Nowt as Queer as Horsey Folk?

Since birds of a feather flock together it’s perfectly normal that, over the years, I’ve mingled with a lot of people who share my passion for horses. Even as a very young child I had a friend whose favorite thing to do was ride around the block on her bicycle with a riding crop in her hand which she’d use to thrash her thighs every so often. I did it too, didn’t you? Another thing we’d do, like most baby-horsey people, was trot and canter all over the place, one behind the other, a skipping rope or long piece of string wrapped around the front person’s tummy. I got burn marks on my stomach once from being halted a little too abruptly.

Nowadays, my twelve-year-old niece and her seven year-old sister both charge around their garden, elbows at their side, self-flagellating their thighs with their colorful little riding whips, hurtling over tree trunks and bits of garden furniture they’ve made into jumps. They even plant pretend refusals, give themselves a good thrashing, then circle and go again! At one point, the twelve-year-old refused to go to school until she’d gone down to the bottom of the garden to feed and water her imaginary ponies. Yes, even in the arctic conditions of mid-winter, when she’d have to break the ice in the fountain in the garden! Seeing as my sister’s mornings are timed with military precision, that she’s always in a rush, and not quite so horsey, these quirky capers drove her crazy. She thought it was a bit weird.

That’s the thing about horsey people. We’re a bit weird. Most of us are nice weird, and some of us are not so nice weird. And unfortunately, I can’t help thinking that I’ve met quite a few not-so-nice weird horsey people, especially among professionals.

It’s true. I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve been unlucky, or whether it’s because I tend to be over-sensitive and non-confontational, but so many of my encounters in the professional world of equestrian sports have been disquieting. Upsetting. Weird in a bad way.

Take riding instructors, for instance. The vast majority of riding instructors I’ve endured have been very scary, right from the time when I was a little girl. I remember having lessons with all kinds of bad-tempered, highly impatient whip wielding individuals whose big booming voices hurled scathing remarks at terrified children struggling with poor, disillusioned, grumpy riding school horses. I can still hear one little girl begging one particularly evil teacher to not force her to canter, can still picture that monster running after her cracking his whip, and still cringe at the image of that little girl’s horse taking off à la Speedy Gonzalez while she clung on as best she could, sobbing with fright, often falling off as her bratty horse bucked and kicked out and torpedoed around the corner. This happened week after week, until, finally, that traumatized little girl stopped coming.

That teacher terrified me, too, yet I somehow managed to get through those lessons, probably because I was so utterly obsessed with horses and had waited so long to finally be allowed to take lessons (you had to be at least 12 years old) and the only alternative was not riding at all. But, seriously, what was wrong with that man? How could such a creep be allowed to teach anyone anything?

A few years later I discovered a farmer who bred Welsh Mountain and Shetland ponies in the village close to where I lived, and who seemed happy to let me ride for free. Another girl, slightly older than me, already had her foot in the door with this farmer, and although she was happy to have someone to accompany her on long pony rides in the countryside, she never failed to remind me that she’d been there first, and basically acted like a right little despot, always putting me down and hogging the best pony. I rode past her house the other day and remembered the thrill of my first slow dance during a party in her living room when I was fourteen. It was Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and I somehow managed to nab the hottest guy there! Ha! Strangely enough, I don’t remember riding with her again after that night! Weird, eh? I wonder if she turned professional!

Anyway, when I finally was lucky enough to have a horse of my own, I endured many more years of obnoxious, neurotic behavior from yet another charming professional horseman. I was 27 by then, and looking back I can’t believe the disparaging, disrespectful remarks I put up with. Not that I was the only one getting crap rap; this guy was rude to everyone except for one young woman he presumably had a crush on and who, in his eyes, couldn’t put a foot wrong. The crazy thing was that I’d actually bought my mare from him, stabled my mare with him, paid a fortune for lessons with him, yet he constantly bitched and scorned and generally behaved like a dog with a smelly bone to pick.

Jumping lessons with him? A nightmare! I’d never really jumped before, and my mare was young and high-strung, charging towards the jumps with her head in the air, sometimes clearing it by a mile, often sliding to a stop and leaving me to do the mile-high clearing. That teacher ranted and raved at me in front of everyone else until I no longer remembered my name, let alone what side to get back on when I came off. How many times did that class end in tears?! Why did I stick it out for as long as I did? Why did it take about three or four years before me and a group of other disgruntled friends moved our horses to another stable, where we inevitably endured a different version of the same old insulting story. Weird, no?

Then, one day, following yet another hour of traumatic destructive criticism on horseback, I met a ruddy complexioned lady who owned two horses who had just started boarding her horses at this stable. She invariably showed up with half a dozen dogs of all shapes and sizes who bounded around unchecked, much to the horror of the crabby owners of the stables, who shouted and complained and threatened until they were puce in the face and smoke billowed from their every orifice, but this ruddy complexioned lady was clearly Teflon coated when it came to rude remarks. She’d just purse her lips, stick her nose in the air and nod, put her dogs in the car for a few minutes until the complainers had gone away, then let them out again and get on with riding her horses! She didn’t work with any of the stable’s bad-tempered instructors, instead she had her own private trainer fly in every six weeks or so from Holland. She was a dressage rider, and from the very first time I saw her ride her beautiful chunky-necked dapple-grey gelding I was fascinated. I’d never seen anyone ride like that before, not at close range, anyway, and I knew immediately that this was what I wanted to do.

For days and days I sat and watched her ride, then finally plucked up the courage to ask if she could teach me to ride like her, explaining that I had become scared of jumping, and that in all my years of lessons “on the flat” I had never come close to having my mare move with the elegance and rhythm of her horses. Nobody had ever explained the importance of the outside rein in conjunction with the inside leg, all we seemed to do was rush around, our horses hind legs chasing their front legs higgledy piggledy. I knew there would be a lot of work involved, and that my high-strung, thouroughbredish mare didn’t have the big elastic movement of her beautiful dressage horses, but I simply couldn’t take anymore of those rushed, frantic, insult-ridden riding sessions. Could this Teflon-charactered ruddy-complexioned lady with a gazillion dogs give me lessons without giving me hell?

She could and did, and when a year or so later she fulfilled her dream of buying a stable of her own I followed her there, along with a couple of other ladies whom she “helped” ride (she said she didn’t give lessons as she wasn’t a qualified instructor, she merely “helped” us in between sessions with the Dutch instructor, with whom I also trained). For a while it seemed like I’d finally arrived in equestrian paradise, with all these lovely ladies swanning around on prancy horses, all of us a nicely bonded group able to sit down and enjoy coffee and croissants together while conversing about all sorts of things. Pretty soon I got a new horse with a little more movement than my mare. The Dutch trainer would come for two day clinics and we’d all gather around, watching each other’s lessons, as eager to learn by watching as we were by riding. Nobody insulted anyone, nobody made disparaging remarks, everyone was just pleasant and friendly and polite, and, well, normal!

Until, one day, one of the ladies wasn’t pleasant or friendly or polite, and, because of something weird and very unpleasant that she did, the ruddy complexioned lady fell out with the trainer, and all hell broke loose, with some ladies taking one side, and others taking the other. I stayed loyal to my ruddy complexioned friend, but from then on the spell was broken and nothing was the same. And it was sad, because it had been so nice. Or maybe it had been too good to be true. I don’t know. And then I broke my leg by falling off a sledge and was out for almost a year. Meanwhile, a new trainer was brought in, from Germany this time, but he was loud and scary and, in my opinion, rough with the horses. Personally, I never worked with him because by the time my leg was healed supposedly well enough for me to ride my horse again, I almost immediately fell off and shattered my shoulder, which put me out for close to yet another year.

This is when I quit riding. With two really bad injuries in the space of about fourteen months and yet another bad-tempered instructor to put up with, I figured life was trying to tell me something. Besides, with two young children, a husband, three dogs and a big house, and an increasing desire to write, I had enough on my plate. So I gave away my horse (to a great home, where he is still well cared for and loved) and all my tack and equipment, convinced I’d never ride again.

But my daughter also possessed the horse-crazy gene, and pretty soon I was taking her for riding lessons at a series of local stables where the majority of instructors also turned out to be bad-tempered, impatient or downright rude. Eventually, tired of the abuse, we found her a “demi-pension” (I think you call it half-board. It’s where you pay half of someone else’s horse’s keep) and set about looking for a private trainer, and eventually discovered the wonderful Marie-Valentine, who got me hooked dressage again, and later helped us find our now-retired, mega-fabulous Kwintus. She also recently helped me find our new horse, Qrac, and is as excited as I am about driving down to pick him up in the south of France next Thursday!

Marie-Valentine is a teeny tiny person with a big loud voice (a VERY BIG LOUD VOICE!) but it’s a friendly, enthusiastic, passionate big loud voice. She has trained with the some of the best dressage riders in the world (Klaus Balkenhol, for instance), collaborated on opening the first university dressage degree in America (in Ohio), and has ridden Grand Prix. She has a great sense of humor, endless energy and dedication, is never rough with the horses, nor rude or insulting with people, and has become one of the most sought after teachers in this area of Switzerland and neighboring France. She and I have become great friends, I love her to bits and have the utmost respect for her. Is she weird? Well, frankly, aren’t we all?! But like me and most nice horsey people, she’s only weird in the most wonderful ways!

What about you? Have your experiences with horsey professionals been as trying as mine, or have I just been really unlucky?

In Praise of Henry

By Laura Crum

Its sunny and we’re riding again. The horses have had two weeks off due to bad weather. Monday we saddled up and rode in my riding ring—walk trot only because the ground is not perfect yet. The trails will be too wet for some time to come. Both Sunny and Henry felt pretty good—who can blame them. And yet both little guys were well behaved for a fairly sedate session of walk trot work. I am so grateful for them.

So yesterday, as I was thinking about writing a post, I decided I just want to sing Henry’s praises and through him, extol the virtues of buying your child an old, solid horse. So often people opt in favor of the younger, less solid horse, and I know the reasons for this. But the absolutely wonderful, 100% positive experience my son has had with Henry is a good reason to consider that older horse when you’re shopping. And for those who are not the boldest older “re-riders”, this applies to you and me, too. Don’t overlook the “Henry’s” of this world. Let me show you why.

Here is Henry. Henry is a registered QH gelding, of mostly running bloodlines. He is 14.3 hands. I’ve known Henry since he was a young horse. He belonged to a friend of ours, Harold Warkentin, who team roped on Henry until Harold was 80. The photo above shows Henry as a six-year-old at Harold’s place.

Henry was always reliable for Harold and when Harold gave up roping in his 80’s my uncle bought Henry. Henry was 15 at the time. My uncle used him as a practice rope horse and to mount his grandkids on. I watched Henry be perfectly sound and well behaved for an assortment of people for four years. His only vice was being a touch lazy, and I consider that a virtue in a kid’s horse. Henry had smooth gaits and was absolutely reliable, in the pen and outside. When my son’s pony died three and a half years ago (my child had just turned seven years old at the time), I asked if my uncle would sell Henry. Sure he would. For the same five thousand dollars he’d paid for him four years ago.

My friends told me I was nuts. I shouldn’t have to pay five thousand for a nineteen year old horse. And I was perfectly aware that my uncle was cutting a fat hog at my expense. (He’d done this before.) But I knew Henry was the horse I wanted for my son. And he’s been worth every penny.

Since I bought Henry, my son and I have been on hundreds and hundreds of rides together (I kept track the first year—we went on 120 trail/beach rides that year, not counting arena riding). Not once has my kid been hurt or even scared. We have seen many lovely things that will be with us forever. My son has learned to be a confident and effective rider. What price could I put on that?

The photos below show my son riding Henry. They’re not the best pictures, since I took them while riding my own horse, Sunny. But if you look you will see the relaxed, confident demeanor in both horse and child. They are enjoying the world together. And look at what they get to see. I could not have taken my little boy all these places without a horse as solid as Henry.

Henry in riding ring.

Henry on the trail.

Henry at the beach.

Henry is twenty three this spring and still perfectly sound. He colicked when he was twenty and I paid for colic surgery to save his life, but that happens to horses both young and old. The odds are that he doesn’t have ten more years left as a riding horse, as a younger horse might have, but certainly many younger horses have more soundness issues than Henry—who currently has none. He is completely sound and goes barefoot. And if I lost him tomorrow, those last three and a half years are a gift I will value forever.

Henry—twenty three years old.

My son rode Henry yesterday—another pleasant walk/trot session in our riding ring, which still has some muddy spots. Nothing special. Took about twenty minutes. Just what you see in the riding ring photo, which was actually taken last fall. But I cannot think of one single thing that I consider a greater gift than this regular, pleasant, confidence-building interaction my son has with this great old horse. When my son was done he gave his horse a cookie (which we have taught Henry to take politely) and we turned him loose to graze in the ring (which has plenty of grass right now) for an hour. We were all content.

So thank you, Henry, for all you’ve given and are giving us, I will take care of you and love you until the end of your days. And to all of you who are looking for a horse and are offered a chance at a rock solid oldster—do not discount the pure joy available in the reliable ride, free of fear and struggle. Does this look like happiness or what?

Henry and kid—loping in the springtime (last year at this time).

Anybody else have an older riding horse you just love?

Connections

I was reading through the last several blog entries by Jami, Alison and Laura and it dawned on me that although we have never met in person, how connected I feel to everyone on this blog. Now of course we all have 2 very large things in common - Horses and Writing - but those are both fairly broad categories. So although Laura made a very valid point as to whether or not the hours we spend ruining our eyesight staring at computer screens are good additions to our sociological existence; I choose to look at this reality from another perspective. Without the addition of the Internet with its blogs, chat rooms and instant messages; how many people would we all have never gotten to know at least in cyber space. I am sure that all of us have numerous people that we correspond with primarily via e-mail rather than in person. That is sometimes a simple fact of too little time and not enough proximity. But what a loss it would be if we could not stay connected at all. I attended a very tiny private high school (where I was considered the horse nerd) with only 26 girls in my senior class. Today, sadly 4 of us have passed on (a scary fact of disease and old age) but I am still in touch via e-mail with 20 of the remaining 22. Without electronic connections that would not be possible. And although we live many miles apart, I completely relate to Jami's tales of surviving life as a dressage competitor. I do think that anyone who falls in love with dressage has to be just a little bit crazy, but it is great to read Jami's confession of a hay bale critic and know that I am not alone. I too know many people who could be the twins of the people Jami wrote about. Arm chair quarterbacks who are long on criticism and short on just getting out there and doing it. Jami I wish we were showing in the same area because I would love to hang out with you. The group of us who show consist of some professionals, some adult amateurs and many juniors often in combination with their parents who either also show or just come to support. I do my best to foster and insist upon an atmosphere of positivity and enjoyment of the experience not the color of the ribbon. Like Jami said, the horse's don't care, they just love us and just want to be part of the action. Although I will confess to going to the dark side from time to time and grouse about a blind judge or how one of my student's got robbed. As for me., I have developed quite a thick skin over the years. Having to compete as a professional in the Dressage mecca that San Diego has become, being of limited funds and on a thoroughbred to boot - well lets just say I have learned to ride more for my satisfaction that the judges. I am pleasantly surprised every once in a while but I have no delusions of ever riding like a Stephen Peters, Sue Blinks, Gunter Seidel or Elizabeth Ball who are often at the recognized dressage shows in my area. I would like to propose a new competitive division "open - but not rich and never been to an Olympics". Any way back to my original point, even though I think that e-mail at times makes my life infinitely more complicated rather than easier and that tech support people are inherently evil and rude, the good things about computers and instant connectivity they bring far out way the bad. How many of us have solved problems with a horse's health or behavior by consulting the Internet or posting on a website. What has been your experience? Has informational websites, blogs and chat rooms enhanced your knowledge, help to solve a problem or just simply made you feel connected to the other horse addicts out there?

I’m a Recovering Hay Bale Critic

As I struggle with my place on the horse world, aka what I want to do with horses when I finally grow up, I thought about writing a piece exploring whether or not you can move up the levels in dressage without showing. While that’s definitely a worthy subject, it reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend last summer.


Rebecca had just returned from a show. She hung out with a mutual acquaintance of ours, Sheila, in the evening at the show and had a somewhat disturbing experience. You see, Sheila wins everything. If she doesn’t score in the mid-sixties or higher, she has a fit. Blaming everyone from the show management, judges, footing, and the horse, even when she’s won the class. Now her lack of humility might be another topic for a future post, but it’s not where I’m going either. Sheila wanted to spend the evening going through the show program and criticizing every rider in it. Rebecca didn’t want any part of it, yet couldn’t find a way to discourage Sheila from her mission.


Now back in my showing days, I’d seen Sheila and her cronies sitting near the arena as I rode in at A and thanked God I never knew what they were saying about me. Yes, I, too, been near them in the stands and heard their remarks and exclamations over certain riders. I knew the types of things they were saying.


Ah, yes, the hay bale critics. We all know them, whether you show dressage or some other horse sport. Often, they don’t compete themselves, or they tried it a time or two and gave it up because the judges didn’t award them a “fair” score. Or maybe they never showed at all. Showing was beneath them. They’d seen the light, and showing was the root of all that ails the horse industry, bringing about all sorts of horse abuse. Or perhaps, like Sheila, they’ve had enough success they feel tasked with detailing others’ faults. Actually, this particular quality of the hay bale critic doesn’t require success just a sense of self-righteousness.


You see, I know of what I speak, as I am a recovering hay bale critic. Yes, I admit it. I was one of those women, superior in my knowledge of dressage, certain others were ruining their horses with their jiggling hands and bouncing seats, convinced the judges just didn’t get it. Add to that, my extensive reading on the subject of classical dressage, and I became even more unbearable in my righteousness. Not that reading classical dressage books is bad, but I’d gotten in with a group of catty women in my younger years who were essentially armchair dressage riders. We endlessly pursued the perfect circle, feeling superior in our quest. We turned our noses up at those poor souls who just didn’t get the deeper artistic meaning of dressage, certain we were better or more enlightened than they were.


We attended shows, now to show, but to watch and criticize. Our leader, Martha, had been kicked out of every dressage barn in the area because of her troublemaking and talent for spreading discontent. She's one of those disciples of classical "artistic" dressage who give classical dressage a bad name. I’m not a mean person or a catty person, but I was easily misled by Martha and sucked into her catty little world for the next few years. I even followed her around to a few barns in the area. Yes, but this was in my younger days, much younger days.


When I purchased Gailey and started showing her, it was a humbling experience and marked the ends of my hay bale critique days. My mare had talent, but I never did her justice. I became that fumbling, bumbling rider that previously Martha and I would have gasped at in abject horror. I was the one struggling so hard to do it right, to not embarass myself, or cause discomfort to my horse. And now, I was the one Martha criticized, her nose up in the air and disgusted expression on her face as she whispered to her cohorts.


After a particularly bad show, I expressed my frustration regarding my lack of dressage success to a close friend. I mentioned Gailey deserved a better rider than me. She laughed and said: “The horse doesn’t care what color the ribbons are. She adores you. You love her. Enjoy the journey. Don’t worry about the bling. It doesn’t mean anything.”


And neither do Martha or Sheila’s catty remarks, made by insecure people attempting to tear others down in order to build themselves up. I thought about this for a while. She was right. Gailey didn’t care about the ribbons. They were of no use to her. In fact, they weren’t of much use to me either. If I felt good about my test, that was what mattered. Not the opinions of a group of people who shouldn’t have an credence in my life.


Now when I go to shows, I hang out with positive people. We still discuss people’s rides, but we do it with kindness and empathy and as an educational tool among ourselves, not to impress others with our superior knowledge. Always, I have sympathy for the horse and rider. If you haven’t put your foot in that stirrup and mounted that particular horse on that particular day, you have no idea what’s going on during that ride.


I’ve been there, done that from both sides of the rail. Whenever I’m tempted to let the catty evil twin side of my personality slip out, I remember my days showing Gailey, and how much guts it took to put myself out there, and I zip my mouth shut.

I bet you all know a few Marthas. :)

Promotion, Promotion and More Promotion

Laura's previous blog got me thinking about all the time I spend on the computer. Since I make a 'living' writing and teaching, the internet, email and WORD are my constant and necessary companions. I use email to communicate with editors, young fans and other writers. The internet is crucial for research, and editors expect an electronically delivered manuscript. Right now, I am writing a bio of Wolfgang Puck for an educational company. Without the internet and online article databases, I would be lost! (How DID we research in the 'olden days'?) For teaching, I communicate with students through email and Blackboard and with collegues almost exclusively with email. None of the above, however, is really using the computer for leisure. However, for the past several years, time on the computer has increased due to what Laura touched on: promotion.

Unlike Laura's editor and publisher (who seem to be very supportive), the publishers I work with have not encouraged blogging or developing a website. It is an unstated rule in the industry that if you do not promote your books and keep sales high, you will not get another contract. (Unless you are a celebrity or big name author, then the publishing house will promote.)Thus blogging and online book tours/interviews etc have become increasingly important to authors who want to get their books 'out there' along with school visits (for children's authors), conferences and book festivals. (That's me above at the Kentucky Book Fair.) Even my Facebook page is for my YA mystery, Whirlwind. Promotion is incredibly time-consuming and often exhausting (think 250 thirteen-year-olds in one assembly)plus it takes away from writing, riding and home. For me, it does have a wonderful upside: I get to meet other teachers, authors and book lovers either in person or virtually, which is renewing and exhilerating.

Speaking of, Whirlwind and Shadow Horse are being given away on a wonderful blog written by Lisa, a mom and horse lover at http://twobearsfarm.blogspot.com (Sorry but I could not get the link to publish!) I never would have met Lisa without a 'real' friend to direct me to her blog, but through Lisa's giveaway, I have already met another blogger/writer who would like to host a giveaway and interview. Those online connections might take time away from 'life' but they are also fun, and the fun part is what makes them so addicting.

The virtual world is here to stay. For some of us, it is an absolute necessity for our work. For others, a way to reach out or play. Many of you already commented on Laura's blog post about how you use and manage your online life. Now that spring is coming (really, it is) I imagine most of us will be spending more time outdoors. Still, I would like to know, how do you use the computer to enhance your life and career?

Vicarious Pleasures

by Laura Crum

This post is on a topic that seems pretty paradoxical. Here I am, writing a blog post for a blogspot, and what I want to talk about is the fact that I don’t really like it that I’m staring at this screen rather than playing with my new puppy or watching the rain pour down (yes, its still raining). Much as I enjoy writing blog posts and hearing what others have to say, there is a little part of me that whispers that I need to readjust my priorities. I sometimes remind myself of folks who watch horses on TV and don’t ride their own horses any more.

OK—perhaps there is nothing wrong with watching horses on TV. I am a bit predjudiced on this subject, I guess. I don’t even own a TV—that’s how strongly I feel about watching TV. Certainly I do sometimes enjoy watching a unique sporting event on someone else’s TV, but overall I prefer to be free of that particular noose. They don’t call it “programming” for nothing.

But then there’s the computer. For many years I refused to use email, I wrote my books longhand and had them typed by others. I avoided the computer screen as I avoided the TV screen. However, eventually I caved.

My downfall was insidious. My husband taught me to use email when we were courting. Pretty quick I loved email. And not so long after that, email became the communication method of choice among most people I knew. No one used the phone any more. It was all email. So now I’m using email, too—sitting at the computer screen quite a bit, in fact.

Then, my books. It cost a lot to have them typed by others. For many years now, I can’t afford that luxury. I type them myself on the computer (using the hunt-and-peck method—I kid you not). Now I’m facing that screen a heck of a lot.

And finally came this blog. Despite using email and typing my books into the computer, I WAS, repeat WAS, relatively free of the computer as an entertainment device. I didn’t even know what a blog was three years ago. I don’t shop on EBAY (or any other computer oriented way). I don’t routinely “google” things or look them up on Wikipedia. I don’t use Facebook or Twitter. As I say, I was still relatively free of the damn computer.

And then came this blog. When I received the invitation to join, I almost just deleted it. I don’t do blogs, was my thought. I don’t even know what a blog is. On a whim, I forwarded the invite to my editor. What do you think, I asked her.

Well, the editor wrote and begged me to do it. Great publicity for your books, she said. The publisher wrote and begged me to do it. They both thought it would sell books. Since I don’t tour and refuse to spend my own money promoting my books, I decided I should reconsider this blogging idea. After all, I could do it from home and its free. Why not?

So I started writing blog posts for Equestrian Ink. And in order to find out how to write such things, I read a few other horse blogs. And that was the beginning of my “addiction”. I liked reading horse blogs. I liked it a lot. It was very entertaining. I found I liked writing horse blogs and commenting on horse blogs. I liked getting to know horse bloggers all over the country and all over the world. I made some friends. And discovered, as well, that sometimes internet friendships are not what they appear (as those who have found internet “sweethearts’ can often attest). Anyway, I was hooked. I loved horse blog world. I spents lots and lots of time reading blogs, commenting, and emailing folks I “met” through the blogs. I was no longer so interested in promoting my books. I was involved in “social networking”.

It took me awhile to realize what had happened. Call me dumb, but it was a long time before I sat up and said, “My God, I’m devoting over an hour a day to this stuff.” And that wasn’t time spent working on my books. That was playing around reading horse blogs. I hate to think what would happen if I got involved with Facebook and Twitter, too.

The thing is, when all was said and done, I really didn’t have that hour to give. It gets taken from my family, my kid, my animals, my garden, keeping up the house, working on my books, and just being in the natural world…all things that mean far more to me than computer time. But guess what? I couldn’t give it up so easily. I was addicted. Or I was connected. I was something, anyway. Because I was interested in all the people that I had “met” through blogging. I couldn’t let go of hearing about them and their horses and their lives. I thought about them sometimes, when I was down at the barn with my own horses, or lying awake at night. They (you) were part of my life.

But now I was torn. Because though I know all of you are as real as me, and though I was now fond of you, I still didn’t want to spend this much time facing a screen. Real you might be, but you still equaled screentime instead of that same time spent at my barn or in my garden, or playing with my kid. And so now I’m in a quandry. And I haven’t figured any way out.

So today I would like to ask if any of you, like me, are puzzled and slightly alarmed by how much time you spend at the computer and find yourself ambivalent about how much emotional energy you invest interacting with people you’ve never actually met. Because I do think of you and your horses and worry about your problems and enjoy your triumphs. And I was hurt when my first internet “friend” turned against me. Is this connection/addiction a good thing overall? Looked at from one angle, I think, yes. From another angle, I wonder. I’m never entirely sure. Does anyone else ponder this question?

Whining

by Laura Crum

The skies outside my window are a VERY dark gray as I type this. Rain spatters down and wind tosses the branches of the big trees I can see. And this is a lull in the storm. By my rain guage, we have had four inches since yesterday, accompanied by high winds. The rain is increasing as I type, pounding on my metal roof. It’s a pleasant sound—usually. But right now I can’t get my mind off my horses.

I’ve been down to feed them this morning and all seem healthy enough. Nobody lame, all eager for breakfast. But I have never had more mud than this. All the horses have shelter and a dry place to hang out, but there is muck everywhere. My riding ring looks like a holding pond. You should see the ruts that the storm has dug in my driveway in just one night. And we were pretty damn wet here before the latest deluge.

This sort of weather is more or less typical for March here in coastal central California, but this is an extreme version of it. The weather guessers say that it is going to rain pretty much non-stop for the next week. I can’t imagine what things are going to look like after that. And I actually have a pretty good setup here compared to those in low-lying areas. My property is sloped and faces south; the ground is sandy. We usually dry out pretty readily and don’t have a big problem with mud. Yeah, right. Tell that to the horses.

The rain pours down outside; I just want to whine a little. Usually I try to write interesting posts worth discussing, or upbeat posts about the joys of horse ownership. Not today. Today I want to whine. So please forgive this self indulgence and feel free to click that little X if you don’t want to listen to me complain.

I believe I have ridden my horse all of three times in the month of March. All through January and the first half of February we had sunshine and I rode a lot and posted lyrical pieces about the beach and the trail. That seems like a pleasant dream or a distant memory to me now. Since the middle of February it has rained pretty steadily. I caught a cold. On those few days that it was sunny and dry enough to ride, I did not feel up to it. Frequently after spending twenty minutes cleaning up and saddling my little boy’s horse, I was just done. I sat and watched my kid exercise his horse while Sunny stared at me accusingly. But I simply didn’t have the energy.

I have been through periods like this before, and for me, it sort of becomes a self perpetuating cycle. I get out of the rhythm of regular riding and pretty soon I feel like I don’t even want to ride. On sunny days (if there were any), I’d rather putter around the garden looking at what’s in bloom, or sit on the porch and drink a cup of tea. The horses begin to seem like more of a burden than a pleasure. Something I ought to do but don’t really want to.

I give myself the usual pep talks. I point out that the weather won’t stay like this forever (I hope), and that when I start riding regularly again I’ll enjoy it—I always do. And our steady horses are just as good after a month off as they are if we ride them four times a week (and this is true). I remind myself that I don’t have to ride if I don’t want to; our horses live in big corrals where they can run and buck and play (and they do—not at the moment though), and they are happy when I turn them out to graze (which I do most days—but not in the middle of a storm), and that if I want to just enjoy them and not ride them its fine. I think about how much my son enjoys riding his horse and what a gift this has been for him. I feel a little better.

Then I contemplate the fact that my next novel must be turned in at the end of April and I still have half a dozen chapters left to write. The well seems pretty dry right now—unlike my corrals. Maybe I should make it storm in the story. Hmmm…

Anyway, Jami is sick today and I offered to post in her stead—I hope you all don’t mind my whining and rambling. Do you, too, go through these periods where (dare I say it) the thought crosses your mind that maybe horseback riding is more work than its worth? (I know—I don’t really mean it). With all this rain it will be quite awhile before I can get out on my beloved trails—some years it is late May or early June before the north slopes dry out enough that they’re not slippery. That’s a long time to wait.

OK—rather than typing blog posts, I ought to be working on the book. I hope you all are having a good day with your horses. Thanks for listening to me whine.