Riders on Crane's Beach

Whatever the gait, the going on Crane's Beach in Horse Season (October 1st through March 31st) is mighty fine, and the region's riders make the most of it.

People hack out alone:



They ride out in pairs -- oh, what fun it is to ride the beach with a friend!





And they ride out in groups.





It's fun for the whole family (if the whole family rides):





Here are some favorite images from my photography forays. I love this pair -- the pony is such a sturdy, steady fellow.



Simultaneous nose-itches:



(This next one is now my horse! Given to me as a good home):



A pair who obviously trust each other very much:



Some of the horses find the water fascinating:



Synchronicity:





And finally, the gallop -- oh, yes, you've been waiting for the gallop, haven't you?

An odd thought while pushing a wheelbarrow

It was, I think, the third, perhaps fourth wheelbarrow load I'd pushed out from the barn to the manure pile. I was nearly there when a thought popped into my head:

"I feel better."

Just that: "I feel better."

I've been suffering from digestive problems for several months now. Stretches of decent health have alternated with stretches of more or less considerable misery. A colonoscopy is scheduled for mid-January to see what the heck is going on in there. In the last week the misery has ratcheted up and expanded its repertoire. Going once again from solid food to clear liquids , yogurt and jello, and starting a new course of ciprofloxacin has done little to relieve the current discomfort.

So the sudden irruption in my mind of "I feel better" was surprising. I thought about that thought as I dumped the wheelbarrow, returned to the barn and continued mucking. Given that the belly discomfort was still niggling at me, it seemed an odd thought. And yet, it felt right. I realized that, for the first time in a couple of days, I wasn't tending (or fighting the tendency) to hunch over protectively. Wasn't wholly wrapped in a dull fog of inward focus.

Now, some several hours later, I continue to feel as if a measure of misery has dissipated. Oh, there's still enough of it bubbling in my gut to tell me things are not right, but incremental progress is better than none, eh?

Ponies in the snow! Having fun!

A few days ago we here in Massachusetts had our first real snow of the winter, and when I put Ben (Thoroughbred in blanket) and Commander (Morgan) out the next day, they wasted no time in enjoying the fluffy white stuff. Ben waded about, nosing through the unblemished powder:



"What is this stuff?" (You'd think he'd know by now, having lived through 17 winters, but he's not the brightest bulb on the tree.) "How does it taste?"



Commander, having paused by the run-in to grab his usual mouthful of hay, headed out to see what all the excitement was.



Ignoring the silly Thoroughbred boinking about, he headed past...



...till he'd found just the right spot to drop...



... and roll, and wallow, and roll:



Ben decided that was a great idea.



Wheeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Wallow wallow wallow:



Wheeeeeeeee me too! Said Ben.



Shake it up, baby!



Feeling mighty fine!



"Hey, Ben -- you coming?"



"Comin' at ya!"



Yeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!



Shake it, baby!



Hey there, how ya doin?



There's something about playing in the snow that brings out the ATTITUDE in even the mildest-mannered of horses.



And so I leave you with one last ponypic, and wish you a happy holiday and an even happier new year.

The Pied Piper of Alprilla Farm

That would be me.

This afternoon I found Counterpoint and Cholla lazing about the run-in while Ben pecked at the triage paddock. After completing my chores and bug-spraying Ben I led him out to his field, unhaltered him, and watched him set to on the grass near the ring. The C-boys trickled out to the lane, where they nibbled at the overgrazed, table-flat grass nubbins.

I noticed that, while the near-house field and the far field at the end of the lane were closed off, it appeared that the left-turn alley at the end of the lane, leading to the farthest field, was open. Why didn't the grayboys go out there? Was it because they were staying near Ben? I resolved to do something about it.

Interlude: For those of you unfamiliar with the landscape of which I speak, herewith a visual aid, taken back in May, when Ben was in with the other two. To Counterpoint's left is Ben's little triage paddock; directly above him is the gate to Ben's field. Above that, across the field, you can see a gap in the far fence; that is the gateway which leads to the farthest field, when it's open to Ben's side of the complex. Toward the top right, at the end of the lane, rightward of where that solitary large bush sits, is the gateway to the C-boys' farther field, and the left-hand turn into the fenced-in alley leading to the farthest field. That alley can be gated shut near the Benside gate.

Got that? Good; then scroll below the photo and on with my tale.


So I went into the lane, halter and leadrope over my shoulder in case I had to persuade them to move along, and walked up to and past first Cholla, then Counterpoint, offering a greeting and a face rub as I passed; then, a length or two beyond the Herd King, I turned back, beckoned, and said "Come on."

Counterpoint came on. Cholla followed.

We three continued down the lane, me - a length; Counterpoint - a length; Cholla. I turned the corner out of the lane, wondering how long they'd stay with me. They kept coming. I walked the length of the alley, with them close behind. I walked out a few yards into the farthest field. They followed, with an expression of "Hey, look at all this tall grass! Who'da thunk?" and dropped their heads to gobble.

Ben, meanwhile, was horrified that we were all leaving him behind. He rushed up to the closed gate between his field and the farthest field, a look of "What? Wait! Where are you going?!?" on his face. Reassured by the sight of the C-boys grazing just beyond the fence, he dropped his head into a part of his field he had heretofore left ungrazed and set to mowing.

By the time I left some several minutes later, Cholla had grazed his way toward the center of the fresh field; Counterpoint was working his way along the edge of the ditch on the outer edge; and Ben's muzzle was buried in grass up close to the boundary.

Oh, by the way, here's a look at that same area in late July, after yet another of this dour summer's flooding rains:

My (not so) Little Pony's Spring Fling

There's a guy in my life I'm a devoted slave to. I serve his every need, fulfill his every whim, and gladly support his idle butt.

A very handsome butt, I might add, the culmination of 16.1 hands of beautiful bay Thoroughbred. He's aging (but then, so am I), not as spry as he used to be (ditto), and content to putter where once he galloped (ditto ditto). He's been my boy, my responsibility, my pride and joy, for eight years now. I board him at a friend's farm near my home and do the daily chores that horses demand. It's a lot of work, an unending commitment, and entails a fair amount of heavy lifting, but I wouldn't give it up for the world.

Besides the physical exercise, the mental refreshment is essential for my wellbeing. Taking time out from a deskbound occupation as a proofreader of often dry, dense, and tedious material to shovel real instead of metaphorical manure is a tonic for the soul. Mucking out a stall has multiple benefits: it leaves the mind free to ponder, in undistracted quiet, whatever that mind may wander to; it offers physical activity that tones the body without overwhelming an aging and creaky frame; and when it's done and the once-swamplike stall is clean and neat and Just. So. -- well, there's real satisfaction in that.

One of the pleasures of owning horses is watching them at liberty. Their behavior, as individuals and as part of a herd, is endlessly fascinating. Horses do not dissemble; once you can read their body language, you know what they're thinking, how they're feeling. Their wants and needs are simple, and easily met: Give them amicable companions, clean fresh water, a safe open space to move about, and good stuff to eat, and they are content. The transition from a winter diet of hay to the succulent new shoots of spring grass is a special treat for them, one which must be sparingly doled out at first lest they overindulge and make themselves sick. So when, this past spring, my Ben and his two companions had their first day out on grass, it was a joyous occasion.

The horses weren't let out into the fields themselves, as the new grass was still just poking its way up and could be ruined by too much traffic, to soon grazing. So the boys went out into what we call the lane, their access to the adjoining fields oncstraied by electric tape gates. Somehow, they managed to slake their hunger for GRASS!!!!



Ben, the bay, found plenty to occupy himself devouring. His grubby companion, Cholla (who never met a mud puddle he didn't like for rolling, wallowing, and generally filthifying himself) also dug in. Life was good.



The birds were happy to have the horses out on the grass, stirring up insects which our avian friends could gobble up. And yes, I have indeed seen birds perching on the horses' backs now and then.



There was just one teensy little problem in Paradise: Counterpoint, the Herd King, who considers it his duty to keep Ben and Cholla apart -- why, I don't know, since they got along fine when Himself isn't around -- felt compelled to rush over to break them up.



Ben, being no fool, fled.



Now, it's embarrassing enough to get rousted; but to have it happen in front of a snickering barn cat -- oh, the humiliation!



Nutmeg, the barn cat, proceeded to ROFLHAO.



Counterpoint, satisfied that Order Had Been Restored, turned away from his pursuit.



And so everyone got back to the business at hand: Eating. Eating GRASS.



Too soon, too soon, it was time to bring the horses in off the grass, to wait till tomorrow for their next feast. Was Ben wistful as he looked out over the once and again forbidden Paradise?

Hospice: My mother's story

My mother suffered terribly, without remit despite Fentanyl patches and other powerful painkillers, for much of the last few years of her life. Crippled by arthritis to a near-helpless mass of suffering flesh, wheelchairbound, dependent on portable oyxgen, her hearing and eyesight failing, her hands barely functioning; in and out of hospitals for a succession of crises that never quite carried her off; dependent on dozens of pills a day to go on, she spoke openly and with increasing urgency of wanting to die. Her mind was as sharp as her body was enfeebled; she knew exactly what her circumstances were. My three siblings and I didn't want to lose her but respected her right to decide for herself, at age 89, after one last hospitalization, that she wanted no more lifesaving interventions, that it was time to turn to hospice for their help in easing her last weeks of life.

Hospice was wonderful. The people we dealt with were kind, understanding, well-versed in what was needed -- for the soon-to-be-bereaved living as much as the soon-to-die -- and swiftly arranged all that was necessary for Mom to be liberated from the hospital and brought back to the assisted living that had been her home for the last decade. There, in her suite filled with the furnishings and mementos of her life; with her family at her side; with her devoted friends among both residents and staff in the facility coming to express their love, she had 24-hour nursing and, at her will, at the times of her choosing, enough morphine to ease -- finally! -- the bulk of the pain that had tormented her for so long.

She lingered for two weeks, sinking slowly but peacefully into the last sleep from which she never awakened. It was a kind and merciful and gentle death. Up until the last day or so Mom was conscious, kept her wits, knew what was going on, and was comforted by it. She looked forward not with resignation but with relief to the fast-approaching final sleep. We who were left behind had our grief greatly eased by seeing how kindly and gently she was eased on her final journey, a journey that was her choice. Hospice made sure we also had whatever resources we needed to cope with our loss.

And now, for mere money, for their own obscene profit, heartless scum dare to take the good name of hospice and drag it through muck of their own making; to spit upon the manifest good that hospice does; to denigrate purely for their own sick and twisted propaganda the kind hearts and generous souls and devoted labors of those whose only crime is that they stand in the way of the insurance industry juggernaut. They are contemptible, and anyone who knows the truth and willingly goes along with their scaremongering is equally contemptible.

On turning 60

Well, here it is. Another tenth-century of my life has passed. The earlier decade turns weren't all that bad; in fact, I wondered why people made such a kerfluffle about them. Waking up on the Big Day as age 30, say, or 40 even, wasn't such a big deal, didn't feel any different than 29 or 39.

The half-century mark was a bit discomforting, but not enough to knock me off my more or less even keel. Gray hair? I've had it since my 30s anyway, and now that the whole front half of the mop has silvered, it's such a pure white it's kind of cool actually. Health? Pretty good, all in all; no major worries. Life circumstances comfortable if not opulent, and no major regrets.

But today I am 60. Today I mark the day by going to have a Holter monitor applied for a 24-hour wearing to see why my premature ventricular contractions have been kicking up lately.* Today I feel arthritic twinges in my fingers. Today my knees remind me that they haven't forgiven me for the stress I've placed on them over the course of time. Today I contemplate the physique toting the mind around and ruefully concede that, no matter how many more pounds I patiently, ploddingly melt off, I will never, ever have back the figure of my youth. Or get rid of the old-person's neck.

Now, it's still not a bad life I've got going here. Other than the current internal fuss, my health overall remains good. Both sides of my family tree have demonstrated longevity. I have good friends, dear critter companions, and a satisfying daily round. My self-employment should be sufficiently recessionproof that my income and home won't be seriously threatened. All in all, I could be a helluva lot worse off.

Still............... FRAKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!! I'M FRAKKIN 60!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Odds are, it's a hiatal hernia which is gigging the vagal nerve which is triggering the PVCs -- bothersome, annoying, and at times downright uncomfortable but not lethal. Still, not good.