Neighbors

Trailer loading is one of the processes Chicago and I practiced profusely when we were very young, and one of the couple behaviors on which we came to mutually agreed-upon terms, trusting each other to be calm and cooperative, to stay sane to stay safe.

Chicago mastered the art of walking in and backing out of a straight-load 2-horse trailer, and he did it without incident for the 10 years we travelled to barns for lessons and parks for trail rides, nominally nullifying the irritation caused by our many storied incidents in those barns for those lessons and in those parks for those trail rides. He objected to left canter leads and park rangers on four-wheelers, but never to loading in a trailer.

But then our trailer sat idle for a few years, mobilized only for the annual shoe-horning into the barn shop for winter storage and the subsequent tow back out to the parking area in the spring.

Eventually I realized that we’d reached a point at which the only time the horses will likely leave the property will not necessitate them walking into a trailer, so I sold it, with the conviction that in the unlikely event of a trailering emergency, I’d be able to phone a friend.

And for two years we had nowhere to go, nothing to do that couldn’t be done within the four corners of Four Sticks Farm. But about a year ago my big red beast needed to have a tooth extracted at the University of Minnesota, which is an hour drive from us. He needed to go to the U because he needed to have a scan of his skull that could only be done with their equipment in their clinic.

There are people who transport horses for a living, but calls to them proved discouraging, as they were either out of the business, not interested in local trips, or willing to do it for an exorbitant price with scheduling issues that may have meant an extended campus visit, i.e., they could get him to the clinic on time, but no promises on the return trip. While I’m sure Chicago would’ve loved to hang out with the lovely and talented vet students and staff in the cozy confines of the teaching barn, leaving him longer would’ve pushed the limit of his spring break budget.

I have a few kind and generous friends with trailers, but borrowing someone else’s equipment brings risk of damage or desecration, and I didn’t want to add stress to an already stressful experience by going into it with the possibility of ruining a practically perfect relationship.

In the end, I called my neighbors, fellow backyard horse keepers I met and bonded with several years ago at a fundraiser for our little local library. They live a short mile up the road and belonged to our county mounted patrol, so I thought they’d have a lead on a Good Samaritan up to the task.

Turns out, they did know someone. Them. Despite my profuse assurances that I was only asking for contacts, not favors, they were willing and able and insistent that they could, and would, haul us to St Paul Wednesday and back home Thursday. Just because.

They arrived in plenty of time for none of us to feel rushed about loading up and hitting the pavement trail. Chicago brought his A-game, walked right in the unfamiliar ride with neither hesitation nor backward glance, and he stood quietly as we traveled down the interstate and across the campus roads.

My neighbors toured the vet clinic with me, and waited for the surgeon to explain how the process would proceed, which took their entire Wednesday morning and a good chunk of their Wednesday afternoon. They unhooked and entrusted their trailer to the overnight campus parking lot security, and we returned late Thursday morning to hitch up, load up and head up I94.

We’re all equine enthusiasts, and we all enjoyed the opportunity to talk horses for uninterrupted hours. But as happens on road trips, even short rides to “The Cities”, conversation covered a wide swath. We chatted about books and movies, told stories about ourselves and our families, shared our worries about the world, spiced up with just a pinch of local gossip. We listened, learned, laughed, and remembered how much we like our neighbors.

Since Chicago’s never ridden in a trailer he didn’t poop in, when we got home, I walked him to the pasture and headed back to the driveway prepared to pick up his mess. But I returned to a closed trailer gate, an open truck door, and my neighbor waving me and my muck rake away with the assertion that manure management was “part of the deal”.

The best people sometimes volunteer for the shittiest jobs.

I treated for lunch on Wednesday and snuck a little cash in the thank-you card I gave them on Thursday, which they tried to return, but this time I was the insistent one.

We haven’t seen much of each other this year, beyond drive-by waves, social media exchanges, and Christmas card updates.

But we know we’re here.

Nice.

Kaleidoscope

We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.

Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.

The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.

The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.

To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.

Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.

Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.

Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.

January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.

We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.

We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.

We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.

The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.

Kindness.

Jottings

New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.

Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.

Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.

Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.

Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.

Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.

There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.

Joy.

Integrity

The quality or state of being of sound moral principle; uprightness, honesty, and sincerity

Living with livestock leads to some level of obligation – daily bringing-ins and letting-outs, checking-ons and brushing-offs, wiping-downs and cleaning-ups – which also offers ample opportunity for observation and reflection.

We’re experiencing an unusually cold December – temperatures below zero, and as I write I see the trees swaying to balance their heavy white hats in 20 mile per hour winds.

I also see a packed white path to the semi-protected sun-catching site in the southwest corner of the pasture, and a variety of brave birds flitting between the snow-covered cedar tree and the suet feeders – reminders of the marvel of instinct that allows animals to adjust, adapt and abide such harsh conditions.

Biskit and Chicago spend about 20 hours of their days outside, coming in around noon for 3-4 hours of quiet time. Given the willingness with which they walk in, I believe they enjoy the chance to eat, drink, and lie down in a shavings-bedded stall, but given the alertness with which they greet me when I return a few hours later – including Biskit’s semi-annoying banging of the metal door – I also believe they are eager to return to the natural elements.

Our barn opens to a covered shelter space, with hay feeders, an automatic waterer that allows 24-hour access to 52-degree refreshment, and cover from rain, sleet, snow, and sun, if they want it.

But they don’t always want it. They wander out to the pasture – wide open for the winter – and find a sunny spot to stand and doze. They snuffle and scrounge around in the snow, pawing up pieces of frozen pasture, and warm their muscles with an occasional session of horseplay – sparring back and forth, a couple of senior geldings playing stallions.

To stoke the furnaces that are their bellies digesting hay, on the super-cold nights I tend to put out a little more than they need, just to make sure the thermostats stay turned to “toasty” and am pleasantly surprised to slide open the big door in the morning to see small piles of untouched hay that they didn’t need – warmth and willpower, admirable indeed!

Though I have a blanket for each of them, neither is interested, beating a hasty retreat when they see me walking out of the tack room with those armfuls of insulated bulk with buckles. Apparently, like their owner, they have a sufficient layer of natural protective padding.

Chicago greets me with the same good-natured nicker every morning, positioned to belly up to the wheelbarrow and browse through the sunrise ration, while Biskit paws at his feeder for the 17 seconds it takes me to climb through the ropes with a couple flakes for him.

Then they carry on calmly, trying each pile of hay before settling on the one that suits Chicago’s fancy, with Biskit taking the next best.

The farm felines live a life of a little more luxury, spending the better part of their days within the confines of the heated barn shop, snuggling in a fleecy bed, or catching a few winks on the cushions of the porch chairs, stowed for the season.

Fennel fuzzes up and heads outside for a few fleeting moments every day, but Mace, the seasoned veteran of 15 winters, takes advantage of the two 10 by 12 shavings-filled litterboxes in the barn, easily accessed through the 6 by 8 flap-filled cat door in the shop, and isn’t likely to brave the elements until the red line on the thermometer reaches 32.

The four-leggeds adapt to what the world presents and live their lives with admirable acceptance – no whining, no resentment, no scheming to change conditions to their own convenience. They seek shelter during the extreme conditions, but still move out, stretch out, and search out the sunny spots for at least a little while, every day.

They spend their time in the snow, the slush, or the sun, sometimes under cover, sometimes not, but always without complaint. They accept the world as it is, patient, trusting. They endure the harsh weather, tolerating the elements and each other with grace, finding a spot to snack, snooze or simply wait it out.

Inspiration.

House

Ours is a small house. Comfortable for us, but more than two guests for dinner leaves limited elbow room around the table, with detours around the dog bed that doubles as the hearth rug.

Because the main bath is also the master bath, visitors are privy to my preferences in hair and skin care products, and to the old orange beach towel hanging on the door handle to swap the slobber from Rowdy’s chin after each of his 157 daily drinks.

Horses in the back yard means hay in the back entry. Hay, shavings, horsehair, and cat fur make their ways inside, to mingle in the drool drip and pawprint parade that meanders around the wood floor of the main level.

Despite the effort to minimize clutter and maximize clean, guests rarely leave without a small dollop of Four Sticks DNA. Compliments of the house. You’re welcome.

Sometimes I think about the luxuries of living in a house without animals. Freedom from dirt, dander, puddles, feeding schedules, farrier schedules, inside time, outside time, stall cleaning and Swiffer swiping. A closet full of fleece, with no need for a lint roller.

Then I see two tabby cats greeting me in the driveway at sunrise, positioned to steer me down the walkway toward the barn, through the tack room, and to the cat chow, lest I lose my way or forget the Order of Go for morning chores.

I see a white-faced golden gazing at me when I come out of the bedroom closet after work, waiting to see what I’m wearing, which will determine the afternoon’s activity. Sliver of saliva stretching from his jowls, he’s ready to roll with whatever I want to do. Barn? Beautiful! Errands? Excellent! Park? Perfect! TV? Terrific!

I see a couple of hefty horses watching me through the living room window at sunset, wondering if I remember they’re waiting for their overnight ration.

What I don’t see is leaving this place anytime soon. I see staying in our little house for many years to come, cramped, cozy and comfortable, filled with family and friends who don’t mind a little crowding.

Just don’t use the beach towel on the back of the bathroom door.

Home.

Gratitude

Those lucky to enjoy the companionship of a furry, feathered, finned, scaled, or shelled friend are, indeed, lucky enough.

November highlights the opportunity to reflect on the gifts we’ve been given, and for me, that includes the four-legged livestock with whom I share my life.

My animals get me out of my head, out of my house and into the rest of the world.

Rowdy keeps me moving, with his passion for the park, watching to see what I wear out of the closet, exploding with excitement when he sees what he interprets to be exercise apparel.

Fennel and Mace keep me still, with their appreciation of a warm lap on which to receive a quiet cuddle.

Biskit and Chicago keep me mindful of the natural world, blessing my backyard with the natural beauty of equines.

They all keep me learning, with health or behavioral issues that lead me through coaching clinics, training classes, educational seminars, veterinary consultations, Google searches, and pet care catalogs.

They soothe in the storm of stressful seas and motivate when I crave the couch.

They speak in barks, hisses, nickers, purrs, whines, whinnies, stares across the room and stares across the yard. Incredibly intense stares.

They are extraordinary listeners, exemplary secret-keepers, and conversation starters who provide smooth ice-breaker introductions and spontaneous chit-chat with people in the park.

They make me laugh and cry and think and play.

They bring me comfort, joy, a sense of responsibility, and a reason to get up in the morning – even when I want to sleep in.

They gallop, saunter, strut, trot, run and wiggle into my heart, and transform my house into a home. A dust-bunnied, paw-printed, barn-boots-in-the-back-entry home.

They keep me happy, healthy, humble human.

Grounded.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Dirt

Stop by my house unannounced and unexpected, take a moment to look around and you’ll likely spot dust on the mantle, dog hair on the floor and, very probably, a dead box elder bug by the back door. Country livin’ at its’ finest.

Before we moved to Four Sticks Farm, George had started his own business, so we bought a small rambler in our hometown, with the understanding that after a couple of years to get established, we’d find a country place with land and room for horses.

Seven years later we found Four Sticks.

A house just big enough for the two of us, our three boisterous golden retrievers and one sweet little black lab named Dixie. The lot was heavily wooded, so we took much of two years to clear trees, move dirt, plant a pasture, and build a barn. I learned a lot about dirt during the process – who knew there is so much diversity in the world of soil? And you can believe we had the wrong kind in every spot.

So, we dug and scraped and hauled out and filled in and leveled up and tamped down. I use the term ”we” loosely, as there are people with powerful equipment who move dirt for a living. Thank God.

Twenty acres of mostly marsh land became my pastoral paradise. Dogs in the house, horses in the pasture, and cats anywhere in between.

Despite my repeated intention to keep barn shoes barn shoes, and other shoes not, most of my footwear eventually ends up with at least a bit of barn dirt stuck in the soles. And on more than one occasion I’ve crossed my legs at work and spotted specks of dried manure dotting the hemline. Barn jeans are barn jeans, good jeans are not. Sometimes.

No green thumb here, but I like the look of pots on the patio in the summer so have found a few independent varieties (shamrocks and succulents are my friends) that survive with minimal intervention and I plant a new perennial or two every year to add a little long-term interest. All of which means digging in the dirt, and because I find gardening gloves cumbersome, it’s often a deep dive with bare hands.

So, I have animal hair on my activewear, soil in my shoes, dirt under my fingernails, hay in my hair, and dust in my dining room – life when your backyard is a barnyard.

I think it keeps me healthy. I know it keeps me happy.

Dreams.

Chicago

Twenty-one years ago, I watched a little blonde girl take a riding lesson on a big red horse. She was cute, he was stunning.

Twenty years ago, that big, beautiful Paint, with a wide white blaze and 3 white stockings came to live with me.

Though not my first horse – props to Cloud, The Old White Pony – Chicago is my Heart Horse. Heart horse, not to be confused with Best horse.

When I brought him home, he was woefully skittish, I was blissfully ignorant. Chicago was young, living in a disquieting world full of alien threats, while I was middle-aged, living in an exhilarating world full of childhood dreams.

His reactive nature and my natural timidity mapped a course to certain calamity. He perfected a duck and spin move that left me dumped and supine, but a steady diet of prayer and perseverance kept us on track and off the injured list. We put in a lot of time building our respective Profiles in Courage.

Because we were both beginners, Chicago and I took lessons (Friday mornings at 9, for 10 years – the best hour of my week), attended training clinics and rode park trails with experienced friends.

We learned to get in and get out of a trailer, to appreciate unfamiliar environments, to walk through water, to halt on the word “whoa”; and that an instructor moving toward the center of the arena must be the universal sign for “Let’s stop and discuss”. Chicago never missed the opportunity for a rest break and made a beeline for the middle of the ring whenever he rounded a corner and spotted Dick standing at X.

“We” never learned to trust metal garbage cans, chain saws, stealthy cyclists, to canter on the left lead without bucking, or that an instructor saying “Nice!” does not actually translate to “exercise finished”. Chicago schooled under the principle that praise meant he had proven he can perform the requested exercise and had, therefore, been granted permission to dial down the activity and catch his breath.

Back in the beginning, those who knew better knew Chicago wasn’t the right horse for me. But I didn’t. So here we are, still standing, still together, 20 years later.

Some Heart Horses defy the natural assumption of selfless natures, willing to go the extra mile, give the last ounce, or guard their rider with their own lives. Some, like Chicago, dwell deeply in your heart because they challenge you. They make you think and try and work and cry and fall down and get up and think and try some more. They make you mad and sad and so damn happy.

At feeding time, they greet you with a loving nicker when you arrive on time, a reproachful whinny when you’re late.

They toss you in a moment of panic but balance on three legs while you fumble with a roll of flexible bandage on the fourth foot.

They come in off a grassy pasture to see you at the gate and they wait in the open stall door for a smooch on the muzzle before heading back out to that grassy pasture.

They move quietly out of your way when you set your finger on their chest, but they stand completely still when you rest your weight against their neck, working through the worries of your world. And when they know the time is right, they nudge, a firm but gentle nuzzle that assures you all will be well.

We schedule our social times around their farrier times. We make sure they have stall fans in the summer and bucket heaters in the winter. We sweat and we freeze while we spend hours in the barn, mucking those stalls, scrubbing those buckets, taking temperatures, listening for gut sounds, cleaning wounds, and soaking abscesses.

Because we love them. We are connected to them. At the heart.

Commitment.

Biskit

Prior to coming to Four Sticks Farm, Biskit was part of a neglected herd rescued by the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation. He was a demonstration horse at a fundraising clinic given by a local trainer and was standing quietly in a round pen when I walked into the barn. I stopped to get a closer look at the little yellow gelding, and when his soft baby browns met my gaze, there was no doubt that he would be joining Chicago and Rusty at Four Sticks Farm.

I regaled George with as many details of the event as a non-horsey husband can tolerate, ending with a suggestion of what he could get me for my birthday, which was on the following Friday. I told him about the pretty palomino. He told me he already had my birthday present. I picked up Biskit the following Saturday.

Whether a remnant of his sad past, or plain old gluttony, Biskit is always ready to belly up to the hay bale and reluctant to bid it farewell. During primo grazing season, when the paddock is open all day, he is loath to leave the opportunity to gorge on all that forage even for a drink of water or a turn in front of the big barn fan. He leaves his muzzle on low to mow a path to the next spot of greener grass.

I’ve tried to take advantage of that food focus by taking Chicago for a little exercise around the property while Biskit is stuffing his stomach, but he will eventually notice he’s the only pony on his side of the pasture rail and then he’ll panic, running the fence line, tail lifted, head high, calling for his friend. An impressive site, if you ignore the small mounds of manure dotting the alley as they drop from beneath that elevated tail.

Because he has an unspecified neurological issue that affects his balance, Biskit escaped riding duty, with an everlasting assignment as the barn buddy. He is a pasture pal. The support pony, he buys into his place in the herd, which is anywhere behind the polka-dotted butt of the big red horse he calls “Boss.”

What he’s never bought into is that Patience is a Virtue. He protests excessive time in the crossties, with impatient pawing, piles of poop, and puddles of pee in the barn aisle. Our good-natured farrier unpacks his superpowers of patience and proficiency to complete Biskit’s pedicure within the window of three-legged tolerance, finishing the job seconds before the pot-bellied pony snatches his hoof away in a most disrespectful display of gravitational insecurity.

But he is cute. More charming than churlish, Biskit is beloved by most who visit the barn. He’s a BFF to the Big Red Beast, cordial to the cats, and gracious to the golden with a squeaker ball. A birthday gift still giving after 14 years.

Blessings.