Time

It drags on, flies by, costs nothing, is money, marches on, stands still, will tell, won’t wait, and we can waste it, save it, spend it, and keep it. Time remains one of the few elements of our lives that we cannot change, and so we move with it, at warp speed or snail’s pace.

We have moved into summertime here in the upper Midwest. Sorel boots are stowed, down coats dry-cleaned, mittens moved to the baskets on the upper shelf, replaced with sandals, shorts and sun hats. Stall fans are plugged in where the heated buckets hung for the past 6 months.

Our practically perfect seasonal switch has allowed for textbook turf in the pasture, and we’ve already reached all-day grazing mode – in May, an all-time record – which makes for very happy horses.

New pasture access can prove difficult for the fragile inner workings of these mighty beasts who are susceptible to gorging in Mother Nature’s candy shop. But we’ve eased into it, building tolerance and intestinal fortitude by limiting the input and monitoring the output for consistency in amount and texture. Because the going is good, and I see Biskit and Chicago occasionally, on their own accord, wander away from the all-you-can-eat buffet that is the open paddock, I know their guts have shifted into summer gear.

Back in the day, Chicago would trot out of the barn after his noon nap, breaking into a canter when he hit the grass line of the pasture, which Rowdy took as his cue to channel the inner herding dog and bolt after him, barking and circling. Rowdy found it great sport, but it was obvious to the rest of us that he was the only party who bought into the idea of an actual threat. Chicago indulged the pretend power trip by half-heartedly kicking a leg in the golden’s general vicinity, and I’d yell at them both until Rowdy ran back to the barn energized and exhausted by his efforts.

These days, Chicago mostly walks into the field as Rowdy watches from the doorway. If he does follow along, it’s more of a trot than a run and Chicago barely lifts his head, let alone his feet, in acknowledgement. And I say nothing, knowing the game has altered with age, and that Rowdy will return momentarily, pick up his squeaker ball and lay down to catch his breath in the barn aisle.

As we make this seasonal shift, I’m mindful of some other lifestyle changes in the works. I dipped my toe into the waters of the horse world by volunteering at an equine-assisted therapy program nearly 25 years ago, fulfilled the childhood fantasy of my first horse a couple years later and relished every minute of learning about horses. Though I sometimes miss the days of boarding barn buddies, clinics, lessons, and trail rides, those days of total equine immersion, I’m mostly content with our simpler, quieter, stay-at-home horse life.

In April I went to the annual Minnesota Horse Expo, an equine extravaganza of demonstrations, exhibitions, and vendors. Back at the turn of the century, this was a 3-day must-see, up close and personal, event that I attended as a veritable sponge, soaking up all my mind would absorb about living with these creatures I love.

This year, I went once. The Expo has shrunk some over the years, likely due to aging-out of organizers, the outbreak of a contagious equine virus followed by the outbreak of a contagious human virus, so there was a little less to take in, but I saw most of what I’d highlighted on my pre-printed schedule, laughed at the feisty donkey foals who kicked up their heels and ran from their mamas, marveled at the moxie of the people who rode their horses in the very scary fairgrounds coliseum, and savored a cheeseburger and a cold beer from that concession stand in the corner by the arena gate.

I replenished a couple insect repellant products for the pasture ponies, but mostly just browsed, content to look at the latest versions of the gear and gadgets I’ve spent the last year re-homing from my tack room.

While I remember well the thrill of new horse ownership and the fun of First purchases, the truth is that I no longer need a hot pink manure fork, a monogrammed saddle pad or a “Not my pasture, Not my bullshit” tank top – though I’ll admit to an ongoing pursuit for a purple plastic feeding pan for my pot-bellied palomino.

I’ve spent money, made friends, realized dreams, survived disappointments, and worked through fear, fatigue, and frustration. I still find fun in equine education and appreciate any opportunity to hang out with horse people. I adore the two big beasts in my backyard, yet still hope to see horses on the trails with I hike with Rowdy.

Biskit, Chicago and l have our small arena and wooded trails to walk under saddle, in long lines, or on a lead rope. I don’t ride much these days and have spent too much time trying to figure out why – fear, other priorities, sloth, or something else – so for now have opted to grant a little grace and just enjoy the horse time spent with all 6 of our feet on the ground, even if that’s an hour in the barn, silent, save for Biskit’s impatient interruptions, watching the shiny copper coming through a curried coat, feeling the satisfaction of wind-whipped snarls in a mane or tail giving way to my conditioner-covered fingers, and smelling the heavenly scent of all things horse.

Here at Four Sticks, we’ve relaxed into the rhythm of a finely ripened relationship, content to connect in ways that don’t involve a left-lead canter because life looks plenty good at a steady-paced walk.

We’ve got chore time, grooming time, farrier and vet time, as well as just plain old hangin’ out time, surrendering some of the things of our youth, but always embracing our blessings.

Transitions.

Space

Minnesota winter has a way of bleeding into Minnesota spring, draining some of us of all hope that we’ll ever again lay eyes or bare feet on that gift of nature that is warm green grass. But somehow, sometime, the weather gods once again secretly apply the tourniquet, and seemingly overnight, the hemorrhaging stops. The snow melts, the mud dries, the trees bud, the grass sprouts, and the stealthy season sneaks in, confirming our sometimes-shaky faith in the certainty of spring’s eventual, inevitable, arrival.

With the knee-deep snow replaced by firmly packed gravel, Biskit and Chicago now amble up and down the alley, assuming their annual obligation to manicure the fence line by nibbling at the emerging greenery. This early spring sampling serves a dual purpose of initializing their intestines to the richness of real grass while keeping the property pretty. They have a job and they do it well.

The horses move through their worlds with an enviable blend of individuality and group dynamics. One may wander back to the barn for a cool drink or a warm doze under the shelter while the other stays in the dry lot, comfortable in the knowledge that he has food, he has a friend, and he is safe.

Unless Chicago hears a small engine revving up anywhere in a 3-block radius, a red-alert situation often resolved only after much blowing, bucking, and bolting until he becomes aware that he’s the only herd member in panic mode – not a good look for the leader.

They generally graze near, but not next to, each other. Except of course, when the big red paint suspects the portly palomino has found the mother lode of flavorful forage, at which time Chicago moves in and makes Biskit move out.

For the most part though, they live in companionable quiet, able, but not required, to engage or evade as they choose.
Fennel and Mace also travel in their own orbits, making their rodent runs, taking their sun siestas on separate schedules, but coordinating their calendars every day for a communal cat nap in the hayloft and some cat chow in the workshop.

I love how the barn boys share their space to preserve the peace, moving around, standing still, staying close, or backing off with neither fuss nor fanfare.

Living space, freedom to move about the cabin of daily life, allows for head space, which lends itself to cogitation, deliberation, reflection, and rumination. Thinking time.

Time to contemplate challenges and chores, guilt and gratitude.

Time to mull over mistakes and making amends, obligations and opinions.

Time to ponder plans and priorities and place in the world.

And my favorite, time to think about nothing in particular, the meditative, rambling, therapeutic, unchecked stream of consciousness. The silent space of simply being.

Serenity.

Questions

Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?

What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?

Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?

When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?

Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?

How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.

Quirks.

Options

Winter has worn out its welcome. In proverbial Minnesota Goodbye fashion, the cold and the snow and the wind and the ice loiter in the front entry, hand on the doorknob with the promise of heading out, engaged in endless discourse – “one last thing, then I have to get going”. The ultimate unwanted house guest.

By this time in March, I generally have the pasture closed off with the electric fencer on, to allow the grass to get a head start, unfettered by eager equines starved for the sweetness of fresh forage. But compliments of a steady series of cold fronts and clipper systems, Biskit and Chicago still have 24-hour access to the blanket of snow that is our grazing field.

I watch them navigate the course of our infinitesimal climate change with admiration. For all but 3 or 4 hours of snack-and-snooze stall time, they live outside. Their barn opens to an ample covered space with a rubber-matted floor, a heated water fountain, and easy access to the pasture and dry lot.

Early-morning and late-night hay go under shelter, but unless it’s pouring rain, I scatter midday rations in the pasture to encourage exercise. They then have the option to nibble on the omnipresent bits and pieces littering the shelter floor or meandering out to the greener patches on the snow-covered field, and I marvel at how often they choose to navigate the hock-high snow with their natural snowshoes.

Inspiring really, how they go out or stay in, wait for their blankets, or walk away when they see them coming, picking pelting precipitation over stifling surcingles. Even when hunger isn’t driving them, they’ll venture out in the elements, sometimes simply standing, natural sponges to the natural showers. They stroll back to the barn when I slide open the door, coats curled and manes marcelled, no sign of discomfort or discontent.

Biskit and Chicago are cognitive creatures, with environmental awareness and excellent memories, able to choose to stand up front at the gate or out back by the fence, socialize or stay away, soak up the sun, snooze in the shade, or drench themselves in downpours. Good with their choices, ok with their consequences, they hold no grudges, demand do-overs, throw no tantrums. Well, except for Biskit, who’s been known to bang on the barn door when he deems it dinner time and I decide otherwise.

They are content. And I now opt to follow their lead in acceptance of this never-ending winter of my growing discontent. I will find solace in the stronger sunshine that finally illuminates our days past dinner. I will embrace the cold that allows me to toss hay bales sans sweat, and I will find joy in Mudville as the ground around the barn morphs from packed snow into slimy muck.

Winter will wander on; white will give way to green; and I will wait.

Patiently.

Except for maybe just one tiny kick of the barn door.

Optimism.

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.

Limericks

Chicago and Biskit, the horses
Are powerful big friendly forces
But they’re warm fuzzy friends
So I happily spends
Lots of time and financial resources.

The cats are named Fennel and Mace
They keep rodents from running the place
I watch Mace growing older
And hope Fennel grows bolder
Cuz he’ll have to patrol the whole space.

The star of the show is pup Rowdy
In his presence the day’s never cloudy
He’s excited to greet
All he meets on the street
And assumes they will want to say Howdy.

All the work is no cause for alarm
Many chores are just part of its charm
To my heart it’s a haven
Gone too long I start cravin’
The return to my home, Four Sticks Farm.

Laughter.

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.