How bad could it be?

     By mid summer of last year things were pretty bleak for Jonathan and I in SC.  Our business had shrunk for various reasons outside of our power and we were beginning to freak out. Well, I was definitely freaking out.  The bank account was crazy low, very little was coming in...something had to happen.  I began to hatch plans.  I started with a website that specializes in jobs available in the horse industry.  By using a few different states, I began to narrow down possibilities that I felt Jonathan and I could handle without making us miserable.  All of them were fairly far away from Aiken.  Ugh. Moving, again.  The thought really freaked me out, but I was so sick of living in Aiken and our money struggles that I pushed aside my anxiety.  The one job that we kept circling back to was in Massachusetts. We would be working for a semi-retired older professional, who was in need of a couple who could do all aspects of horse care, plus riding, for some older horses of her own and a few for a private client that she would be teaching a few times per week.  It sounded relatively easy as far the amount of work, but I knew there were always going to be catches with this type of position. One giant catch was that this particular older professional had a tough reputation. And by tough I mean she could be nasty and very difficult to work for (I had multiple people tell me this before we made our decision).  "How bad could it be?", we asked ourselves.  After quite a few telephone calls back and forth with this woman, we decided that we'd give it a shot and take the plunge to move up to MA, at least for the winter months and then see where we were come spring.  We packed very little just taking our winter clothing, essential kitchen/cooking items, our two dogs, two cats and two horses.  We equipped our home in Aiken with a proper ADT system, locked the door one morning at the end of October 2018 and literally drove away to the unknown.


    It was within the first week that knew we had made a very poor decision, but we also knew that we had no immediate recourse so we were stuck.  The lady was one of those people who you couldn't predict how she was going to behave any given time you saw her throughout the day.  Sometimes she was very pleasant and cheerful (it was rare, but it did happen), other times (most of the time) she was horribly mean, degrading and so manaically micromanaging of everything we did in the barn that it made me want to go sit in a corner and cry. I have NEVER been treated so terribly in my life.  She would see me sweeping the barn aisle and storm down to me, rip the broom from my hands then proceed to sweep dirt all over my legs while shrieking, "This is how you sweep!!!!".   If she saw that I had just wrapped a horses legs she wouldn't even stop, but as she walked by she would sneer, "Re-do those wraps!".  I was given "riding lessons" with her, but she never let me go past a trot and NOTHING that I did on a horse's back was correct. NOTHING.  Despite my 30 years of being a decent professional rider, in her opinion I wasn't capable of riding her ancient school horse correctly at the walk.  It was brutally humiliating and really wore me right down to the core.  I started to believe that I was a bad rider, that I should just quit, that she was right and I'd just been fucking it up for years.  She was breaking me down.  I couldn't do anything right in an industry that I'd been making a living in for decades.  Jonathan in some ways got treated better, because she just ignored him. She told him what to do through me, because she said she thought he was mentally handicapped. Wow. Just another little claw into my already fragile mental state. Not one thing about this job had proven to be anything but awful for both Jonathan and I, which was great for our relationship let me tell you.  The two of us began to fight a lot.  Our frustration and anger came out towards each other, which had never happened to us in 26 years of being together.  In my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined how much of a nightmare taking this job would be.  Yet, there we were.  Everyone of my friends that I called to complain to said the same thing...LEAVE!  But it was more complicated than that, because we needed the money so desperately. We kept telling ourselves to just take in the paychecks and save, save, save until we figured out something else.  She started giving us extra chores, like taking her garbage to the dumpster and picking up sticks and pine cones in the driveway.  On the day before Christmas I got a text message from her instructing us to "scrub and disinfect the entire barn".  Who does that to their employees on the day before Christmas????!!!!  You know what?  We did scrub and disinfect the entire barn that day.  Why?  Why did we do it??  Because it was our job and we didn't want to give her any extra reasons to berate us. We trudged out of the barn that night with aching shoulders, broken spirits and cold, stiff fingers.  It was an awful cycle of constant degradation and this woman was an absolute professional at it. Just when we thought she couldn't possibly do anything worse to us she began to mess around with our paychecks. One week would be a little short, with no explanation.  Then she went away for a couple of weeks, without leaving us any checks at all. I questioned all of it by text, phone, or to her face but it was always a vague answer.  We would eventually get the checks, but it was when it was convenient for her.  The job was a total disaster, but with money coming in we were hanging on by a thread.  When she started messing with our pay, we both started to lose it. Neither of us was willing to go back to SC, so we needed an immediate alternative plan. I'd been looking all along for a different job in the Northeast, but nothing was coming up with the right components.  The line we were treading to hang onto our sanity was becoming thinner and thinner.  To be continued...

An Unpleasant Situation

This past weekend I found myself dealing with a situation that threw me for a bit of a loop.  I'm going to give the most vague description that I can of what went on, because this isn't meant to be a character assassination of any particular people, but merely an observation of what has become normal in the world today.

  I work in a busy stable where I teach a lot of lessons.  The weekends tend to be particularly busy in the mornings so I feel very lucky that we have a few people, young and old who help get the horses/ponies tacked up and ready so I can concentrate on giving my students a quality, timely riding lesson with no outside distractions.  I was passing through the barn aisle on Saturday morning when I noticed someone was intently spraying a specific hair care product way too close to a horse's face/eye region. In fact the mist of the product was upsetting the animal to the point where it was backing up on the cross ties to get away.  As I walked through I asked the person not to spray the product so close to the animal's face/eyes and also,not to get it into the mane (a pet peeve of mine).  I gave a reason as to why we don't want the mane to ever be slippery, BUT I said it in a way that made the person feel like I was personally making her feel inferior for not knowing this tidbit of information since it's not in the forefront of what she concentrates on as a rider.  I swear on the Bible that I never meant to hurt this person's feelings, or make her feel like I was better, or any of the negative, hurtful feelings it caused her.  It was an offhanded comment that I made passing through on my way out to the ring.  It wasn't premeditated, it wasn't meant to come out harshly, and I will own that it could be construed as a poor choice of wording on my part. I really, really didn't mean it to be a judgmental, or negative comment toward this person.  Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have a sharp sense of humor, but in no way am I ever setting out to be mean spirited, or unkind.  I'm so far from perfect, but one thing I'm not ever is mean, or nasty, especially to young people who are devoted to horses and the sport I so adore, which includes all of the various disciplines. We have a wonderful group of people in our barn, of all ages.

   Later that day, a parent of the person that I made the comment to asked to speak with me and my boss.  We were met with a very angry person who informed me that I had told the person in no uncertain terms that my comment meant that they were never going to understand the horse industry.  I was blown away. Of course, I defended myself and explained exactly what I had said, with inflection and context included.  The anger continued.  I was told that I didn't know how to talk to teenagers, that they are very sensitive and take offense very easily so I needed to really think before I spoke.  I was told that I wasn't following the example of what my particular barn's motto is and that we'd all better watch what we say from now, because this parent will be keeping a close eye on things.  My boss and I sat there and took all of this verbal diarrhea.  I clenched my jaw to keep from standing up and jumping down this person's throat, because I realized with all of the anger it wouldn't do any good for any of us.  Instead, my boss quietly defended me and I said that I was sorry.  I wanted to throw up afterwards.  I wanted to throw things.  I was incensed that I was rendered helpless, even though I knew in my heart what I'd said really wasn't anything terrible, or personally damaging, but it busted into a young person's ego who decided to blow it out of proportion and tattle on me to get me in trouble.  It's a funky time in this world.  Not that this sort of thing hasn't gone on since the beginning of time, but the stakes have become higher for repercussions. If I'd been reported for bullying to a higher organization (a too commonly used term in this day and age) I could be suspended from my job, or worse.  What if this person whom I "offended" decided to go one step further and say I'd touched her inappropriately as I'd walked by. What then? I witnessed something ugly this weekend.  It's a far cry from the learning atmosphere of the stables that I grew up riding and working in.  We took criticism and we learned from it.  If our feelings got hurt, we had a little cry then we toughened up and figured out what we were doing wrong.  We got yelled at and told what to do and we did it.  It wasn't all coddling and a you can never do anything wrong type of atmosphere.  I'm not saying that is a perfect situation either, but it's a helluva lot more healthy than what I'm seeing now.  Any time I've ever given strongly worded advice, or raised my voice it's because the situation I'm seeing could escalate to an injury of either the horse, or the person. Otherwise, I try to be light and informative, without sounding like a bossy bitch.  Maybe next time I see something I don't agree with I'll just shut up and allow it to happen, lest I offend a burgeoning horseman's fragile spirit.  Riding and working with horses at a certain level isn't for the weak minded. Trust me, I didn't learn to have the grit and conviction to succeed in this business by complaining every time someone hurt my feelings.  That's not real life in any business.

  At the bottom of my heart, I genuinely was sad and depressed that my eleven word sentence caused a person to feel badly, or angry enough to make such a massive deal out of it.  I never want to be directly responsible for doing that to another person. Ever.  I would've thought that the person knew me well enough to know that I wasn't being a jerk, it was just the way it came out.  Sadly, that wasn't the case.

Strangers on a Plane

     Recently, I had the good fortune to travel up to Boston for a surprise visit on my Dad's 80th birthday.  My middle sister cooked up the surprise part and generously funded my flight, so all I had to was show up.  Jonathan and I dutifully left for the Augusta airport in the pitch black dark at 4:45 a.m. to ensure that I'd have plenty of time to make the 6:20 a.m. flight.  The Augusta airport is very, very tiny as airport's go.  It's like a little boutique airport, with tiny planes and one terminal, but it's very convenient for us since it's super close.  I kissed Jonathan goodbye once he made sure that I had my itinerary set and stood in the TSA line.  The line was full of groggy adults, a few kids that parents hadn't even bothered to take out of their pj's,  and one enormous woman in a wheelchair.  This lady wasn't that old, maybe 50, but she was incredibly obese.  I always wonder how a person gets quite to that level of obesity. Its not like it can't sneak up on a person.  I mean for most people you gain a few pounds and your pants get tighter, you lay of the ice cream and that's that.  This level of overweight takes some real commitment.  As in Olympic level amounts of food are needed to maintain that bulk.  Anyway, this lady gets to the front of the line and the TSA lady makes her stand up out of her wheelchair. Okay, that's fair, but then she proceeds to frisk this woman like she's hiding a machine gun under her gut fat.  I was watching this scene unfold, thinking to myself, "Is this normal protocol for incredibly overweight traveler's?" I mean, call me naive, but I didn't know that whomever likes to blow up airplanes sought out the most gigantic passenger they could find to stash bombs, etc.

"Hey, you fatty...I have a bag of Big Macs in it for you if you let me tape this device between your rolls of back fat,"

 As I'm still saying What the Fuck in my head, a man behind me starts muttering how ridiculous it is that the TSA agent is making such a meticulous process of searching this poor lady so thoroughly.  We both stood there shaking our heads, until finally the heavy woman was cleared to go on.  I sailed through security and sat in the tiny terminal to wait for my flight.

  After about a half hour, we were cleared to board, but the funky tunnel that connects the airport to the plane was broken so we were ushered out onto the tarmac in the dark, like pre schoolers going on a field trip to the zoo.  Climbing the stairs, I checked my seat number again. 23C.  Being careful not to clock anyone in the head with my bag I made my way down the aisle until I arrived at my seat number. A man in a business suit was in the aisle seat of my row and he gave me a pained, apologetic look. My seat was the window seat (my least favorite) and in the middle was you got it, the obese terrorist.  She gave me a smile and as she struggled to free her ass from the seat she said, "This might take me a few minutes."   Why on God's green earth wouldn't this woman request any seat, BUT the middle?  Not only for her comfort, but what if I had been a big gal myself?   When she finally wedged herself free, I slipped into my seat and looked out the window as she got herself re-situated.  It's a good thing that I'm reed thin, because there was quite a bit of overhang infringing on my seat.  And then it hit my nostrils, a faint, yet pungent sour scent of flesh that hadn't seen soap in more days than one wants to know.  A mild panic reached out from my brain, and I struggled to control my breathing.  I was trapped in this seat next to a very nice, but giant woman who smelled like a dishcloth that hadn't been washed in a year.  Somehow I managed to keep myself from losing it through sheer mind over matter.  I could just scramble over her if I had to leave my seat in a hurry, I told myself over and over again.  The plane eventually taxied down the runway and soon we were in the air.  I put my nose in a book for the entire flight, while my seat mate played Candy Crush like a boss. Luckily, it was a short flight to Atlanta and we landed without incident.  My captor released me from my seat, with great physical effort, and I wished her a good day. Oy, what a start to my trip.

   My next flight to Boston was filled to the gills.  This time my seat assignment led me to the very back seat in the plane where I learned that I was sitting next to...an infant.

"Hi," I said shyly to the mother. The baby gurgled and wobbled about in her lap.  I'm not really a baby person, not that I have anything against kids, but infants aren't my strong suit and I know that flying can be hell on little kids. The mother was very tanned, with her hair thrown up in a messy knot on top of her head. She looked exhausted, but she gave me a nod as I sat in the middle seat.  The woman who was in the aisle seat of my row appeared to be around my age. When she sat down she launched into some quick small talk.

 "Whew, I'm sweating so much. Hot flashes, " she said with a giggle. "I had to have an emergency hysterectomy six months ago and it threw me into early menopause. I'm always so hot!"

 I smiled at her all the while thinking to myself, really?  That was too much information to tell a stranger on an airplane.  This flight seemed doomed. Caught between a tiny baby and a woman who was telling me intimate details about her recently removed uterus. To top it off the sweaty lady confessed to having a bad cold, otherwise she would be holding that baby the whole flight.  She broke out her kleenex, pulled out her laptop and launched into a vigorous game of Candy Crush. Am I the only person who hasn't ever played Candy Crush???  Again, I pulled out my book prepared to be tuning out the wails of an infant any second. Much to my immense relief and surprise that little boy baby fell asleep for the ENTIRE flight!  And the sniffling Candy Crusher was so involved in her stacking of sweets that she never opened her mouth again, except to cough.

The Cowboy Way

     It was a bright April morning when Kenny, the trainer at the race farm where I was working, introduced  me to our new exercise rider.  A slim figure, around 5'7 wearing a straw cowboy hat and scuffed boots slipped around the corner of the barn. A cigarette waggled precariously between his lips.

  "The name's Jerry," he said, offering his hand. I shook it and gave him a big smile. "Nice to meet you," I replied, stepping back from the cloud of smoke that was surrounding him.

"Jerry here is going to straighten out all of these knuckleheads, " Kenny said.  I refrained from saying "about time", since I had to parse out my smart ass comments judiciously, lest I get fired.  Truthfully, the string of racehorses had been running rough shod over all of the young girls who'd been riding them over the course of the winter.  It was becoming a joke all over the farm on how many times we'd have to yell, "Loose horse!!!" each day, because they literally got dumped multiple times per morning.  Jonathan and I had debated about getting on some of the horses, but in the end we decided we didn't want to take any risks on these two bit, flea brained idiot race horses. It just wasn't worth it, despite the frustration of watching them leap, wheel, go sideways and flat out run off with the girls.

  I set about tacking up the first set to go out that morning.  A tall rangy dark bay gelding would be Jerry's first steed.  This horse was as dumb as can be, but he was smart enough to have terrorized everyone who had ridden him for months.  All he needed was someone who could sit up there, take hold of him and get him going in a straight line.  Jerry walked into the stall wearing his skull cap, jockey bat in hand.  He started checking over the tack, muttering about how it should be adjusted, tightening this, shortening that, basically rearranging everything that I had already carefully set up.  I kept my mouth shut and silently smoldered.  Just give him a chance, I told myself, it's no big deal.  I legged him up in the stall and with great pomp and circumstance he shooed the horse out into the shed row and began to kick him in the ribcage, yelling "HAA".  The horse shook his head back and forth in protest, but he listened. Soon they were jogging around the shed row, with Jerry hollering, "Coming around, jogging in the barn" before each corner.  After a few minutes, he jerked him out of the barn and galloped him up the driveway to the race track.  Though the guy had irritated me, by treating me like I didn't now what I was doing as his lowly race groom, I had to hand it to him; the dude could ride.

  The rest of the morning went much the same.  The naughty horses all got a dose of what they needed, which was a positive, confident ride.  With each ride under his belt, Jerry got more and more cocky himself.  Crowing about his skills, like a banty rooster.  He'd been riding race horses for over twenty years at tracks all over the country.  His face was a battle of wrinkles, from years of riding in wind, rain and heavy drinking.  Most of his teeth were gone, but he had a fastidiously manicured mustache perched above his upper lip.  I suspected at one point in his youth he'd been able to seduce many women with his pretty blue eyes and long lashes, but there was a sense of deep fatigue in them now, like he'd lost too many nights of sleep that he'd never make up.

   It became a routine that Jonathan and I would pick Jerry up on our way to the farm, since he had no transportation except a bicycle with a hinky motor that left him stranded more often than not.  At a quarter to seven his powerful odor of Irish Spring and cigarettes permeating our car was nearly gag inducing.  He began to refer to himself in the third person, using his nickname of "Cowboy".  It was so absurd that I'd have to hide my smiles and snorts. As he got comfortable he starting regaling us with tales of his conquests from the previous nights. Often, I had to put up my hand and tell him to just stop. He had no filter. Some days he'd be so hung over we'd have to stop and get him a beer on the way just so he could get through his rides and collect his paycheck.  It was pathetic, but he was still doing a good job on the horses.  We had to give him that credit.  If he was still drunk from the night before he'd get a little uppity and start giving me advice on riding. I'm all for learning new things, but listening to him slurring tips on basics, just made me crazy.  Being a groom was already kind of bumming me out from a professional standpoint, but to be treated like a moron by this washed up dude? I've always been a fairly civilized person, but this guy would get under my skin. I started to really let him have it, and sometimes I even shocked myself with what I'd say to him.

"Jerry, just get on the mother fucking horse and zip it!" I'd yell, causing my co-workers to titter and scuttle off.

  He'd act all offended, but he never argued back, no matter how mean I was to him.  I reckon he was conditioned to being yelled at. You can't be that big of an arrogant jerk, while swaggering from too much beer and not get some payback for it.  In fact, he admitted that he was usually the guy at the bar who got beaten up, because he was big enough so it wasn't embarrassing to kick his ass, but little enough that he got his ass kicked.

   And so it went for four months, until one morning Cowboy announced that he'd be moving on.

"You two are real decent people,  and I want to thank you for all you did for me while I was here," he said, tipping his crumpled straw cowboy hat, a small belch popping from his lips.

  I wasn't going to miss him, but he sure was a character, unlike anyone I'd ever met.  He was true to himself, for better, or worse, which is more than you can say for some people.  He'd created this persona for himself as "Cowboy" and he was going to ride it to the bitter end. We wished him well and he took off, with his bike motor sputtering.

Happy trails, Cowboy.

Molar Madness

     True to my word,  I bravely made myself a dentist appointment.  The only time they could offer me was for 8 o'clock this morning.  What a gross time to go to the dentist. Up and at 'em by 7:15, I shook off the morning grog, gulped down coffee and mouthwash, put on semi nice clothes, plus shoes without manure on them, and off I went to solve the mystery of my upset molar.

   This was my first time at South Aiken Dental.  Upon arrival I was given the usual forms to fill out in the gently lit waiting room.  After a short wait I was summoned to enter the hallway by a squat woman in her 30's, who informed me that her name was Tina, and I was to follow her.  Tina sat me down in a chair, and I began to fill her in on my dental history, which is long and detailed.  I've had a significant amount of dental work, from implants, to bridges, crowns, root canals, fillings, you name it.  I have two implants that are still patiently waiting for implant crowns, which Tina nicely pointed out that they could do that work for me.  I felt like saying, "Great news! Do you want to front me the 3.5k that'll cost to get the work done? "  First bristle of irritation.

  Tina proceeded to take her tiny mirror and explore my upper and lower teeth.

"Hmmm, them two are a bridge," said Tina.  "That ain't a problem."

My eyes popped wide open. Immediately, in my head I repeated "them two" "ain't"????  Seriously???  How about some attention to proper grammar to project a modicum of confidence in your professional skills???  If the lady at the convenience store uses improper grammar it's not a red flag, but the dentist office?  I began to feel uncomfortable.

"Ima need to take an x-ray now, Mizz Edel," said Tina with a pinched smile on her pudgy face.

    I held my cool while she wedged an x-ray plate the size of a notebook in my mouth.  The first one she took was too dark so I was fortunate enough to repeat the procedure.  Well, there it was in black and white.  The tooth that was bothering me has already had a root canal, as well as the one in front of it.  Gee, so glad I spent 1k to save that little bugger only to have it fail me now.

  Tina turned to face me with her serious dental person face on.

"Do you brush and floss?" she said in a pandering tone, like she was talking to a 6 yr. old.
"Of course, I do!" I said indignantly.  Who doesn't brush their teeth?? Gross!

"Do you know why your teeth have had so many problems? How's your diet?" She leaned down closer to my face for my answers.

I stared blankly at her heavily made up eyes. My mind began to whiz.  Do I know why my teeth are so crummy? Uh, I think it's called genetics?  Just like some people have kidney issues, or arthritis.  I have bad teeth.  And my diet?? I took a deep breath and fought back the urge to tell her that I sustain myself with crystal meth, cotton candy and Coca-cola. Instead, I smiled sweetly, batted my eyelashes and said:

"My teeth have had many issues,  none due to lack of proper hygiene, or attention.  I was born with bad teeth.  {I added You Dumb Bitch, but only in my head, cuz I was raised properly}  And as for my diet I stay away from junk food, I don't drink soda, or eat many sweets. It's not like I've had all of this dental work, because I find it so enjoyable."

     I mean, I'm 5'8 and about 125 lbs. I do not look like an unhealthy person.  I let my eyes peruse her figure to let her know that I was taking note of her fat gut and thighs which clearly indicated she visited the drive thru more than a few times per week.  Gee, how's your DIET, Tina???  Can you say GLUTTONOUS?

  On that note, she took her leave so I could have a private consultation with the actual dentist, Dr. Miranda.  He was a baby faced, little Spanish fellow, very polite, and I appreciated the confidence in his voice while he spelled out a few options for me.  Turns out an endodontist might be able to save my tooth, but if not he could extract the damn thing.

  The best part of the whole experience was paying the bill. I had received a coupon in the mail from this place that offered a $1 emergency consultation. I know, right??!!!  You can't use the bathroom at the dentist for less than $50.  I could've complained about Tina's bedside manner, but if these people are going to pull my tooth I don't want any behind the scenes scuttlebutt about me being a whiny bitch.  Better to just keep quiet and hope that Tina's Big Mac gives her heartburn this afternoon.

Have a nice day, y'all!!

Deep thoughts from a shallow well

   Have you ever met someone who annoys you just by the very sight of them?  One minute you're in a good mood, thinking happy thoughts and then you spot him/her and it's like a switch is flipped.  Your eyes become narrow slits, lips tighten and your mood goes dark.  You begin to pray that they don't come over and talk to you, but they always do.  People like this are akin to cats who sense the non cat person in the room and then proceed to rub all over them, until they are shooed away.

   I have one of the above mentioned people in my life.  I'm a fairly tolerant person, but I have a low capacity when it comes to listening to someone brag about themselves.  It really grinds my gears.  This person really, truly has no cause to brag, but they do...shamelessly, incessantly and mercilessly. When it starts up  I end up clenching my teeth so tightly I fear they may crack. Because I'm a terrible actor I cannot even remotely pretend to be supportive of the brags that bubble forth from this person's maw.   Usually, I mumble something like, "how nice", or  "good for you" then I hurry off before I punch them in the throat.  I'm trying to be positive about this person appearing in my life as an opportunity for me to grow and become more tolerant and accepting,  less judgy.  But it's very, very difficult.  I've come close to calling them out on the brag-a-thon's more than once, but each time I hold back not wanting to come off like a giant bitch.  I know myself.  If I react out of hostile emotion I will say things that aren't nice, and I don't want to be that person. I never want to hurt a person's feelings.  This person is a harmless soul and perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I need to let it go.  But it's very, very difficult.  We all know that bragging stems from insecurity.  I need to find some empathy for this person's insecurity issue.  Find a deeper understanding into what the bragging does for this person, not what listening to it does to me.  Can I do that? Any suggestions?  Most days I'm pretty sure I can manage to pull it off.  I'll just have to rearrange my schedule if PMS comes into the picture.  


  December has been kind of a shite month.  Jonathan's Dad had a quick, but serious bout with bronchitis that landed him in the hospital.  He's doing great now, thank goodness.  We had to say goodbye to lovely old Zeke, the 21 year old cat who was featured in the prior blog.  He was doing well and then one day he decided he didn't want to eat.  Our lovely vet friend gracefully assisted him over the Rainbow Bridge from the comfort of his window bed.  No scary last vet visit for my animals if I can help it.  I mean, we know he was incredibly old so his passing away wasn't a major shocker, but it still was very sad.  Jonathan made the comment that if he was our child he'd be graduating from college.  Cue:floods of tears.

  Also in Dec, my horse received a routine vaccine which gave him a terrible reaction so he was very muscle sore for about two weeks. That sucked (more for me than him, since he got good meds and no work).  Fortunately, he's fine now, but it's been raining like a SOB in Aiken for the last couple of weeks, which has made consistent training a challenge.

  Two weeks ago, one of my lower molars has decided to abscess.  I caught it in the nick of time with antibiotics, but that's not a perma fix.  It needs to be addressed by a dentist. I decided to give myself until after Christmas to have anything drastic done to it. It's now after Christmas, and I still haven't called for an appointment. I guess it's time to be a big girl and make the call.

  And last but not least, our car is having some sort of oil pressure issue. I'm waiting to hear what the report is from the fancy German car mechanic. Gulp.  I've done a lot of research on the problem so I know two things. It can be an easy fix, or it will be an expensive fix.  Fingers crossed here.

 All in all, I'm feeling good about the arrival of 2016.  We're really excited about all of the horses we're working with at the moment.  Our house has two rooms that are ready for color to go on the walls, to be followed by redoing the floors, which I happen to find very satisfying and fun.  It's a good time right now.  Life will always have blips and hiccups.  Sometimes it seems like enough is enough, but I try to look for balance.  Find something good that makes me happy, like making a video of Miles while I'm having a solo dance party (which I promise I'll stop posting those vids on FB).  I recently read a meme that said something like, "You don't live once, you die once".  It's important to be nice, do what makes you happy and the rest of it just sorts out somehow.  At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.  Time to go call that dentist...

Top Cat

Twenty one years ago we adopted a fluffy little grey and white cat. She was ever so feminine, with large green eyes and perfect pink lips, and I gave her the name Miss Girl.  Not long after she moved into our tack room Miss Girl began to expand in her mid-section.  Though a vet assured me that wasn't with child, one month later she gave birth to two tiny kittens.  Pictured above is "Big Zekie", one of those tiny kittens, now at age 21.  Much like his mother, Zeke has always been a hardy sort.  He spent his early years as a barn cat, with no rules.  He crossed the street, he roamed the fields, dodged coyotes, was picked up by a great horned owl and lived to tell the story.  The cat was always smart and knew how to stay alive.  When we closed our barn, Zeke became a house cat.  He learned quite quickly that sleeping on beds and couches was fairly wonderful.  He adjusted to the rules of staying in at night, with free rein to come and go during the day.  He endured four moves during our years of living in the northeast. Each time he'd survey the new domain, pick a comfortable spot to sleep, make sure he knew where the litter box and food bowls were located and that was that.  Two years ago he survived the trip from NY to SC, while in a crate with Miles in the the peak of a horse van.  And he came out of that with his usual aplomb.

  About a month ago I started to think that Zeke might be losing weight.  Well, he's old, I told myself. I know he won't last forever.  Then I noticed that he was losing hair.

"It's his thyroid," said my pet savvy older sister, Pam. "Go get him tested at the vet."

Off we went to the vet.  While in the examining room I heard the vet outside the door talking to the tech.

"The cat is 21??", he said.  "Wow."

  Zeke and I left the vet office with a bottle of pills meant to balance his thyroid levels.  Within a few days I began to see a difference.  His hair started growing in and he didn't look quite so gaunt.  Another thing began to change, too.  Giving Zeke the half pill every morning began to be progressively difficult.  At first he ate them in his food. His appetite was so voracious that he was unaware he was taking his medicine.  Then one day I noticed a little white sliver being left behind in his bowl.

"Bastard," I muttered, grabbing the slimy sliver and forcing it between his teeth. That went okay at first, though he didn't like it any more than I did.

"It's for your own good!", I'd yell, as Z clenched his jaws and pawed at my hands.  This went on for a couple of weeks, but at least he was getting his meds and looking so much better.  Then he started a new trick.  I'd walk away from one of our pill forcing sessions, feeling victorious that I'd properly medicated my old kitty, only to return and find the pill on the floor, or in his dish.  He'd apparently learned how to mimic swallowing it then spit it out, like a petulant child.

   My frustration level reached a crescendo yesterday morning. Zeke is now so much healthier from having a balanced thyroid that he can actually claw the crap out of me.  Basically, I have an ancient kitty that I can only medicate while he's sick. Once he's healthy, it's like trying to pill a crotchety, angry mountain lion. It's ridiculous.  I can manhandle a 1200 lb horse with no trouble, but this senile, deaf, nearly blind husk of a cat is beating the shit out of me.  Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that Zeke is doing so well. He's rather miraculous to still be such a force at his advanced age, but there has to be an easier way.  After hearing me complain about it last night, Jonathan agreed to help me with the "pilling of Freddy Cougar".  We're going to start giving him the pill before his dinner this evening.  If no one hears from us for a few days, please send help.

And we're off!

   A year ago Jonathan and I were hired by a racehorse training center to work in the barn taking care of the horses.  Jonathan ended up spending most of his time working out of the barn fixing fencing and repairing the long driveway with the Bobcat, a machine which he became very skilled at operating. I spent most of my time in the barn with the racehorses.  After a  full year, I can say that I don't care for looking after racehorses. They're all a bunch of nut jobs.  It's not their fault that they're nut jobs, because they're cooped up for 23 hours of the day, fed tons of high octane grain/vitamins, never turned out and the only time they do get to go out during the day is to gallop around the training track.  Handling them requires finesse, strategy, bravery and skill.  It's very easy to get hurt around horses, even quiet riding horses.  Young thoroughbred race horses are like ticking bombs. Anything can (and will) set them off.  Oh look, a bird! cue:rearing.  Oh, here comes a car down the driveway! cue:bolt sideways, then segue way into rearing. Oh, a big gust of wind! cue:hang the fuck on, because I'm going to go apeshit.  You get the message.  Either you learn quickly how to keep their feet on the ground and away from your body, or you get injured.  I've been lucky in that I've kept myself out of harms way, with the exception of one dislocated knuckle in my second week of working there due to a rearing fit from a spastic filly.  The one predictable thing about these youngsters is that you can never assume that they're going to behave.  I operate under the boy scouts motto in that I'm always prepared for a fit.  I've learned to tell them how good they are in a soft, gentle voice, and that a hand on their neck can keep the savage beast that lives within them at bay. I've also learned that not having a chain shank is a dumb idea.  It's not like you have to be rough with a chain over the nose, but having it there helps when the flying monkeys in their heads start buzzing around. Our time is now over at the race farm. It was a fine job and it helped keep us afloat while we established ourselves in a new area. Recently, we've been teaching and riding more, which feels much more like home. In order to move our own business forward it became clear that we needed to stop the morning hours spent at the race farm.  I could say that leaving will be bittersweet, but it's not.  With the exception of one person that we've worked with for the last several months and the two roosters (Comanche and Rupert), I'm not going to miss that place with its daily series of chores and the death defying antics of the Thoroughbred's.  We've met a lot of good people at this job and made some very good friends, so it wasn't all bad, but it sure feels good to be moving on!

An unexpected getaway

   Life presented an impromptu opportunity for us last week.  We were offered the chance to have two days off in a row!  IN A ROW!  That is a rare luxury in the horse business.  There is no such thing as TGIF when you work with horses, no weekends "off", more often it's no days off for weeks at a time. It was a special offer, one not to waste.  Jonathan suggested that we go to Savannah, do a little city time, then some beach time.  I weighed the options of staying home vs. going away.  I don't make split second decisions very well. I'm getting better with age, maybe by the time I'm 80 I can add spontaneous to my character traits, but not quite yet.  I pictured us staying home with me feeling guilty for not vacuuming, or writing, or paying bills and that did it.

"Yes! Let's go to Savannah!"

  Sunday morning we took to the road on a drive that drove us through the Savannah River Project, the super secret, supposedly defunct, hinky feeling nuclear facility that is buried deep in the SC wilderness.  It was a very pleasant meandering road, with little to see except for woods and open fields.  There were occasional residences and series of abandoned, dilapidated shacks and mobile homes, which is sadly common in SC.  Poverty and abundance are separated by very little in the south.  I always feel a little sad when we pass houses that are falling in, with masses of foliage growing all over the front yards, rusted cars and other detritus getting overtaken by vines with each passing day.  Who lived there? And why did they just leave it all?

But that's not what this blog is about, so back to the trip.

   Soon we were in sight of a giant, arching bridge that spanned the Savannah river itself.  The bridge is something to see, with it's mid section peaking sky high to allow for very large boats to pass under it.  Our GPS very nicely got us into town and since it was too early to check into our hotel we decided to hit the first stop on our tour,  Bonaventure Cemetery.   I realize a cemetery might not be an ideal place to visit while on vacation, but this cemetery is like no other I've ever been in.  The grave sites are decorated with all manner of ornate sculptured marble, crosses, huge angels, obelisks, large tombs, cherubs, all are beautiful.  Designed more like a park, people are encouraged to walk through the various sections, with certain grave sites being highlighted for various important historical figures.  There are gigantic live oaks everywhere, with copious amounts of lacy Spanish moss draping from their limbs adding to an air of solemn mystery.  A storm front crept in while we were there giving the atmosphere an ominous tone under a deep purple sky.  As the first rain drops fell, we took our cue and headed out.

   We located our hotel, the B Historic Hotel on the edge of downtown Savannah, and we were pleasantly surprised with it.  A wicked deal on Hotwire had landed us a room for almost half price which made us raise our eyebrows a little, but this was an authentic, clean, well appointed hotel. Big score for Hotwire!   When you visit Savannah the first thing you need to do is make sure that you're wearing comfortable shoes. It truly is a walking city and well worth the effort we made to walk the entire city.  There are squares every third block, or so, set up like mini parks, with tall shady trees, benches and well tended gardens.  We made sure to stop, sit and inhale the vibe more than once.  The residential sections of Savannah are just stunning.  The architecture is so beautiful, with stately Greek revival home fronts, hidden back gardens and secret alley ways.  Passing a bed and breakfast that was up for sale had us dreaming of running a B & B for all of ten minutes, until I looked up the price and at $1 million bucks that'd be a lot of waffles to make before we saw any return.  Maybe it's because we were away from real life for the first time in a long time, but Savannah seemed to be wooing us as a couple.  It's urbane enough, without the actual grit of a bigger city, while maintaining a quaint, historical aspect that is reminiscent of the small New England towns we grew up in.  Jonathan has always said how much he loves this city, and now I can say the same.  A lazy early evening walk on the busy Savannah river showed us the tourist and local color.  Another chance to have a seat and soak it in.  A delicious dinner at a tapas based restaurant and a last stroll in dusky light ended our day.


   After a restful night, we awoke the next morning and promptly headed off to Tybee Island, approximately 25 minutes from our hotel.  Once we were in the car I began to whine about getting coffee,  but Jonathan adopted a "Dad" approach and told me I'd just have to wait till we got there.  I'm not one who does well in the morning without my first cup of dark brown brew, so my mood was less than cheery for the entire drive.  A stop at a seedy diner buoyed my spirits with a styrofoam cup to go, and in no time we were parked at the beach.  A breeze off of the ocean seasoned the air and kept us cool under the bright June sun.  The beach was expansive, but not overly populated. Still we got in some excellent people watching, particularly from a rather squat woman in her mid 30's I'd guess, who stood talking non stop to an older woman seated beneath a vibrant blue umbrella. Her topics were wide and varied, from recipes, to Boy Scout trips, to various past vacations, which included restaurants and menus and who had ordered what.  Her attention to detail was riveting and Jonathan and I kept bursting into giggles at the absurdity of it all.  For me half of the fun of the beach is observing our fellow beachcombers.  The various body styles and bathing suits, from the magnificent to the cringe worthy all mingle together in one unabashed group just there to have a good time and enjoy the experience. I absolutely love it.

   After about two hours of enjoying the surf and sand, we decided it was time to head back to Aiken. I looked wistfully over my shoulder for a last glance at the ocean as I exited the boardwalk.  It might've been one of the shortest vacations we've ever taken, but it certainly was one of the very best.

Rockets Redglare

    It was autumn in the year 1987.  I was attending classes at UNH in pursuit of a degree in Animal Science that would never come to be, but at the time I was faithfully jotting notes and trotting around the campus from class to class, like a dutiful student.  My horse had been newly moved to a large stable that was ten minutes from the main campus in Durham.  This place was full of fancy horses and riders decked out in breeches and boots, with a head trainer who bellowed like a bull at his students.  The trainer was so intimidating that I could hardly meet his gaze if I had to pass him in the barn aisles.  Flashing a dazzling piano key rivaling smile, he'd say, "Hello, Dear!" at the top of his lungs and strut past with the silver taps on the heels of his boots clacking like castanets on the concrete.  I would shrug out a soft, "Hi", and scuttle off to my horse's stall, visibly shaken by this larger than life man's brief acknowledgement.

  The days fell into an easy routine as I adjusted to the more flexible schedule of a college gal.  I found that I could ride in the mornings between classes on Tues. and Thurs., so at ten o'clock I'd dash off to my car and whiz to the barn.  Ten, my Quarter Horse, was stabled in the long, dark back aisle that was adjacent to the indoor arena.  The stalls were adequate, but this part of the barn was more or less akin to the land of misfit toys. The school horses lived in this aisle, along with various other odd and end horses that were made up of absentee boarders, or project types.  I didn't care where Ten lived as long as it was safe and he was happy, both of which were working out just fine.  One of these mornings I was grooming Ten in his stall when I heard footsteps coming down the aisle.  Through the bars of the stall I watched a thin, blonde woman clad in beige breeches and tall rubber boots glide by.  She looked really happy, almost radiant to be at the barn.  I was instantly curious about her.  That day while I rode I watched her from a distance as she took a lesson on a horse that I knew only as "Rockets".  Rockets, who's full name was Rockets Redglare, was not particularly pretty, nor was he graceful, but he was kind and willing. He had large platter sized feet that belied his draft horse infusion and he was about as flexible as a piece of rebar.  Granted my own horse was no picnic with a short, choppy step and flighty nature, but Rockets looked about as comfortable as riding a jackhammer.  The blonde woman put him through his paces, carefully executing the exercises set out by the instructor and at the end of the lesson she collapsed on Rockets neck, hugging him broadly with both arms.  "I love this horse!", she said with a grin.  It was obvious that she really did.


   Back at the barn we were both untacking and I decided to introduce myself.

"Hey," I said. "I'm Michele. I  just moved here with my horse, Ten."

"Oh, I'm Kathy! And this is my horse, Rockets," she said patting him vigorously. "Nice to meet you!"

  We engaged in some polite conversation, with the normal where are you from, etc. as we put away our horses and then it was time for her to go to work, she said. "Where's work?" I inquired.

"The hospital. I'm an anesthesiologist," she replied, waving goodbye.

  From then on I met many new friends at the barn, and I'd run into Kathy on some of my morning rides, or occasionally see her on the weekends when she'd bring her two tiny, blonde toddler clones of herself out to feed Rockets carrots.  I couldn't help but admire her sheer enthusiasm for coming to see her clunky, oafish horse.  Her love for him was so absolute and true that it felt intrusive to watch her greet him.




    One morning in late November, just before Thanksgiving, I was getting Ten tacked up for a ride. Kathy appeared in the barn, but instead of wearing her usual broad smile, her face was pale and drawn.  I watched her let herself in Rockets stall and clasp her arms around his neck. Ten minutes later she came out, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and I wasn't sure if I should say anything, or just let her be. She walked over to me and Ten, letting out a long exhale.

"Ahhh, I really needed that," she said giving Ten a pat on the neck.  "Today has been a super bad, horrible day."

"Trouble at work?" I ventured.

"No, it's not work.  Today is a sad anniversary for me."  She paused and her expression was pinched before she spoke again. "I lost the love of my life on this day, seventeen years ago.  We were just kids really, but he was so special. Fucking Vietnam. It was his last mission before he was sent home."

 I told her I was sorry for her loss, all the while feeling very uncomfortable with this sad version of my usually bubbly friend.

"Yeah, sometimes life just sucks, you know? John was a pilot.  You know how pilots give themselves call names?  His was Rockets Redglare. No one really knows about him, except for my family. I never even told my husband about him. I named Rockets in his memory."

    This reveal of information hit me deep in my gut.  It was raw and heartbreaking and profoundly sad. A painful piece of her past hiding under what I had perceived to be a happy woman leading a fantastic life, with a career, cute kids, the works. My young brain sought to process the complexity of such a tangle of emotions.

"That's cool that you named Rockets after him. I mean, it's obvious how much you love that horse and everything."  It was the best I could come up with at the time.  

  Kathy nodded, biting her lip and then apologized for bumming me out.

  She proceeded to tack up Rockets and the next time I saw her that day she was galloping full speed across the top field.  Bending low over his neck they sped along. I remember thinking I was watching an image of pleasure running away from long buried pain.


 All of these years later I can still see Kathy's face when she told me about John, her fallen pilot and lost love.  I doubt that she remembers telling me the story, but it's one that I know I'll never forget.




 

 

 



 

Back to the Blue House

      These photos take us back to late January/early Feb. 2014.  One of our first projects was to clear out the kitchen.  I'd really like to know who painted the interior of this house, because they showed absolutely zero sign of imagination.  Once the color was chosen it went on the walls AND ceiling. No trim accents, no baseboard accents, just a monochromatic nightmare of blue/green, which was now incredibly grimy and peeling in many places.  All of the cupboards had to go since they were very shallow, and we needed to reconfigure the cabinets so the fridge would fit.  First, we decided to attack the floor. I'm sorry but 1970's faux brick linoleum just isn't our style so we began peeling it up.  The cheap fake brick came up like butter. Long, satisfying strips peeled up effortlessly, only to expose another layer of what we guessed to be early 1960's linoleum.  This stuff had a little more grit to it when it came to peeling it up off the floor. We used all kinds of chisel tools to coax and cajole it into loosening. Once we had a good section removed it came to light that their was a third layer of even older linoleum, maybe even the first kind ever manufactured, lurking at the bottom. The last layer was fixed into place by a thick layer of a tar like substance.  It didn't want to budge. I imagined the1940's linoleum salesman telling the housewife who picked out the pattern, "Ma'am, once you put this stuff down nothing is going to get it off that floor!"  Eventually, we got some of it up, with plenty of grunting and cursing and below all of that ugly fake flooring was a delightfully unscathed hardwood floor.

"Who would cover this up?" we both mused.  It was perfect, well except for the large chunks of tar that refused to be plied from it.  We sweated and chipped at small sections, slowly gaining ground, but then Jonathan had an idea.  He ran to Home Depot and returned with a hand planer, which ended up being the perfect foil for our tenacious tar issue.  It was not a pretty job and it was painstakingly slow, but Jonathan was determined to get the hardwood floor back to its original condition.

About the same time that we were fighting with the kitchen floor we took on the first of the green rooms.  Armed with a ten gallon bucket of primer we set out abolish the green.  It took two solid coats to get that green to say "uncle".  That evil, nuclear green that glowed thru the first coat of primer and still had a faint presence behind the second coat. "Don't worry," Jonathan assured me. "The color paint will cover it."  

After taping off all of the chair rails, baseboards, doors, vertical accents, windows, ceiling and the fireplace I could almost sympathize with the former painter and their choice to say the hell with it and paint the whole damn thing one color. However, once the first coat of Killim Beige was on the walls, the transformation was jaw dropping.  The house suddenly had a touch of class.  Almost a museum quality to it.  I'm not going to lie, this was basically the first time I felt any excitement over what we were doing at this place. All of the other jobs required a lot of lifting, moving, scraping, etc. and after they were done the place still looked like an unappealing interior nightmare.  But the paint? The change was incredible!  Wow, I was falling in love now.  This room is meant to be an office/guest room and it's so bright and sunny for most of the day.  The beige is a soothing, neutral shade that is so the polar opposite of the original color.  I think the house actually sighed when we finished painting this room.  I love hanging out on the love seat (which pulls out to a bed when needed) with a good book.  This room holds a special place for me because it showed me that we hadn't made a mistake, but instead we had bought a piece of American history that we were in charge of restoring. We did make a mistake on our first attempt to re-finish the floor. After sanding it down with a rented belt sander, we applied a coat of stain that we were sure was "the one".  After letting it dry overnight, it was a very disappointing unveiling as we both felt like it was too red, like a redwood deck kind of red.  We decided to move onto another project and just leave the floor for the time being. I know you're not supposed to do that, but we'll get to it at some point and now that it's dulled I don't hate it quite as much.  

The projects haven't slowed down, though we've gone through some lulls when we've just gotten too sick of painting to pick up a brush for a week, or two.  I'm going to make a concerted effort to continue blogging until I'm up to date with where we are now.  I never imagined that I'd enjoy doing this kind of work so much, but it's been a very fun process. One of the more fun parts is having people over who saw it when we first bought it.  Most of them can't believe the difference and frankly, it is kind of mind blowing what a little paint, elbow grease and tenacity can do.   On another note, I was thinking of a name for the blog, since I'm not really Musing in Millbrook these days. How about "The Blue House Blog", or "Blogging from the Blue House"?  

Mysterious Figure

      The old man walks with a ramrod straight back, arms at his sides, soft, sure steps with his moccasin covered feet, making him look like a soldier tip toeing up on his enemy. He has dark eyes and coffee colored skin that's etched with lines and crinkles. He doesn't say much and what he does say is spoken in rapid fire Spanish, his native language that he chooses not to abandon, despite the fact that he's lived in the U.S. for thirty some odd years.  Known as Lucho he cuts a solitary figure living out his days in the groom's apartment at the farm, isolated at the end of a long dirt road. He's like an hourglass that ticks each day off as a grain of sand, one day closer to the inevitable.  I wave to him and smile, sometimes I even say "Hola" when I see him slip in or out of his apartment, though his stealth often makes his comings and goings hard to catch. Moving like a ghost, he'll return my smile and give a weak wave. There are times when I think he comes out to be noticed on purpose and I'm there simply to reaffirm that he's still alive, human,  a heart beating on a revolving planet while it's a million miles away from homeland, Chile.

  There have been a few conversations with Lucho over the months I've been at this farm, all related to horses, and I utilize my meager vocabulary of high school Spanish to communicate with him. I'm sure I sound like a stunted four year old, often I'm apologizing for my poor grammar.  He doesn't seem to care.  I listen to him speaking with his 92 year old boss, the owner of the farm and a character who must've been larger than life as a young man.  The two of them together, argue and complain. It's a familiar dance between them.


 Lucho has two dogs, one he picked out many years ago and one that picked him 4 years ago. I learn this from Ed, the owner.

"He didn't want the younger one when she showed up here as a puppy, but I told him that was tough," Ed recalled with a wry smile. "She was here and he had to feed her. So he did."

 The younger one, a rust colored bitch, who looks like a small chow cross, has a deep loyalty to her chosen person.  She follows his truck when he goes to the local gas station to buy cigarettes, sitting outside on the curb, averting her gaze from all who pass her by.  She has only one person in her life. I've been allowed to pet her twice and sometimes she'll give me a half hearted wag of her coiled tail, but mostly it's a look of quiet disdain  through squinting, mistrustful eyes when I arrive at the farm. The old dog is an aging comic of Akita heritage, with a mottled, dull orange coat that is bare in places.  His mouth curls up in a macabre grin exposing yellowed fangs as he patrols the yard, pausing to make water on anything in his path.  Barking in a hoarse, repetitive fashion he can often be found upside down, itching his back to and fro with his legs spastically kicking and bicycling caught up in a moment of pure pleasure.  He likes to have his head petted, which I do very gingerly whenever he swings by for a check up.  The main concern for him is keeping my dogs from eating is Ol' Roy brand dog kibble.  It's a full time job that he takes very seriously when we arrive each day and he's not afraid to stand up to my young bucks, even if he is balding and wobbly.  The dogs never really get into it, though the bitch has grabbed both of mine and given them a good shake to prove her territory is strictly off limits.  Gutsy move for a fox sized dog to pull, but it worked.


    The other day Jonathan and I were teaching a young horse how to load in a two horse trailer.  The horse wasn't being terribly cooperative, instead he preferred to stand halfway in the trailer with his hind feet still on the ground.  Without a word, Lucho appeared with a large bucket of sweet feed and handed it to Jonathan.  The lure of the tempting grain was enough to convince the horse that whatever fear he had of walking into the trailer was trumped by his appetite and on he went. I thanked Lucho for his participation and he gave me a little smile before retreating back to his apartment. My suspicion is that he watches everything that goes on around the barn, which is both creepy and comforting. Before we came in the barn was empty. When we got there I was concerned that we were going to be an unwelcome presence with our boisterous group of show horses, but instead I get the feeling that Lucho enjoys the added activity and the chance to lend a hand at times.  By early fall we should have our own barn completed so our horses can move to our place. Once again the cavernous polo barn will be silent and still, except for Lucho's quiet footsteps.  

A Minor Glitch

      I'm going to veer off the timeline of the Blue House Project for a moment here. Today it dawned on me that I hadn't received a copy of my new home owner's insurance policy, which should've come last week.  When we bought the house in January I secured a renovation policy on the house and property. The insurance agent I was using at the time informed me that once we moved in, we should be able to upgrade it to a normal home owner's policy.  I had called her several times after we finally moved in, but she never called me back, so I decided to go with a different company.  Setting up the new policy involved answering about a half hour worth of questions from a humorless wench, but I gritted my teeth and got through the process thinking how clever I was and it was one more thing I could check off my list.  Ha!  Steeling myself for another annoying series of questions, I rang up the new policy's hotline, punched in all the ridiculous touch tone responses,  and an automated voice said to me, "Your policy will be cancelled on Sept. 7, 2014.  This must be a mistake, I thought. What on earth? So, I dutifully pressed 0 to talk to a human and get to the bottom of what that statement meant. A woman named Laura answered, and I explained to her that I hadn't received my policy, nor had I received any bills and what did that automated voice mean when it said my policy was to be cancelled?  She was quiet for a moment while she looked up the number and then she said, "Oh, it has to do with the inspection."  I replied that I knew someone was coming out to do an outside inspection during the time we were away a week long horse show, but I hadn't heard anything about the status.

"Hmmm, that's strange," she said. "But I can see why you aren't eligible for this policy. You'll have until Sept. 7th to either make improvements, or get a new policy.  Here, let me email you the report, complete with pictures."

I stalked into my office, and pulled up my email account.  Her email promptly popped up so I could open the pdf file.  I was pretty angry since I didn't have any idea what was going on and I felt they really had been remiss in not contacting me by mail, or phone. Pfft! How was I supposed to know what was going on??!!  Was I supposed to be clairvoyant?? I imparted these thoughts to her and, I admit my tone was less than friendly.  She apologized and proceeded to list off the reasons as to why our place wasn't considered acceptable to insure.  Dry rot on moldings, unpainted eaves, open crawl space, the red barn has no foundation, etc., etc., the list went ON AND ON.  By this point I had pulled up the report, complete with detailed photographs of our one hundred year old abode's insurance hazards.  The pictures clearly showed all of the problems she'd listed to me in painful detail.  I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.

"Wait," I said between giggles. "It's not that bad of a house! You should've seen it before we bought it! The pictures aren't showing all the work we've actually accomplished!  It's a virtual showplace now!"

  I think she was relieved to hear that I had changed my tune, so she chimed in, "It's actually really cute! I can see why you bought it, but it does need to have these improvements made before we can cover you past Sept. 7th."

"Are you kidding?" I guffawed. "These pictures make the house look like something out of Deliverance!!! What kind of an idiot would even buy this place??"  By now, I was almost losing control with maniacal laughter.  "The eaves aren't painted, because it's a NEW roof! Doesn't that count as a good thing??  And the red barn is charming, charming I tell you! It's a piece of southern history!"

  Poor Laura. She endured my hysteria with good humor.  I felt those pictures were incredibly unfair, but the fact of the matter is that there are some cosmetic issues that we have to take care of wether we like it, or not.  Buying an older home that has been neglected isn't for the faint of heart.  I wouldn't exactly call our house "ramshackle", but between its age and the southern heat it has suffered its share of exterior wear and tear.

"Okay, Laura. I understand. We'll start addressing the exterior problems," I said when I finally had my composure back.

I hung up and Jonathan called to me, "What the hell was that about?"

"Honey, brace yourself and come in here. I have some pictures to show you."


  Just another little hitch in the Blue House Project, but at least I'm laughing about it. I kind of feel like Tom Hanks from The Money Pit. Remember that movie?  He buys a gorgeous, falling down mansion and he fixes one thing and ten more things break.  Oh well,  off to see our friends at Lowes for the millionth time this year.  

Heave Ho!!!

     Once I got over the initial buyer's remorse after we bought what we affectionately referred to as the "Blue House", it became clear that the first step was that we had to empty it out and clean it. I researched dumpsters in the area and finally found a company that would drop a 30 yard dumpster at our back porch for a week.  The day it showed up Jonathan and I arrived wearing durable clothes, gloves and face masks.  There wasn't a lot of mold, but we weren't taking any chances. For good measure I took off my eye glasses and put them on one of the mantles for safe keeping.  My theory behind this move was that if I couldn't actually see what I was touching then it wasn't really in my hands. I know, irrational, but desperate times called for any measure of any kind to get the job done.

  Anyone who knows Jonathan and I knows that as laid back as we can come across to folks, we can really work when we need to get a job finished. We were relentless with this project, though I got sidetracked now and then by old newspapers. It was fun to read what people were writing about in the 50's, until Jonathan would jolt me back to reality by barking at me to get back to work.  We made trip after trip walking up and down the concrete back steps, like drones on a mission.  Below is our lovely sun porch. It had a hole in the roof, and thanks to a few rain storms all of the stuff in the photo was soggy. It made the job just that much more fun.

  

This is our "Kitchen". I wasn't lying when I said that the house was painted in a spectacular shade of burn your eyeballs in their sockets green.  The rest of the rooms weren't quite as full as these two, but they still provided a lot of trekking to and from the dumpster.  The two car garage scared me to pieces, since I have a fear of creepy crawly things and it seemed to me like a brilliant first class hideout for all of the creepy crawlies in SC.  However, when we'd finally gotten the house as empty as we could it was time to tackle the garage.  Most of the time I was holding my breath while doing the garage portion of "evacuate the crap", so my memories of it are hazy due to oxygen deprivation.  It was definitely better that way.  One thing struck me while we were getting rid of all of this eccentric dead guy's garbage. I kept expecting to see a mouse, or a spider, cockroach, anything that would scuttle and cause me to leap to the ceiling. All I found for animal/insect evidence was a mummified bird, who had probably found it's way down the chimney by accident.  I began to wonder if the house had some sort of curse on it that kept living creatures from being able to survive under it's roof and partially collapsed roof. Maybe it emitted a odorless gas that told the wildlife to stay away, but us dumb humans would suck it into our lungs and only realize what was going on right before paralysis set in.  These aren't the sort of thoughts you should be having when you've just bought your first house, but this was the mood I was in on that first day of heaving out.  

Now don't be jelly of our delightful claw footed tub!  I guess the former owners couldn't bear to have any of that leftover green paint go to waste, so they gave the tubby a quick splash of it to ensure not one room would be spared the tasteful effect of this irresistible shade.  Later, I discovered it's actually quite common in the period to paint the lower half of a claw foot tub, but I prefer to imagine the former owners just being cruel.  My hatred for what they'd done to this house has spurned my work ethic immeasurably over the last few months.  

   Inside the tub you'll see the "linens".  Ancient terry cloth towels that were tissue paper thin, crusty facecloths and set of sheer curtains, gray with age. All truly disgusting.  It appeared that at one point the propane heater that was mounted at a jaunty angle behind the door had caught fire and done a fair amount of smoke damage in the tiny bathroom.  The walls were smeared with soot and filth. It took me days before I could force myself to set foot onto the actual bathroom floor.  There was a full set of gentleman's toiletries still intact on the shelves of the medicine cabinet. Aqua Velva, Pepto Bismol, Bryl-cream, even a toothbrush.  It was as if the man decided on a whim one day that he would move out and he left the place as intact as a crime scene. It was eerie to say the least. 

So there you have it. The first glimpses of our sweet little Shangri-la. I've provided photographic evidence to prove that I wasn't exaggerating about the extent of the mess inside this little gem of a home. It was a staggering job, but we eventually got it cleaned out to the last coat hanger.  The dumpster sides nearly groaned outward, because we'd stuffed it so full.  It felt really good to be able to navigate our way through the house without having to dodge boxes and bits of furniture.  The sun porch proved to be a much bigger room than we had anticipated (see below). Things were starting to look up. A little bit.  I still wasn't about to get carried away with glee, but I could see a pinprick of light at the end of what is proving to be an endless, yet entirely rewarding, tunnel. 

We bought a hovel, I mean house!

  Well, as it always does, the dust settled after I got down to SC with the animals. The blurry edges of my life started to come into focus again. Jonathan's dad was still in critical condition in the ICU, which was freaking all of us out.  He would make a small improvement and then lapse. The doctors had no answers, it wasn't really up to anyone what happened next. Time would tell if he'd improve, or continue to spiral downward.  All we could do was be there as support for Jonathan's mom and pray.

  The matter of buying our house was looming in the next week. We had stopped off at the property the day after I arrived down south.  It was a grey, gloomy day in late December, with a rawness that only the air in winter can provide.  The house had been unoccupied for nearly a decade and it's owner had passed away from a heart attack in late summer.  He used the house to store "things" for yard sales. And by "things" I mean anything you can think of, from tools, to curtains, to clothing, etc. The house was full of crap. Useless, dirty, cluttery...crap.  The flat roof on the back addition had long since rotted and was falling in, allowing rain to accumulate in puddles on the floors in the kitchen and sunroom.   As for the property itself, the acreage was mostly wooded.  A slanted red barn that was also full of crap listed on one side of the property. The two car garage was a white cinder block building that was filled with more crap.  For some reason someone had decided that painting the pump house yellow, with a red roof was a good idea. It sure was something to see.

"Isn't it awesome?" Jonathan kept saying.

  I would muster a feeble grin, raising my eyebrows to show my enthusiasm, but honestly the place was just gross.  I liked the house itself, but the amount of work ahead of us before we could actually live there was overwhelming.  It had no running water, no electricity, no plumbing, no heat, no a/c, no working anything.  And it was filthy dirty.  And most of the interior rooms were painted the most putrid shade of green you can imagine, floor and ceiling. And the back roof was caving in. I swear if a house could sigh this place would be sighing big time. I know I was doing plenty of sighing, though I kept it to myself.


 The big day of the closing finally arrived right before Christmas. We met our realtor, who had been amazing through this whole process, in the parking lot.

"Y'all ready to buy a house?" she said with a grin.

I let Jonathan answer that question, since at the time I was having trouble showing any positive reaction toward the idea.  The lawyer had the papers all ready so it was a matter of a few signatures and we were on our way.  It was official. We were now home owners, of a house that we couldn't actually live in. Leave it to us, I said to myself. Go buy a house you can't live in and that needs ten zillion hours of work.  Lord, it was going to be a very long, long winter.

Me vs. THE MOVE II

      It's funny how when you have a date for something unsavory, like a root canal, or colonscopy, it seems like a dot in the distance.  Plenty of time until you have to face the music. Then before you know it, it's the day before the dreaded date. And then you wake up the morning OF the dreaded date and your first thought is, "F#%K, it's here!"  That's how I felt on Dec. 20, 2013 when I opened my eyes to laser bright sunshine streaming in my window.  I had until 4 p.m. to get the last details taken care of before the van was to arrive at my driveway. Quite honestly, I don't even remember what I did in the hours that preceded my departure from NY state, but I had everything ready to go when I heard the air brakes from the van blowing at precisely 4 p.m.  There was no turning back.

  Aside from the two drivers, one of my customers and her husband, plus an extra helper in the form of a strong young man all began to drag, carry, or wheel the paraphernalia that I'd gathered in the barn aisle to take to SC. The driveway had turned to dirty, mucky slush which made this process ten times harder, but soon the equipment was packed into the peak of the van and the three horses were loaded. We made a couple of changes for where the (OH MY GOD) cats and dogs were going to travel. I was under control up until this point, but I could feel utter panic pushing to be released from my chest with each thudding heartbeat.  It was time to take all of my poor, unsuspecting animals and stuff them in crates and force them to ride 14 hours in a cold, dark peak of a horse van. I really thought I might throw up.  When I got into the house, I  couldn't help but notice (read: torture myself) how cozy all the kitties looked as they were sleeping in various spots. Choking back tears, I gathered them and one by one put them in their traveling compartments. It was time to do the unthinkable, and I had to just man up and do it.

   The wide eyed animals were nestled in the van, crate by crate, like Noah's ark, as I forced myself to close the door.  I was running on hyper fast nervous energy as I thanked and said goodbye to my customer and her husband. I could feel more tears pressing to shoot out of my eyes when we hugged, tears that if allowed to flow would be difficult to stop.  I didn't want to freak out the van drivers since they were stuck with me in the cab, so I brusquely cut the hugs short and climbed up into the passenger seat.  It was sad to be leaving our life in NY, but after all of the hell I'd been through over the previous weeks I was relieved to finally be shambling down the road toward our new adventures in SC.


   As for the cats and dogs? They traveled like pro's. I doled out treats to them at each stop, poking my fingers in the cages to give each a quick scratch. They were actually in better shape than me. The van drivers were amused at my initial angst over the pets, but that worry soon gave way to full on exhaustion.  I even managed to sleep for a few hours in the bouncy, noisy sleeper cab by jamming a pillow over my ears. At 8 a.m. the following day we pulled into the driveway of the barn where I'd arranged to keep the horses until our own stable was built.  Jonathan was already there and boy, was he was a sight for my bloodshot eyes. The first official leg of getting down here was behind me. Welcome to South Carolina!

Me vs. THE MOVE

     I feel like Rip Van Winkle of the blogging world. It's been a little over four months since I checked in at my blog.  Ordinarily, I'd be sorely ashamed for not writing for such a long stint. However, I have legitimate reasons this time. I've been busy with a capital B.

  Jonathan and I moved to SC in December in possibly the most chaotic, disorganized, maniacal fashion that two people can move their household, two dogs, four cats and three horses.  At least, that's how it seemed to me.  Three weeks before our moving date, Jonathan's Dad became seriously ill out of the blue. Totally unexpected, worrisome, scary time for all of us in the Edel family. Jonathan and his brother had to leave suddenly to go help their mother cope with what was looking to be a very grave moment (honestly, no pun intended).  Now I don't want to sound mercenary, because I was truly over the top worried about John Edel, but with no warning I was left to deal with "THE MOVE" all by myself.  While I should've been packing, like a mature adult, I spent a lot of time on FB, which is the equivalent to covering ones ears while yelling "la la la la la la". When you really need to get shit done, going on FB is the ultimate flip of the bird toward productivity. My other "avoid packing" activity was to call my friends. My poor, poor friends, who had to listen to me whining, sniffling, occasionally sobbing, hysterical ranting, you name it. I'm surprised they even answered my calls. I wouldn't have answered my calls, I'll tell you that.  I got out of hand on a daily basis.  Meanwhile, Jonathan's Dad was on a roller coaster of going uphill, going downhill, leading to a feeling of dread every time Jonathan called me to check in.  On top of my own psychosis (you can't make this shit up), the weather was just fucking ridiculous. It was freezing cold and it seemed to snow a significant amount at least every other day.  Each night during this time alone, I would curl up in the fetal position on the couch, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes that were mocking me with their lack of contents. The one night that I decided I really needed to pack at least a little bit I ended up breaking a bronze horse statue by trying to force it into a box. I loved this statue and as I held it in two pieces, while screaming at the top of my lungs, my remaining shards of sanity knifed through my chest to make their escape. I wasn't coping well and I knew it, but I felt powerless. It was me vs. THE MOVE.  And THE MOVE was totally winning.

   There were so many facets to THE MOVE that weren't coming together.  Logistically, nothing was actually planned except the date that the horses were being shipped. I had no idea how our car was going to make it. We hadn't actually picked a moving company, nor did we know if we were going to use a pod, or rent a truck. My anxiety level over shipping the cats in the horse van was escalating to mach one mode. It sounded so horrible to me that I couldn't think about it, yet I couldn't not think about it. Yeah, I know. That's a special kind of crazy cat lady.  Jonathan was patient for a very long time, but after a week of phone calls with me being a psycho he called me out on it. It was fair. He was coping with his freaking out Mom and very sick Dad. I didn't have a leg to stand on in the sympathy department.  Nor did I ask for it. I knew I was shrinking from being in charge of THE MOVE. It was time for the helpless jig to be over. So...I took deep breaths and made lists.  It was a step in the right direction. Not a leap, or a bound, but a teensy step.


   The day before the horses were leaving was spent flying around town trying to organize all of the things I needed for me, cats, dogs and horses to make the drive as comfortable as possible. I had lists of lists. I was wild eyed, disheveled, as fragile as fine china still, but I was getting shit done.  Out of nowhere, our neighbor called me. He was an old running friend of Jonathan's dad, who by sheer coincidence lived just down the road, and he'd heard that John was seriously ill.

"What can I do to help you, Michele?" he asked me in a gentle voice, after I explained what was going on with John's health.

"Nothing at all. Really, I just have to get down there with these animals. And then figure out how my car is going to make it."

"There. That's what I can do. I'll drive your car," he replied.

"No, you don't have to do that!" I said. "It's too much, it's so far!"

"I like driving. It's settled. I'm driving your car."

   And with those nine words, one of my worries evaporated with a virtual poof right before my eyes. Those nine words from John's friend gave me hope that maybe THE MOVE was possible. Maybe things would come together? It couldn't have come at a better time, because the most intense part of the move for me was coming on the very next day.

To be continued...


 

In my mind I'm going to Carolina...

     Most of my friends already know this, but in case you didn't hear the news...Jonathan and I are moving to Aiken, SC. In fact, we're moving next Friday. I can say that all day long, but it still doesn't seem real to me. Why, you ask? Well, I keep looking around our house (which is half packed, thanks to my hard working husband) and all I see is "stuff". "Stuff" that has to be packed, my hairbrush, nail clippers, the pretty blue bottle on the kitchen windowsill, the patio furniture, a candle, and the list is endless. Will it all fit in the van? I just don't know. What do we do if it won't all fit? I don't know. I've become almost mute on the subject of our move. I have so much to do and plenty of time on my hands to get it done, but I'm almost paralyzed. I've asked everyone and their brother about how they think I should transport the cats since we have a four door car and two dogs and four cats won't all fit. Even I'm sick of hearing myself talk about it. So, I'm done talking about it. Suffice to say, that somehow we'll all end up in SC sometime before Christmas, ensuring that the holidays will pass in a bedraggled blur for us this year. I'm fine with that, though. Really. I just want to be down there in one piece with the dogs, cats, horses and Jonathan. And have this agonizing pre-move anxiety be a thing of the past.

  The above picture is the living room in our new house. It's an oldie, circa 1907 with four fireplaces, built in cabinets, nice wood floors and high ceilings. Those are the positive points. The negatives add up to a lot of time and money in renovation costs, but we'll do all slowly, one piece at a time. See that odd blue/green color in the background?  That would be the kitchen. The entire room (cabinets, too!) is painted that wretched, puke inducing color. The guest room is the same hue, also. It makes you feel like you're in a crack house. Must've been a sale going on when the old owner went to buy paint.  The land that goes with the house adds up to a little over 7 acres and it will eventually be our home base for JEM Stables. At the moment it resembles a small wildlife preserve, but it's flat and with strategic clearing we'll have a nice spot for a stable, ring and paddocks.

  There is one small wrench being thrown into the works for our actual move. The weather. It isn't cooperating. At all. Yesterday we had an ice storm, which rendered the entire farm a skating rink. The driveway literally could've been skated on, no joke.  Today's treat is a snow storm, on top of all the ice. It's been snowing since I got up and it's still going at almost 1:30 p.m.  Now, the reason why this winter weather is a bit of a challenge is that our house is up on a little hill from the driveway. Carrying furniture isn't fun on flat, safe, dry ground, so try adding some ice and snow on a downhill slope and see how you feel about that.  Yeah, I thought so. This is going to f*&%ing suck. There is just no other way to put it. I've been joking all along about how it's going to snow before we leave, ha ha ha, won't that be a drag, etc., in hopes that by saying that it wouldn't happen.    Why haven't I learned not to fool with Mother Nature?? Did I learn nothing from the commercial in the 70's that said that very line? Apparently not. We are screwed. 


  When you tell people that you're moving you generally get two types of reactions. The first is that of pity. If you've ever moved, wether it was 10 miles, or 1000 you know that it's a gigantic pain in the ass. On many, many levels. So the pity people put a hand on your shoulder and give you the pursed lip look that says,  "I'm so glad it's you and not me. Hang in there." The second reaction is the overly positive, "You're going to get through this and be so happy in your new place!!", complete with pom pom's and a split. If we were mega wealthy and could afford to hire movers this would all be so much easier. But alas, we're saving our money by doing this on our own. And I swear this is the last time I'm moving.


  So y'all (hello, practicing!) probably won't hear from me for a bit. For the next two weeks I'll be walking in circles and wringing my hands, while muttering about all the loose ends I have to tie up. When I return to the surface of life  I'll try my hardest not to be one of those people who moves to a warm climate and proceeds to continually gloat about how nice the weather is while everyone back home is buried in six feet of snow. I might have to do it once, or twice, but then I'll hold myself back. Promise. Happy Holidays and I'll be back with a new blog name in January. I'm thinking "Adventures in Aiken", but I'm open to suggestions from the six people who will actually read this.