Equine Madness and the Art of Staying Young

I’ll say it straight away. I love horses. Always have, always will. When I was a child, I drew horses, pretended to be a horse, and when I could coerce her into it, hung an old bridle and put a McClellan cavalry saddle that used to belong to my grandfather, on my next youngest sister, and turned her into a horse (that never lasted long).

I didn’t get my first horse until I was in my thirties. Tristan was a five month old Arabian and completely untrained. I had never trained a horse before. It was a classic case of the blind leading the blind. However, over the nineteen years we were together, we learned from each other, eventually trusted each other, and managed not to kill each other. We also had a heck of a lot of fun.

While I still had Tris, Poet came along, a half Arabian, half quarter horse filly I watched being born to the quarter horse mare I briefly had. Poet (full name Poetique NRG) came at a time when I was going through a lot of life issues, and when Tristan died a few years after Poet was born, most of my enthusiasm for riding died with him. Poet, and my husband’s mare, Roxy, paid the price by becoming not much more than spoiled yard dogs. We loved them, and they were well cared for, but rarely ridden.

Three years ago we decided to downsize (we have twenty acres), move into town, travel more, and get out from under the chores of keeping horses and also a very large garden. So, although it nearly killed me at the time, I found homes for those last two mares. I cried for days before their new owners came to get them, and cried for weeks afterwards. Then, one weekend, we held a giant garage/tack sale, and for two days I watched strangers carry away twenty-five years worth of horse equipment, right down to our last hoof pick.

The only thing I couldn’t bear to part with was my old Stueben English saddle. At first I added it to the other saddles we had put out. But as I walked away, I totally lost it, and burst into wracking sobs. Not just for that saddle, but for that whole period in my life when horses were the most important thing in the day-to-day existence of both myself and my husband. We did trail rides, poker rides, Mediaeval horse games where both the horses and ourselves were dressed in costume, and I did low level dressage just because I liked the discipline of it. That saddle stood for all that, and a million more emotions I couldn’t explain, even if I tried. A part of my soul was being ripped out, and although I felt sure it was the right decision to make—after all, I was one year away from sixty and figured my riding days were over—in my heart-of-hearts, I probably knew it wasn’t.

We went on a fifteen day cruise through the Caribbean and the Panama Canal. I loved it. Seeing the canal had always been on my “bucket list.” Cartegena Colombia was stunning, and I’d love to go back. Then we came home. We did a few four-day weekend trips, and still did our pirate reenacting, but didn’t travel as much as we thought we would. At the same time, the housing market tanked. Our house didn’t sell. No one even came to look at it. We changed realtors, hoping. Same results. We just couldn’t compete with all the foreclosure and short sales. After two years, we gave up.

So, there we were, still in the same place, with a big garden and an empty barn. Then fate stepped in. My husband and I attended a local Renaissance Faire. We watched a young woman do mounted archery, and met a man who headed a small group called Company of the Warhorse. He was there giving a demonstration of the type of Medieval horse games we used to do twenty-five years ago. As we talked (he from the saddle, me on the ground) he asked if we had horses. I explained that we used to, but because of the whole age thing, I had thought it best to stop riding, giving my patent rationalization, “Cause if I fell off, I don’t bounce so good as I did when I was thirty.” He looked me up and down, and said, “You look perfectly able to me.” That was the spark that lit the fire.

Finding his web site, I e-mailed him that we would be happy to be ground crew for him at his next event. We did that, and had fun, but that’s when it really hit me. I hated being on the ground. I wanted to be on a horse, having fun. The spark flared into flame. I wanted horses again. And why not? I was fit (okay, maybe a bit out of shape), healthy, and eager. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been on a horse in probably seven years, and for my husband closer to ten.

I had the bug. My husband, always more cautious than I, got the bug as well...with reservations. When we told people we were getting back into horses, some looked at us as if we were insane. Others thought it was great, if that’s what we really wanted. The catch? Other than my saddle, we had no tack, not even that proverbial hoof pick. What we did have was a barn that had become a storage unit full of junk. Undaunted, I started trolling the Dreamhorse web site. That’s where I found her. My new mare, Delight, an Arabian and saddlebred cross.

And, fate stepped in again. When we went to pick up Delight, we were told of another horse for sale not far away, so we went for a look. That’s how we ended up coming home with two horses instead of one, and Little John (a BIG quarter horse) became my husband’s horse. We were excited, and scrambling to pick up the basics like halters, grooming tools, stall bedding, and feed (now that the junk was out of at least three stalls), and my husband managed to buy back the custom Australian saddle he’d sold to a friend.

Then we had to ride. That’s when the “new horse issues” set in. These were horses I hadn’t raised and trained myself, and both were twelve years old, and pretty set in their ways. Delight had been shown, and LJ, for the last three years, had been used as a schooling horse. Both have interesting habits that need work. We have riding skills that have atrophied, but are slowly coming back. In the end, with time, I know all will be well.

What I do know is the first time I walked out to the barn, saw those two happy faces, and heard the “Oh, goodie, it’s breakfast time” nickers, I burst into tears. I knew in that split second that we had made the right decision in bringing horses back into our lives. That empty part of my being was complete again. Yes, they are work. Yes, they can be a royal pain in the ass. Yes they are expensive to keep, and have a knack of getting themselves into trouble. I don’t care. For me, it’s all worth it when the bond starts to form, when they follow you around the pasture, when they watch you do chores, when you rub their special grooming spot and they groom you back. And I love the fact that I am back on a horse, and feel happier and fitter than I have in years.

Oh, and did I mention Delight and I have the same hair color? Ol’ fate can be pretty funny, doncha know.

Hic Requiescat Corpus Tuum

Since Halloween and Day of the Dead are not far away, this seemed like a good time to confess....

I have a morbid fascination with cemeteries. Although I'm not brave enough to go strolling in one at night, and there is a local cemetery that is so spooky I avoid it even on a bright sunny day, for the most part I find them peaceful and melancholy. At this point I should clarify that I have no interest in modern, flat, bleak cemeteries where convenience in maintenance has pushed out poetry, art, and shady trees with benches under them for quiet contemplation. There is also the horrifying new trend of people leaving recordings of their voice which is later inserted into the grave marker, so relatives and friends can, at the push of a button, listen to “the voice from the grave.” Can’t you just imagine it? “Hi, my good friends. Gee I miss you all. How’s the wife and kids? How’s my dog holding up now I’m gone?” That whole idea creeps me out.

But old cemeteries have a dark romanticism about them. As I quietly stroll, I often think of the short-story by Peter S. Beagle, titled "A Fine and Quiet Place" where the lead character spends lovely hours in a cemetery conversing with a female ghost. In marble and chiseled stone the grave markers tell the stories of the people who rest there, the times they lived in, and the battles with disease they fought and lost. Some have been resting, peacefully or not, for hundreds of years.

Carved doves, angels, urns, leaves, obelisks, all mark a life lived, even if that life lasted only a day. Especially poignant are the family plots where due to some epidemic, the graves of the parents are surrounded by the small markers of their children, all perishing within weeks of each other. Or the gravestone of a beloved wife who died in childbirth within the first year of her marriage. Reading tombstone poetry can reduce me to tears.

The last cemetery I visited was in Ferndale, California, an old lumber town now more of a tourist attraction due to the beautifully preserved Victorian buildings. The cemetery, situated and terraced into the side of a hill, with hundreds of carved tombstones, flat crypts, and a few dark stone mausoleums, is an acropolis of the dead. As I took photos, my husband and I wandered for about an hour, before the heat became unbearable, radiating off the tombstones like hot ovens.

I have visited cemeteries in Riverside, CA (where my grandparents are buried), Port Washington, WI (A beautiful, romantic cemetery), Santa Barbara, CA (at the Spanish mission), Solvang, CA (another mission cemetery), Jacksonville, OR, and the really spooky Granite Hill Cemetery in Grants Pass, OR, where I live. That’s the one I can’t bring myself to go back to. I just know, in the older section, Dracula and his minions sleep there...or an Oregonian version of Dracula.

So, this is my entry for Halloween. A picture taken at the Ferndale cemetery, and played with in photoshop.

Hic requiescat corpus tuum — Here may your body rest.

My Brain, at the Word "Computer."

Yes, it is like staring off into space. Alien, vast, and totally incomprehensible. Can you tell I've been having computer problems lately?

Frustration

This is a quick note to my few Followers. I am not ignoring your comments, or your blog sites. I am having problems replying, or leaving comments on my own and other blog sites. I keep getting bumped, and it gives me a blank comment box again. So, bear with me until I get this figured out.

Thanks...

Sharon

Construction

I am writing this during week three of an outside remodel of our garage and deck. It sounds so simple when written, but the remodel was pretty extensive, and is still ongoing, although winding down. However, I believe there is at least another week to go. Alas.

Dealing with construction workers around the place, I suspect, is like dealing with servants. You know they are there, going about their business, but you have to ignore them. I’ve never had servants, so I can’t say this with any certainty, but the analogy seems fitting. Rather than cooks, housemaids, footmen, and char girls, I have Cement Guy, Back Hoe Guy, Plumber Guy, Electrician Guy, Drywall Guy, and Painter Guy. Directing this team of subcontractors is my Major Domo, or General Contractor. I like him, and my husband and I have known him for about fifteen years. He is also the one building the new deck, with the help of his fifteen-year old nephew, while overseeing the rest of the destruction/construction.

And, as with servants, you lose a lot of privacy, at least during the day. It is disconcerting, to say the least, when typing away at the computer, to suddenly have a strange man right outside the window. And since a lot of these guys go in for colored, mirrored sunglasses, it’s like being peered at by an alien. Also, invariably when I’m in the middle of something, I’ll hear a pounding on the back door, and then a guy sticks his head in and shouts, “Hello. Hello...M’am, are you there?” Even more surreal, is using the restroom, since the window faces the front of the house, right where the new deck cover is going up. Even though the window is opaque, there you are, sitting on the throne, while just outside men are talking about lumber and batteries for screwdrivers.

Then there is the noise. Oh, I can deal with hammers, saws, and heavy equipment. It is the battle of the boom-boxes I object to. In the garage, Drywall Guy likes to listen to hard rock at the decibel of a jet engine, while on the deck, the GC is listening to Christian rock—I suspect that when these two sound waves meet, it creates a black hole in space...somewhere. The Cement Guy loves talk radio, including Rush Limbaugh, who drives me right up the wall. On the rare occasions when the Electrician turns up (he is a bit of a prima-donna, and my least favorite), he changes the dial on the Cement Guy’s boom box (when Cement Guy isn’t there) to a heavy metal rock station, and he and his son loudly sing along...loudly off key. I like the plumber. He wears an Ipod on his belt and uses earphones.

Lastly, there is the dust. Dirt dust, saw dust, drywall dust, plaster dust—it goes everywhere and gets into everything. The floors are gritty with it, and the furniture coated with it, the cars shrouded in it—and I can’t describe how grubby the windows look. And, unless I make sure to close the lid on them, the water in the toilet bowls are rimed with dirt like a back-bay tide line. I have decided to ignore it until the construction is over. Why bother cleaning, when within 24 hours it will all be back?

So, I preserver. I try to ignore the battle of the boom-boxes, the strangers lurking outside the windows, and the new plaster which smells like a cat box. Instead, I walk out on our almost completed new deck and take in the view, I relax in the new hot tub, and revel in having, for the first time in my life, a house with air-conditioning, and heating, instead of only a wood stove. My husband is happy that when all is done, the converted garage will hold three cars instead of two.

Yes, our little place has been brought into the 21st century at long last...but I will be oh so glad when the “servants” leave for good and I have no more dust, no more noise, no more bug-eyed aliens looking at me through the windows, and no one sticking their head in the back door and yelling, “Hello....M’am, are you there?”

Chinatown—San Francisco

Although I have been to San Francisco many times, I have never had the opportunity to visit Chinatown. So, Father's Day weekend, when my husband and I planned our yearly trip to Vallejo, CA for the Northern California Pirate Festival (of which we are participants) we drove down a day early, and spent the preceding Friday exploring this very interesting community.

Since we were staying at a hotel in Benicia, our day started with a ferry ride from the Vallejo ferry terminal, to Pier 1 in San Francisco, an enjoyable trip of about 45 minutes. We were traveling with four other pirate buddies who had come early for the festival, and like us, were playing tourist for a day. Three of us headed off toward Chinatown, and the other three stayed on the Ferry, heading for Fisherman’s Wharf’s Pier 41.

Once off the ferry, we walked...and we walked...and we walked—through the financial district, past the famous giant winged pyramid building, on up the hill to Chinatown. It’s easy to tell when you’ve arrived. All the store signs change from English to Chinese. The people around you are all speaking Chinese. Well mostly, but since Chinatown is a huge tourist attraction, we also heard people speaking French, German, Spanish, and East Indian. What struck me most, though, was that despite its touristy popularity, it is still very much a neighborhood community.

The main street, from the Chinese Gate to where things start changing to the North Beach Greek and Italian neighborhoods, runs maybe a little over a mile? Within that core, there are the usual tourist traps selling...well, junk. But there are also markets where I saw everything from pressed ducks hanging in the windows ( it turns out they were actually roasted ducks, but they were so flat they looked pressed to me!), Chinese BBQed pork also hanging in the windows, barrels of dried whole fish or just fish heads, packaged dried herbs from China, and dried mushrooms. The mushrooms fascinated me—from tiny little things to giant sponge-like specimens the size of a dessert plate, amazing mushrooms were everywhere.

We passed a fish market, where a very busy shop owner was selling live, still flopping, fish to customers, who took them away in clear plastic bags. Bins of fresh produce lined part of the sidewalk, the peaches and melons looking like jewels among the corn and greens. So many scents filled the air it was impossible to identify them all—a heady mix of ripe fruit, fish, strange spices, tea, cooking food from the many Dim Sum shops, and maybe incense, but so much more. I loved it.

Lunch was at the Oriental Pearl Restaurant, where we ordered the Dim Sum variety for three, along with a pot of tea, and a bottle of Chinese beer for our friend. The food, brought in sets of threes, was fascinating, both in looks and presentation. One dish, wrapped and tied in lotus leaves, was rice, bean paste, and a wonderful Chinese sausage. I kept getting behind because as I ate each little package I was trying to figure out what was in it and how they were made. The last treats were small custard tarts, a perfect ending to a lovely meal.

After lunch we walked around a bit longer, exploring the import shops, where they sold everything from wind chimes to rice bowls, wood carvings to jewelry, and everything in between. I was hoping to find more pieces of the Phoenix and Dragon china I had started collecting when I lived in Southern California and used to visit the Chinatown district in Los Angeles. No luck with that, unfortunately. The three of us visited a tea shop, sampled some of the tea for sale, and were amazed at the prices on some of the jars. Rosebud tea for $800 a pound. Our friend bought a canister of tea (I don’t remember what kind it was) for around $25. After he paid for it, they put it in a lovely shopping bag with a string handle. I bought some pressed tea wrapped in paper (mainly for the novelty factor) which cost me only $4. When I paid for it, they put it in a plain plastic grocery bag.

By this point it was late afternoon, and we hadn’t heard anything from our other three companions. We decided to head toward Fisherman’s Wharf. To get there, we walked...and we walked...and we walked. Through North Beach, then down the hill through a residential area, and finally to the mega-tourist area around Piers 39-41. At the Clam House we went upstairs for a drink in the bar, contacted our friends by cellphone, who were still exploring and not ready to head back to Vallejo. We took the ferry back to Pier 1, relaxed with another round of drinks at a sidewalk cafe waiting to see if our friends would turn up. They didn’t, so we hopped back on the ferry and returned to Vallejo.

Many things fascinated me about Chinatown. I liked that it was still a thriving community where people lived, worked, and shopped despite the fact that their neighborhood had become a form of entertainment for thousands of others. I was surprised at how clean the neighborhood was, and how polite the people were. And although I know it’s not the same thing as going to someplace like, say, Shanghai, I liked the feeling that I had visited, in a much condensed version, a foreign country.

Bent & Twisted

Some might think the current title refers to my personality. Okay, I may be a little bent on occasion, but I don’t think I qualify as twisted. What I’m actually referring to is my decision to add worked wire to my jewelry pieces.

On beginning the new learning curve, I quickly discovered that wire has a mind of its own, and that mind can be kinda kinky at times. I also learned straight away that working with wire is a lesson in tweaking, futzing, and cursing. The rewards, however, are quite nice.

I started out simple, using fine wire to wrap around beads. This got me a few interesting pieces that resembled leaves on a vine, but the wire was too fine a gauge to stand up to everyday wear. Next I bought a stronger gauge wire, and made simple loops with needle-nose pliers, or wrapped it around a Sharpie marker, or plastic film canister. The results were okay, and I used two of these experiments to make pendants, adding beads, crystals, etc.

Then came spirals. Spirals are fun. Spirals become hypnotizing and addictive. I made lots of spirals. I even adapted a piece of a design from an ancient Etruscan tiara and necklace into a pendant, using a bracelet slide element, which is the necklace pictured. As you can tell, I really like spirals.

Now I have a wire jig for making more complicated wire designs. Great, another learning curve. I spent three hours yesterday playing with this contraption, which consists of a metal plate full of holes, metal pins of varying sizes to put in the holes, and tiny plastic tubes that I have no idea what to do with. Bending wire around the pins is like trying to scratch your head and pat your stomach at the same time. One hand holds the wire down, the other bends it while also turning the jig plate. Most of what I did ended up in the trash, which is par for the course. Two pieces came out rather nice, and one has already been turned into a pendant.

However, more hours of practice at tweaking and futzing, bending and twisting, are needed. A lot more. Maybe I’ll just go back to doing spirals. I really like spirals.