We picked up Crimson Whisper, a 9 year old, bay thoroughbred mare who has not been ridden is over six years. She is an off the track race horse who did well during her career. Needless to say, she was full of sass. She loaded into the trailer nicely though.
Crimson is a dark bay who is sporting a light coat of winter fuzz. She stand about 16.2 hands. She has a fine, feminine head that harkens to the long ago Arabian ancestry. Her look is completed with a full mane and tail. She is a pretty mare.
When she moves, she covers ground and has a floating trot. We are going to train her to be an eventing horse and if she is as athletic as she is beautiful, we have a very nice mare to breed to our eventing stallion.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Working in a Winter Wonderland
I can not recall when we had such a wickedly cold and snow packed winter on the farm. But no matter how crazy the weather gets, there is always maintenance that still needs to be done outside. Of course, first you have to shift the mountainous snowdrifts before you can begin to labor.
We have a short drive where we park the farm pickup. I emphasize short because you want the smallest distance to road. In the spring and fall, thick, gloppy mud threatens to suck your vehicle into the earth. And this winter, huge piles of snow wrap your truck into a wintry tomb. So you want the least amount of distance to get you off the property with the smallest amount of work, hence a short driveway.
After the blizzards that dumped a foot or more of snow on the farm, our neighbor was kind enough to use his large tractor with a scoop to push the white stuff to the end of the drive. We were so happy that we did not have to hand shovel it that we did not think deeply about where the snow was being deposited. This is a fatal error when you own a farm. You have to think about all the worst case scenarios before you commit to something or you are going to end up with a whole lot of back breaking manual labor to correct it. And that is exactly what happened.
When our neighbor pushed the flakes, he blocked in the trailer. Two weeks later, we needed the trailer which was surrounded by huge, packed, white soldiers who held our trailer hostage and mocked our tiny shovels. It took us two solid days, in which we labored like tiny ants, and slowly shifted the mounds bit by bit. There was much swearing, a few threats to abandon the job, and plenty of stiff muscles. And when we thought we were done, we realized that the gates and part of the fencing also needed some snow removal to be functional along with hauling of broken branches and repairing of cracked equipment with succumbed to the bitter temperatures. There is nothing like trying to use finer motor skills in -5 degrees.
But that is life on the farm. Constant maintenance everyday of the year. But when I look out and see our content horses and peaceful sheep, I know it is all worth it.
We have a short drive where we park the farm pickup. I emphasize short because you want the smallest distance to road. In the spring and fall, thick, gloppy mud threatens to suck your vehicle into the earth. And this winter, huge piles of snow wrap your truck into a wintry tomb. So you want the least amount of distance to get you off the property with the smallest amount of work, hence a short driveway.
After the blizzards that dumped a foot or more of snow on the farm, our neighbor was kind enough to use his large tractor with a scoop to push the white stuff to the end of the drive. We were so happy that we did not have to hand shovel it that we did not think deeply about where the snow was being deposited. This is a fatal error when you own a farm. You have to think about all the worst case scenarios before you commit to something or you are going to end up with a whole lot of back breaking manual labor to correct it. And that is exactly what happened.
When our neighbor pushed the flakes, he blocked in the trailer. Two weeks later, we needed the trailer which was surrounded by huge, packed, white soldiers who held our trailer hostage and mocked our tiny shovels. It took us two solid days, in which we labored like tiny ants, and slowly shifted the mounds bit by bit. There was much swearing, a few threats to abandon the job, and plenty of stiff muscles. And when we thought we were done, we realized that the gates and part of the fencing also needed some snow removal to be functional along with hauling of broken branches and repairing of cracked equipment with succumbed to the bitter temperatures. There is nothing like trying to use finer motor skills in -5 degrees.
But that is life on the farm. Constant maintenance everyday of the year. But when I look out and see our content horses and peaceful sheep, I know it is all worth it.
Friday, January 24, 2014
The Wild, Windy Day
Yesterday, it was windy with clumps of snow blowing from an ashy, gray sky. The horses could feel the change and were tossing their manes and snorting like mustangs on the endless plains. My son and I were tired and our addled brains thought foolishly that we would have a calm and easy ride, then call it quits for the day, not realizing our herd had other ideas. We wanted to pony our two race horses, Flash and Sky. Sky was willing to come to us, figuring she was going to get a little grain. Flash, on the other hand, peeled his ears back, weaved then disappeared amongst the other horses, clearly saying no to any work today.
We got on Copper, a chestnut gelding, and our grey stallion, Rocko, figuring we would catch Flash on horse back. Copper was sharp, raring to go. He loves a good chase, far more than the tediousness of doing equitation in the ring. Rocko was as tightly coiled as a spring. He didn't allow a saddle to be put on his back, slipping from his halter and giving us a merry run. My son mounted him and he attempted to buck. When we finally got down to business, Rocko thundered across the field after Flash like a war mount.
After forty minutes, we caught Flash, who by then had swept the rest of the herd up into his antics and caused them to explode with excitement. They bucked, reared and kicked, having a merry time. While I was opening the gates to the other pastures, my son and I realized the main gate to the horses' pasture had been blown open by the wind. My son yelled, "The gate is open!" I heard him. Unfortunately, the whole herd did also. They heard "open" and "gate", looked up and bolted toward it. When they reached the entrance, they spilled out and galloped across the snowy lawn.
Luckily, our whole property is fenced in or we would have a mass of horses flying down the road. After another forty minutes of wild chasing, we got all of them back in the pastures. While I attempted to shut the pasture gate, which was jammed in an icy snow drift, Hidalgo, a clever, little, Spanish mustang, saw his opportunity. My son yelled and sprinted toward the gate, still on Rocko, hoping to drive Hidalgo back. The race was on. The mustang beat the stallion by a hair. Another thirty minutes of chasing ensued.
After everyone was safely back, my son and I rubbed our freezing arms. When we were thawing in the warm house, we eventually started to laugh. Never say you are going to have a quick and easy ride with horses.
We got on Copper, a chestnut gelding, and our grey stallion, Rocko, figuring we would catch Flash on horse back. Copper was sharp, raring to go. He loves a good chase, far more than the tediousness of doing equitation in the ring. Rocko was as tightly coiled as a spring. He didn't allow a saddle to be put on his back, slipping from his halter and giving us a merry run. My son mounted him and he attempted to buck. When we finally got down to business, Rocko thundered across the field after Flash like a war mount.
After forty minutes, we caught Flash, who by then had swept the rest of the herd up into his antics and caused them to explode with excitement. They bucked, reared and kicked, having a merry time. While I was opening the gates to the other pastures, my son and I realized the main gate to the horses' pasture had been blown open by the wind. My son yelled, "The gate is open!" I heard him. Unfortunately, the whole herd did also. They heard "open" and "gate", looked up and bolted toward it. When they reached the entrance, they spilled out and galloped across the snowy lawn.
Luckily, our whole property is fenced in or we would have a mass of horses flying down the road. After another forty minutes of wild chasing, we got all of them back in the pastures. While I attempted to shut the pasture gate, which was jammed in an icy snow drift, Hidalgo, a clever, little, Spanish mustang, saw his opportunity. My son yelled and sprinted toward the gate, still on Rocko, hoping to drive Hidalgo back. The race was on. The mustang beat the stallion by a hair. Another thirty minutes of chasing ensued.
After everyone was safely back, my son and I rubbed our freezing arms. When we were thawing in the warm house, we eventually started to laugh. Never say you are going to have a quick and easy ride with horses.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Winter on the Farm
The rain spat from the slate gray sky and splattered on the window glass, signaling the start of an ominous ice storm crawling across the brown, withered countryside. When winter comes to the farm, it is never easy, taking the form of bitter temperatures with powdery snow or chilling mud with ice and sleet. But once it settles in, and December begins to fade, the farm can look magical.
Snow will layer the ground in a pure white embedded with fragments of glittering crystal. The fields will be blanketed with humping drifts. Swirling winds will lift the powder, sending snow tornadoes dancing. The only sign of animals are hungry birds flocking to the feeders or small foot impressions in the white that are quickly buried. Skeletal trees reach for the sullen sky, still holding the brown withered fruits of fall, while their branches clatter together.
Frost spiders the house windows and their sills are empty of the farm cats who normally peek inside. The heavily furred feline now curl in the hay in the barn, drowsily waiting for the occasional mouse that peeks its head in. The dogs lay on the kitchen floor, forming a breathing, hairy rug. The chickens keep to their warm coop, declining to hop around in the deep snow. The furry horses get frisky, getting bored standing around in their blankets. They begin to tease each other, nipping one another, then tearing across the pasture in a white whirl wind while snorting clouds of steam. The animals unfazed by the cold are the sheep, wrapped in their blankets and a heavy layer of wool.
When winter comes, time slows on the farm. Chores take double the time with the deep drifts. A quiet falls and when standing outside, there is an eerily beautiful silence. When the weather is too harsh for man or beast, the house's wood stove burns on high, warming reddened, numb flesh. As things slow, spring creeps forward and everyone waits for its arrival in a semi hibernation.
Snow will layer the ground in a pure white embedded with fragments of glittering crystal. The fields will be blanketed with humping drifts. Swirling winds will lift the powder, sending snow tornadoes dancing. The only sign of animals are hungry birds flocking to the feeders or small foot impressions in the white that are quickly buried. Skeletal trees reach for the sullen sky, still holding the brown withered fruits of fall, while their branches clatter together.
Frost spiders the house windows and their sills are empty of the farm cats who normally peek inside. The heavily furred feline now curl in the hay in the barn, drowsily waiting for the occasional mouse that peeks its head in. The dogs lay on the kitchen floor, forming a breathing, hairy rug. The chickens keep to their warm coop, declining to hop around in the deep snow. The furry horses get frisky, getting bored standing around in their blankets. They begin to tease each other, nipping one another, then tearing across the pasture in a white whirl wind while snorting clouds of steam. The animals unfazed by the cold are the sheep, wrapped in their blankets and a heavy layer of wool.
When winter comes, time slows on the farm. Chores take double the time with the deep drifts. A quiet falls and when standing outside, there is an eerily beautiful silence. When the weather is too harsh for man or beast, the house's wood stove burns on high, warming reddened, numb flesh. As things slow, spring creeps forward and everyone waits for its arrival in a semi hibernation.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Going Batty in the Country
When you move out into the country, you became aware of the amazing amounts of small creatures who desire to live with you in your house. Shiny, little creepy crawlies, fuzzy, furry rodents and the one it took me the longest to get used to, bats. Perhaps it is because I have found the statement that bats will never run into a person in flight is not true. Especially when you are dealing with baby bats.
For most of the year, you will not see the winged denizens who occupy your attic unless you go out in the cooling dusk when the last streams of the spring or summer sun streak the sky. But around the end of July to early August, when the warm farm house gets stuffy, the baby bats get old enough to leave their mother and haphazardly venture into the living space you use. They don't really want to meet you. In fact, they find you quite terrifying. They just get lost because they are young and inexperienced. After they flutter from room to room, squeaking forlornly, they are eventually joined by a concerned parent and some other members of the colony.
In one particular incident, that proved upsetting for all parties involved, I came home from work one evening to find eight bats swirling around the house. After one collided with me, I bravely locked myself in a bedroom and sat in front of the door, wondering how I was going to get all of them out. One bat decided to fly under the door like a piece of paper and through my legs. This elicited a rather loud scream on my part. After four hours using a fishing net, an open door, a towel and one more bat vs. human collision, I managed to get all the furry beasts removed. Unfortunately, I have been scarred emotionally and am now rather jumpy about getting near bats.
You might ask why I don't just get rid of them? I have tried and it is not so easy. You see, my house was built in 1850. The bats have been there ever since and they feel my 20 years of residency pales to their 163. Therefore, I should be the one going. They also are incredibility persistent about coming back if I throw them out. Their main arsenal consists of the ability to fit through very small spaces and an old farmhouse always has a few cracks in the making. Once they are in for the year, if you remove them too early, you run the risk of removing the parents but not their offspring. This can cause a whole host of problems, including the smell of decay. Even the professionals have failed at getting rid of them. They are here to stay.
One of the most notable encounters my family has had with the bats is one involving my daughter. On balmy night, while lying in bed, my daughter felt a tugging at her hair and little hands touching her skull. A small, baby bat was clawing its way up her head. Now if this would have been me, you would have had to peel me off the ceiling. But my daughter stayed still until it lofted itself into the air. In the morning, she found it clinging to her curtain. A wrap in a towel and a toss outside got rid of it.
After two decades the bats and I have come to a tense understanding. We, for the most part, leave each other alone. I have learned to tolerate their wandering children and they for the most part stay out of my territory. I do have to say, they do a wonderful job of keeping insects away from the house at night. You can lounge on my porch and be hard pressed to find a mosquito or fly which makes the brilliant summer sunsets all the more pretty.
For most of the year, you will not see the winged denizens who occupy your attic unless you go out in the cooling dusk when the last streams of the spring or summer sun streak the sky. But around the end of July to early August, when the warm farm house gets stuffy, the baby bats get old enough to leave their mother and haphazardly venture into the living space you use. They don't really want to meet you. In fact, they find you quite terrifying. They just get lost because they are young and inexperienced. After they flutter from room to room, squeaking forlornly, they are eventually joined by a concerned parent and some other members of the colony.
In one particular incident, that proved upsetting for all parties involved, I came home from work one evening to find eight bats swirling around the house. After one collided with me, I bravely locked myself in a bedroom and sat in front of the door, wondering how I was going to get all of them out. One bat decided to fly under the door like a piece of paper and through my legs. This elicited a rather loud scream on my part. After four hours using a fishing net, an open door, a towel and one more bat vs. human collision, I managed to get all the furry beasts removed. Unfortunately, I have been scarred emotionally and am now rather jumpy about getting near bats.
You might ask why I don't just get rid of them? I have tried and it is not so easy. You see, my house was built in 1850. The bats have been there ever since and they feel my 20 years of residency pales to their 163. Therefore, I should be the one going. They also are incredibility persistent about coming back if I throw them out. Their main arsenal consists of the ability to fit through very small spaces and an old farmhouse always has a few cracks in the making. Once they are in for the year, if you remove them too early, you run the risk of removing the parents but not their offspring. This can cause a whole host of problems, including the smell of decay. Even the professionals have failed at getting rid of them. They are here to stay.
One of the most notable encounters my family has had with the bats is one involving my daughter. On balmy night, while lying in bed, my daughter felt a tugging at her hair and little hands touching her skull. A small, baby bat was clawing its way up her head. Now if this would have been me, you would have had to peel me off the ceiling. But my daughter stayed still until it lofted itself into the air. In the morning, she found it clinging to her curtain. A wrap in a towel and a toss outside got rid of it.
After two decades the bats and I have come to a tense understanding. We, for the most part, leave each other alone. I have learned to tolerate their wandering children and they for the most part stay out of my territory. I do have to say, they do a wonderful job of keeping insects away from the house at night. You can lounge on my porch and be hard pressed to find a mosquito or fly which makes the brilliant summer sunsets all the more pretty.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
When a horse hides.
My son, my daughter and I were mounted on our horses out in the pasture. A cool breeze swirled around us as our mounts exhaled softly with their heads lowered. We had saddled up our trusted, reliable equines in smooth, oiled saddles and rode in the attempt to catch a rather saucy, young filly who disdained work. We had chased her enough for her to break a light sweat on her shiny, chestnut coat and were now waiting for the initial adrenaline to die down in her so we could grab her with a leadline on foot.
As we stood, we notice our fleabitten stallion, Adonis Silver Storm, aka Rocko, scrutinizing our actions from his paddock. His ears were perked forward and his neck arched upward. My daughter commented on how he needed to be worked today. When she said his name, his eyes locked on our group. I agreed. When I said Rocko's name, he figured he was next. He peeled his ears back, snorted in disgust, and backed up behind his run in.
There he stayed and hid, occasionally taking a quick peek out. Much to his chagrin, we later found him and walked him out. With a sign of compliance, he doggedly followed us from the paddock.
As we stood, we notice our fleabitten stallion, Adonis Silver Storm, aka Rocko, scrutinizing our actions from his paddock. His ears were perked forward and his neck arched upward. My daughter commented on how he needed to be worked today. When she said his name, his eyes locked on our group. I agreed. When I said Rocko's name, he figured he was next. He peeled his ears back, snorted in disgust, and backed up behind his run in.
There he stayed and hid, occasionally taking a quick peek out. Much to his chagrin, we later found him and walked him out. With a sign of compliance, he doggedly followed us from the paddock.
Our visit to the Alltech National Horse Show 2014
We attended the Alltech National Horse Show at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington. The park is a sprawling complex of emerald pastures, white fences, painted barns, sandy rings, and museums, all meticulous kept and all about horses. We went to watch international show jumpers compete in classes awarding up to $250,000. The most spectacular was the Puissance class where bold horses and their courageous riders soared over a solid, painted brick wall, with each round going higher and higher until they topped out at 7 feet. You could have heard in pin drop when the last rider crested that formidable obstacle in the final round. It was truly amazing, the athleticism of these horses.
Since we were in Kentucky, we had to have breakfast at the Waffle House, a restaurant that has the shape reminiscent of the blocky Lego buildings we made when we were little. The food was home style and cheap.
The trip would not have been complete without visiting the Horse Park's gift shop. If you love horses, you are in heaven when you enter. It is hard not to leave with an empty wallet.
Since we were in Kentucky, we had to have breakfast at the Waffle House, a restaurant that has the shape reminiscent of the blocky Lego buildings we made when we were little. The food was home style and cheap.
The trip would not have been complete without visiting the Horse Park's gift shop. If you love horses, you are in heaven when you enter. It is hard not to leave with an empty wallet.
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