Mother's Day

Last Saturday, my loveable and energetic mother and her equally loveable husband, John, came over for a brief visit.  The trip was primarily for the purpose of picking up Riley, the golden retirever city dog who doesn't fully understand the complexities of horses, cats, and fences.  Secondary purposes included a visit to their stupendous daughter (that's me) and a brief trip down the memory lane of when theire relationship blossomed--one Mother's Day in Roslyn about five years ago. (I'll leave it to John, writer that he is, to put that dear story into words).

Our Mother's Day was not characterized by the typical sort of things that I associate with a Mother's Day celebration: flowers and strawberries and breakfast in bed (though we had a bit of that, too):

Rather, we had a carefree, laughter-filled, evening beginning with a dinner at Maverick's, and followed by (who would have thought) billards and ping pong at the local hot spots that I had never frequented until last Saturday.


I had such a great time, and, instead of being irritated or finding fault with all of my mom's idiosyncracies (many of which I regretfully notice in myself), I actually found them cute and endearing. 

We played pool and ping pong together.  Something that I have never done, and never thought I would do, with my mom.

We played doubles and we switched teams with every game. 
As the bruised paddles and puckered balls were put to rest,  I realized that I was the only one who could say that I had not been on a winning team the entire night (otherwise stated, every team that had me on it, lost).   

We had a great Mother's Day Eve.  Lying in bed that night, thoughts crossed my mind about how much fun we had enjoyed, how great it was that my mom, stepdad, Neal and I could spend such a great and silly evening together. 

Then, came the post-Mother's Day rest-of-the-week, when my sentiments towards my mom were more along the lines of "grrrr....you drive me crazy."   I know those feelings will pass, that I quite quickly will be regretting my impatience and rash behavior.   Eventually, we figure things out, and I restock on the fruits of the spirit that I seem to use up far more quickly than the produce in my refrigerator.

I suppose it's not that much different with mothers and daughters than husband and wives, sisters, brothers, or the other people who are the closest to us and whom we care about the most.  Just as they are the ones who love us the most, and whom we love the most, and who are the few that we can count on or turn to regardless of all things; they also are the ones with whom we tend to be the least tolerant, and the least understanding and patient.  Closest family and closest friends so often are the ones that treat us and that we treat the best, but they almost inevitably are the ones who have to see first hand the kind of messed-up and fragile people we really are.  That sometimes, despite the best intentions and the person who I want to be and like to think I am, I lose it, I act out of pride, fear, jealousy, insecurity, or frustration.

As this post winds to an end, my pendulum has fully swung back to "loving mom."  Indeed, it seems it always turns out that way, thankfully.  I am grateful for my mom, despite all the times that she aggravates or annoys me, I acknowledge that it probably doesn't even compare to the 36 years of aggravation and annoyances that I have given to her. 

These days I am far more attuned to the foibles and flaws of my mother (mainly because I observe them in myself) than I was as a youngster; but, I haven't strayed far from my grade school sentiments about my mother.  In grade school, I thought it was deceptive and wrong for Hallmark to make all of those cards with big medallions or ribbons on them saying "World's Greatest Mom," because greatest is a superlative and means there can only be one.  And at that time I truly believe that my mom was the greatest mom.  Now, I'm happy to know that my mom is indeed a great mom, but there are millions of wonderful moms out there, and that it is a good thing.  Competition and winning is not necessary in all things.  I hope that all moms are great, keep trying, and find the encouragement they need, and I hope that to every child, his or her mom, is the World's Greatest.  If it is not so, my wish for Mother's Day is that it would be, and that every mom would be able to have a big, cheesy, paper medallion on her vanity that told her that, at least in the eyes of her child, she really was the "World's Greatest Mom."   A little bit of sugary sweet post for my liking, but it's true.


 Today's Song:  Heart of Life by John Mayer.  http://tshallbetter.blogspot.com

To Thine Own Self Be True.

Today's the Kentucky Derby.  I'm not a huge fan of horseracing as a sport or enterprise.  But I am a fan of the hats.   And, I am a fan of racehorses, especially the ones that have adopted my ranch and lifestyle as their own! 

Meet Ichee and Ellie, two "retired" racehorses--Thoroughbreds--that I had the privilege of adopting when they were just over three years old.  Ichee is now eight and Ellie is seven.

My splendid stepfather, John Keegan, has been a little involved in the horseracing industry as a hobby. He owned a couple of racehorses, and he worked with a wonderful trainer, Doris Harwood, at Emerald Downs.  Through her, I learned that from time to time, wonderfully sound and smart horses that have been trained for racing just aren't winning enough to earn their keep and, as an investment, it just doesn't make sense to the owners to continue racing them. 

So, the horses need to find someone who will care for them and turn them into pasture pets or train them for uses other than competitive racing.   The horses found me.  And Atticus and I are so happy that they did.


Check out little Attie's tail!  We've got it wrapped because I accidentally shut it in the door.  I thought it was nothing til I noticed blood splattered all over my walls, and thought, "what on earth..."  He had a little cut and every time he wagged that long tail (which he does ALOT), blood spattered everywhere..   The bandage doesn't phase him. 
He still thinks he's a horse.

I adopted these guys with the goal of turning them into good "trailhorses."  And, that is just what I have done.  Well, maybe your typical quarter horse owner or cowboy might beg to differ, but for me, they are trailhorses.  Or at least, they are trailhorses when I (or they) want them to be trailhorses.

But, while they conform when they need to, at their core, they are racehorses, or rather, wild, hotblooded, free spirits, with spunk, attitude, spirit, and fight.  They remind me of this everyday as they pass time in the pasture. 

And, every year when we prepare for riding season, they remind me again:

It seems that they need to remind themselves, as much as me, that no matter how many fallen trees they maneuver, regardless of the number of rocky slopes they handle with nerves of steel, or the number of  plastic bags and grouse that appear out of nowhere without as much as a flinch from the horses, these horses are, at their core, bold, hotblooded, strong, fierce, unbridled and full of character.  Sure, they have learned the etiquette, and they know how I want them to behave, and they are willing to do it.  They might even enjoy it.  But, at their core, they are a bundle of power, grace and beauty balancing on four spindly legs, which they allow to be harnessed.

 I get that.  And it doesn't take long until they realize that I do.

Certainly not your conventional horseman logic.  I'm no trainer, and most of the wranglers and trainers and horsemen in these parts would think I'm an idealistic, sentimental, pansy who obviously knows nothing about horses.  But, that's okay.  I like imagining that there actually is a certain relationship or understanding between my horses and me.

Now's the time in this blog for me to bring it all together into a meaningful takeaway, but, well, I've got nothing.  I used Derby Day as an excuse to string together some words and photos about my horses.  The best I can do for now is this:  those horses, they are what they are, and they are not trailhorses; but, it is because they are what they are that they have become such wonderfully fun trailhorses.  A more eloquent writer (like Johann von Goethe) would say it something like this, perhaps: 

All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own. 

Maybe that doesn't mean quite the same thing as I was attempting, but, it's related.  Happy weekend.  My life (and my hat) are waiting for me outside!

Flying Lessons.

During the springtime, we often have families of geese and ducks and other water fowl passing through--spending a night or two out at the pond.  Our rates are high, and we have an annoying (at least for fowl) dog that likes to run circles around the pond so we are typically just a one or two night stopover, a B&B of sorts for them. 

But, it's been well over a month now that Atticus and I have been observing a little family of ducks on our pond.  This little family of ducks, and they do appear to be a family, with a mama duck, a papa duck, and two baby ducks, have taken a liking to us, or at least to our pond.  Mama and papa duck are loyal parents, devoted to one another and to their two offspring.  (That's my story, and nobody will convince me otherwise).

The other day, despite the cold temperature and lack of a zoom lens, we watched mama and papa duck teaching two little ducks how to fish, and fly, scoot and snorkel. (Again, this is my story).

 

 


Ah, learning.   Can anyone relate?

But, soldier on:

And soon enough (of course, when teacher wasn't looking):

Oh yeah.  I think I've got this!

All in good time, my friends.  

Today's Song: "Fly Me Away" by Annie Little. 

And, stay tuned... One of these days I will have photos of PEOPLE (who you may or may not know) in this blog.  I love people.  And, almost even more than people, I love PHOTOS of people, particularly candid photos.  People's faces, people doing silly things.  People when they don't know they are the subject of a photo. 

These days in the country office, my life tends to be surrounded more by books, electronics, and critters than by people.  (Certainly not a bad thing).  I admit that I am a little self-conscious about toting the camera along to the gatherings of potentially new "cool friends" who don't know me very well yet. (One would think that a "grown up" such as myself wouldn't care or shouldn't care what other people think, but old habits die hard).  And, while things are more low-key and casual in these parts than in the big City and the big firm, I just haven't been quite bold enough to pull out my camera at client meetings or professional gatherings--the other main events where I am likely to encounter people--and start snapping away.   I am getting bolder though...  Those ducks, they are inspiring me.  People on these pages there will be!  Soon.  Even if I have to resort to taking pictures of myself in the mirror or in my own shadow.

Ode to the Ordinary

This week was an ordinary week at my address.  No Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes (or even UPS) at the door, no hot air balloons in flight, dinner out, fancy outfits, or guests in town.  Not even a spectacularly warm, out-of-season sunny day, a road trip; no special flavoring in my coffee, just black with a touch of milk.  It was just normal.  But normal is good.  Indeed, "normal" is what the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, with their multimillion dollar nuptials, are seeking. 

So it was here, very normal, which means:

The wind blew. 

The sky was blue with clouds, ordinary, but magnificent.

We did morning chores.

On morning walks, Atticus did his usual crazed sprints through the neighbors' fields, searching for sparrows, voles, or whatever might want to play with him.

I did some work, billed some time, and spent plenty an unbilled hour answering questions over the phone about the water moratorium in these parts.

Dogs wrestled in the background while I worked.

Catcher lounged.

We made a few trips into town, to hit the Post Office, or pick up necessities such as water softener at Farm and Home.

Fixed a dripping faucet, knowing that another task will take its place next week on the "to do" list.  That's normal.  Always a "to do" list.  Cross one thing off, add another.

The horses grazed on the sweet sprouting spring grass, a welcome treat after a winter of hay, and Atticus raced the horses to the barn for oats.

We had our evening walks, with dogs sprinting after sparrows in the sunset or fetching sticks.

This is Riley, our house guest for the week.  We love him.

We caught ourselves enjoying a glass of water.  What could be more normal than that.  And, really, what could be much better?

Oh, there were the typical ups and downs and unanticipated events that are part of a normal week.  But it was a normal week, and I am aware of the treasure that it was.  Because normal does not involve battles with cancer, bombs and warfare, tornadoes, abuse, or mile long hikes to get less-than-clean water. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that my normal is boring, but it is not.  Normal rocks.   It's good.  Even miraculous.  And I will continue to remind myself of that.

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.  Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.  Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.  One day, I shall dig my nails into the earth or bury my face in the pillow or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return."

                                                                             ~Mary Jean Iron