Gratitude

                                                           by Laura Crum

            It’s hard for me to talk about gratitude right now. There are many days when I feel very, very sad. I miss my husband so much. When a friend said to me the other day that I was lucky, I almost choked.

            “Lucky?” I demanded. “How can you say that?”

            Now this is a good friend who knows me well. He knows the details of my life. He knows my home, he knows I don’t need to work, he knows my son, and he sees what our day to day life is like. He knew my husband very well. He said, “Most people would give a lot to have what you have.”

            I stopped and thought about this. “Most people would not want this at the price of the grief I must bear,” I said.

            “Most people would not see it that way,” he said. “They would say that you’ll get over the loss of your husband and move on with your life, and you still have a beautiful life. A lovely home that you own free and clear, a good son, some nice animals including three fine horses, a wonderful garden, financial freedom. Most people would assume that you could find another husband if you wanted.”

            “But I don’t want,” I said. “I cannot imagine wanting that. Andy was and is the only man I ever truly wanted. And I was happy with him. Even now, I feel his presence and that is more important to me than any other man’s company.”

            My friend shrugged. “I still say you’re lucky. Most people never feel that way about a husband or wife. They never have that experience of being with someone who truly makes them happy. Even though Andy died sooner than you might have hoped for, you had seventeen years together and you loved each other and enjoyed your life together. Andy was a happy man. And he left you the means to go on with your life without financial stress—because he cared about his family. You say you still feel him with you in dreams and signs. I don’t know anything about that, but if it’s true, it’s surely a sign of his continuing love—a love that has lasted past death. How many people have any experience of that? I still say you’re lucky.”

            I thought about that a long time. Long after my friend finished his whiskey and soda and left. The roses are blooming and I picked a bunch of them to put on Andy’s grave the next morning. I wandered around, looking at the horses and the pond and the many flowers. I knew my cozy little house waited to receive me, and my son was inside. Dinner, made by a friend, was warm in the oven. Last night I dreamed of Andy, wearing his kilt and getting ready to play his bagpipes for a group of people. He came to me and kissed me and he was happy. In that moment I was happy, too. He comes to me in dreams many nights—he sends me messages that seem very clear.

            We all die. It’s just a matter of when. If there is anything that counts, it’s whatever transcends death. This is true, was always true, whether Andy died when he did or he lived to be ninety. When I walk around the graveyard and look at all the gravestones I understand how brief our mortal life is—even if we do live to be 90. My grandmother lived to be 97 and she is just as dead as my mother, who lived to be 65. At this point it doesn’t seem to make much difference how long each of them spent in their body. What is present past death is the only reality. And so it is for both Andy and me. What counts is our love for each other, and whatever part of us can/may transcend our deaths.

 We all have grief to bear in our lives. There is not one person that I know who doesn’t struggle in some way. A lovely single woman that I know holds down a decent job—forty hours a week plus-- and takes all the part-time work she can find. She can barely afford rent on a studio apartment in someone’s backyard here in pricey Santa Cruz County, California. That and her car payment (for a nice reliable little Toyota) leave her without any extra money at all. She cannot imagine that a life such as I have could ever come to her. To own her own place, not to have to work, not to worry about money…this is unimaginable. She once admitted that she would take my grief and have my life. And she pointed out, as my other friend did, that at least I have had a true partner. She never has had this experience and now, at forty years old, she worries that she never will. It makes me think.

Everyone must struggle eventually. I know another beautiful woman who must bear being estranged from her young adult daughter—not by her choice, not for anything she did wrong, but simply because her daughter needs to do this right now. It is a constant grief. I know a man whose wife stepped off a curb on her way out of a restaurant the other day, and fell and hit her head and died of this injury. I knew a woman of thirty who died of a rare form of cancer—she had a two year old child. I know another woman whose only son died on his 11^th birthday in a freak accident. Yet another woman that I knew (ten years younger than me and in apparent good health) had a completely unexpected heart attack; over a year later and she cannot walk, speak clearly, eat, or sit up unassisted, and her family, including two young daughters, must both care for her and deal with the enormous financial burden her tragedy has placed on their family. Just a few weeks ago four teenagers died in a car wreck not a city block away from my driveway—I pass their roadside shrine every day. I have a friend who struggles with constant poor health and has no money to seek the treatments she feels might help her. I know so many people whose lives are so hectic in the endless need to make money to pay their bills that they never have a calm moment. In short, we all struggle. My life, taken all in all, has been a very good one.

            It is so easy to feel sorry for myself right now. But maybe I should feel grateful. I am working on this.

Mother's Day

                                                            by Laura Crum

            Mother’s Day means different things to different people. For many it’s mostly about celebrating/remembering their own mother. For others it’s more about celebrating their relationship with their own children. And for some, it’s about celebrating their four footed kids and how much they love them. I have been all these people—and today I feel a bit of all these feelings.

            I will admit that I am hugely grateful to be my son’s mother. It’s been the single biggest experience of my entire life.

          For those who are interested in my thoughts on this topic--I wove them into my novels, Moonblind, Chasing Cans, and Going, Gone. Along with plenty of excitement and lots of horses, of course.

 I’m also very grateful today to the good horses who have given my son and me so many happy years of riding together.

            So I think I will leave you with something my boy said to me when we were riding the trail that you see in the above photo. This was a couple of years ago (2012). I recorded the moment in a journal because it meant a lot to me. I was leading on Sunny, my son following on Henry. And he said to me, “I love this trail. It’s so pretty.” He was quiet for a minute as we both watched a deer bound away through the brush. And then he said, “It’s good to have friends to trail ride with. And it’s best when that friend is your mom.”

Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Some Thoughts on "Happy" Holidays

                                    by Laura Crum

My little house—sort of the Mexican cantina Xmas lights effect. I’m trying to simplify this year. Less presents, less parties, less Xmas decorations. I have to say that I find the whole “retail Xmas” thing overwhelming. My idea of seasonal spirits is sitting on the porch at 5:00 watching the Xmas lights glow in the early winter dusk—with a whisky sour in hand and 50’s era Xmas music wafting out the open door to the house (yes, I live in coastal California, and this is why I can sit on the porch in the evening with the house door open this time of year).

The truth is that I am at heart an introvert, as are most writers, or so I think. Introverts are drawn to writing and reading and solitude as extroverts are drawn to parties and people. I can pretend to like parties and people, but I am most comfortable on my porch watching the sunrise and sunset with only my family and animals around.

Sunrise, sunset from my porch this December (and yes, we just watched “Fiddler on the Roof” for maybe the 10^th time.)

Lately I have had some sad experiences, and this turn of events has intensified my introvert tendencies. So my version of “happy” holidays involves lots of quiet alone time contemplating some interesting (to me and my husband) garden projects we are doing.

We built a small greenhouse this month—and my husband intends to use a system called aquaponics to help us raise even more of our own food. Here is the little greenhouse, waiting to be filled with plants and fish.

We currently raise our own grassfed beef and most of our fruits and veggies. We’ve been eating the wonderful apples from our Fuji tree for three months now. Something to be grateful for here, for sure.

And this week I was reminded of the pure joy in a lovely ride on our good horses. It was 70 degrees on Monday, warm even for here (in winter), and we were motivated to haul the horses to the nearby redwood forest (Forest of Nisene Marks) and go for a ride. It was magical.

I hadn’t ridden Sunny other than maybe once a week here at home for over a month and he was absolutely flawless on the trail. Calm and quiet, trotting and loping merrily up the little hills, careful on the downhills, trooping steadily along, looking around happily at the scenery. No balking, no spooking, no jigging. Such a good horse. Here we are looking down at Aptos Creek.

The other horses (my son’s Henry and Wally’s Twister) were equally good, negotiating the tricky spots on the trail and the funky bridges with aplomb.

We crossed the creek—very low this dry winter.

As I patted Sunny’s neck on the way back to the trailer, I was reminded of why I bought this very good trail horse…and why I will keep him for the rest of his life out of gratitude for what he has given me. It is such a joy to be able to pull your horse out of his corral after a month off and head down the trail with zero issues. All six of us (three humans and three horses) enjoyed our ride equally, as far as I could tell. A lovely day and a great gift—made me very happy.

So my current holiday message, which I remind myself of whenever I feel stressed, is “I am so grateful for what I have.” Followed by “Don’t reach out to other people, just wait to be guided.” Then I take a deep breath, look at my garden and horses and husband and son, and realize that all is well. In this moment, all is well. And this moment is all we ever really have.

Being aware of my own joy and content in the present moment—this is what happy holidays means to me. I would love to hear other thoughts on the subject. Cheers--Laura

My Son's Horse

                                                by Laura Crum

            Sometimes you get lucky. I had no intention of buying Henry. I had known the horse for years. A reliable, good hearted, somewhat boring horse, I thought. I had no interest in him. For most of those years I rode more athletic horses that were sensitive and perhaps a little hot. Henry struck me as dull. And he was a sorrel—my least favorite color. He did not intrigue me and I had no desire to own him, though I knew him to be a good horse—a capable rope horse, always sound, willing to babysit a child. Just not my kind of horse.

            When my son was little (between three and five years), he rode with me on my horse, Plumber. And one day, when Plumber was lame due to being kicked while in the trailer by his traveling partner, my uncle, who owned Henry, offered to let us ride the horse. I knew Henry was safe, so accepted the offer—and I was pleasantly surprised. Though a lazy horse overall, Henry had a wonderfully smooth trot and gave me a good feel. I enjoyed riding him. And I didn’t think too much more about it.

            When my kid turned five, I bought him a pony. And for two years he rode that pony almost every day. At first with me leading him, and later with me ponying him from my horse, and after about a year, my son rode Toby independently, while I rode along with him on Plumber. Toby was a real jewel. He was a big pony, thirteen and a half hands, and I thought, if I thought about it at all, that my son would grow up riding his pony, as the girl who owned Toby before us had done, and that when my boy became a teenager I’d move him up to a horse—just like the previous owner.

            Sadly Toby died of cancer just two years after we bought him. It happened the same autumn we lost our old dog and an old cat that was my son’s special friend. All within a six week period. It was my child’s first real brush with mortality, and it was a tough introduction. I was desperate to do something to alleviate the pain. I couldn’t bring Toby back, but I could make sure that horseback riding didn’t disappear for us with the loss of the pony. If I could find the right replacement for Toby.

            I remember telling my husband that none of our horses were suitable to mount a child on—too sensitive, too spooky. It wasn’t worth the risk. “But I know of one,” I said. And I called my uncle up and asked what he’d take for Henry.

            My uncle has been a horse trader all his life. He wasn’t planning on selling Henry, but it was autumn and the roping season was coming to an end for the year. Now he would feed the horse through the winter and not get any use out of him. And Henry was 19. Though sound, his days as a rope horse were probably limited. And my uncle knew that I would give any horse I took on a good home. And so he named a price—a very high price for a nineteen year old horse that was to be used as a kid’s riding horse. I said, “Fine. I’ll take him.” And the next day Henry was in my barn.

            My knowledgeable horse friends thought I was nuts. “He WAY overcharged you,” they said. “Did you vet him?” they said.

            I shrugged. No, I didn’t vet him. I knew him. And I also knew that I could search forever and not find another horse I was sure about. Sure he was sound, sure he was safe. It was worth every cent to know that my kid could keep riding and that I wouldn’t have to worry. I trusted Henry.

            And so it proved. When I bought Henry my little boy had just turned seven. Toby the pony had taught him to ride, but we really hadn’t ventured out of the arena much. My son had just begun asking me to go on trail rides shortly before Toby died. And with Henry, we jumped right in. Below you see us on my son’s first ride at the beach, shortly after we bought Henry—it was Henry’s first time at the beach, too, I believe. In the photo we have just emerged from the trail through the sand dunes and are looking at the ocean. If I look a bit stern it’s because I was wondering how Henry would react to his first sight of the sea (he was fine). Plumber, my horse, never did care for the beach, which I think you can tell from his expression. But we had a good ride that day, and my son was hooked on riding “outside.”

            However in the months to come I realized it was time to retire Plumber, who was 20. Plumber was peggy on downhills and let me know he did not care for trail riding any more. Not to mention he was spooky. He spooked at every little rustle in the brush. This had never bothered me before, but now I had to keep my attention on my son. I needed a solid horse that could take care of himself and give Henry a steady lead. And so I bought Sunny.

            Sunny was as steady on the trail as Henry. Not much of anything bothered him. And my son and I, on Sunny and Henry, went on over a hundred trail ride adventures in the first year that we owned these two horses.

            Through the woods.

                               To the Lookout.

                                    On the beach.

                                 In the redwood forest.

Over the hills.

                         Henry was a trooper. He loped endless circles for my kid.

                                          He chased cattle.

            He was just a great horse. And then he colicked. It seemed, initially, to be a mild colic. We treated him. But every time the pain killer wore off, the pain came back. Henry never did seem to be in great distress. But he wasn’t coming out of it. After two days of this, we hauled him to the equine center. And there, after X-rays and ultra-sound, they told me that he needed surgery.

            I have to admit, I have always been one of those people who said they would never do colic surgery. Too much money, endless rehab, a lot of horses don’t recover, just too much grief for both horse and owner. So my inclination was to say no. And besides Henry wasn’t looking too bad. Just mildly painful. He didn’t look like a horse that needed surgery.

            But the vet convinced me that it was Henry’s best chance. And I couldn’t stand not to try. We’d lost Toby a little over a year ago. If I could help it, we weren’t going to lose Henry. It was a tough decision, and I drove away from the veterinary center with tears streaming down my face, not sure if I’d ever see Henry again.

            But I did. We all did. The very next day we drove to the center to take Henry (with a huge bandage around his middle) for a walk. And the old horse was a bit shaky, but bright-eyed. He nickered when he saw us and walked eagerly alongside my son and grazed on the green grass. And the vet handed me a cantalope sized stone they had taken out of his intestine.

            Henry recovered. The rehab was as long and time consuming and frustrating as I had feared, but we got through it. Six months later, Henry was back to full work and doing great. I will be forever grateful.

This was five years ago, and we have gone on hundreds of trail rides since. I have grown to love Henry as much as I have ever loved any horse. Not just for the gift he has given my son, though that alone is priceless, but for himself. For his wonderful, bright-eyed, tough little self. My son’s red horse. Who still carries my kid bravely on adventures, and is 100% sound and free moving at 25 years of age. Like I said to begin with, sometimes you get lucky. Thank you, Henry. You have a forever home with us.

My son and Henry headed back to the barn after a good ride--April 2013.

 Henry enjoying some post-ride grazing--April 2013

Grateful

by Laura Crum

As the year draws to a close, I always think about what I’m grateful for. And lots of it is obvious. My family, our home, our animals, my happy life. But I will admit, I sometimes fall into the trap of thinking my happy life is a bit, well, boring. I contrast my life with others, who seem to be doing much more, and I think that my own life, while peaceful and pleasant, is dull.

So today I really started to think of all that I have done in 2011. I started going through my photos. And I have to admit, it really opened my eyes. Suddenly it seemed as though I’d seen and done many memorable things. Maybe my life isn’t terribly exciting, but its beautiful.

In this post, I want to show you some of the lovely things I’ve been doing in the last year. I’m very grateful that these things have come my way. And I would encourage all of you to stop and look at your own photos and really take stock of what the year has brought you. Sometimes its pretty cool.

Here, in no particular order, are some things I did this year.

Swam in Lake Michigan at sunset.

Camped in the Valley of the Gods (and other lovely places in the Four Corners area) with my family.

Rafted down the Poudre River in eastern Colorado with my family.

Adopted a terrier Chihuahua cross puppy from the animal shelter.

Took many happy trail rides with my son on the trails near our home.

Listened to my husband play the bagpipes in various settings (here at our local cemetery on Memorial Day).

Looked at lots of petroglyphs with my husband and son (These are in the Ute Tribal Park, in the Four Corners Area, near the place we were allowed to camp, miles from anyone else.)

Rode on the beach with my kid and our friend, Wally.

Rode to the Lookout—two miles from our place, overlooking the Monterey Bay.

Visited the fields where my husband grows begonias.

Spent many happy hours looking at the world past my horse’s ears.

So there you have it. The list is far from complete, but it still makes me smile. Maybe my life isn’t so boring after all. Maybe my life is just perfect (for me). I hope you enjoyed the photos—I realize this is kind of a narcissistic blog post. But try this exercise yourself; you might like it. And I’d love to see the images you choose to represent your year.

Happy New Year’s Everyone! I have really enjoyed your comments and reading your blogs. Thank you to all of those who have connected with me over the past year. I wish you and yours all the best in the year to come.--Laura

Gratitude

by Laura Crum


Lately I’ve been exploring all the gray areas we face as ethical horse owners. I got started on this because I would read a blog that bashed something and I would start to think about it and realize that the subject wasn’t that simple (see my post “What Is Lame?”). And then I would read a post extolling something and think, again, but it isn’t that simple. There’s a dark side, too. For instance, in a recent post Terri described a three day event in which a little girl won her class and how thrilled the girl was and how much support she got and how great it all was. This post made me smile and I felt happy for the little girl. I know from reading Michele’s posts and Terri’s, too, how hard this girl has worked to achieve such a goal. But I have to admit, it crossed my mind—what about the others?

When I was nine years old I was not nearly as advanced a rider as the girl in the story. I did not have a horse of my own, but I took riding lessons at a nearby riding school. I was about nine when I participated in my first horseshow. It was a walk/trot/canter English equitation class—nothing fancy. It was only open to the riding school students. But it was a big riding school and there were at least twenty entries in the class. I was one of the more beginning students.

Now, I know you think you know where this is going. My tears when I didn’t win. As a matter of fact, I placed second in that relatively big class (I’ll never forget). I was thrilled. The truth is, I beat many students who were far more accomplished riders than I was. I was a beginner, some of them were advanced students and jumping three foot fences. I had yet to jump anything higher than a cavaletti. Why did I place against them? I have no idea.

I’ve always been good at test taking, whether on paper on otherwise, so perhaps I performed well. The judge was an outsider and had never seen the riding school students before and had no preconceived notions. It was the first class of the day, so she had no idea how well we rode other than what she was seeing. I had entered very early and managed to request and get as my mount a mare named Melody who was an old, experienced “schoolmaster”, with smooth gaits. Some of the others were riding much more difficult horses. Who knows? The fact is, I placed above many others who really rode better than I did.

There is a photo of me at this show and my grin is a mile wide. But I also remember going back to the barn and seeing the tear stains on the face of another little girl, who had not placed at all. Even at nine years old I was aware how much it galled this girl to have been so thoroughly beaten by a rank beginner when she was undeniably the better rider. And it bothered me, right through my joy. It didn’t seem fair. And even if, by some odd chance, I had appeared the better rider that morning, what was the point of glorifying me at her expense? We had both tried hard and done well.

And today I ask myself what I think about this. Would it not have been better to give us all a ribbon? My son’s school has changed the Science Fair to this system. Everyone who participates gets a ribbon. Competition is eliminated. I sure see a lot of happy faces and no tears.

I know there are two sides to this coin. It’s a gray area, like so much of life. I have many friends who love to compete, and they’re good people who treat their horses and their friends/competitors very well. I, myself, competed for many, many years. I know about the fun in competition. I’ve also written a lot here on the blog about the very real evils. But more than that, I question the underlying nature of competition, just as I’ve illustrated above. Like most everything else in life, it is full of paradox. I’ve come to the conclusion that truth resides in paradox—which doesn’t make it easy to describe or come to terms with. And perhaps that’s the point. Life is not simple.

Anyway, having got that far, I asked myself if there wasn’t something about the horse world I could extol in glowing terms and feel unequivocally happy about. Something simply good. And there is. There’s lots, really. But I’ll just tell one thing for now—keep it simple.

There’s Henry. Henry, my son’s twenty-two year old bombproof, lazy, red gelding. Henry that I spent way too much to buy and then had to dump $10,000 into for colic surgery..and followup. Henry who colicked again back in Jan (there went another $500). We don’t compete on Henry. He’s not worth much of anything on the open market. And you know what? Every time I look at Henry my heart just fills up with gratitude.

I love, love, love this honest, trustworthy little red horse who has done so much for us and brought us so much happiness and kept my son so safe and taken him on so many wonderful adventures. I love riding Henry myself. (He’s a fun horse for an experienced rider—will slide and spin a little…etc). But mostly I just love what he’s given us as a family. I love turning him loose to graze on our property and seeing how happy he is. I love seeing his bright-eyed, white-striped face come marching up to greet us. I love how my son loves his horse. I love watching my little boy lope circles in the arena or march up a hill on the trail. I love seeing how my son is becoming a competent horseman as he learns to make lazy Henry stay in the lope. I am completely happy every time I look at Henry—I don’t begrudge any money or time spent, and even if we lost him tomorrow, I would be glad that we had him while we did.

I didn’t always love Henry, mind you. When I bought him I saw him as the best and most logical choice for my son. And Henry is not a sweet, cuddly, easily lovable horse. He is a reliable, honest trooper, with a heart of gold, but he doesn’t much care for petting—he would far rather you fed him—he’s a real chowhound. Our pony, Toby, was much more “personable”. A year after buying Henry, when I had to spend a fortune (for me) to save his life, well, I won’t say I begrudged it, but I wondered if I would have done it if not for wanting to spare my son the pain of losing his horse. But you know, sometime in the in between, as I took care of Henry and rehabbed him, and rode him and went on rides with my son, something shifted. And when Henry colicked last January and I walked him up the driveway, the realization washed over me like a wave. I love Henry. I’m happy to spend what I have to spend (both time and money) to do the best I can for him. And that’s a joy.

So, there’s my answer. Loving a horse is not a gray area. Loving a horse is all white and shining. You may have to make difficult choices, and these can be hard, but if love underlies them, the bottom line will be good (though sometimes also sad). Its easy to bash what’s “bad” and I find that truth does reside in rather conflicted gray areas, yes. But love is something we can all do for our horses, if we choose, and though it will not make life simple, or truth black and white, or take pain away, it can shine like a beacon, bringing us through the hard times. I love Henry. So, that’s what I’m grateful for today.

So how about you? Any thoughts about competition, for good or ill? And who else finds joy in loving their horse, with all his quirks and drawbacks? What are you grateful for?