"Holly Jacobson is here!"
"Send her up!" I put the kettle on, spilled some cookies onto a plate and ran to my computer to save some photos I'd been editing.
Five minutes later still no one. I trotted downstairs, pulled on my Wellies and went outside.
Ah, of course, she went right to my horses. Silly me--anyone who knows anything about horses is familiar with this behavior. Who cares about a house! I walked up and offered my hand.
"You must be Holly!" I addressed the back of a petite person stroking the nose of my Haflinger mare Firefly.
"I am."
"Oh, my--the person who turned to me with a smile had no hands, completely lacked an arm, and her face! She had obviously suffered multiple burns and had endured multiple surgeries. At sixteen my son had been in a gun powder explosion and spent several days at Shriners' Burn Center in Boston. He'd incurred first, second, and third degree burns on his neck, arms and face, but those had been minor compared to what this woman had gone through. I'd no idea when I first talked with her on the phone-- she chatted about rides on the beach with her horse, how she competed in hunter/jumper shows but was now focusing on dressage. An extraordinary story was standing in front of me, but hearing it would have to wait: She was here to listen to mine.
As we shook hands I noticed Holly's eyes tearing in the cold. "Come in. We can have some tea and chat."
There were quite a few of us around the table; fourteen year-old Tim who had ridden with me for five years. Multi-talented, an athlete with an intellectual bent, he has a heart the size of New England. And four members of a French family of six I'd met over eight years ago when I ran into the parents--Anne and Richard in the woods. ( I was riding my Andalusian mare and ponying her ten year-old gelding behind me.) Anne had ridden horses in France as had all her children. They started taking lessons when they came to the U.S. but found it prohibitively expensive. Well, I could take care of that! (This was before I had my instructors license and started my little riding school. Now I kindly accept payment.) I resurrected a few lines of high school-mangled French inviting them to visit Windflower. We've been dear friends ever since, and all her children--the eldest daughter now lives in Virginia-- have evolved into talented horse trainers in their own right.
Hadrien is the second eldest, and when he's not at his studies at UMASS Amherst, he is busy running his own Natural Horsemanship business. Juliane--zipping through high school in three years--teaches, trains and rides anything and anyone here at Windflower, while ten year-old Dana round pens, groundworks, and rides the ponies, mini gelding and mule. In addition to her teaching duties at two private schools, and her work as a nature photographer, Anne manages to find time to ride and train here as well. Of course, like any all-American mom in her "spare" time she serves as head chauffeur to her children. (To better get to know these talented kids please feel free to click on this you tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?
For the next hour we talked with Holly about Natural Horsemanship, describing how gentle and clear it is to horses since it speaks to them in a language of movement they understand and which incorporates herd dynamics. We spoke of our relationships with our horses and each other. And we told stories--of our Welsh pony who came to us because she adamantly said no to her unrelenting lesson program at a nearby farm; of Firefly, a beautiful Haflinger who two years ago contracted Potomac Horse fever, ran at temperature of 107.5F, foundered badly but is now completely sound. And, of course, Kip, the equine heroine in my book The Kaleidoscope Pony. (available at Amazon.com., Dover Saddlery and Willow Books here in Acton.
I heard the electronic strains of Pachebel's Canon in D Major. Normally I would have turned off my cell for the interview.
It was Debbie."We're on 495!" "We'll be there shortly."
"How's Dolly?"
"Trailering like a champ!"
"You're here on an exciting day." I quickly explained the situation to Holly, excused myself, then walked down the driveway to meet Debbie and her husband Jeff. I had hoped the interview would be over by the time Dolly arrived. In fact, I hadn't really wanted kids here either except, perhaps, Juliane and her brother. We'd already been disappointed once. And I had taken this filly sight unseen. She could have wobbles, strangles, flu-rhino. shipping fever--it could be a sad ending. 'Stop, enough, basta! Today is going to be a celebration,' I told myself. Yet, as I walked down to our cul-de-sac I felt compelled to rap the trunk of a nearby tree with my knuckles for luck.
I hopped into the the Blaschke's crew cab and after many moves between piles of plowed up snow--now mostly ice--we managed to back to the open barn door. Then I got my first look at Dolly: Adorable--so very sweet and so very frightened. But the camera had certainly added at least ten pounds: Underneath her winter coat she was a bag of bones.
The Haflinger, Sirena, and Dolly's trailer-mate was also terribly thin. Her right ear was split, she had lice and pneumonia. But saddest of all, her udders were full of milk. She had to have been separated from her foal less than two weeks previous. In the last seven years years of her life this fourteen year-old creature had lived seven places and, while she was not as frightened as Dolly, she clearly trusted no one. Poor, poor girl!
We got to work. ( Those of you with experience training horses to load in a trailer know that they must be taught to step backwards before they get fully in the trailer. They need to learn to trust the footing and learn that they are not about to step off the planet as they back up. But, of course, Dolly was semi-feral so at the auction house that had not been possible. Once in, the doors had to be slammed shut before she tried to rush off or even rear-up and flip over yet again.) But Jeff Blaschke was a linebacker of a man with the calming magic of a child's teddy bear. Once the back ramp was down he positioned himself in front of Dolly encouraging her with a gentle push of his body to take a small step backward. Dolly planted her feet.
I stroked her neck. She was trembling.
"Please, Dolly. I 'm taking a leap of faith with you. Please, --take one here with me."
Another shove from Jeff--then another. Her front legs took a single step back. Much soft praise and stroking from Jeff. Another push and another step, but her hind legs didn't budge. She had assumed the posture of an elephant on a drum, front and hind legs nearly touching her back arched. More praise, constant pushing pressure and finally her hind legs stepped backwards. A couple of minutes later she was almost all the way out. We pushed on her shoulder and got her to turn around. She quickly ran through my barn, into her stall and out into the quarantine pen we'd set up that morning. Dolly was home!
The kids ran out to unhook the lunge line attached to Dolly's halter and 'filly-sat' while I ran into the house to write a check which I hoped would at least cover the cost of the gas for the Blaschke's trip. They had been amazing. I wanted to get to know them better. But Sirena--now divested of her traveling companion--had grown anxious and fretful. She was pushing against the butt-bar trying to get out. They had to get going fast. We traded e-mail addresses and promised mutual updates on our newly-adopted equine children. Good-by hugs were exchanged.
Holly--who by then had told me that she'd been in a car fire and that in her words, "the horses kept calling me back "--had to leave as well. Late afternoon traffic on Route 128--even on a Saturday--was never pleasant. And there was the added dimension of having to steer her specially configured car with her feet. Hadrien also had to leave to get back in time for a friend's birthday party, and Anne started making preparations for the evening feed.
So now I could be with Dolly. I walked into the round pen. She was contentedly munching hay. How I hated those two little green squares that read '613' slapped onto either side of her rump. Her hooves were lamentable--not so much overgrown as hideously worn and split. Her pasture--no bucolic imagery here, please--must have been mostly rock. Not a chance that this wild little girl who'd never seen the likes of a halter would ever have a let a farrier and his rasp near her. Those hooves had worn down--albeit badly--on their own.
Tim, Juliane and Dana were standing at a respectful distance. Dolly didn't seem terribly frightened. She simply walked off if I came within ten feet of her. Anne soon joined us and we talked softly about how extraordinary the day had been--a horribly neglected but dear little filly, inordinately generous strangers, an amazingly heroic writer and jounalist. And then there were the horses, all with their own special stories, staring curiously at this little red chestnut filly, soon to be a member of their herd. I glanced over at Dana--her pretty little face was buckling up with emotion. Juliane put her arm around her sister's shoulder and then they both wept.
"What on earth are you crying for?" I asked. "She's been saved. Cut it out, the two of you. You'll get yourselves dehydrated!"
I turned to Tim. "It doesn't help that Juliane's currently studying the Holocaust."
I saw his eyes fix on the square green sticker '613'. He spoke slowly. "It's the same thing."
"Send her up!" I put the kettle on, spilled some cookies onto a plate and ran to my computer to save some photos I'd been editing.
Five minutes later still no one. I trotted downstairs, pulled on my Wellies and went outside.
Ah, of course, she went right to my horses. Silly me--anyone who knows anything about horses is familiar with this behavior. Who cares about a house! I walked up and offered my hand.
"You must be Holly!" I addressed the back of a petite person stroking the nose of my Haflinger mare Firefly.
"I am."
"Oh, my--the person who turned to me with a smile had no hands, completely lacked an arm, and her face! She had obviously suffered multiple burns and had endured multiple surgeries. At sixteen my son had been in a gun powder explosion and spent several days at Shriners' Burn Center in Boston. He'd incurred first, second, and third degree burns on his neck, arms and face, but those had been minor compared to what this woman had gone through. I'd no idea when I first talked with her on the phone-- she chatted about rides on the beach with her horse, how she competed in hunter/jumper shows but was now focusing on dressage. An extraordinary story was standing in front of me, but hearing it would have to wait: She was here to listen to mine.
As we shook hands I noticed Holly's eyes tearing in the cold. "Come in. We can have some tea and chat."
There were quite a few of us around the table; fourteen year-old Tim who had ridden with me for five years. Multi-talented, an athlete with an intellectual bent, he has a heart the size of New England. And four members of a French family of six I'd met over eight years ago when I ran into the parents--Anne and Richard in the woods. ( I was riding my Andalusian mare and ponying her ten year-old gelding behind me.) Anne had ridden horses in France as had all her children. They started taking lessons when they came to the U.S. but found it prohibitively expensive. Well, I could take care of that! (This was before I had my instructors license and started my little riding school. Now I kindly accept payment.) I resurrected a few lines of high school-mangled French inviting them to visit Windflower. We've been dear friends ever since, and all her children--the eldest daughter now lives in Virginia-- have evolved into talented horse trainers in their own right.
Hadrien is the second eldest, and when he's not at his studies at UMASS Amherst, he is busy running his own Natural Horsemanship business. Juliane--zipping through high school in three years--teaches, trains and rides anything and anyone here at Windflower, while ten year-old Dana round pens, groundworks, and rides the ponies, mini gelding and mule. In addition to her teaching duties at two private schools, and her work as a nature photographer, Anne manages to find time to ride and train here as well. Of course, like any all-American mom in her "spare" time she serves as head chauffeur to her children. (To better get to know these talented kids please feel free to click on this you tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?
For the next hour we talked with Holly about Natural Horsemanship, describing how gentle and clear it is to horses since it speaks to them in a language of movement they understand and which incorporates herd dynamics. We spoke of our relationships with our horses and each other. And we told stories--of our Welsh pony who came to us because she adamantly said no to her unrelenting lesson program at a nearby farm; of Firefly, a beautiful Haflinger who two years ago contracted Potomac Horse fever, ran at temperature of 107.5F, foundered badly but is now completely sound. And, of course, Kip, the equine heroine in my book The Kaleidoscope Pony. (available at Amazon.com., Dover Saddlery and Willow Books here in Acton.
I heard the electronic strains of Pachebel's Canon in D Major. Normally I would have turned off my cell for the interview.
It was Debbie."We're on 495!" "We'll be there shortly."
"How's Dolly?"
"Trailering like a champ!"
"You're here on an exciting day." I quickly explained the situation to Holly, excused myself, then walked down the driveway to meet Debbie and her husband Jeff. I had hoped the interview would be over by the time Dolly arrived. In fact, I hadn't really wanted kids here either except, perhaps, Juliane and her brother. We'd already been disappointed once. And I had taken this filly sight unseen. She could have wobbles, strangles, flu-rhino. shipping fever--it could be a sad ending. 'Stop, enough, basta! Today is going to be a celebration,' I told myself. Yet, as I walked down to our cul-de-sac I felt compelled to rap the trunk of a nearby tree with my knuckles for luck.
I hopped into the the Blaschke's crew cab and after many moves between piles of plowed up snow--now mostly ice--we managed to back to the open barn door. Then I got my first look at Dolly: Adorable--so very sweet and so very frightened. But the camera had certainly added at least ten pounds: Underneath her winter coat she was a bag of bones.
The Haflinger, Sirena, and Dolly's trailer-mate was also terribly thin. Her right ear was split, she had lice and pneumonia. But saddest of all, her udders were full of milk. She had to have been separated from her foal less than two weeks previous. In the last seven years years of her life this fourteen year-old creature had lived seven places and, while she was not as frightened as Dolly, she clearly trusted no one. Poor, poor girl!
We got to work. ( Those of you with experience training horses to load in a trailer know that they must be taught to step backwards before they get fully in the trailer. They need to learn to trust the footing and learn that they are not about to step off the planet as they back up. But, of course, Dolly was semi-feral so at the auction house that had not been possible. Once in, the doors had to be slammed shut before she tried to rush off or even rear-up and flip over yet again.) But Jeff Blaschke was a linebacker of a man with the calming magic of a child's teddy bear. Once the back ramp was down he positioned himself in front of Dolly encouraging her with a gentle push of his body to take a small step backward. Dolly planted her feet.
I stroked her neck. She was trembling.
"Please, Dolly. I 'm taking a leap of faith with you. Please, --take one here with me."
Another shove from Jeff--then another. Her front legs took a single step back. Much soft praise and stroking from Jeff. Another push and another step, but her hind legs didn't budge. She had assumed the posture of an elephant on a drum, front and hind legs nearly touching her back arched. More praise, constant pushing pressure and finally her hind legs stepped backwards. A couple of minutes later she was almost all the way out. We pushed on her shoulder and got her to turn around. She quickly ran through my barn, into her stall and out into the quarantine pen we'd set up that morning. Dolly was home!
The kids ran out to unhook the lunge line attached to Dolly's halter and 'filly-sat' while I ran into the house to write a check which I hoped would at least cover the cost of the gas for the Blaschke's trip. They had been amazing. I wanted to get to know them better. But Sirena--now divested of her traveling companion--had grown anxious and fretful. She was pushing against the butt-bar trying to get out. They had to get going fast. We traded e-mail addresses and promised mutual updates on our newly-adopted equine children. Good-by hugs were exchanged.
Holly--who by then had told me that she'd been in a car fire and that in her words, "the horses kept calling me back "--had to leave as well. Late afternoon traffic on Route 128--even on a Saturday--was never pleasant. And there was the added dimension of having to steer her specially configured car with her feet. Hadrien also had to leave to get back in time for a friend's birthday party, and Anne started making preparations for the evening feed.
So now I could be with Dolly. I walked into the round pen. She was contentedly munching hay. How I hated those two little green squares that read '613' slapped onto either side of her rump. Her hooves were lamentable--not so much overgrown as hideously worn and split. Her pasture--no bucolic imagery here, please--must have been mostly rock. Not a chance that this wild little girl who'd never seen the likes of a halter would ever have a let a farrier and his rasp near her. Those hooves had worn down--albeit badly--on their own.
Tim, Juliane and Dana were standing at a respectful distance. Dolly didn't seem terribly frightened. She simply walked off if I came within ten feet of her. Anne soon joined us and we talked softly about how extraordinary the day had been--a horribly neglected but dear little filly, inordinately generous strangers, an amazingly heroic writer and jounalist. And then there were the horses, all with their own special stories, staring curiously at this little red chestnut filly, soon to be a member of their herd. I glanced over at Dana--her pretty little face was buckling up with emotion. Juliane put her arm around her sister's shoulder and then they both wept.
"What on earth are you crying for?" I asked. "She's been saved. Cut it out, the two of you. You'll get yourselves dehydrated!"
I turned to Tim. "It doesn't help that Juliane's currently studying the Holocaust."
I saw his eyes fix on the square green sticker '613'. He spoke slowly. "It's the same thing."
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