I’m feeling a bit peckish today. I’ve been having a bit of trouble sleeping lately, for many reasons-overtired, reading good book, mulling over good writing ideas, a dog who likes to sleep with his hind feet toward my face and frequently stretches, another dog who insists he must pinion my legs, too hot, too cold, my hip hurts if I’m on my right side, stiff neck on my left, not comfy on my back or stomach…you get the idea. I’m just the princess and the pea restless lately. Plus I wake up at 5:30 AM waiting for the elderly Jack Russell to get up, which makes the mixed breed perk up and wait for me.

The bottom line is I decided to relax a bit and write at home. Yeah.

It goes something like this:

Push the kitten out of my skim chai latte (LOVE the Keurig milk frother!)

Yell at the dogs to get away from the kitten’s crate-they love the litter and the food.

Shoo dogs out of office. Put up the gate and barricade the door.

Sigh when the Pomeranian starts whining. Let him in the office.

Yell at the ancient JRT when she knocks down the gate and tries to jump the barricade.

Go see what the other dogs are incessantly barking at.

Tell them to stop. They do. Walk away. Run back an yell at mixed breed who has returned to whoofing at the door. Look outside and assure myself that there is nothing there. Place hands over ears when all four dogs return to barking just because the mixed breed sees a bird in the lawn. Threaten all dogs with bodily harm if they don’t stop. Stomp my feet to get their attention and tell them, “good dogs” when they look at me like I am possessed.

Go back to computer and type a few words. Sip what the kitten left of my skim chai latte. Pet kitten who has lovingly settled on my lap.

Get aggravated with JRT trying to force her way in. Move the kitten, who bites me to let me know he’s annoyed at being moved. Lock the kitten’s crate, move gate and unblock the door.

Type some more.

Grab kitten before he pees in a bucket of snake bedding (don’t ask, I don’t know why it’s there either), unlock crate, shove kitten in box, lock crate.

Why are they barking now? Go look. Let them all outside to bark.

Hit the keyboard a few times.

Yell at the Brittany who is throwing himself at the door and barking to come back inside. After all, he’s been out for a whole nano-second. (Yes, this is the dog who used to have an automatic doggy-door. It would open when he came near with his special collar. He burnt the motor out. Enough said.)

Let dogs three dogs in, let kitten out and relock crate.

Sit at the computer again.

Go let the fourth dog in, who couldn’t be bothered to come to the door with the rest, he waits until I get comfortable and back into some semblance of a writing rhythm to emit a high pitched bark every three seconds, just in case I wasn’t aware that he is ready to come in NOW.

Type until the JRT starts scratching at the crate’s tray in an attempt to dump the kitten’s food dish.

Push her away. Ok and yell a bit, then feel guilty for pushing and yelling because she is so ancient.

Type some more.

Break up dog fight between the old JRT and the mix (Maltese/Shih Tsu/JRT-what were they thinking? And what was my mother thinking when she adopted him…sigh) as they argue over who has the right to dig their way into the kitten crate for food. (And while I appreciate their kindness in wanting to clean the litter box, I must gracefully decline said offer.)

Clean litter box and remove food dish to a high shelf.

Type.

Yell at kitten who is climbing the shelf to get to his food.

Shoo dogs out of the room, yell at the JRT for trying to bite my foot, tell the Brittany to go lie down, break up another bicker session between the JRT who has snuck back to the kitten crate and the mix who now thinks it all belongs to him. Physically pick both up and throw them out of the room. Close the door and settle down to…

What did I want to write again? Oh. Yeah. Ok. Sip my cold skim chai latte. Revel in a moment of peace and quiet. The kitten comes back and snuggles on my lap again.

Type.

Until the Pomeranian starts whining and scratching at the door…

Here it is the end of another schizophrenic weather day and I have yet to accomplish anything. It was raining and breezy, then sunny and humid. I took my backpack, weighed down by my computer and all the possibility it contains, to my office. My intention was to finish barn chores and write until lunch, take a break and head back to the office.

I cleaned the barn, emptied the manure cart, dumped buckets, and swept up. There was a phone conversation with my sister. And I did watch the filly run like a possessed maniac around the paddock, but I was ready to work.

Unfortunately, I looked at the time when I finished the manual labor portion of my day. It was almost lunchtime. My stomach rumbled to remind me of my scant piece of toast breakfast. Ok. Food is good. I’ll go eat and come back with the kitten for company.

The best laid plans…

Lunch consisted of yogurt, strawberries and granola. I ate that while I finished my current pleasure reading. There was a knock on the door. A neighbor dropped off some invitations for some of the local horse-related shindigs-big foxhunting area and I wanted to get to know some more of the riding community. We chatted for a bit and I went back inside to finish up.

The phone rang. I caught up on the latest happenings at the farm in Vermont. The heater needs fixing. Of course.

Hung up the phone, yelled at the dog, who was barking at the sheep(actually the owner of the sheep and his dog. It was still annoying.)

Phone rings again. This time it was my friend, Anne, who keeps her “pony” (15 hand, heavily built Halflinger) in the sheep field.

“Did you eat lunch yet?”

“Umm…yeah.”

“Oh. I’m starving and I wondered if you wanted to meet, grab a bite to eat and then go with me to return things to Tractor Supply…”

“I could go with you…”

I had a cup of soup and a Diet Coke. And I wonder why my clothes keep getting tighter.

We ran errands, groomed her “pony,” and I came back inside. How could it be 3:00 already?

And I wonder why I am not published yet. I can only laugh at myself. I know there are days like these and I’m not sure if it’s a good sign that I am learning to accept that. Just yesterday, I was writing at a rate of about 500 words an hour. I surpassed my 10,000 word mark (last count was 12, 094). Progress.

So when I break 300 pounds and 5000 words a day, I can call that success!

There are all types of balance.

I just came from yoga class, so I am thinking of the literal practice of balance. Tree pose. I’m getting better. I can actually mimic a good tree. Until my yoga teacher cocks his head, in that way he has, and asks me to try to take the snake out of my tree.

What?

Then I catch a glance in the mirror. I may have imitated a tree, but it was not a very straight one-no mighty oak for me. Which made me think that I used to live at a farm where they described that kind of tree as a “craggle tree.” I am a craggly tree.

I was told that recognizing my lack of linear alignment was part of the journey. Still working on it.

Then there is balancing all the things that demand my attention, namely, five cats, four dogs, and four horses. It’s all about the routine. I am trying to allow myself time to write. But mainly these days, a lot of my time is spent trying to resist the lure of my iPhone 4 birthday present. I was happy with my old iPhone. I thought it was pretty neat. This new toy? A whole new level of mind crack.

Some “good” friends, (helpful, productive friends) suggested a few new apps. Angry Birds, Words with Friends, and then there is the reemergence of Snood on the desktop…

Plus there is mowing to be done, a garden to begin to put to bed, the patio furniture that still languishes in the garage, waiting to be brought back to the light of day. Piles of stuff, closets, and cabinets await organization.

And then there is making sure I have time to ride on those days when Mother Nature cooperates. My options are limited these days; the streams are still running high and quick. I have taken advantage of these limited opportunites to work a bit in the ring, trying out my other birthday present, a new bit for Tucker. What a miracle that is.

(I also got a gift certificate to a tack shop, along with a g-string that says “Barn Diva” on the front. My friend Anne has such a sense of humor. I think she meant to give those to Ramzi. he’s the Barn Diva. I’m the “Tack Whore.”)

But we are talking about balance.

Yesterday’s ride was miraculous. It was magic. Tucker was forward, light in the hand, supple, and actually chewed the bit (that’s a good thing). Walk, trot, canter, jump. It was like buttah.

Today’s ride was a challenge. Tucker was trying to keep up with Velvet as she power-walked down the road. She and Anne were in full Morgan-on-a-mission mode down the trail. (The old nag. Sure) Tucker felt like he was saying “WTH? Really? I am NOT walking that fast. I CAN’T walk that fast. Please? I’m just going to trot. What? Putting my head in the air and inverting my neck is a bad thing?” He was good, but it wasn’t buttah.

You can’t have magic everyday. It has to be balanced by the mundane. It teaches humility. Just like Angry Birds and being an English Major/writer and getting your butt kicked in Words with Friends, while trying to take care of daily business. Throw in a craggly tree and I’m good to go.

Let see. Do I go on about Vermont? Mention the piles of silt that have created beach-front properties in a land-locked state or the challenges of putting up a bannister, or do I wax poetic about holes in the roads; how you really can’t get there from here? How about being able to catch up with at least some friends? It was nice.

Or I can write about writing or my jones for riding? I am such a whimp when it comes to trotting down the road in the rain. How about Gil’s adventure with hives? It’s very dramatic when a large animal throws himself down to itch frantically. It required quite a few injectables to get it under control. Then, because he rolls over so well (quite a feat for an equine) he kept getting stuck. Again dramatic and LOUD!

How about our fly infestation? Not fun when you have a touch screen computer. Who knew that a fly can open and close programs and move all the icons on your desktop?

Then there is the kitten, who now insists that he needs some of my breakfast toast, well, really he just wants some of whatever I have…but he’s really cute about it. I took him to the barn office the other day. I put him in his little travelling bag, got in the truck, Putter jumped in and away we went. He was out and about before we were out of the driveway. He sat on my lap happily. Guess he told me.

And now there is water. Lots of water. The sump pump is going 24/7. And for that, I am extremely grateful. The last time there was half this much ground water, combined with a power outage, the basement filled with a foot of water. I can still see my oldest cat floating around on top of a trunk, yowling. The pump is now tied properly into the generator. And the basement is damp, but has not turned into an indoor wading pool. No floating kitties (or bouyant litter boxes-ick).

So today, when the rain abated for a time and, gasp, the sun came out. I tacked up my freshly bathed horse and headed out. The road was the only option. Down and back, with Tucker watching the rivers that ran down the edges. (I did convince him to trot through one- future eventer!) Even though he hadn’t been exercised for almost a week, he was beautifully behaved. We came to a long incline, I gave him his head- permission to go as fast as he pleased. Keep in mind, he had won a race back in the day. He cantered. Then went a little faster. I was so happy to be out, exhilirated with the prospect of an adrenaline pumping gallop, anticipating the release of all his pent up energy. I leaned forward, anticipating a burst of blazing…oh…okay, you want to trot.

He did win a race back in the day.

Irene came and went. For some, she was a non-event; a lot of rain and some wind. Here, I tucked away the grill, the lawn furniture, filled the hot tub, brought in the electric fencers and the water troughs. The horses were locked up in the barn. I was ready.

And Irene came, unleashed her wrath, but not on us.

Unfortunately, she dumped her fury-tempests of torrential rain-on a place we least expected, the lovely state I used to call home- Vermont.

It began with a text from my son asking if I’d seen the footage. No. I hadn’t. He e-mailed links and I suddenly understood. I couldn’t comprehend, but it was there, in full color. Bridges, familiar roads, farms and homes destroyed. Tiny, babbling brooks turned into walls of frothing water; the Williams river that runs through Chester, a waterway that my aunt used to laugh at- “they call that a river?”, churned and raged, taking with it an historic covered bridge, as it roared down the valley.

It seems that not one road or town was unscathed. It is impossible to travel directly East to West across the state. The route I used to travel to work is simply gone in one spot. It was near a river. Actually, it was about 100 feet above a river, the steep bank forested with large trees. You could hardly notice the water, seemingly so far away. You notice it now. The pavement is gone, dropping off those 100 or so feet, down into an impassable oblivion.

And that is only one. Communities are cut off, some brave souls making contact over hill and dale with horses and ATVs. No power. No water. No phone. And no way in or out.

I still can’t believe it. I look at the pictures. I e-mail and call those friends with power and phone to make sure they are alright. They say they are. Vermonters are made of incredibly resilient stuff.

I know there are other states and communities hit hard by this storm. The shorelines are battered, parts of New Jersey are still flooding, the Catskill region has washouts, too.

Where I live and in nearby New York City, there is a sigh of relief. We dodged a bullet.

But so many did not.

Grief is a process that never ends.

Four years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30AM, by a policeman’s knock on my door.

Everyone who knows me or my sister, knows the story. Time has passed, it gets easier in some ways. Though it never passes completely.

Eulogy

It’s amazing that one family could produce two such strong and unique women.

First, there was my mom, Bettyann. Then, seven years later Snooker came along. Snooker told me repeatedly that my mom was the best sister anyone could have had.

For my sister and me, mom was always a role model. Strong, driven, and unwilling to let anything or anyone stand in the way of what needed to be done. We wanted to please her, but she set the bar high.

Overcoming the repercussions of a terrible accident when she was in high school, my mom turned her natural drive into an unstoppable force. Her favorite response to teenage whining sums it up: “There’s no such thing as can’t”. Throughout our lives, even when we couldn’t fully appreciate her achievements, my sister and I knew she was doing incredible things.

She was the strength and motivation for our family, the protector and provider. The Queen.

Snooker was both the court jester and archivist.

Through both of them I was able to see the country. With Snooker there was her beloved Hawaii. When I was eight, I was there for one glorious summer and then our road trip when I was 10, which took us from Denver to LA with so many stops in between.

My mother showed us parts of Texas, Arizona, Colorado and Ohio we had never heard of- not the tourist places but, she’d always try to show us something- even if it sometimes involved 2 or 3 carsick, crowded and bickering hours. And she allowed me the opportunity to spend a glorious month in Prague- something I’d never dreamed I’d actually do.

When each moved to Vermont my world was altered completely.

First Snooker arrived. And in the past 11 years I have had her present in my life- not just a random phone call (This is your auntie Snooker) or at various holidays and family events. She was here. And now weekends were gardening and shopping trips for plants in the summer and craft supplies or books in the winter. Just recently, I had finally figured out how to get her out of Wal-mart or Ocean State Job Lots in less than 2 hours.

My mom only begun to adjust to Vermont and we were beginning to work out our schedule. I was learning that a trip to the dump was now a joint effort, and that while she was “perfectly capable of doing this on her own since she had lived by herself for the past 14 years, she would go grocery shopping with me if I wanted”.

There were times in the past six months when I would feel like a ping-pong ball caught between those two and outings with them were lessons in listening (To 2 conversations and opinions at once) and patience (they would pause to let me answer sometimes).

But my mother gave me support and allowed me to live with the horses and the farm. She allowed me to go to school and she pushed when I was unsure.

And Snooker would have given me the shirt off her back- thank god she didn’t have to because she had 4 brand new ones with tags in a drawer- it’s a men’s x-large in orange and pink stripes, but you can wear it in the barn. And she has given Anne a new lifelong hobby on E-bay. I’m sure there is someone who wants 10 boxes of various seedpods, pinecones, and waxed leaves.

They leave a tremendous hole in my family’s life. They were vibrant, so full of energy and life- not little old ladies slowing down, but forces of nature.

We will never fill this hole. We will have to learn to work and live around it. But whenever it becomes too much, or a task seems insurmountable, their legacy will be there. Because Snooker left us plenty to do and as my mother always believed- there is no such thing as “Can’t”.

Notes on My Mother

A lioness hunts and watches,

Protecting, and providing

For her pride.

While the hummingbird

Flits here and there

Searching for sustenance.

The terrier is feisty and loud,

Persistent, and fearless,

Despite its small stature.

The strong wind buffets

And pushes

All in its path

So suddenly

There is stillness.

We stagger and stumble

When we are abruptly

Abandoned by the wind.

The ears go wanting,

Anticipating the chaos

Of the terrier’s bark.

This garden becomes

Static, lacking

That hummingbird’s flight.

While, a world away

The lioness finally reclines

And surveys her domain.

No. I have not changed teams. Yes. I am still married to Mr. W. But…he does become a bit…pampered? Demanding? Perfectionist? When he is in the barn.

And he is in the barn a lot more these days due to the arrival of his horse-a two-year old Morgan filly. Add to the adventure is a leased older mare for him to ride while we (I) train the youngster.

I have to say, they are great additions to the barn. Gil, the bucking bronc is doing his best tryout as a teaser stallion. And, I have to say, he is excelling at it. He could have a future job. I digress.

At first, Mr. W. was apprehensive about the mare. Not the filly. He was excited about the filly. However, he was worried that the mare, being older might be an “old nag.” Right. I know the breeder. She has wonderful horses and both of these girls are wonderfully perfect.

Icey, the youngster, is intelligent and affectionate. She hasn’t done much in her short life, but judging from the way she marched onto the trailer to get here (she’d never seen one before) I’d say she’s something special. I admit to a wee bit of bias there.

Enter Velvet, the “old nag.” Cough. Cough. She has a heart of gold, a spring in her step and a happy gleam in her eye, not to mention a crush on Gil right now. My first ride on Velvet proved that she was more than enough horse for Mr. W.- she marched right out to the ring, picked up her paces on cue and when we strolled around the fields, she stepped out like she owned the place.

Which leads me to today, when I finally pestered Mr. W. enough to finally throw a leg over the saddle; when I learned that I had married a barn princess.

Step one: Arrive at the barn. Feed the girls, bring in the boys(they are on night turnout), pick stalls, throw hay, fill water, and start to set out the tack while the horses digest breakfast.

Step two: Get ready to ride. I squeezed my legs into chaps that barely fit(they are a legacy from a skinnier time- I’m doing my best to stretch them to my current dimensions). Meanwhile, Mr. W. asked where his were.

He does have custom chaps, but he hasn’t tried his on since before most middle-school children were born. I don’t even think he knows where they are. I offered him a nearly new set of half-chaps. He put them on.

“They’re too long! I can’t bend my knees. I can’t ride if I can’t bend my knees.”

Obviously, he has never had to break in a brand new pair of field boots, had the pleasure of trying to ride as the circulation in your lower leg is cut off by the inflexible leather biting through the back of your knee, while you pray the ankle breaks down quickly…

Mind you he was complaining while in a half-squat- almost perfect riding position. But he wasn’t comfortable. So…I offered to wrap his lower legs in polo wraps. The look on his face said it all.

He was going to have to ride without chaps.

Step three: Helmets. He put his on and fumbled with the chinstrap. I had borrowed his helmet to give pony rides to a few children. Perhaps the strap was a bit tight. I don’t think that warrented the choking noises. It wasn’t that tight. He didn’t turn blue, after all. I loosened it.

Step four: “Are you sure this is the right saddle pad?”

“Is this girth too long?”

“This is the bridle you used on her last time, right?”

“These strap keepers are really tight!”

I was starting to doubt his enthusiasm.

Step five: We brought our horses out to the mounting block. I told him to go first, so I could give him a hand if he needed. I also warned him that Velvet was, perhaps built differently than some of the horses he’d ridden the last few decades. She’s definitely not fat, but her natural build is…well, a bit rounder. I suggested he check his girth before mounting.

“I have ridden before, you know.”

Yes. I know. We rode together last year a couple of times. How soon I forget.

Step six: Tighten girth. Go to mounting block. Position horse. Curse as she steps slightly away. Get off mounting block. Tell horsey to stay. Repeat. “Whoa!” Repeat until horsey stays. Put foot in the stirrup.

Step seven: Whine about his severely tilted saddle. “Now what do I do?” (I was laughing too hard to answer.) Get off severly tilted saddle. Curse loudly.

“I told you the girth was too long.”

“Now I have to undo everything and put it back to the center!” He didn’t fall to the ground and kick and yell like a toddler, but it seemed close.

Tucker and I headed back into the barn. I tied up his reins and threatened him with bodily harm if he even thought of rolling with my saddle on.

Step eight: Straighten saddle. Adjust stirrup length and hold opposite stirrup as Mr. W. swings his leg over. Check girth and stirrups.

Okay. I did ask him if he wanted me to get a rope and lead him out to the ring, too. He politely declined my offer by squeezing his legs on Velvet’s sides and sauntering away.

I ran back and retrieved Tucker, mounted up and met Mr. W. in the ring. We proceeded to have an incredibly relaxing ride around the hay fields. It was perfect.

We’re just going to have to get him some chaps that fit. And a personal groom.

*This post was suggested by Mr. W. himself- “You mean you are not going to write about today??”

Well, today could have been considered a failure. In the time management, productive world, then yes, I didn’t achieve a whole lot. But after weeks of insane scheduling and rushing from one get-together to another, it was nice to stop and smell the coming Autumn.

In addition, we have added two more horses to the daily chore list. One is a two-year-old sweet bundle of energy and possibility. The other is a dignified mare of fifteen years. Both are Morgans and Mr. W.’s. We’re all still adjusting to the increased barnload and activity, but it’s all good.

I have poison ivy, I may have Lyme (waiting for test results- if I was of the canine persuasion, the answer would take all of eight minutes. For a human, it takes about a week. Go figure. Woof.), and a head full of ideas for the projects I have. Essentially, I am itchy and tired, with an overactive imagination. I am not the best company these days.

Today, we slept late-at least until the bull next-door, who I call Pedro (Ferdinand was taken)began bellowing like..well, I don’t really know how to describe it- something between love-sick and lungs exploding. All I know is, its LOUD!

We turned the horses out, came back for breakfast, and my phone rang. My son was on his way to visit!

All plans flew out the window. He arrived, we had lunch,introduced him to the new additions, looked at wedding and honeymoon pics, raided the garden, and he wound every animal in the house to bursting.

I didn’t ride. I did not weed the garden. The lawn remains unmowed, nothing was unthawed for dinner so Mr.W ate cereal and I had yogurt, fruit and granola. I spent most of the evening putting some of my frantic thoughts into the computer.

But I had precious time with my only child, a luxury in these days of his young-adulthood (understandably) and current tenure in Colorado.

I am still itchy. Still tired. I feel so out of shape for riding, behind in my house/farm projects, and especially my writing projects, but it doesn’t matter. because today was a perfect day.

I just finished reading a memoir. Of sorts. It was a self-published book. And it had to do with Vermont. Sort of.

As I ponder the things I want to write, my life is, I admit something I like to write about. Hence this blog. It leads me to ask myself, “Is this writing thing all one big exercise in self-promotion?”

It might just be.

So are the hours I spend in my office, typing away, my excuse to dwell in my own reflection? Well…

No. Although I do steal events, emotions, and even personal charcteristics from “real” life to populate created stories, and contrary to what I write in this blog, my favorite word is not “I.” it;s true, I am as self-absorbed as the next girl, but I really don’t think I am the most interesting being on the planet.

Which brings me to the book I just read. Honestly, it may even have my most hated, Eat Pray Love beat in the OMG-I-am-so-special-everyone-needs-to-read-about-it category. Of course I believe that my most recent read has sold maybe 10 copies. And if you read the reviews on Amazon (all 5 star, excellent read) you can easily figure out that all of the reviewers are friends of the author.

So much to do! Not only am I rising early to ride before the heat index climbs over the century mark (not an easy task), but the extra daylight has inspired a huge increase in my artistic motivation.

Most afternoons find me heading to my office, laptop, kitten and dog in tow. I grab a bottle of water from the barn fridge, turn on the fan, boot up and get to work. Each day, I spend a couple of hours seated at my desk. Even if I am blocked, spend some time watching the kitten explore, flip through an old New Yorker, or scan the pages of one of my horse books, somehow, just being in a place I set up for writing, sets my fingers typing and, eventually, the words flow. And it’s a good thing, because I actually have prijects!

I am working on a rewrite for my sister (she had a book ghost-written! I’d be offended if I didn’t get to fix it). For myself, I am revisiting my last short story honing it for hopeful publication. On the re-read I actually liked it more than when I had let it sit. Shocker! I have also been asked to help with the memoir/biography of someone I love and admire. Such an amazing opportunity and project. I am ecstatic over it!

All of this, while adding to my daily workload, actually helps me. I work much better under pressure, a trait I discovered while juggling work, a farm, a commute, and school. The more I have to do, the more structured I become. Too much leeway leaves me floating along in a lazy daze. And the enthusiasm I have for these projects will carry me through those times when my motivation and creative juices lag. Just as my goal to show before the season is out, gets me out of bed at the crack of dawn.

Less time to worry, means less time to obsess over the realization (almost daily,, it seems) that everyone around me has published their work. Nevermind the fact that nearly all of these tomes are self-published, they are a constant reminder that if I want to be a writer, I have to write!