cleared. He lifted up on his toes to touch the clouds over his head.
GoLightly’s name was his happiness, finally expressed. Golly! became his easy-going barn name, for his expressions.

That's all for now....

Goodness, gracious

Great Balls of Fire! I have a follower. For now anyway, hope this post doesn't make you think, whoa, this girl iz crazee! I'm so honoured, you have no idea. I had to look twice to believe it. I always assume the worst, it's in my nature, and to think someone else is actually reading my carefully typed text is very cool. Your history sounds fascinating. Wow. Just, wow. You do me an honour. Did I say that already? Would you be offended if I said Helen Keller was one of my very first heroes? The book and then the movie of the "The Miracle Worker" gave me one of my first epiphanies about life? I learned I was born lucky, even if all my What If's did not come true.

Even if. I've been reading Mugwump's blog, reminds me to check back on it, and her story of Melinda and Mugs is hitting home for me. I'm just not ready to be that blunt. I hate even acknowledging my past experiences half the time, it gives power to something that deserved no power. I wonder "What if?" every so often. Here's a typical example.

My dearest Mom was a beautiful, born to wealth woman. My grandfather was to become a very successful business man. His marriage to my Mom's mom (my Gammy) would be notable in that they would produce two beautiful daughters, divorce each other acrimoniously, and go on to marry again, two more times each. This is a long time ago, when it was a huge hairy big deal. Anyway, Mom had many ardent suitors. One was my Dad, born poor, Loud, tall & handsome, the other a rich, Shy, tall & handsome Guy. Shy tall Guy asked Mom to marry him, but he mumbled (shyly) and she didn't hear him. Instead, of course, Mom heard my much louder Dad's proposal. Shy Guy went on to be a fabulously wealthy brilliant businessman in pharmaceuticals. We went and visited Shy Guy's HORSE!farm when I was a kid. Shy Guys' kids had horses. Lots of horses. I always wondered "What if Mom HAD heard Shy Guy? Would I have been born so Animal crazy?"

My Dad can be kindly described as a non-animal person. His idea of nature is a golf course. I have a good friendship with him now, but that took a long time. We are weirdly similar (I got his nose & his looks/build) and worlds apart. My parents divorced after a long, sad, tense marriage. Mom was never the same again. Happily, in her later years, Mom and Shy Guy (who continued to pine for her) had an affair, until Mom's death. Talk about weird times at Mom's funeral:) "Oh, HellO, Mr. & Mrs. Shy Guy!". ANYway. I know I wouldn't have grown up as me, but I still wonder. What if?

My Dad was in sales for a big company, and we moved a LOT in my early years. A "push-toy" horse was given to me on my first birthday. His name is "Butch" (hey, that word had a totally different meaning 52 years ago:), and he's still staring at me with his old brown glass eyes. Tattered and proud. Butch was my constant companion from that day forward. What if they'd given me a stuffed doll? I'm told by my older sister that I insisted on playing only with her animal toys, so I guess I started my animal obsession early anyway. When I was 11, we moved to yet another new suburbia, every other house the same. I was teetering on the verge of puberty. I was a very odd kid. I liked to play alone, I preferred to deal with kids younger than me. I was a loud-mouthed tomboy. I was annoyed at the different set of rules for my younger brother. Why was being a boy such cause for excitement? What if I'd been a boy? It seemed unfair to me, the automatic gender bias.

I started riding at a stable that I found within walking distance of my house (4 miles). If I'd just kept walking another mile, I would have found a completely different place. My experiences would have been far less traumatic, I'll bet. My parents had zero interest in my love of horses. They did everything they could think of to discourage me. My esteemed cousin was getting started in Riding Lessons in the USA, and doing well. Oh, I wanted to be her! What if I'd been born to my Mom's sister? I know, I wouldn't have been me.

My first barn was run by an alcoholic ex-RCMP officer. He'd been thrown out of the Force, but allowed to keep his horse, which had fretted for him after his dismissal. "Kayo" was my first Hero horse. Tall, black, jump anything, broke to death. There's more there to type, but it gives too much power to the memory. I walked to that barn every weekend, rain or shine, and hung around before and after my lesson, paid for very grudgingly by my parents. I hero worshiped anyone who could ride. I did any chore asked of me and if I didn't know how to do it, I was shown once.

My happiest moments of those years was walking to the farm, dreaming that I was a horse, shying at blowing leaves, snorting my delight. Just knowing I was going to see horses was enough for me. A hoof-pick, given me by the RCMP guy, was as treasured as any other priceless gem. That I was a tall, skinny, bright-carrot-red-headed big-nosed "fright" was unknown to me at that point. I didn't care about anything else on those week-end days. I was walking to see horses. Life was perfect. I fell off regularly, learned to work hard. I learned about death. A prized mare's foal was found dead in their stall. I heard mutterings that the stable-hand had killed it.

All of this was good. I was at the barn. I would save my riding clothes for a week. Mom was not allowed to wash them. I could fall asleep only to the smell of horses. The sweetest smell on earth. The barn was my idea of heaven on earth. The first year of riding lessons were the best years of my riding career, in terms of pure, unabashed happiness. I hope I'm coherent. I've had no sleep, since Flip started her tummy thing yesterday. My poor girl. I was just so darned excited to see a follower!

Thanks again, AG. Great Handle, BTW. Uh, oh, Flip needs some attention. I'll jump ahead next time, I'm been thinking on my first ride on GoLightly, and how to best describe it. GoLightly deserves an accurate accounting of his incredible talents. Just thought I should start a little closer to the beginning:) To Andalusian Horses:) (closing eyes, pushing publish)

Fact & Fiction, it's all good!

I've been scared of doing this, and what the hell for? Who else will read me, except me, anyway? I've been writing, and writing, and WRITING for so many years, and never bothered to save any of my more brilliant/crazy thoughts. The Fictional Story of GoLightly was born about 1985. I started writing it down, in about 1989. I put it into MS Word, around 1995 or so. Sad, eh? I will add the Fiction later, I wanted to get the facts in here first.

When I was 11.5 years old, I was offered a chance to train with one of the greats, Lou Mikucki (sp?), of Ambercroft. He'd noticed me riding at a little schooling show. I was so thrilled, because he was very well-known as being a great teacher/trainer, and I know it was a huge honour. He died the next week of a heart attack. My luck with horses began early.

The real GoLightly was a 16.3 hand bright bay Irish-bred gelding, with no white anywhere. Perfect black points, he'd bleach a bit yellow in summer. He was put together perfectly, if a very small part commonly. Tons of bone, and a slight roman nose. Very wide between the eyes. He was a big, strong, well-balanced, perfectly broke, light on his feet horse, about 6 or 8 when I started riding him. He was the very picture of what a sound horse should look like. He'd been trained in Switzerland, and imported for my boss's wife as her riding horse. She had never ridden before. I taught her lessons on GoLightly, and bless him, he was so patient with her, and never tried to hurt her. He had sensible written all over his broad face. After my boss was thrown in jail for embezzlement, the horses were seized, and the trainer took over the business. GoLightly was consigned by the bank for my new trainer boss to sell. Fortunately for me, he didn't sell for almost a year and a half. I started part-leasing him then, on my meager salary. The trainer showed him, and "marketed" him, for the bank. The trainer did do me a huge favour, for he enjoyed riding the horse too, and he could see how much the horse had affected me.
I was the trainer's bread and butter money, with "my" small riding school that the trainer had inherited from my embezzling ex-boss. My top salary was $175.00 a week, for what worked out to a full-time job. I had about 75 students, by the time I'd finished building the business. I started with five students. I handed over about $2000.00+ to my trainer/boss, every month. I had only six horses, and was not allowed to use GoLightly in the school.
I had been riding at that point for almost 18 years. I was a small-potatoes riding instructor, not enough money of my own to get any trainers interested in me, not precocious enough to try and shout my talents from any rooftops. I was shy, and withdrawn, and pretty damaged from my previous experiences in the horse world. I was going to University through this time, for my B.Sc., after dropping out of high school. I was good enough to have earned the admiration of the peers I rode with, and to have impressed enough people to allow me to ride their horses' when they needed re-trained, or sold. I was a rough 'n ready rider. I had learned on mostly the rank, the dangerous and the badly broke. I knew a lot about movement, and I had a great feel for the animal, but I must have looked so unfinished to the trained eye. I earned my living by teaching others how to ride. I studied the great books, watched the great riders, learned from videos. I audited clinics whenever money allowed, which wasn't often. I rode horses no-one else would, and made them ride-able again for their owners.

My cousin, Karen Cranham, a great rider/trainer in her own right, proclaimed me a truly gifted rider, but I always felt I was missing something in my knowledge.
I didn't know what was missing, or how to "fix" it, until I rode GoLightly for the first time.