Windflower Farm Weekly

Sunday, January 6, 2013

THE SOLAR ECLIPSE, CAIRNS ZOO, AND OCEAN GOING HORSES

View from the Luxurious "Australian House of the Year" Villa Chosen By Scientists to Observe The Eclipse:

View from Mali Mali Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

A Rain Forest By Any Other Name Would
Be Just As Wet!

Mali Mali, located between the towns of Mossman and Port Douglas, is an award-winning "executive retreat" a mile or so back from the beach. It's surrounded by an exquisite, water-thirsty garden and forty acres of equally thirsty and equally well quenched rain forest. Here are a few more pictures:

Garden flowers, Mali Mali Ainslie Sheridan 2012

The morning after Alec arrived, he and I headed to Mali Mali. Scientists, students, and telescopes everywhere! The eclipse chaser par excellence, astronomer Dr. Jay Pasachoff, headed up this complex assemblage. Dr. Pasachoff has witnessed fifty-six total solar eclipses, including the one we were there to see. He is not only devoted to the study of the Sun but, from what Alec told me, devoted to his students as well. Several of his pupils from Williams College were there. He is marvelous at conveying complex scientific facts and ideas in a manner that lay people can understand. Here are a few shots of what a retreat looks like when scientists take over the place:

Oh, and international media were there, too--BBC and the Australian Broadcast Company (ABC):

Dr. Pasachoff's BBC interview:

BBC interview Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

And I did learn a few things. For instance, the only time scientists can study the sun's corona is when the central portion of the sun is blocked out. Normally it is invisible to the eye, whether naked or observed through telescopes. So, a total solar eclipse, which occurs somewhere around the world about once every year, is the one time scientists can measure the corona's temperatures and study how the magnetic field shapes the corona.

The big question was WWMND? "What would Mother Nature do?" In other words, would the dawn sky be clear at the time of the eclipse? If you have clouds you can't see the eclipse, just witness its result--nighttime darkness at dawn. The local forecast was looking pretty iffy.

We were in a wonderfully elevated position to view the eclipse, but it seems someone missed the fact that Mali Mali is up in a rain forest. Now, from my experience living in Hawaii, where there is rain forest there is rain, and lots of it. From the sunlit, clear blue skies of Waikiki Beach I could see rain clouds and mists hanging over the rain forests located just a few miles back from the shore. So, as the clouds continued in Mali Mali, the astronomers began to hunt for additional sites.

Dr. Pasachoff had a helicopter on stand-by. (Yes, Mali Mali comes with its own helo pad.) Alec and others decided to head inland behind the rain forest to an elevated plateau called the Atherton Tablelands. A location was found at a camping stop, but it was only through the generosity of an Australian couple in a camper that they were able to set up telescopes, computers, and lights. The couple loaned our group a generator. Here we are on November 14, shortly after dawn waiting for an event that has amazed mankind since the beginning of time, at least of our time:

Tablelands Eclipse Set Up Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

Other groups came for the eclipse:

     Campers and dawn trippers                           Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       A group of Chinese scientists set up a huge telescope. They invited the children in attendance to have a look. I don't know if they were PRC Chinese, Taiwanese Chinese, or overseas Chinese. I just know that they were Chinese and very kind.

          Waiting for the eclipse:

Tablelands Eclipse Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

The strange, almost palpable pre-totality light:

Tablelands pre-eclipse Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

Seconds before totality:

Pre-totality Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

And then:

      Totality                                                           Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       A collective wow was followed by the pop of champagne corks. It was stunning and lasted a good number of minutes. No wonder the Aztecs thought the sun was under attack by a monster. Their solution? Why, human sacrifice, of course. Who got sacrificed? The physically handicapped. And, guess what? It worked. In a few minutes the dark monster was gone and the sun shone brightly. Added to this, the Aztecs had fewer citizens who needed special care.

       We met some lovely people and critters during our Tablelands stay. Here Alec is cuddling Missy, the dog belonging to the couple who loaned our group the generator:

Alec and Missy Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

Graham Newberry and his son Dominic re-build and race old Chryslers for charity:

    The Purple People Eater                                  Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       When Graham isn't re-building, racing, and on scientific
travels with Dominic, he's a docent at a temple built by the Chinese during Australia's late 19th-century gold rush. He invited Alec and me to see it but, sadly, we didn't have time to learn about this quirky little episode of Australian-Chinese history.

   So, on this fertile plateau we witnessed a great natural event.
But what of those scientists at Mali Mali? Sadly, their dawn looked something like this:

                                  Telescope at Infinity Pool        Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

        Professor Pasachoff, on the other hand, outwitted the clouds with his helicopter and managed to witness his fifty-sixth solar eclipse!

Cairns Zoo

   The next day Alec and I visited the Cairns Zoo, larger than the Port Douglas Wildlife Habitat but not as charming.

   With cataracts and arthritis there was very little hop left in this old gentleman. We watched as he attempted to cross a dry little creek bed, but he didn't trust the footing. And then he fell over. After he righted himself we stroked him and hand fed him the majority of "roo food" that we'd purchased in the gift shop.

         Aged Kangaroo Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012


He was terribly sweet and it saddened us to see him having such a tough time. I thought the staff might soon decide it was time for his life to be over.

   And then, of course, we took in the croc show:

Croc feeding Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

This croc was huge:

Male Croc Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

And he had a girlfriend:

Mated Pair of Crocs Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

And so, with the barest of how-do-you-dos, they mated! I don't think I need explain where the lady croc is.

     Crocs Mating           Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

Most of you have probably seen at least an episode or two of The Crocodile Hunter on television. And most of you know that Steve Irwin was tragically killed by a sting ray whose barb entered his heart. He was taping a segment of his show about rays on the Great Barrier Reef. His body was brought back to Port Douglas. Australia still grieves over the loss this entertaining and highly committed conservationist.

      Salt water crocs are everywhere in Queensland waters. I thought I would put my feet in the water during a walk to the harbor at Port Douglas, but then saw this:

Croc Achtung Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

I continued on to a little cove and another sign:

    Croc wise    Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

   And so I decided to be "croc wise" myself and keep my feet to--and perhaps for--myself!

   Every year there are shark attacks in Australia, particularly where we were--the northeast. A woman told me that one of her students, a seven year-old aborigine girl who was wading ankle-deep, was grabbed by a croc. The aborigines threw their spears, which only drove the animal and his catch into deeper waters. As you saw in the photo of the croc feeding at the Cairns Zoo, salt water crocs can leap. They've been known to grab fishermen right out of their boats.

   Alec and I went on to find a more sociable type of animal on display--Dingos!

Dingo and Alec Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

There were two, and while one was quite reserved, this dingo wanted to be friends and have a good time. Though there was a fence in between Alec did his best to oblige him:

     Dingo and Alec playing                                        Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012


       It was hard to leave that dog. There were no toys in the exhibit and he had to be bored. He'd obviously been domesticated but serves as one of the zoo's two representatives of Australia's national dog.

   It is believed that Dingos found their way to Australia approximately four thousand years ago. They are also found in other southeast Asian countries. As an apex predator, the dingo filled a necessary role in maintaining the balance of Australia's ecosystem. But then came farmers and ranchers with their sheep, lambs, and calves--easier than grabbing a leaping wallaby or kangaroo and more filling than a mouse or rabbit. Dingos were shot on sight and still are, except in protected areas. Dogs brought by the British beginning in the 18th century have bred with Dingos, so there are few pure animals left except on Frazer Island. There are no feral dogs there to mix with the Dingos. DNA tests confirm that the Dingos there are "pure," that is, they are genetically very, very old and not mixed with any other kind of canine. In the Tablelands where Alec and I saw the eclipse, there are plenty of Dingos, but since there are a great number of farms and ranches in that area, the Dingos may be poisoned or shot on sight.

   Other zoo residents:

       This is a Brolga, a tropical Australian crane known for its spectacular mating dances as well as its spectacularly bad temper.

Cotton-tufted Monkey Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

The toilets for staff and guests at the Cairns Zoo did not harbor any of the following green creatures. At the reptile and amphibian exhibit this was his personal abode, and it just happened to be a commode. I think he comports himself with a wonderfully serene yet engaging demeanor:

     Tree Frog Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

SEA HORSES (OR WHEN A STALLION MAKES A GOOD MARE!)

   The Windflower Weekly is supposed to be about horses, and it normally is, but my trip to Australia was so interesting that I couldn't resist writing about it. Yet in keeping--somewhat--with the main focus of the blog, I thought I'd tell you about the incredible seahorse, many of which live on the Great Barrier Reef.

       I first saw live seahorses about a year ago at a local aquarium and was enchanted. It was like watching a miniature aquatic fairy tale. Their little fins fluttered as they swam--very slowly--vertically up and down. Sadly for me, but probably to the relief of my husband, keeping a pony tank (that's what it's called) of sea horses requires a skilled and attentive hand. They are fragile and require perfectly balanced ph, perfectly balanced salinity, constant temperature, and a gentle current.

   But for those who have the time, keeping seahorses seems a wonderful hobby. They are such fascinating creatures. When they become acquainted with you, they will eat out of your submerged hand as well as wrap their prehensile tail around one of your fingers. As many of you know, the male carries the eggs until a single contraction (lucky man) releases his precious cargo of between one thousand and fifteen hundred fully formed but ever so tiny baby ponies. Seahorses are monogamous in captivity and sometimes monogamous in the wild. The male attracts the female by inflating his brood pouch. This act informs her that he is ready, willing, and able to bear her children. The pair perform a beautiful--again, very slow--vertical courtship dance during which they will lock tails. As the finale the female tickles the male's tummy causing his pouch to open. She then deposits her eggs which hatch from nine to forty-five days later depending on the species. The parents renew their vows every morning with a shortened version of their courtship dance until the eggs are hatched.

And that's when all parental duties end. The little creatures must take their chances drifting in currents of predator laden water, sometimes managing to wrap their tails around a blade of sea grass or some other aquatic plant so that they may eat and grow.   But sadly sea horses have greater things to worry about than setting anchor in shallow, brine filled waters. Every year the Chinese scoop up twenty million of these creatures, the majority of which are ground into powder for Chinese medicine. Others are dried whole and sold--usually with an assemblage of shells wrapped in plastic--to be exported as home decor items.

The Latin name for the seahorses that were stabled out in the Great Barrier Reef is Hippocampus Queenslandicus. Hippo means horse and campus sea monster, though I find nothing monstrous in the delicate little dancers. But neither do I understand why the part of the brain essential in forming and retrieving long- and short-term memories, and that connects our emotions and senses, is also called the hippocampus or "horse sea monster." If one must use the term hippocampus, perhaps we could simply chuck this Latin and declare a new, more sensible name like "equestrian school."

   Our next blog will take us to the Great Barrier Reef--and perhaps a seahorse or two--as well as my beach ride on an Australian stock horse. Thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly--

Ainslie

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dingo

http://foa.webboy.net/species/Hippocampus/queenslandicus

http://www.amazon.com/Trophies-An-Equestrian-Romance-ebook/dp/B00998J2B2

http://www.allhorsestuff.com/

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Plane Rage, Un-charmin' Garmins, And How And When To Take a Joey From Its Kangaroo Mom

    Pre-eclipse Light                                                             Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012
    Tablelands, New South Wales

              I will get to the local animal sanctuary and news about the total eclipse shortly. But when I left you last, I was still in Texas recovering from my excursion to Grapevine and the difficult re-entry into the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. Well, following two much needed beers and a great number of apologies by the two women who recommended that I go to Grapevine, things started to luck up. The DFW lounge was about to close when one of the women told me that they had spoken with the Qantas representative who heads the Qantas lounge, restricted to First and Business class ticket holders. But because of what had happened to me, I was invited to wait there until my flight to Brisbane was announced. I could even take a shower if I wished, and there was a supper being served.

       I was led down the hall to that lounge and to a desk where a gentleman in a Qantas uniform asked for my passport and itinerary. I was then given--guess what?--a boarding pass for my flight to Brisbane!

       Me:      "Sir, how long have you been here?"

       Him:     "Mid-morning."

       Me:       "If TSA had brought you my passport could you have given them a boarding pass for me?"

       Him:      "Most certainly."

       Okay, so there had been an option. But TSA and that nasty American Airlines ticket person both had failed to recognize it. If they can't do that, how can they do the things they're supposed to do? Admittedly, it takes a little imagination, but only a little. Anyway, that horrible part of the day was over. Now, as I slipped into my thick terrycloth robe thoughts turned to the tasty-looking stir fry and rich beef bourguignon, and which I would choose when settled in my deep, oversized lounge chair. Yep, things were good.

       But not for long. After boarding--and it seemed there was no seat to spare--the flight attendants passed out one sheet of paper per long row (this was a super jumbo jet with two full decks). This is what I and a lovely young Australian couple sitting next to me read:

       "Unfortunately, a typhoon has formed over our normal flight route so we will have to adjust our course accordingly. Our in air travel time will therefore be nineteen hours. Additionally, because of our length of time in the air, we will need to land in Auckland, New Zealand, in order to refuel. We apologize for any inconvenience."

      Groans erupted from one and all, that is, except for that small number of passengers whose ultimate destination was, in fact, New Zealand. Miraculously, and contrary to Murphy's Law as applied to air travel, they were going to be allowed to disembark. The longest flight that I'd ever been on was to Japan, which was twelve hours. When it gets as high as sixteen hours, three more really didn't feel like much of a difference to me. And again, after my episode at security, I was simply thankful that my knapsack and I were actually going to Australia together.

       However, once in Auckland, we remained on the tarmac an hour more than expected. Why? After--and only after--we refueled, the captain or ground crew remembered that because a number of passengers had deplaned, the cargo had to be rearranged so that the weight was evenly distributed. By the time we landed at Brisbane I had been on that plane nearly 21 hours.   Economy class. Oh, and I forgot to mention that during the flight, two of the passengers behind our seat became angry at the Australian couple--who were heading home to be married--for (horrors!) daring to lean their seats back.

    But what were they do? The row ahead of us had leaned theirs back! The man's fiancée moved her seat forward a bit, but she remained very cramped. Not happy with that concession, the passengers behind them started kicking the couple's seats! And finally I started to get my seat kicked by the person behind me who up till then had remained out of the fray. So, since I was in the aisle seat, I got up and and told the two flight attendants about what was going on. They immediately informed the seat kickers that we were entitled to have our seats back and that the kicking must stop. I have witnessed road rage a few times in my life, but this was my first experience with plane rage. And I'm embarrassed to say three American women had been the culprits.

       We landed in Brisbane at ten a.m. but my flight to the city of Cairns and northern Queensland was not until nine twenty that evening. I no longer had any idea what hour my body clock was registering. I can't sleep in planes, so I knew it had been a very long time. But I had neither the mental energy nor the desire to calculate how long I'd been up. So I camped out in a local restaurant for a number of hours, bought a few gifts for family and friends, then camped out at yet another restaurant. There was wi-fi so I checked e-mail, entered some notes about my trip (you're reading them now) on my iPad, and started reading an incredible Australian travel tale Tracks by Robyn Davidson I picked up at an airport bookstore. Throughout the book Ms. Davidson refers to herself as an ordinary person. She is anything but. After traveling to the Outback and learning to train camels and live in the harsh climate--that took two years--the author, together with her four female adult camels and one calf, travel the harsh Outback, from Alice Springs to northern Australian a distance of seventeen hundred miles. Do read it. You will learn much about the outback, the indigenous people who live there, and one incredibly humane but determined young woman.

       A word about Australia's feral camels. I knew that they exist in great numbers and that they periodically must be culled because of the damage they cause and the competing interests of cattle ranchers. (Sound familiar, mustang lovers?) But after reading Tracks, I had to learn more. Camels were imported during the nineteenth century in order to carry loads into the Outback. The going was way too tough and dry for horses. However, once autos and trucks entered the picture, these "ships of the desert" were released into the wild.   I had no idea that at one point their number reached nine million, an utterly unsustainable population for a continent even as large as Australia. (If you read Tracks you will understand how dangerous feral bull camels can be, especially if you are in the company of female camels.) I can understand they must be culled, but the two methods used aren't humane. The first is this: to be shot outright from helicopters and four wheel drive vehicles. They often die a lingering, painful death. The second is this: to be crammed into cargo holds on ships bound for India and the Middle East, where they are slaughtered for meat and hide. I hate to imagine the facilities and level of "care" these poor camels get while awaiting their mortal end. And who ultimately is to blame for this excess in camels anyway? Why little old us, of course.

       Before I move onto Port Douglas, kangaroos wallabies, crocodiles, and jellyfish, I'll leave you with a couple more facts about the camel: camelids, their ancestors, were even-toed ungulates originally indigenous to North America. One group migrated into Asia and beyond via the Bering land bridge and evolved into camels, the other group migrated to South American and there evolved into llamas, alpacas, vicuñas and guanacos.

       By the time my flight landed in Cairns, Queensland, it was just before midnight in Australia and I was pretty well shot. When I got to the baggage claim area thankfully I saw a woman holding up a sign with my name on it. The hotel I was staying in overnight had sent a car and driver to pick me up, something I hadn't expected. But that was the only thing I found in the baggage claim area with my name on it, at least, initially. I waited and waited for my bag and knew I was in trouble when the carousel was completely bag-less for nearly fifteen minutes then ground to a halt.   I glanced over at my driver who was having an animated conversation with the woman at the Avis desk about a particular chakra of hers. One of her energy channels had apparently gone awry.

       There was no one else left in the baggage claim area save a large group of Chinese men who were busy loading their many bags onto a dolly a good hundred feet or so away from the carousel. When they started to roll the dolly towards the exit, I saw my bag exactly where they had been. They had obviously taken it by mistake and, just as obviously, had no intention of returning it to the carousel. I walked over, grabbed my bag, and growled, "Thanks a lot!" Their response: unabashed giggling. Now, I don't know if these fellows were Chinese from China, Taiwanese, or "overseas Chinese," but I do know that they were Chinese. My fatigue did not prevent me from feeling absolutely furious. When I told my driver about it she simply averred, "I'm not surprised."

       When I picked up my rental at the airport next morning, I asked that it have a GPS. You drive on the left in Australia and since I hadn't done that since I lived in Japan, well over thirty years ago, I thought it best not take my eyes off the road. I own a Garmin and have found it a godsend when getting to big horse shows in small New England towns, or dinners and receptions at new addresses that must be found on dark winter nights. But have any of you had a GPS go haywire on you? Well, sadly I have, and wouldn't you know it, it just had to be on this particular trip. When I headed out the airport for Port Douglas, my Garmin sent me completely in the wrong direction.

     "At the next roundabout go straight," the robo woman with the English accent advised.

      Okay, easy enough but there was no roundabout for at least two miles. I waited to hear the familiar--"recalculating"--but nope. It simply repeated itself: once again I was to go straight at the next roundabout.

      But again no roundabout. Robo Brit repeated this at least three times. Could a roundabout in Australia be any different than a roundabout in England or a rotary in New England? Perhaps it was simply an intersection? I'd gone straight through any number of those. Or was this simply a southern hemisphere sort of thing I should know about. As I pondered these questions for the next hour, I drove past two "Frenchmen's Creeks," one "Chinaman's creek," and lots of open pastures and sugar cane fields.

          Aged Male Kangaroo                             Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012
    Cairns Zoo, NSW


       A dead kangaroo on the road confirmed that my plane had truly landed in Australia. I later learned that whenever you see a dead kangaroo on the side of the road you are supposed to stop, check if it is male or female, and if it is female put your hand into her pouch to see if she is carrying a joey. If you find one--and I'm told if it's female there usually is one--you need to take it to a local zoo or rehabilitator. I felt badly that I hadn't stopped. Now that would have been something: lost in Queensland with a tiny baby kangaroo hopping all around my car's interior. Well, hopefully the poor creature was a male, or if female, had already been rescued by some Australian who had known what to do. A joey is but an inch or so long when it migrates into the pouch, which is Mother Nature's superior version of a neonatal unit. I saw just such a creature the next day at the Port Douglas Wildlife Sanctuary when I signed up for their behind the scenes animal care tour. (This one had been taken out of the pouch and tossed onto the ground by her mother.) Here is a picture that will give you an idea about what might have been had I stopped and found that the struck kangaroo was a joey bearing mommy.:

     Rescued Joey                                                Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       By the time I crossed "Slaughter House Creek" (one can only guess what that flowing water flowed away with) I was pretty sure I was in trouble. However, I continued on until the Garmin lady said:

       "In .4 km turn left to your destination."

       Well, in .4 km there was no left and certainly no destination intended for me. I continued a bit more but when the face of the Garmin turned blank and the voice of robo Brit was no more to be heard I decided to turn back. I stopped at a little house that advertised tea, scones, and fine art.

        "Port Douglas?" she asked, with amazement.

       She drew me a map that directed me back--over one hour--back to and around the city of Cairns to the coast road and ultimately to Port Douglas. Her little pencil sketch worked! After an hour, I actually began to see signs for Port Douglas and my road--very curvy--looked out onto the Pacific and one amazing stretch of beach after the next. I checked in at the beautiful Verandah apartments, bought a meat pie at the bakery next door, then slept twelve hours. Oh, and before that happened, I picked up a pamphlet from the lobby rack that advertised
"Horseback Riding On Wonga Beach."

Eighteen foot Elvis here is an esteemed citizen of the Cairns Zoo but there is no shortage of Elvis impersonators swimming in the waters of northern Australia.

               "Elvis"                                             Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012


Tales to come:

     -- Australian creatures, great, small, big, and sometimes not so beautiful

     -- The run up to the Total Eclipse with my scientist son

     --   More Australian creatures

     --   Snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef while my son scuba dives thirty feet below me

     --   A venomous beach

     -- A ride along an aborigine-owned, crocodile-infested beach



    Thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly---

         Ainslie Sheridan.


http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/10/091026-australia-camels-video-ap.html

http://www.allhorsestuff.com/

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

TOTAL ECLIPSE, GREAT BARRIER(S), AND THE AUSTRALIAN STOCK HORSE

    Totality                                                                   Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012
Tablelands, North Queensland


To Australia--and A Total Eclipse of the Sun

   Those of you who are already regular blog readers know that my son Alec, a solar astronomer, asked me to join him--and a load of other scientists--in Port Douglas, Australia, to view a total eclipse of the sun. You also know that I'm a reticent traveler, but the prospect of being with my far-off son (he currently lives in Bozeman, Montana), coupled the prospect of seeing our sun, Earth's nearest star, completely obscured by the moon, was impossible to refuse. To go "down under" requires many hours of travel, but if your ticket is purchased using frequent flyer miles and Mother Nature in addition decides to kick up a typhoon over the Pacific, it takes many, many, many hours. Such was the case with my trip.

The flight, scheduled to leave Boston at 5:40am, meant I needed to be at Logan Airport at 4:00am (in the case of this international connection, no boarding pass available online for printing). So, my husband Jim thought it best for us to stay the night before at the airport Hilton, 300 yards away from check-in instead of the 30 miles distance to our home. Knowing that this venture was emotionally and geographically a big deal, Jim stayed with me until the TSA security check. I'd tucked my passport, ticket, and itinerary safely into a little canvas envelope slung about my neck. I felt a bit like one of those English children who, to escape the WWII bombings of London, were sent by rail to live with families in the countryside. They, too, carried their identities around their necks. Well, so do soldiers and sailors.

      Sadly, I left my set of dogs tags hanging in the closet of the house I lived in while serving in Japan. I'd had them since Officer Candidate School. And, yes, they did have my name rank and serial number but also there was room at the bottom for religion. When I filled out the paperwork under religion I wrote "Druid." My OCS friends thought I was going to get into trouble but miraculously, when I got the tags they said "Druid." (If I ever needed last rites where on earth would the Navy have found a Druid priest?)

      The first leg of my journey was not to verdant English lands, but to the Lone Star state of Texas, specifically the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. I had twelve full hours before I was to board my Qantas flight to Brisbane, Australia, so I became a day member of the DFW airport club.   There I could rest, perchance to cat nap.

But that was not to last. First, a gentleman in a cowboy hat sitting in an "information" booth urged me to take a shuttle tour that ran directly from the airport.

       "It'll take you straight to the largest mall in Texas!"

He was so enthusiastic, his eyes so bright, that I tried to register interest but obviously failed. He hastily added that the shuttle also went to Grapevine, a restored 19th-century town. That sounded better, but with so many thousands of miles to travel ahead of me I felt reticent to leave the airport. And, watching the national election returns and then getting up at 3:00am, I'd had barely three hours sleep the night before. But that was not to be. After learning that I would be staying at the airport many hours, the two women attending the DFW lounge also urged me to take the shuttle, adding that Grapevine was "adorable." Maybe I was just being too careful. And, after all, once aboard the plane there would be plenty of opportunity to snooze. They confirmed that I could get back through security with my ticket, and that they would be glad to keep my knapsack--it contained my iPad, Kindle, camera, lenses, and considerable cash--behind their counter while I was gone. So I stepped out into the warm Texas sun and caught the shuttle. Here is Grapevine:

As you can see, Grapevine was not going to wait for Thanksgiving to pass before its Christmas kick-off. The stores, most of them gift shops, were loaded to the gunnels with all manner of Christmas items, the majority of which seemed to hail from China. There were, however, some charming, locally made crafts. And there were Christian crosses a plenty--home decor crosses of metal, leather, and wood for walls, necklaces, brooches, and bracelets, and many other Christian-themed items including bed covers, stationery, and Biblical exhortations to post on your wall. But my favorites were the gold and silver plastic tiaras with crosses made up of fake rhinestone plastic jewels, in other words double fakes. Next to the tiaras stood a rack full of princess dresses for toddlers, all made of shiny polyester and tulle. Here you see that one can imbibe in some religion in Grapevine:

I didn't go in, but it seems there would be no surveillance by either human or electronic camera.

                   Signboard                                      Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       As you can well guess, I had no desire to linger in Grapevine, so I hopped on the shuttle and returned to DFW. I handed the agent my trip itinerary, which had my ticket n number on it. He immediately handed it back and stated that he needed my boarding pass. I fished out my Boston to DFW boarding pass and handed it to him.

       "I need the boarding pass for the flight you are going to take."

       "But I don't have any others. American Airlines didn't give me one."

       He advised me to go over to the American counter and said he was certain they would take care of it.

       Not a chance. An unsympathetic woman said I would have to wait until the Qantas ticket counter opened, and since my flight (leaving at nine p.m.) was the only Qantas flight there would be no staff available to check me in until seven-thirty, at least four hours. My throat began to tighten and my heart began to pound. The DFW lounge closed at seven and I needed my knapsack!

        Me: "Look, you have to let me back in. Call the DFW Lounge and they'll tell you they have my bag. There's a tag on it with my name and address."

        Ms I-Could-Care-Less: "Sorry, your flight with American finished here." So much for Oneworld ticketing.   She concluded, "There's nothing I can do."

       Me: "The TSA agent said you could help me. I want you to walk over with me and tell him exactly why you can't!"

       Ms I-Could-Care-Less would not deign to do this but had an underling (very nice but oh-so-inexperienced) walk me back to the TSA agent. The agent said he would fetch his supervisor, who appeared within minutes. And as soon as he smiled and asked what the problem was I burst into tears.

      Me, half in tears, half joking: "I'm not a terrorist. I was in the Navy for fourteen years. I'm wearing a Boston Red Sox cap."

      TSA agent: But you need a boarding pass.

      Me: "Okay, don't let me through. Just get someone to bring my knapsack down to me."

      TSA agent "An unsupervised bag would cause even more of a problem."

      Me: "It isn't unattended. Two ladies in the DFW lounge are supervising it. I have to go to Australia but I can't go to Australia without that bag." Tears were now streaming down my face.

     TSA agent: "Give me your itinerary and wait here.

      In ten minutes he was back and beckoned me through the X-ray machine. He stayed with me until I'd picked up my little canvas bag and cell phone.

       TSA agent: "You know, you were a big little problem for us. In all my years here I have never let anyone through without a boarding pass."

      Me: "Sorry, thank you so much."

      One of ladies handed me my knapsack. "Well, how did you like Grapevine?"

      Me: "I'll tell you after I have a drink. Make that two drinks.



I'm sorry this entry leaves us still in Texas, but the next blog will get us to Australia, the eclipse, and, yes, even horses, I promise.

Thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly--

            Ainslie

      Note: Next Saturday, December 1, as well as Sunday, December 2, as part of a Holiday promotion, Amazon Kindle is offering my novel Trophies, An Equestrian Romance for free. You don't have to own a Kindle. The Kindle application is free and may be downloaded on your iPad, computer, or tablet. You can also send it to a friend as an e-gift. Here's the link: http://www.amazon.com/Trophies-An-Equestrian-Romance-ebook/dp/tags-on-product/B00998J2B2

Another link: http://www.allhorsestuff.com/

Monday, November 5, 2012

Dressage School For Tica, Carriage Horse Update, Going to the "Land of OZ" and a Remarkable Love

What's my Andalusian mare Tica been up to?

As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, Tica has been in training with Linda Parmenter at her Pinehaven Farm in Hubbardston, MA. I do miss her and her imperial ways, but I have three other "greenies" to keep me busy. Linda has invited me to come see her progress though I've delayed doing so. Of course, seeing her would make me happy, but it would also underscore how much I miss her. However, when Linda told me that she had scheduled a lesson with renowned trainer, rider, and judge Kathy Connelly at nearby Elysium Farm in Harvard, MA (no relation to the university), I couldn't resist. Here are Linda and Tica:

                          Tica and Linda                      Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       I am very excited about Tica's progress. Relaxed and balanced, she executed two perfect flying changes--her very first--due to Linda's systematic, patient training and the professional eye of Kathy Connelly. We are hoping that Tica will be able to show second and third level next season.

Update on Montreal and Cozumel Carriage
Horses:

       Within twenty-four hours of posting the blog entry about my trip to Montreal I was contacted by Mirella Colalillo. She heads up that city's "Anti-caleche (carriage) Defense Coalition." What she had to say and the photos she sent convinced me that the carriage horse you saw in my blog entry (http://windflowerfarmweekly.blogspot.com/2012/10/cozumel-carriage-horses-by-way-of.html) had been an exception. This poor boy in Montreal is not feeling at all well and he's obviously not being fed!

Undernourished carriage horse Genevieve Allard Penas copyright 2012

There are any number of the following both in Montreal and Cozumel (and no doubt in most every city that has horse carriages):

Runaway CTV copyright

And here is their squalid reward for all those hours spent ferrying people around in often over-loaded carriages, many hours at a time and frequently in inclement or very hot weather:

Manure stained and damp standing stalls--what filth! The horses spend all day between the shafts of the carriages unable to turn and get to flies bothering their flanks and it is the same in their stalls. These are called standing stalls. And that is exactly what they are . Unless at death's doorstep, a horse will not--basically cannot--lie down in one of these. That center stall is wet and filthy. A place this miserable is seldom cleaned. The horse's legs are dirty from six to eight inches above their hooves. Shame on the City of Montreal for allowing such conditions to exist. Starving, sick horses pulling overloaded carriages--how quaint is that! Once again, the horses lose out to the power of the mighty dollar, in this case the Canadian dollar. Here's the Coalition's flyer:

                                                                          courtesy of Mirella Colalillo



   I also received an update from the anti-carriage point person in Cozumel, Mexico, who asked, for reasons of personal safety, not to be identified. There has been some progress but the horses are still pulling obese tourists from the cruise ships to the city of San Miguel and back again in temperatures that can hit 115 degrees F.   There are now rest areas for the horses. The drivers are required to utilize them but seem perfectly willing to risk the fine by failing to do this. There have been accidents: one horse pulling four tourists spooked and the carriage crashed, resulting in serious injuries for everyone including the driver. Another frightened horse crashed his carriage into a truck loaded with butane.

       The good news is that the citizens of Cozumel, increasingly aware of the suffering of these animals, have become significantly more vocal. However, acting against the carriage owners and the monetary interests of the island can result in having your job threatened and funding cut for what you care about. When I was in Cozumel there were nine--count 'em--nine newspapers. One, and only one, prided itself on not taking bribes.

So, please spread the word. Commercial tourist carriages are cruel and dangerous to the health and safety of horses and humans alike.   It needs to stop.

Hurricane a.k.a. "Superstorm" Sandy

   Hurricane Sandy has come and gone and Windflower Farm got off very lucky--only one fence board broken by a falling branch. Part of our town was without power for several days and we had one friend over so she could shower and work on her computer. But many other New England towns went without power and suffered damaged homes and eroded beaches. However, we don't hold a candle (I resist making a bad joke here) to New York and New Jersey. My brother, who lives in Long Island, wrote that he was sitting in the darkness with a whole basket of tempting Halloween candy. No power = no trick-or-treaters.

       I saw some online photos of the damage to iconic Coney Island, which appears leveled but for one sad looking ferris wheel and one Nathan's hot dog stand. And of course there's that view of Manhattan on the evening news--the top half of the island lit but from 39th street down it was eerily dark. And poor Staten Island! I hope and pray that their circumstances improve in a hurry. As a former marathoner (Honolulu 1978), I'm glad that Mayor Bloomberg yielded to pressure and canceled the NYC Marathon. I know a lot of charities lost money in the way of pledges, but who in their right mind would like to run amidst that devastation and human misery?

   The day after Sandy cut its destructive swath through the northeast, I was standing near my barn. It was raining with mud everywhere. My farm was a monochromatic palette of grays and browns. I heard a little crack behind the fence and in the woods. It was a young fox. He was a sub-adult now on his own. I don't have a picture of that fox, but try to imagine what one looks like who is halfway between this winsome little one--

   Fox vixen                                                                Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

   The young fox didn't see me at all and continued to come closer. A fence post and pine branches obscured most of my
body. When he was within seven feet I thought I should let him know I was there. No sooner had I uttered "Oh, sweetie--" than he vanished, a sudden stunning flash of orange energy on a dreary gray day.

Off to the "Land of OZ"

       In a few days I take off for Port Douglas, Australia, a town near the city of Cairns (pronounced "Cans") in Queensland, for two weeks. It's spring down there and the temperature will be in the mid to high eighties and humid. I will love it.   Port Douglas is where a total eclipse of the sun will be best seen.

   I have been enlisted to take photographs of the assembled solar scientists as they record and measure many things I've yet to learn about. It should be fun. Everyone is wishing for clear skies. There will also be a marathon going on, as well as a rock music concert with the eclipse as its theme. One of the scientists was actually invited to give a speech prior to playing of the music. For logistical and scheduling reasons he had to decline. I myself will not attend but hope they'll be willing to go a little retro and play the Beatles song "Here Comes the Sun."

       My son Alec and I, as well as some of the other scientists, are planning a day out to the Great Barrier Reef which, I'm sure, will be amazing. (Sadly, global warming and sea acidification are already degrading it.) There are other things to do but what I'm most looking forward to is spending time with Alec, swimming in the ocean, and lounging and walking on the beach.   I'll try to find some horses to take pictures of but I think it will be tough in this tropical resort area.

       In my short time learning about total solar eclipses I've learned that groupies attend each and every eclipse and that there are also a variety of cruises and tours dedicated to those few minutes that the moon obscures the sun. Next year the total eclipse will be best seen from the African country of Gabon, apparently an amazing place. Gabon is a mineral rich country and has incredible biodiversity, so if Alec is going, count me in. There are six official languages there including one called "Fang." I'd like to be able to say I'm fluent in Fang. I wonder if Rosetta Stone has lessons for it.

Spoiler alert: Just this morning I received an e-mail from the head scientist who is already in Port Douglas. The ocean is home to many terrible man o' war jellyfish and crocodiles. Hmmm, that decadent infinity pool outside our lodgings is now looking significantly less decadent!

Missing My Family, Animals, Friends, and Farm

   In an earlier blog you have read that I am not a good traveler. But I used to be, when I was single and thundered all around the globe while in the Navy. I've flown in all sorts of helicopters, a variety of planes, and been aboard carriers, cruisers, destroyers, and amphibious craft. At that time I really wasn't invested in much of anything so I figured an accidental loss of me wouldn't count for much. But that has all changed now and I don't at all care for the prospect of leaving my life here to fly alone for nearly two days. The exception is that I love traveling with my husband Jim. When I am with him, no matter where we are, I am home.

       And yet now I cannot help but at the same time feel a rising sense of excitement. I'm going to see Alec operate for the first time in the field and environment he loves, as well as observe top astronomers from around the world. Solar astronomy is new to me, as is Australia, so I'll be experiencing the equivalent of a double header--daily and simultaneously.

A Touching Canine Experience

   My son's dog did something last week that I must relay, but bear with me while I give you a little history. Ten years ago, when Alec was seventeen, we drove up to the Lowell Humane Society to adopt a dog. This is who Alec chose:

Bella    Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012


       Bella is part Springer Spaniel, part something(s) else. She had been left at the shelter that same day by her former owners. Bella was very sweet but seemed puzzled about why she was in this metal cage with a cement floor. The little card on her kennel stated the reason for her surrender: "No time for her." Well, Alec had time for her and by the time we'd reached home she was already his, and he hers. They did so many things together: When Alec went to the local gun club to trap shoot, Bella went. When Alec had a Lacrosse match Bella sat in the stands with us. Ball-mad Bella met her kindred spirit in Alec. He threw her tennis balls with his lacrosse stick. She was off like a shot before it was in the air. When she got too hot she'd suddenly trot off, ball in mouth, jump in the pool, tool around until cool, then return to Alec for more. When he walked over to our neighbor's house to use their gym, Bella would follow his scent and find him there. It was too dangerous for her to be admitted into the gym and she made a general nuisance of herself outside. So we had to be certain she was in the house while Alec was over there.

   A year and a half later, in 2003, it was off to the University of Delaware for Alec. The first trip--all that stuff!--there was no room for Bella. She was bereft and depressed for a good couple of weeks. But we took her with us when we went down for Parents Weekend. Here they are at a Delaware Beach:

   Bella and Alec                                               Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

   After freshman year Alec transferred to Harvard and though he lived in Cambridge he was home frequently. After graduation he worked at the Harvard Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics for three years, so he was still nearby. Last year Alec went to Montana State University to study for his doctorate. (They have a top program in solar physics.) His trips home now are few and far between. Every time he arrives, his Bella explodes with joy.

   She is now twelve, her hearing almost gone and her eyesight fading. A few days ago I found some dirty clothes of Alec's that needed washing. They were in his room, which is usually opened only when Alec is in town. Bella came into the bathroom, sniffed the clothes, and got hugely excited. As she thrust her nose into the various garments, her tail made rapid, sweeping circles. With excited yips she then ran into our bedroom, which looks out onto the driveway, jumped on the bed, and looked out the window, tail still going a mile a minute. No Alec, but convinced he was here, she ran to the front storm door, certain that her best friend would show up at any minute.

   He didn't. Sitting with her on the front steps until she understood, I gave her a few of her favorite liver treats. She accepted them but without her usual gusto. I was deeply touched--and, of course, saddened--by her excited reaction and belief that Alec had come home. He will return at Christmas, so in a little while but only for a short time, she will have him back. Alec will throw her some balls, but not very far. He will raise his voice so she can hear him, and he might need to give her hips a little support with his hands as she climbs the stairs. Bella will sleep at the foot of his bed once again and--since like all dogs, she lives in the now--Bella will believe he is here to stay.

    Bella                                                                        Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2012

       Thank you for reading the Windflower Weekly, and I'll talk with you again when I come up from "Down Under."

---Ainslie

http://www.allhorsestuff.com
http://www.amazon.com/Trophies-An-Equestrian-Romance-ebook/dp/tags-