tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2033193662398102782024-02-19T06:01:46.513-06:00The Horse Dad... muck rakes and musings ... from the barn and beyond ...The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-50329214243001611462012-07-22T07:04:00.000-05:002012-07-22T07:04:30.273-05:00Comfort and Peace<br />
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The barn where our oldest took her first truly serious
riding lessons sat back a ways off the highway, not a necessarily immaculate
place but highly functional. The indoor
arena was especially appreciated when the cold weather hit – late October,
early November. As winter progressed and
things got seriously cold, even the barn could not completely shield from the
shivers. It would still get
frosty-breath cold inside the large structure.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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There was an outdoor arena, too, as I recall. You could hear the traffic from there. Or watch the planes fly over on their way to
or from the major airport just to the north.
I recall nice views of the mountains on the western horizon as you drove
to the place, but I don’t remember being wowed by those same sweeping vistas
once on the property. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Christie was a great instructor, seeming to take a special
interest in our gal. But then, I think
she probably took a special interest in all the kids who demonstrated a genuine
love for horses, learning and having fun along the way.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3Fi1I53GBT6vVjshIsy4AQNKPdQFA1cIxHTflniMpzR8ARlW-EyzCvNVKZFJUl7XlYufw_lvEGzfDB9Y6lx2c2XzZiVZf1XIPUUIvE4jSUgZbAz0_5_OKu3jm1jxq2YoyGAbQ30lh_0/s1600/us+co+flags+half+staff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3Fi1I53GBT6vVjshIsy4AQNKPdQFA1cIxHTflniMpzR8ARlW-EyzCvNVKZFJUl7XlYufw_lvEGzfDB9Y6lx2c2XzZiVZf1XIPUUIvE4jSUgZbAz0_5_OKu3jm1jxq2YoyGAbQ30lh_0/s1600/us+co+flags+half+staff.jpg" /></a>That barn stands about five miles from the Century 16
Theatre, where the senseless killing and injuring of so many early Friday
morning has changed things forever for so many:
The families and friends of the deceased. The wounded and their loved ones. Those who escaped the theater without a
physical scratch. The surrounding community
members. All of us, in one manner or
another.</div>
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When something like this happens, there is so much to say …
and yet there is a struggle for words … and words you dare not utter. When I think of folks – kids most of them,
really – out having a good time or engaging in the everyday rituals of life
just an instant before tragedy strikes, my mind draws up recollections of the
Fort Worth church shooting, the Texas A&M Bonfire tragedy, the Hill Country
church camp flood of so many years ago.
And certainly Columbine. The
swiftness with which so many lives were changed forever in the relatively brief
moments of those incidents is frightening.
And I really don’t even want to think about that. The unimaginable. </div>
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All I want to do is pray that God’s comfort and peace
embrace the good folks of <st1:city w:st="on">Aurora</st1:city>
and the many across the country and around the world who are changed forever by
the events of the past several days. Amen.</div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-18027874841242447712012-06-09T08:06:00.000-05:002012-06-09T08:06:45.863-05:00A Tremendous Machine<br />
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As he watched the 1973 Belmont Stakes unfold before him and
sought to describe the action to a national television audience, veteran sports
announcer Chic Anderson was grasping for superlatives to describe the dominant
performance of Secretariat. “… Like a
tremendous machine …” <st1:city w:st="on">Anderson</st1:city>
barked as the three-year-old extended his historic lead to 12 lengths going
into the final turn, an unfathomable margin that would explode to 31 lengths by
the time the horse crossed the finish line.</div>
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The suspicion here is that few horse lovers – then or now –
would choose the term “machine” to describe Big Red. Whether shaped by the undeniable, real-time euphoria
of that Triple Crown run almost 40 years ago – yes, I’m old enough to remember
it – or perhaps kindled by the recent movie that allowed so many to relive or
live for the first time the story of Secretariat, I think it is fair to say that
in the eyes of multitudes, the horse was more majestic than mechanical.</div>
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And yet the venerable <st1:city w:st="on">Anderson</st1:city>
can be forgiven if he simply ran out of ways to illustrate the spectacle playing
out in front of the sports world that early summer of ’73. Secretariat then – just like Secretariat now
– held us spellbound. What did I know at
the time of the equestrian world? Still,
I would find myself sketching the blue-and-white checkerboard pattern of Ron
Turcotte’s racing silks on my school bookcovers well into the following Fall. </div>
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There have been two Triple Crown winners since Secretariat’s
run to glory, Seattle Slew in 1977 and Affirmed in 1978. Even coming at a time when I was arguably
more attuned to the broader sports enterprise, those late ’70s achievements
never etched themselves upon my consciousness in the manner of Secretariat’s earlier
feat. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cS4f6wiQJh4" target="_blank">Watching his record-setting run inthe Belmont</a>
remains spine-chilling this many years later.
Our oldest, who had a grandson of Secretariat as her beloved riding
partner for a period of time, claims she cannot watch it without crying.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ll Have Another’s scratch from today’s race in <st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place> adds an
unfortunate twist to the lore and the lure of the Triple Crown. Eleven other horses since Affirmed have won
the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness only to be denied victory in the <st1:city w:st="on">Belmont</st1:city>. Perhaps that underscores the truly
extraordinary achievement by those rare horses who have claimed the prize. I just know that, for me, Secretariat’s grand
run that summer long ago remains ageless and solidly embedded at the pinnacle
of athletic accomplishment.</div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-69556302622904685552012-06-01T08:13:00.002-05:002012-06-01T14:37:48.004-05:00Achievements<br />
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The close of another school year punctuates thoughts about
the hastened pace of the passage of time.
If you are a parent, I am sure your share that feeling with me at some
level. The achievements of our children
– highlighted as they tend to be this time of year – produce a satisfying sense
of accomplishment even as they underscore the rapid move from Kindergarten to
Commencement.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Even the (surprisingly quick) process of culling still-fresh
materials gathered from the year just past is an indicator of accomplishment
and the movement of time. “Dad,” I hear
from the next room, “do you want to keep my <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state> history notes?” No, those can be recycled. Just retain the knowledge.</div>
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Achievement is also evident in the equestrian arena. Earlier this week, I watched from up the hill
as our two girls participated in a jumping lesson. No one else in the lesson, just our two
kids. I think what struck me deepest as
I watched them alternate on courses either they or their instructor defined was
how elegantly and how proficiently they perform something that I am completely
and utterly unable to do. Flying over
jumps. Speeding toward the next
one. Horse and kid (almost always) in
sync. That is really cool! </div>
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<br /></div>
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If we were talking about hitting a golf ball or returning a
tennis serve, I could hold my own in the endeavor (note, no claim here of
elegance or proficiency). But in the
equestrian arena, it is all them: their
desire to excel, their enjoyment of the sport that so few of their friends
understand, their love of their animals.
It is really fun to watch. And
even in the face of setbacks, it continues to be a real blessing.</div>
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I have a friend whose son is the “screamer” in a fledgling
screamo/rock band (I’m not making this up) and even as distant as this is from
my friend’s own background, his pride in and support for his son just bubbles
forth ever time we talk about it. The
achievements of our kids – whatever form they may take – bring to us this
interesting sense of accomplishment-by-association, I guess. Perhaps especially so if we find ourselves
watching their talents unfurl and wondering, “Now, where did that come
from?” </div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-37459441929447533982012-05-07T08:31:00.000-05:002012-05-07T08:32:26.437-05:00Signs<br />
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Are you old enough to remember that song by the Five Man
Electrical Band: “Signs, signs,
everywhere a sign? …” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Our youngest likes to make signs and write notes, which we
find periodically in various places around the house. Most recently, I walked into the kitchen to
find a hand-scribbled note on the countertop:
DO NOT TOUCH it pleaded in big, bold letters. Beside it was the body of a <a href="http://www.breyerhorses.com/" target="_blank">Breyer</a> gelding,
its broken leg surgically repaired thanks to modern adhesive science.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A couple of weeks earlier, one of her class assignments
involved making a sign as part of a graphics unit in Computer Technology. She was proud to bring that one home and
display it on the refrigerator door: “Help
Wanted: My Sister Has Issues.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Then there is the note I discovered not long ago as I was
headed out of town for a series of meetings.
I kept it in my briefcase and re-discovered it again the other day. It made me all warm and misty-eyed initially
and it does every time I read it:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jokBkXBwcMnfTZKVRpCKzlrG8LLPVgemJDBsbXoW-e_aIbrgQgl5Gs9MbDTgbj6lqVHNr_U0pa3onN-6LEcv0R6gOO8M5jDamIxzGXqk2VFr23HaltXtvmlo1RsbzMDINHwX72U0bS0/s1600/sbbletter+4-12+70.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jokBkXBwcMnfTZKVRpCKzlrG8LLPVgemJDBsbXoW-e_aIbrgQgl5Gs9MbDTgbj6lqVHNr_U0pa3onN-6LEcv0R6gOO8M5jDamIxzGXqk2VFr23HaltXtvmlo1RsbzMDINHwX72U0bS0/s320/sbbletter+4-12+70.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’m funny and I’m weird.
That is an assessment I can certainly live with. And the first time I read the “sooooo” I
actually thought it was 500,000. Half a
million reasons! Wow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve got at least half a million right back at you, darling,
‘cause you’re funny and weird, too. I
love you.<br />
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-15797320943154424652012-04-19T07:58:00.000-05:002012-04-19T07:58:57.455-05:00The Three-Year-Old<br />
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In the context of the equestrian world, the term
“three-year-old” conjures up images of lightening-fast animals flying around an
oval track, magnificent hats and minted drinks, “and down the stretch they
come.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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In my own horse dad world, “three-year-old” calls back
memories of stick-horse rodeos in the den, complete with flag-bearers,
precision riders and Marshall Tucker’s “Long Hard Ride” blaring in the
background. Innocent. Fun.
Cherished. All on video, certain
to surface at a rehearsal dinner someday.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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My thoughts are heavy now with word of another
three-year-old. A child I’ll never
meet. A girl on the other side of the
world. An innocent one who may or may not
even know what a stick horse is. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My guess is she only wanted to play. Or eat, perhaps. Or sleep.
Instead, she was trapped in the middle of combating forces. And injured to the point of needing medical
attention. Stat! </div>
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She was delivered into the capable hands of a compassionate surgeon
who I know spared no measure of skill to help her heal. He works on kids all the time – kids whose
body armor saves their lives but whose lives will never be the same. Rarely – never? – does he look down to see a
three-year-old – a baby really – lying before him on the operating table. This doctor was all business, I know he was. I can imagine him wincing just briefly at the
horror of it. And quickly, silently praying
for this child. Praying, too, for his
own children. Then, his unparalleled
training and gifts take over. Sewing on
faith, as he puts it. All business.</div>
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She received the best possible care, this
three-year-old. I pray she knows what a
stick horse is. And I pray she will be
back on hers soon.</div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-32930353837564741342012-04-05T06:18:00.000-05:002012-04-05T06:18:41.207-05:00The Alternate Route<br />
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Artist Jim Franklin gained notoriety in the 1970s for his
drawings promoting the legendary <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Austin</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state></st1:place>, music venue Armadillo
World Headquarters. <st1:city w:st="on">Franklin</st1:city>’s posters and handbills often
featured the curious little armored critters in curiously disarming situations.</div>
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One of my favorite <st1:city w:st="on">Franklin</st1:city>’s
was titled “<st1:street w:st="on">Alternate Route</st1:street>,”
a pen-and-ink drawing set along an innocuous, two-lane byway. It depicted a stream of armadillos leaping
from one side of the road, arching high above it, and landing safely on the
other side. If you have ever paid
attention to the regularity with which these creatures meet their demise on the
asphalt ribbons that bisect their habitat, you can appreciate the hopeful theme
of <st1:city w:st="on">Franklin</st1:city>’s artistry. (If you happen to be an armadillo, I would
imagine the humble drawing takes on da Vinci-like significance.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EELXpLJXifYcFS7-QUquBgmUvgFXIQaM3fJeQacMlxSeyYVv6BplazyMEgwEugEirOH_MNrcC1K7G7u-brvMfIlPUY_79PpiapffzmODndD9MdP0WkAzVVmBHTD4U2nu6DkgNRtsfrE/s1600/armadillo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EELXpLJXifYcFS7-QUquBgmUvgFXIQaM3fJeQacMlxSeyYVv6BplazyMEgwEugEirOH_MNrcC1K7G7u-brvMfIlPUY_79PpiapffzmODndD9MdP0WkAzVVmBHTD4U2nu6DkgNRtsfrE/s320/armadillo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A variation on Franklin's autos-vs-armadillos theme.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As my family would readily affirm, I have an affinity for
the alternate route. I’m given to
traveling to a destination on one course and returning home a different, often
more complex way. While I don’t
recommend the alternate route when pulling a horse trailer – the path of least
resistance and widest traffic lanes is best suited for those occasions – I
believe there is a lot to be said for veering off the beaten path at other
times. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Recently, instead of retracing a three-hour, straight-shot
interstate trip, I decided to meander home on an alternate route. More stop lights and more head-on traffic, to
be sure. But also a great deal more to
experience in what has quickly blossomed into a verdant spring season. The wildflowers were spectacular. With the sun angling toward the horizon,
colors and shadows made a marvelous display as horses grazed in rolling
fields. The pace and the peace were
welcome companions. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Next time you get the chance, give the alternate route a
try. </div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-71202451084057689552012-03-30T22:24:00.000-05:002012-03-30T22:24:03.888-05:00Find Your PATH<br />
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If you ever find yourself doubting the value of your
family’s involvement with horses, you might want to go spend a little time
with a therapeutic riding center near you.
In fact, I’m going to recommend that you do something that I need to
do: volunteer a little time helping out
as a side walker or some other role at the center.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recently had the honor of meeting Molly Sweeney, the 2011
recipient of the USEF/EQUUS Foundation Humanitarian Award. Wow, what a lady! All of us rightly believe our grandmother is
the best grandmother in the world. Let
me just tell you, Molly’s grandkids really have something to crow about.</div>
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Molly has devoted a good portion of her life to helping
build and sustain <a href="http://sire-htec.org/" target="_blank">SIRE, Houston’sTherapeutic Equestrian Centers</a>. Beyond
that, she has been active with <a href="http://www.pathintl.org/" target="_blank">PATH International</a>, the national accrediting
organization for therapeutic riding centers.
And she is a founder and board member of the <a href="http://www.horsesandhumans.org/index.html" target="_blank">Horses & Humans Research Foundation</a>. The goal of that
organization is to advance research into the broad beneficial effects of
equine-assisted activities and therapies.
We’re talking wounded warriors. Folks young and not-so-young with learning
disabilities. People diagnosed with autism,
Down syndrome, cerebral palsy, stroke, spinal cord injury, and much more. </div>
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Molly, who credits her horse granddad with influencing her passion, has done all sorts of riding – for competition
and for pleasure – all over the world.
She is about as deserving an award recipient as I can imagine. </div>
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If your family is being enriched by its involvement with
horses, figuring out a way to support <a href="http://www.pathintl.org/path-intl-centers/find-center" target="_blank">your nearby therapeutic riding center</a>
might be a good way to express a little appreciation for that blessing. Just a thought.</div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-21804751645614691102012-03-22T08:58:00.001-05:002012-03-22T08:58:48.041-05:00Freedom<br />
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Archie, the <u>bay</u> gelding, decided to take a late
afternoon stroll earlier this week. His
stall door was open, after all. And the
wheelbarrow that customarily blocks the exit while his owner works her cleansing
magic with the muck rake? Well, it must
have been situated so that there was enough of a gap for Archie to morph into a
truly hairy Houdini.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grass is tall out at the barn right now. What horse would not be lured by its green goodness? As a row of stabled mates looked on with
unbridled envy, Archie grazed and roamed and grazed some more. First on the good stuff that grows right up
against the barn, where moisture dripping off the roof assures some sort of
crop even in the hottest part of summer.
Then a couple of lengths away from the barn. In the seconds that passed before his owner
noticed his escape, Archie had made his way out into the open, grassy area that
separates the barn from the riding arena.</div>
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The young owner, mumbling something about how embarrassing this
was, grabbed a halter and lead rope and made her move toward her “baby boy.” But Archie was having none of it. Each time she got within a couple of steps of
him, the gelding moved away and munched some more. Soon, other youngsters dropped what they were
doing and joined the low-key bronco chase. Archie,
noting the increased interest in his liberated state, darted to another, more
verdant corner of the field. He ate some
more. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The posse grew in number.
More lead ropes. Peppermint
treats were unveiled. Carrots. Handfuls of grass. (Hmmmmm? There is a field
full of grass here and our horse-on-the-lam is going to hit on this bait?) Each time the throng got close, Archie would
take off in a different direction. The
manner of it all made the Keystone Kops look like the Bolshoi Ballet. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, a loose horse is nothing to be taken lightly; everyone
was fortunate in this case that most of the horses were put up for the evening,
no one was riding down in the arena, and so on.
Still, it was hard not to smile at the vision of Archie enjoying his
freedom and the determination of his young pursuers. Finally, one of them rattled a feed
bucket. Archie’s ears perked up, the
quick-thinking captor was able to get close and secure a handful of mane. The incident came to a peaceful close. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Question: What feed
buckets are you listening to that are limiting your liberation?</div>
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<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-9946445753624820002012-03-17T08:40:00.002-05:002012-03-17T08:40:23.879-05:00What's in a Name<br />
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One of our dear friends just bought a new horse, a good
looking gelding paint that came with the name <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Waco</st1:place></st1:city>.
Not a bad name, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Waco</st1:place></st1:city>,
in my estimation. Any city that just
produced the reigning Heisman Trophy winner can’t be all bad, right? </div>
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<br /></div>
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But <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Waco</st1:place></st1:city>
was not a name the paint’s new owner was able to warm up to. In an effort to assist, a herd of alternate
names was quickly rounded up by the local experts. Several bold suggestions did not survive the
first cut, however, because of a theory endorsed around these parts that says a
horse adopts a behavior associated with its name. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In other words, according to those who live under my roof
and spend more time with horses than I do, “Buddy” is indeed a great pal of a
horse. The name just fits. “Natural
Disaster” was, they say, a big ol’ accident-waiting-to-happen kind of
horse. And so on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if I fully buy into the theory or not. But I have noticed that some horse names can
spur me to certain behaviors on a regular basis. When we participate in evening bring-in at
the barn, for example, Lilly the crazy-eyed mare can almost always count on me yammering
like Harvey Korman in Blazing Saddles as I slip the halter around her
neck: “Lilly, Lilly, Lilly.” I’m able to readily identify <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Walker</st1:place></st1:city>, the black gelding with two white socks,
because a walker needs socks, right? And
for reasons I’m sure would justify professional help, I find myself slipping
into Edith Bunker voice each time I go out to bring in the chestnut gelding,
Archie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose there is a chance that this
horse-portrays-its-name theory holds some validity. If so, I opined on the way to the barn
recently, I’ve got the perfect name for our next horse. A name that would make stall clean-up fun and
profitable. Poops Gold Nuggets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our friend, by the way, decided to name her new paint
Hank. Outstanding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-57109853966347175772012-03-10T15:34:00.001-06:002012-03-10T15:34:58.145-06:00Daylight Saddle Time<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spring forward. Even
as a damp and chilly day persists where we are, tonight is the night we leap
into a fresh, new phase, surrendering an hour of sleep so that we can enjoy a
season of extended evening light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around our house, that means increased time with horses,
extra moments to spend with friends at the barn, and a general sense that the
rhythm of life as we like it best has awakened from hibernation. Daylight Saddle Time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a time of year when work around the house gets put off
(more readily than normal) and time at the barn is relished. Occasionally, after lessons and barn chores,
a tailgate picnic – fried chicken or pizza or sausage and cheese – allows for bonus
time out where the horses live. On those
evenings, the sun will drop below the horizon and there will still be enough of
a chill in the air that no one is particularly eager to leave for the comforts
of home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From my perspective, these times are best enjoyed with the
assistance of a couple of things: a good lawn chair and a sharpened sense of
observation. Take note of the
interaction between kids and animals.
Enjoy the magnificent dance of the sky – the early spring choreography
of Jupiter and Venus. Pay attention to
the sounds and the aromas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In his masterful book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Limestone-Ledge-Essays-Ruminations-Country/dp/0870744852" target="_blank">From a Limestone Ledge</a>, in a chapter
titled <i>Noticing</i>, John Graves writes
“… in surroundings that you care for and have chosen, you use eyes, ears, nose, taste buds and
whatever other aids you can muster for reception. You notice.
And in noticing, you live.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-62047237188805608592012-03-05T17:07:00.000-06:002012-03-05T17:07:18.435-06:00Dads: Never Do This<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For whatever reason, this morning’s Internet-recommended
reading included a recycled Woman’s Day article titled “Top Ten Things Husbands
Should Never Do.” The (far-from-exhaustive) list included such nuggets as, “Never Give a Home Appliance as a
Gift” (well, duh …) and “Never Brag About Your Driving” (look, if it’s the
truth, it’s not bragging …)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The piece got me to thinking that there surely must be a
comparable list of things a horse dad should never do. For example:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>5. Never turn your back on a young, energetic
mare.</b> Once while bringing in horses
from the mare paddock, I made the mistake of giving a two-year-old too much
lead rope. She got excited when some
other horses in the field started to frolic in the evening breeze and she flat bowled
me over in her attempt to join in the merriment. I got up, made sure no one was looking, dusted
myself off and was just thankful I did not catch a hoof in the back of the
head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>4. Never pick a horse’s hooves.</b> Leave that to the experts. I’m told there’s frogs in there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>3. Never try to act like you know when a rider
is on the wrong diagonal.</b> It is
easier to identify the nuances of the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tampa</st1:place></st1:city>
2 defense from the comfort of your couch than to spot an errant riding position
even when you are sitting right by the arena.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>2. Never buy a saddle
off eBay.</b> Trust me on this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1. Never use any barn
implement smaller than a muck rake.</b>
Nothing good can come from you having a riding crop in your hands. We’ve already mentioned the need to avoid
hoof picks. And for Pete’s sake, even uranium-rattling
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is a more stable situation than you with a worming syringe in your possession.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure there are at least five more things horse dads
should never do, but I don’t know what they are. Perhaps you do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-37404530395571533652012-02-29T14:28:00.000-06:002012-02-29T19:17:31.156-06:00Taking the Leap in Stride<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pope Gregory XIII is credited with having created the
concept we now call Leap Year in the 1500s as way to balance the calendar and
keep all of us on schedule. How has that
been working out for you? Personally, I
think it is interesting to ponder – from the Horse Dad’s perspective – what things
might be like the next time February 29 rolls around. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that I’m one inclined to fast-forward through life. I can <i>carpe
diem</i> as good as the next guy. Still,
it is true that the period between today and February 29, 2016, holds the
potential for significant change as it relates to our family’s interaction with
horses and the people who love them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By that point, for example, our oldest will be well along
her path in continued pursuit of equestrian goals. What will that look like and what will her
course have been up to then? What will
be the name of the horse she is riding?
Our youngest will be situated in school where our oldest is now. What will her Ribbon Quest have yielded by
then? Will her Buddy – four years older – still be her mount or will he be enjoying the lush paddocks of a
well-deserved retirement? What will folks
be paying for a round bale? A gallon of
diesel? The mind races.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we will slow our stride here a bit. Back down to an easy lope. Enjoy this sunny day and say a prayer for
those across the country hit by darker skies.
Happy birthday, <a href="http://www.billyturnerracing.com/index.shtml" target="_blank">Billy Turner</a>, and happy trails to all.<br />
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-39417940657052844082012-02-26T21:54:00.001-06:002012-02-26T21:54:24.319-06:00An Act of Kindness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weekend was jammed wall-to-wall with activities. Friday evening was devoted to serving meals with
a ministry that feeds hungry folks under a downtown bridge. Early Saturday morning, we were to kick off a
day-long garage sale designed to allow us to see our garage floor again. Saturday evening held an invitation to a
community-wide event to support a beloved charity. And somewhere in there, I needed to study up
for the lesson I was to teach to the 11<sup>th</sup>-12<sup>th</sup> grade class
on Sunday morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, a Thursday night wind storm toppled one of the large, draught-stricken
trees in our yard. Just great. I was not exactly counting on this looming,
additional burden. I needed to get the
issue resolved ASAP and I would have to go buy a chainsaw in order to do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But at some point Friday, word arrived that my wife’s
friend’s father had seen our downed tree and was eager to help me take care of
it. Saturday afternoon, like the cavalry
coming over the hill, Mike pulled up in our driveway, chainsaw at his
side. He went straight to work with an
“Eat My Sawdust” approach to the task. I
hustled to keep pace clearing the limbs as he trimmed. Before he left, our conversation around the
tailgate of his truck uncovered the fact that Mike is a horse dad
emeritus. His sweet daughter Amy, now
grown and raising a family of her own, once was an accomplished dressage
competitor. Mike was well steeped in
both the joy of equestrian endeavors and some of the heartache. Isn’t that something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cannot thank Mike enough for his helping hand and his
ready chainsaw. Some folks look at a
downed tree and see an afternoon shot to heck, a whole lot of unanticipated
work, and a twist of angst about the neighborhood bulk trash pick-up having
concluded a week earlier. Folks like
Mike look at a downed tree and see firewood. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-60305052328799626622012-02-19T07:21:00.000-06:002012-02-19T07:21:14.370-06:00Tack Locker Envy<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tack locker: that
humble container contemplated by but a select few, overlooked or
underappreciated by most, and discounted by many who even stop consider it in
the first place as a simple utilitarian cube of modest purpose and varying
dimensions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for the truly enlightened among us, those capable of embracing
the full majesty of the free-standing tack locker, there is shared set of
characteristics that make possible this higher level of appreciation: at least one bruised thumbnail, a vehicle
console littered with Home Depot receipts, and one or more children who are
firm in their conviction that their world will contain a void bigger than the
empty space in front of their stall unless and until you fill it with your woodworking
wizardry – to their specs, if you please.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today’s marketplace holds a vast array of beautiful tack
trunks and lockers – works of art really – made by skilled craftsmen. But I’m not referring here to those
impressive masterworks of mahogany and maple. No, I’m talking about the unassuming, homemade
tack locker: a small forest of 2x4s and plywood, a rough paint job conforming
to “my colors,” and an unwavering testament to function over form. Our barn has seen a rapid expansion of this
type of tack locker up and down its center aisle in recent years. Horse dads with hammers … it is a beautiful
thing to behold. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQsOCbDDKP2IU6uP2nkJp3phUw2QEu6q7qYHLSYhZekWvUS4Q7gG7kI1ZkXUeCk94-5m42hQEBV5m0rjdKklgg7Vrw_UOkXzGrRRF-1omgoRIWY9kPGsMeIU96V9C_OQBRgrWkanxJAs/s1600/tack+locker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQsOCbDDKP2IU6uP2nkJp3phUw2QEu6q7qYHLSYhZekWvUS4Q7gG7kI1ZkXUeCk94-5m42hQEBV5m0rjdKklgg7Vrw_UOkXzGrRRF-1omgoRIWY9kPGsMeIU96V9C_OQBRgrWkanxJAs/s320/tack+locker.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The second tack locker of my limited career.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course in a setting such as this, the hobbling effect of tack
locker envy is an ever-present consideration.
Though I have built three lockers (two for our daughters … I swore I’d
never build another … and one for one of their adult friends at the barn), I
will confess to wandering eyes each time a new box hits the ground. I still recall the sense of inadequacy I felt
when fellow horse dad Ray placed his grand handcrafted creation – the Tack
Mahal – in the barn a few years ago. At
least its immense shadow shields one of my lockers from the punishing rays of
the sun, I rationalized at the time. More
recently, another family at the stable installed the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Tack</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place> at each end of the barn. This resulted in many envious gazes skyward
and palpable tremors at the thought of saddle racks reaching to the heavens. Amazing stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, here’s a tip of the cap to the homemade tack locker and
to those whose best horsemanship involves a sawhorse. Nice job, gents. Two (chronically bruised) thumbs up! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-42932541970945482512012-02-14T10:05:00.000-06:002012-02-14T10:07:02.210-06:00A Love Affair with Horses<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spending part of this Valentine’s Day considering on the
love affair with horses that blossoms under our roof and reflecting on how it
all began …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When our oldest daughter was not yet in grade school, we
would frequently take her to the <a href="http://fortworthtexas.gov/publicevents/wrmc/" target="_blank">Will Rogers Complex in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Fort Worth</st1:place></st1:city></a>, where it seems there was a horse
show of some variety every other weekend.
Taking in the sights of the show arena and meandering up and down the
aisles of the barns really set a sparkle in our kid’s eye. Invariably, with the safety disengaged on her
blonde hair and cute smile, our budding cowgirl would find her way up onto the
back of someone’s pony. Little did I
know how much free admission would really cost …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember going to a rodeo where our gal would hang on the
rail and encourage the barrel racers at the top of her lungs: “Go!
Go! Go!” Soon, she and her
younger sister were performing their own stick-horse rodeos in our den: flag bearers, speed events, even horse
judging. Every now and then, we drag out
those old videos and enjoy a full-family laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At an age when her boots were still pointing skyward while
sitting atop a horse, the oldest began taking lessons in a Western saddle. Her
interest grew. With an eye toward
deepening her horsemanship, her mother soon enrolled her in English
lessons. The promise always was that she
could return to Western upon gaining proficiency in the fundamentals, but once
she got a glimpse of jumping, her course was set. And our youngest, who as we have previously
established here was raised in a barn, was similarly drawn to the English
disciplines; although, she recently took her first barrel riding lesson. How about that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often joke (I think it is a joke …) that I tried to
promote swimming as an interest and athletic pursuit for our children. When, after all, was the last time you needed
a trailer to haul a pair of goggles to a swim meet? Alas, it was the horses who captured the
hearts of our children and helped write at least a chapter – if not a volume –
of our family’s life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy trails and happy Valentine’s Day.<br />
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-18849132189158051722012-02-09T21:18:00.001-06:002012-02-10T06:41:48.118-06:00Faithful Support<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;">“If
you’re like most horse lovers, your dad didn’t always understand your obsession
with horses,” an unattributed article in a 2008 issue of Horse Illustrated
begins, “but he faithfully supported it in some fashion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;">The
article, written in advance of Fathers Day that year, goes on to list several profiles
that readers might use to define the various relationships involving father,
child and horse. For example, the <b>Hands-On Dad</b> is more adept with a
hammer than a hackamore and is often welcome at the barn for his handyman
qualities. Need a bridle rack installed?
This is your guy. The <b>Voice of Reason Dad</b> freely dispensed advice,
such as why you should consider financing your auto purchase by selling your
horse. Hey, the article did not claim the
advice would be welcome. The <b>Born in the Saddle Dad</b> is a horseman
himself, capable in the saddle and trusted in all doings. And the <b>Check
Signing Dad</b>, well, that is self-explanatory and probably defines all
willing Horse Dads to one degree or another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;">Readers
were invited to share thoughts about their fathers and how the whole horse
thing fit into the equation. Online
comments filled almost a dozen pages, the last one I noticed being posted
sometime in July 2011. Talk about a
topic with legs! The comments range in
emotional impact from smile-inducing to tear-jerking; many could be the subject
of an entire post here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;">I
don’t know about fitting neatly into any of the profiles above, but I try to
position myself as a supportive father, not always meeting the mark and
certainly not always in touch with my children’s passion. But I can sense that passion and I recognize it
as wholesome and deeply valuable. How
about you? </span></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-55343006351593233792012-02-06T06:24:00.001-06:002012-02-06T06:26:19.237-06:00Watch This<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You have experienced it.
Or you will. It takes many forms
but it happens fast: Our youngest is
growing up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, she and a group of friends made plans to attend
the seventh grade dance. Yikes! Before being whisked off to the school gym
for the evening, a half dozen or so young ladies gathered in our living room
for the obligatory photo session. Digital
technology, of course, has eliminated all the needless waiting: There in the photo is our baby, elegant in
her dazzling dress, specially coiffed hair and the … wait … what is THAT?! On her wrist?! With a face rivaling Big Ben in circumference
and enough neon orange to open a small traffic cone factory, it’s … it’s … her
eventing watch!! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve just got to love it.
No dainty wrist accessory for this one.
She truly was raised in a barn, after all, dragged along in the car seat
to all of her older sister’s earliest riding lessons. There is no question that she is comfortable
in her own skin-tight riding breeches. If
I’m granted the necessary life and breath, I will stand next to her one day –
arm-in-arm we will survey the assembled crowd before beginning the long walk
down the aisle toward her groom – and I won’t be at all surprised to look down
to see a pair of riding chaps peeking out beneath her flowing white dress. It happens fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have an optimum time at the dance, my young beauty.<br />
<br /></div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-24053109574706268392012-02-03T06:16:00.000-06:002012-02-03T06:16:05.335-06:00Super Weekend<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, Horse Dads, even on Super Bowl weekend, when the
nation’s collective attention turns to the pigskin, it is possible to get a
little horsey, isn’t it? If you are like
me, you are at a point where you can’t handle another in-depth analysis of
Gronkowski’s ankle. You have long since
grown weary of the debate about who history will judge to be the better Manning
(I need to find a way to let go of my concern for Cooper’s psyche …). Soon the queso will be made, the beer will be
on ice, and you’re already good-to-go in the office pool that tries to predict
the exact timing and nature of Madonna’s inevitable malfunction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is time for a little horse mascot trivia. Since the NFL has only two teams whose
mascots are equine in nature – the host city’s Indianapolis Colts and the
Denver Broncos (more on them in a minute) – our quick quiz will focus on the
collegiate gridiron. Simply match the
school with the live horse mascot (no costumed imposters here, my friend) and
be prepared to impress your Super Bowl party crowd:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state> Tech a. Traveler</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Southern <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cal</st1:place></st1:state> b. Peruna</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Oklahoma</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">State</st1:placetype></st1:place> c.
Midnight Matador</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. SMU d. Bullet</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While you mull this over, I’ll share a recollection about
the time I had the privilege of being up-close with the Denver Broncos’ beautiful
white Arabian, Thunder. I was at a
charitable event called <a href="http://www.uch.edu/about/ways-to-give/foundation-events/men-for-the-cure-2011/" target="_blank">Men for the Cure</a> in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city>. Philanthropist Sharon Magness Blake,
the mascot’s owner, rode into the assembled crowd atop her magnificent mount. Old Glory was waving from the flagpole she
displayed from the saddle and Lee Greenwood was singing “I’m Proud to be an
American.” Not a recording of Lee
Greenwood. Lee Greenwood, his
ownself. It. Was. Spine-tingling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Your answers are 1c, 2a, 3d, 4b. Enjoy Super Sunday.</span>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-51685136317935360572012-01-31T06:28:00.001-06:002012-01-31T06:28:54.598-06:00An Invaluable Spirit<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“There is a quality about horses that captures the
attention. Once the student is paying attention, then teaching can begin.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those are the words of acclaimed author Donna Campbell
Smith, who also answers to the titles horse-lover, grandmother and
great-grandmother. From her home near <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">North Carolina</st1:place></st1:state>’s Outer
Banks, Donna spends a portion of her time in elementary and middle school classrooms,
using her historical fiction works and her non-fiction books on horses and
mules to engage her young audiences in learning.</div>
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Looking around our house and examining topics of
conversation, room décor, contents of bookshelves, focus of play and the like,
there is little disputing Donna’s claim about the captivating qualities of
horses. I’m not the wisest Horse Dad out
there, but I recognize and forever will appreciate the deep and lasting value
of the lessons our daughters have learned through the years because of their
passion for and involvement with horses.
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From time to time, I am going to try to tap into Donna’s
insights. There is a lot to be
learned. You might be interested in
having some of her work on your children’s bookshelf – or their Kindle. Learn a little more about <a href="http://home.earthlink.net/~donnacsmith/index.html" target="_blank">Donna Campbell Smith</a> and let me know what you think.</div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-4764335888837189892012-01-27T07:16:00.000-06:002012-01-27T07:16:58.459-06:00Cowboy Man<br />
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I was pleased to read the cover story in the
December/January issue of Equestrian magazine, featuring Lyle Lovett. The <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>
singer/songwriter is a friend of mine from our college days. Between us, we have four Grammys … These days,
Lyle can be spotted with some frequency participating in reining events across
the country. In the article, he shared
with writer <a href="http://www.kitsonjazynka.com/" target="_blank">Kitson Jazynka</a> some personal insights on growing up around horses –
and growing up with a father who appreciated horses. </div>
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“My dad was very hands-on with the horses,” Lovett tells Jazynka. “When he passed away in
1999, there was something therapeutic about doing his barn chores for him. I still miss my dad every day, but having the
horses around and knowing that I was doing something that would have made him
happy helped me get through a difficult time.”
Read the entire article <a href="http://usefnetwork.com/magazine/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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Whether you are a Horse Dad or are related to a Horse Dad,
I’m wondering, what therapeutic value do you find in the barn chores you do?</div>The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203319366239810278.post-11087084472466590232012-01-24T10:27:00.000-06:002012-01-25T15:54:01.951-06:00Saddle UpWelcome. <br />
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Because you are reading these lines, I suspect you might know someone like me. He probably lives in your house. You've seen him: as you performed your craft, he was off to the side, taking in all in. Smiling - on the inside if not the outside - and finding ways to cope in those times when his heart almost leaped out of his chest when you and your partner executed some feat of daring that caused his pulse rate to spike and everything within him to want to rush to your side and assure your safety. From your lofty vantage point, you have seen the gray in his hair intensify or the bald spot expand ever so slightly. He is awfully handy to have around, hooking up trailers and writing checks ... lots of checks. He may or may not be adept with the hoof pick. But he is the master of the muck rake. <br />
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He is a Horse Dad.<br />
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In the Sports Parent kingdom, the Horse Dad may be the most unique creature of all. The platypus of the bleachers, if you will. For unlike the Little League Dad, say, who probably grew up playing baseball himself and is reasonably self-confident when tabbed for the parent pitch start, observation informs me that the majority of Horse Dads did not grow up riding competitively -- and likely don't know anyone who did. We are out of our league here. We understand halfbacks, not half-halts.<br />
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Unlike the Hockey Mom, infamously glorified in the 2008 presidential campaign for her tenacity, make-up and implied ruthlessness in the face of all competition, most Horse Dads who I know are quiet - bordering on timid - and uniformly comfortable with their place in the shadows. This set of behavioral characteristics likely formed over time, shaped by more than a few caustic glances from instructors, directed at those fathers who dared to express an opinion or offer an observation ... Adapt. Survive.<br />
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Ah, but the Horse Dad is a fortunate member of the kingdom, indeed. And here, from time to time, we will explore some of the reasons why that is so. We will marvel at the beauty that graces our world, and examine some of the inevitable heartbreak. We will count our blessings and give thanks for their abundance. We will extol the virtues of our spouses - the true conductors of this symphony-under-saddle - and praise our children for their commitment to the equestrian enterprise. (They think it is fun; don't tell 'em there is learning and character building taking place here.)<br />
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So come along for the ride, fellow Horse Dad, even if you never otherwise swing into the stirrups. And invite those who know you, who love you, who rely upon you - even if just to muck an occasional stall. It should be fun.The Horse Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00744653404345594140noreply@blogger.com3