How can I explain? You would not understand. This is not how I am.

Just to make it more difficult (because I think this one's too easy) I want the band, song title, AND name of the album.

(I shouldn't do this... hint: think of a significant event in Europe twenty years ago.)

I'm just see-through faded, super jaded, and out of my mind.

You know what to do.  


And I'll be making this harder y'know.  


Post stays up til we have a winner!

Lookin' for a place to happen, makin' stops along the way...

okay, now which one of you genius readers can guess that lyric???  Prize is the same - my pure admiration - cuz that's all I got to give!  I've just decided this is going to be a November thing.  Stay tuned...


Walking the dog has become a whole new adventure. It used to mean harnessing him up and going for a nice mannerly walk around the block, or various combinations of loopy subdivision blocks, on the sidewalk.  I always had a bag in my pocket to carry the poop home in, because that's how you do it.

Now, going for a walk means running in circles, sniffing, barking, running, crapping in the long grass, and more sniffing.

I wonder if he misses finding all those messages from other dogs in the neighbourhood.  I imagined him sniffing and his little puggy brain going, "That's Rocky.  Before that Monty was here."

What does he smell now?  Does he detect Moe the barn cat on his most recent hunting trip?  Does he find all those sneaky nocturnal critters we never see?

I've been keeping busy lately getting the old scrapyard cleaned up before winter.  When I was a kid, and my Dad supplemented the farm income by painting cars, we had quite a few parts cars and wreckers in the bottom of the yard.  Now I go for dog walks and come back with handfuls of radio knobs, hoses, door handles.  I got the eagle eye for this stuff; I can spot weatherstripping hiding in the short grass from several feet away.  I used to want to be an archaeologist.  I imagined myself digging treasures out of the Egyptian sand.  Now I dig junk out of the Ontario clay.  It's still fun.

Everything is interesting to this dog of mine.  Everything.  I don't know what he sees or smells, but he sure gets excited about those treks around the yard.  It's like a two acre dog playground.

The yard looks better every day, the dog is slim and trim, and winter's coming.  In his first three years, winter at the farm has meant leashed walks around the lane way and quick dashes to the lilac bush for nature calls.  This year will be different.  The little house dog has figured out where the property line is, where his territory ends, and what happens if he steps over the line.

I worried how the town dog would transition to becoming a farm dog, but I'm not worried anymore.  I mean, I still have to keep an eye on him.  There's a lot of traffic around here and he's small.  I don't want him to get hit.  Plus, just because he knows he's not allowed in the horse pasture doesn't mean he'll never sneak in there.  Those smells are just so tempting.  But he's doing great.  I'm expecting this winter that we'll pack down a few trails through the huge snowdrifts and possibly have a little bit of fun with it.

Of course, there's always the possibility of finding messages from sneaky critters who don't want to be seen... I'm sure the little dog'll find things to take care of.

The Serious Moonlight

(Hey, name that lyric!  Prize= my admiration.  Sorry, that's all I got.)

It occurred to me this evening, as I was stirring through the charred remains of the  burn pile with a hose in my left hand, that this is the night before Halloween.  What a perfect night for it.  The streaky clouds were chasing each other across the moon, pushed by a very odd south wind.

The moon is close to full, making that wonderful silver glow on everything.  It's not the same as the light from the lamp in the middle of the barnyard or the big light on the wall of the shop.  It plays tricks on me.  A few times I thought I saw an ember but it was just moonlight reflected on a stalk of wet straw.

Sometimes my imagination plays tricks on me.  But I let it.

I had to get some new drugs from the emergency room doctor to counteract the (perfectly harmless) annoying shooting pains radiating from my eyeballs to my fingertips.  One drug keeps me from crying at the wall all day and disturbs my sleep; the other dulls pain and knocks me on my butt.

I don't even know what house I'm waking up in 98% of the time on a good day.

I feel kinda woozy.

Unlike this guy, I don't look heavenly and sexy when I feel woozy.  How does he do that???

Result: if you trick or treat at my house this year (not this house, the other one) it won't be a particularly short and rather feminine Captain Jack Sparrow opening the door.  Sorry darling.  It never would have worked between us.

Tonight the horses galloped into the corral; the white in the coats glowed in the silver light.  When they were done their grain they both looked out the back door of the barn.  By the time I had the lights out and locked up, they were gone.  I squinted out into the dark pasture but all I could find were two ghostly shapes out there.

I wanted to be the Headless Horseman for Halloween when I was a kid.  I wanted to ride around the country block on my little black pony with a coat pulled up over my head.  I wanted to go to school like that.  With the pony.  I never was allowed to do that.  Not even a discussion.

I love Sleepy Hollow the way Tim Burton did it.  I don't like scary movies but I love this one.  It's creepy and beautiful and not quite earthly.

I probably wouldn't like to meet up with the Headless Horseman while standing there in the bottom of the yard looking for smoking embers.  Way down there in the dark with only the moonlight, digging through the charcoal with the last wisps of smoke escaping from underneath the wet dripping rusted remains, me all alone with two ghostly horses behind me.

Have an imaginative Halloween.

Fencing, with a chainsaw and hammer and nails, not slightly creepy white outfits and fake swords

Earlier this year I made a decision: I will no longer have the manure pile in the corral!  I don't care how convenient it is to have it just outside the barn door, I want it gone.  I don't care if I have to push the wheelbarrow twice the distance through snow and mud.  I don't care if it means a day's work to cut a gate through the corral fence.  No more manure pile in the corral.

I don't mind of that corral has to double as turnout area for the horses as well as training/ riding space.  That's fine; we can ride without walking into the watering trough.  But the pile, man, it not only gets in the way, it cuts the riding area almost in half, and creates a big mucky moat around it.  Not to mention the flies.  And stink.  That's IT I've had enough. So far this fall, if the horses have spent the night in the barn, I've pushed the wheelbarrow all the way out the pasture gate and around the corner to the new pile.  It gets old fast.

I figured with the old liquid manure tank right on the other side of the fence, I already had the perfect spot.  It's concrete, it's got drainage holes into the tank for all the nasty runoff to disappear into, and I can just drive the tractor onto it to scoop everything up in the spring and take it away to compost.  All that stood in my way was that fence.

And in case you're not from the country and you're wondering... YES much of my thinking space is taken up with fences and s**t.  These two topics are a constant concern.  If these are my biggest problems I consider myself lucky.

Yesterday afternoon, I convinced my ol' man to come out to the corral and bring his tools.  It wasn't raining and I wanted to get this done.  Armed with the chainsaw, hammer, knife, crowbar, and a box of nails, we got to work.  Dad cut the rubber strips which we use instead of planks.  I like this system, because it looks good (black, and never needs to be painted) and when it sags we just tighten it up like a belt through loops.  We had two cedar fence posts to be used as cross braces.  A fence post holding a gate or corner can't just be sunk into the ground and expected to stay up.  It has to be braced to the next post.

My ol' man is an Eyeballer.  He eyeballs the angle he's about to set the angled post, and then cuts a matching notch into the vertical post.  Over the years he's learned to not cut too much off at once, because there'll be a few adjustments before it sits just right.  The brace post gets a slanted end cut, and then we do the other side.  My job is to hold the brace post so he can eyeball it and cut it.  He doesn't measure when doing a job like this.  Kinda blows my mind, even though I'd probably do it the same way, only I'd for sure screw it up.  Maybe he's just screwed up often enough by now that he doesn't have to anymore.

Once the end post is braced to the next one, we get out the fence stretcher tool.  Like a lot of stuff around here, the ol' man made it.  It's just a metal pole with a curved spike at the end.  I stuck the spike through a hole at the end of the rubber strip, braced the pole against the post, and leaned on it with all my weight.  He hammered a few nails in at strategic places and we're on to the next one.

Most of the time taken, truthfully, was locating and carrying all the darn tools around.  Also, the fact that neither of us moves particularly fast, that really stretches out a task.

I had to laugh at our horses.  They had to come up and see what we were doing.  I joked that Phoenix, aka "The Mechanic" would be watching and learning, because he has that look.  Sometimes I swear he's gonna start speaking to me in my own language, he just looks clever.  He likes to untie his lead rope then just stand there, to prove a point.  We're lucky he doesn't have opposable thumbs. (I have a thing about curious geldings: Champ was the same.  Dad used to joke that that horse would be driving the tractor if he could ever figure out how.)  Phoenix had to sniff each tool and pick up a rubber strip in his teeth.  When Dad fired up the chainsaw they both did this totally lame routine where they went, "Wah, we're horses, like, we're supposed to act like we're scaaaared, whoo ah, awright what are they doing now let's go see."  The second round of chainsawing had the two of them flicking their ears and rolling their eyes but they couldn't be bothered to do more than that.  I sure do like my Appaloosas.

They weren't sure about this new gap in the fence.  It took Phoenix about a half hour of investigating before he ventured through.  I still haven't seen the little mare try it.

This afternoon, we'll build brackets to hold the planks in place.  When I need to get through with the wheelbarrow, I'll lift the planks out of the way.  Easy, right?  I might have to put the manure on a toboggan to get it across the snow, at which point I'm sure I'll see my ol' man snickering at me.

In the evening I worked a bit more on my tack room project, while thinking about all the fencing we need to do around here.  One side hasn't been changed in decades and is looking pretty rough.  Do we have enough materials to fix it?  I sure don't have the funds to buy any new fencing and my parents aren't able to throw any money at it.  At this point, any new fencing will have to wait until spring.

I sat on my decrepit chair gazing around my tack room, thinking about these things, these things that are so important in a life full of horses and pasture and a busy highway out front.  A lot of folks have no idea how much thought goes into this.  A fence keeps the neighbour's kids out of their dog poop in the backyard, or vice versa, but in my world, a fence keeps horses out of the path of oncoming transport trucks.

I actually worry about that less than you'd think, simply because of all the thought put into fencing already.  For now all I'm thinking about is keeping my horses out of s**t.  Which if you think about it, is kind of the same thing, not?

IT’S NOT THE BIGGEST, IT’S THE MEANEST: talking horses with people who don’t know horses.

I got into a discussion the other day with a couple of my Ol man’s buddies.  You know how it is with buddies - they are always up for a chat.

Jim Bob -yes there is a buddy called Jim Bob - says he sometimes feels like he should hop on and go for a ride when he’s out there working, or waiting to start working, or supervising the working.  He sees me out there with them and it looks so great.  Then he talks himself out of it.  

Then the other buddy - we’ll call him “Keef”, he looks like a Keef- tells us a story about his first horseback deer hunting trip.  His friend gave him a big thoroughbred $50 ex-racehorse to ride.  “Um, nice friend,” I commented, attempting sarcasm.  You know, like who needs enemies, that kind of thing.  (Honestly, why do people put first time riders on half-trained horses????)

Well, Keef described this wild ride.  The friend headed on out his horse expecting Keef to follow on his unruly wild beast.  “I had the reins in one hand, and the rifle in one hand, and my third hand around the saddle horn...”   He was desperately trying to hold this horse down to the ground, but all he got was that “bouncy speed.”  I knew what he meant and I could picture it: big long legged horse with his head cranked back to his chest at a big frustrated trot.  I haven’t had any experience with racehorses but based on what I’ve heard, they know one thing other than how to behave in a barn, and that one thing is RUN.  

From what I have experienced, if any horse is determined to run, I don’t care how strong the bit in his mouth is, or how strong the rider, he’s gonna run.  

“Finally, I had the rifle in my right hand,” he says, and I’m thinking the worst, “and I started with it right here,” hand beside his knee, “and I swung it right over like this and-” he made a quick stop motion in front, “Bam, right between the ears.”

What do you say to that, eh?  

Keef raised an eyebrow.  “That sure as hell smartened him up.”

“Well of course it did,” I says.  “He’s not gonna misbehave once he’s had his brain rattled like that.  You’re out hunting deer and he’s seeing little tweeting birds circling his head!”

It got a laugh, but I have to put in a defense for the horse.  “It’s a respect thing.  He figured out that you weren’t playing around.  That’s just the extreme case...”

I tell them about this annoying, seemingly harmless habit my gelding has.  He likes to stand with one hoof rested.  It looks like nothing, but it’s a pain.  Try getting a saddle on straight when his back is tilted to the side. More importantly... it’s disrespectful.  He’s being lazy and ignoring me when I ask him to stand up straight on both hooves.  It’s not too much for me to ask.  And when I request that, I expect him to comply.

Seems like nothing, but I think it’s little passive-aggressive tricks like that which eventually lead to me landing on my friggin head.  Which I do not want.  

I want his respect, willingly and unquestioningly.  

After saying this in much less words, Jim Bob looks at me with concern.  “Horses seem kinda mean...”

“No, not mean, just... they have to know who’s in charge, and they’ll be fine with it once you tell them where it’s at, they just have to know.”

“That’s right,” says Keef.  “They have to know who’s boss.”

How many times have I heard that in my life?  It’s true, no denying.  BUT.  It’s so often mistaken as brute force, as a hostile relationship, and I don’t have the physical strength or emotional hardness to do things that way.

Then I remember that I’m an instructor now.  There are standards I have to uphold.  I have to sound knowledgeable.  And, you know, I really like horses and I want to stick up for them.

“It’s not about strength though, it’s all attitude.  You go anywhere with horses and 90% of the people are women my size.  Like, I don’t have the brute strength so I have to outthink him, and when he respects me he trusts me.”

The men nod like they’re getting this.

I continue.  “Like, if you look at a herd of horses in a field, all one horse has to do is put her ears back and nip, and all the other horses get out of her way.  It isn’t about size either, because sometimes the smallest horse is the boss.”

“Yeah.  It’s not who’s biggest.  It’s whose meanest.”

Ah yes, my speech has been completely misunderstood.  Again. Wherever you find horses, you’ll find humans who just don’t friggin get it. 

A horse is a big animal, obviously, and anybody who can bend it to his or her will is admired by other humans.  Sadly, too many humans do not understand how it’s achieved.  How does she do that, when she’s only 110 lbs?  How can she manhandle that big horse?  She doesn’t.  She gives him the message the very first time she comes into contact with him.  

Hey horse.  Nice to meet you.  Get your shoulder away from me and don’t step on my feet.  There, now we can be friends.  Except for that. If you push me or drag me I’m gonna get after you like your mama did and then you won’t do that again. Ok?  Yup.  You are my friend.  

And she can convey that without saying a single word.

How do I tell this to a bunch of dudes in their 50s and 60s, guys who have worked outdoors, built things, raised kids, punched the clock, and know stuff and about stuff?

I smile.

“Well...I only have to be mean once.”  

These guys know, because they work across the yard, and they see me out there regularly with my horses, that it’s pretty lovey dovey out there in the corral.   They know I don’t spend every ride wasting my breath yelling and cussing at my horses. They see my horses doing pretty much what I ask them to do, even if I have to ask harder one more time.  

When Keef whacked his horse with the butt end of his rifle, it was the last time he asked.  He did not have to ask anymore because that horse probably was scared to blink the wrong way.  Effective, okay, but I sure as hell do not intend to carry heavy objects around to whack my horse with!  I know for a fact that you cannot love or sweet talk your horse into being nice to you, but I also know they work better for me if they trust me to be in charge without beating the hell out of them.

My horses are so far from perfect.  I’m even farther from perfect - I know I have a lot more to learn about riding, horse training,and teaching, and horses in general.  But I’m not big, and I’m not mean.  Looks like I’ll just have to go on demanding their respect and earning their trust!

Jethro says I sleep too much.

To which I say, WHAT?  These days I'd spend all day in bed if I could.  Dark of night, sun outside, doesn't matter.  You know, maybe that isn't good.

Maybe I'd rather do anything other than face all this damn work I have piling up.  It's not being lazy, exactly, it's more like um, burnout?  Forced apathy?  Emotional overload?

I'll tell you one thing: moving house has meant excavating layers of sedimentary paper.  I have found some interesting stuff.  I knew I'd always kept my Dracula story from Grade 6, the one Mrs Prosser wrote a very complimentary note on the back page beside my mark, telling me to keep writing.  I had to keep all that proof that I have always loved to write and have always been halfway decent at it.  But then to find all these short stories, written before the computer phase of my life, in big juvenile handwriting, is both heartbreaking and encouraging.

Heartbreaking because I know, and realize all over again, that somewhere along the line I stopped believing in my ability, or maybe (more likely) never really believed it.

Encouraging because I know I've always had it, and still have it.

The handwriting matured, and from the quick glances before shoving it all in a box, the stories improved.  By high school I was starting into all these concepts and big ideas.  If I'd put half that effort into actual schoolwork I'd have done much better, I guess, with the whole report card thing.

Anyways.  I have so much to do and not much gumption to get at it.  At least the sun is poking through the clouds, and leaves don't rake themselves.

I must stir the snoring Pug and make him come outside with me.  Who exactly is it sleeping too much around here???