The Return of Somewhere Down the Centerline!

It's been almost two years since I learned the joys of showering in a camper..

Where did time go?!

Anyway, ANNOUNCEMENT::
I will be returning to Clark this summer, teaching riding lessons, and hopefully getting some of my own saddle time again!!

So, stay tuned! You all know from previous experiences that kids + ponies + Girl = ... hilarity.

To remind you of what life with Clark (my lovely camper) was like before, check out some of my favorite moments.. Like the time I hiked through Hell (Pasture) and back or the time I almost had a heart attack in the camper.

Or check out my mom's favorite moments, about how we became horsepeople or why there is a tag for 'times I should have worn a real bra' on this blog. (... Oh yes, there is.)

In other news, my move to college was great! I miss riding and teaching, but I get to do both when I come home. (Which I try to almost every weekend.. I'm that Girl.) I'll be done with my Business and Economics major next spring and will finish my Psychology minor in Fall 2013.

And then I, Girl, will be a grown up. (!?!?!?!?! AHHHHHH.)

Chestnut Thoroughbred mares are less frightening.

More soon,
Girl

While you wait, one of my Littles, Ashton, jumping the Cow... Too cute, right??

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Cantzing and Other Exciting News

1 hour 21 minutes ago, a big day ended.

Now, to horsemen and women of many years, whoop de freaking do. Canter isn't that exciting. For a seven year old.. Totally different story.

"And if you ride really balanced for me today..."
"I get to cantz." She whispered, as if afraid to say it any louder. As if any loud noise might change my mind.
"Canter, and yes."

Cantzing before today has been a mystical, magical thing that the "big people" do. Despite her excitement, she has her reserves.

"On the longe line?"
"Yes."

And with that satisfaction, she goes to buckling her girth.

Later, I hoist her up in the saddle, noting that she's growing. Again. You don't realize how much munchkins grow until you throw them up into a saddle every week. Granted, her legs still don't go past the saddle flaps. I notice this as I adjust her stirrups, feeling slightly queasy.

She's ready, she's ready, she's ready. I breathe out. Am I?

I wonder if this itching fear goes away in time. There's a precarious balance with kids and ponies, and there's a huge responsibility when you have someone else's baby on an 800 pound animal with a mind of his own. Now, I know they're going to fall. That's inevitable. (The first and last time this Little fell, she bounced back up to my arms, clinging monkey style and sobbing.)

Even then, you want each first time to be the best time and to build from solid basics. When you introduce something new, you get a definite feel for how secure that foundation is.

I hope her foundation is unshakeable.

We start doing stretches and no stirrups. Trotting in airplane, hands to the sky, hands on her hips. She trots stirrup-less, no hands. We both swallow our concerns.

And she canters a step, nerves ricocheting in every directions. I think some of them might be mine. "Tell you what? We can play games if you promise me you'll canter at the end of your lesson."
She nods, mouth in a solemn line.

At the end of her lesson, the barn is crowded. Another rider came to play in some of our games; more wandered out to watch. Five or six people, eyes trained for her first real canter. But after an hour of silly games, she and her pony are relaxed and ready.

I clip on the longe line, reminding her about her heels. Fussing with her stirrups.
And she canters and she canters.
Until I say, "Time for free time!"
"Can I canter more?"
"Uh, no? You already cantered."

The whole barn high-fives her as I thank the big Man upstairs for another quiet beginning.

Cantz? Check.

-- Girl

ps, Baby Mama just came today to be bred.. If you didn't know, the baby daddy is Sir Sinclair from Iron Spring Farm. The baby will be born in the H year and will be named Haiku. (That's Baby Mama's name backwards. Horse's name is her mother's name in Old German.) Everybody think pink!

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The Reason Why

Tiny girl, tiny pony,
Round and round they go.
Tiny girl, tiny pony,
Too fast and then too slow.
She says whoa, and he speeds up,
A kick and he slows down.
Keeps going straight when asked to turn.
When coaxed forward, he turns around.
She begs for right, and he turns left;
She pulls left, and he tugs right.
If she gets him on a circle,
He counterbends just in spite.
A plastic bag becomes a ghost,
But whips have no incentive.
He can only stand a fly at most;
Flailing kids ain't so momentous.

And in the middle of the ring,
Holding her breath and feeling heady,
Is a Girl with a whip in hand,
Tilted back and at the ready.
She stares at uplifted heels
And powerful prancing pony,
Slumping shoulders, open fingers,
Bending elbows, still so bony.
And she worries, and she fusses,
Fixing stirrups countless times.
Tries to signal to the pony
To be supple, sweet, and kind.

Tiny girl, tiny pony,
Round and round they go.
Tiny girl, tiny pony,
Too fast and then too slow.
And then one moment cuts in time,
Where they stop and walk and trot,
Sublime.
And in the moment, love is found.
A breath expelled.
A truth, profound.

Thelwell again. Go look him up.

I need to stop procrastinating papers. But until then.. :)
-- Girl

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A Little Bit More About Horse and Girl

I found this nifty little survey on a horse website and, out of sheer boredom, filled it out.
Fill yours out and send us a link! We want to know about you and your Horse.

About You
Name: Girl. My parents were very original, as you can tell.
Age: 18.
Hobbies/Interests: Riding and pretty much anything that improves it.. And writing.
Job: I herd small children onto ponies that may or may not be thrilled about the whole concept. Oh, and I say "heels down!" and "he's got to look around the circle too!" a lot.
Favorite books/magazines: Religious reader of Redbook (classy) and Cosmopolitan (trashy), in addition to a mass amount of horse magazines. Dean Koontz rocks too.
Favorite movies/TV shows: Music & Lyrics, Fox & the Hound, and Bandits for movies. How I Met Your Mother, Glee, 16 & Pregnant and its derivatives (yeah, I know. Shame on me.). TrueBlood sometimes.
Favorite music: Everything and anything not stupid or played to me against my will. (Read that again, Dad. I don't want to hear Son Volt when trapped in the car with you!)

About Your Horse
Name: Horse. Beautiful, yes?
Age: 4.
Sex: She's too young to be- Oh, ahem. Mare.
Breed: Thoroughbred/Dutch Warmblood.
Height: 15.3.
Color: Bay.
How did you get/how do you know the horse?: I got her via the man-in-the-can and our local friendly vet. I've known her since my mother stuck her first ultrasound picture on our fridge.
Barefoot or shod?: Barefoot.
Diet: Currently devouring round bales at rapid rates. Handful of SafeChoice day and night. The lack of grain has no effect. If the pony she lives with wasn't fat also, I'd assume she'd gone carnivore. I thought snow was supposed to help her burn more calories, not balloon to the size of a small whale....
Likes to: Chase small animals. Destroy blankets. Eat.

Your Horse Life
How often do you ride?: Almost never because it keeps snowing and I currently have no indoor. (Dear Future but Currently Non-Existant Husband, I want the indoor instead of a honeymoon+anniversary presents for years and years. Our relationship has a better survival rate if I can ride than if we spend a couple nights on the beach.)
Do you show?: Not currently..
Where do you keep your horse/ride?: Right now, at the lovely Backyard Barn. Complete with chickens and cows, oh my.
Do you volunteer with horses?: No.
Do you have a horse-related job?: Yep.
Do you ride with friends?: Occasionally. I prefer riding alone most of the time though.. Clears my head.
Do you jump?: I haven't in a while, but I have.
Do you trail ride?: Yep.
Are you in 4-H or Pony Club?: I pony clubbed for.. Several years. (No ponies were hurt during the clubbing though. Wow, corny.)

Favorites!
Saddle: Bates. (I'm a saddle snob. Don't get me started on all worthless purpose saddles..)
Bit: Loose ring snaffle.
Helmet: See photos. I've no clue, but I love it and it's cheap.
Boots: Mountain Horse.
Chaps/half-chaps: Barnstable or something like that.
Breeches or jeans: Kerrits.

Have You Ever?
Galloped?: Heck yeah.
Ridden bareback?: Yes.
Jumped bareback?: When my mom wasn't watching.
Ridden double?: When my mom wasn't watching. (See a theme here?)
Ridden a draft horse?: I will if this weather ever clears up.
Ridden a pony?: Ponies gave me the patience to deal with Thoroughbreds...
Sat on a horse backwards?: I've ridden backwards. When my mom was watching. (Good parenting call, Mom...) However, she wasn't watching when my friend's pony started spinning. My friend couldn't figure out how to do an emergency dismount backwards, which led to the most hilarious, slow-motion fall I have ever seen. We both about died laughing, and then Mom banned riding backwards. (When she's watching, at least..)
Gotten a 1st place at a show?: Yes.
Seen a foal being born?: Horse. :D
Ridden without stirrups?: Without stirrups makes me happy. Masochistic, I know.
Had a longe lesson?: Lots.
Been yelled at by an instructor?: Yes. Not fun.
Spent the night at the barn?: I lived at a barn, hello..
Spent an entire day at the barn?: Lived at barn, so yes.
Longed a horse?: For more hours than you could ever imagine. Longing's like doing math. Or pulling teeth.
Fallen off?: I don't fall off. (hahahaha. right) I either a) get ejected against my will or b) do a very ungraceful dismount by my will.. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
Ridden a horse that bucked/reared/bolted?: There are horses that don't???
Ridden a horse that spooked?: See above.
Been seriously injured in a riding accident, or seen someone injured?: See above.

Even MORE Have You Evers...
Made your own jumps, treats, or other horse-related item?: My parents are engineers (mining and geological. Rocks, yipee! ...not.), and both seem to think this makes them modern-day MacGyvers. I'm serious. My mother uses hay string to fix almost everything, and my father has enough measuring devices to get from here to the sun. Needless to say, I might puke if I have to "may-sure" anything else, but we do have an awesome barn interior and jump standards. (As for the "may-sure" thing, my dad pronounces things funny just to irk my proper English self.. my correct grammar.. self. Eh, you get it.)
Ridden in a body of water?: Plus side of living near a creek.. All the time.
Blanketed a horse?: Unfortunately yes. (Damn you, Snow.)
Bathed a horse?: Yes.
Cleaned a horse's sheath?: This will probably be the only one but NO.
Pulled or braided a mane?: Ugh, yes.
Been on a carriage ride?: Yes.
Been on a tourist trail ride?: Yes.
Ridden at night?: Yes.. That ended well. (sarcasm. I ended up breaking my elbow.. More on that later..)
Been kicked?: Permanent bruises.
Been bitten?: See above.
Been stepped on?: SEE ABOVE. Seriously, my horses are abusive..
Made your dog jump fences or in some other way act like a horse?: ....Yes.
Mucked a stall?: *Stalls, you mean. And waay too many.
Been to a clinic?: Yeah.
Helped train a horse?: I've trained a horse. I never said well, but I trained one.
Ridden with a crop or spurs?: I grew up riding Cow. What do you think?
Been to horse camp?: Yes.
Ridden with gum, an iPod, etc.?: ... Yes...
Ridden without a helmet?: Barely. I HATE it.
Worked toward and achieved a riding goal?: Yes.
Kept a riding/lesson/show journal?: Dear Lord, yes.
Critiqued your riding videos?: All the time.
Collected model horses?: If by collect you mean: Buy them, play rough with them, and now use the ones with remaining legs to teach pony colors.. Then yes.
Cleaned tack?: I don't want to think of how much saddle soap I've probably eaten over the years....
Moved hay bales?: 200 in a hour or hour and a half. The Boss and I are BEASTS. (But very, very, very pretty Beasts, eligible bachelors.....)

story of my life..

thelwell rocks, go look him up!

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Snapshot of my Life.

"And this is the..?"
"Cantle."

"And this is the..?"
"Pommel."

"And in between...?"
"The twist."

"And this is the...?"
"Skirt."

"And under the skirt?"
"The panties!"

"... Not exactly."


Maybe I should start teaching saddle parts more often.

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Things That Sag and Other Rider Woes

Has it been a whole week? Wow..
How about we talk about something really important?

It takes a village to raise a child, and to raise a young horsewoman, it takes support. LOTS of support. It takes a trainer with passion to nurture and grow; it takes a mom and dad who are willing to sacrifice certain sanity and wealth. It takes a reliable equine partner (to make it.. to learn, all you need is something with four legs that isn't a total idiot.). It takes someone with determination.

And that's all the support you need.
Well, until about sixth grade.

Unfortunately, I was reminded of this fact just this past weekend. I had driven to a larger city with some friends on Friday for a concert. I had two choices: a black v-neck tee or a flowy pink halter top. Normally, I'd be all about a v-neck (especially black. Covers dirt and grime SO much easier), but I'd worn my paddock boots to college not one, not two, but three days in a row.

My paddock boots are not shiny, brand new, trendy footwear.
They are not the same as these:


They are not even like these:

(though, seriously. Who put the pumps on paddock boots, for crying out loud.)

My paddock boots have been rained on, stepped on, sweated in. They've been muddy, dusty, soggy, squishy, and just plain old gross. Needless to say, I don't have any cute guys in my classes. Or maybe they've just been repelled by the boots.

Granted, I was feeling a bit guilty about wearing them THREE days in a row.

So, at the end of the paddock-boot-fashion-fiasco week, I decided I needed to inject a little "girl" in my life. Meaning, halter top. Meaning.. What the hell does one wear under a halter top? I have no halter bras, slingshots, boulder holders.. Whatever you want to call them.

The bras I do have are a bit like a Southern Baptist preacher. They're old, holy, and not too keen on supporting this new-fangled rock 'n roll stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love them (and Southern Baptist preachers), but they just weren't going to cut it this time.

Entering at A, the stick-on bra.

I bought one, stuck it on, and had a blast at the concert, knowing my sparkly pink contraptions from 8th grade were back in Somewheresville. (awaiting my return and most certain slump back into t-shirts and riding tights, I'm sure.)

However, Saturday morning rolled in fast, and my stick-on bra and I began the drive home. Due to a forgetful friend, we ended up thirty minutes late. I was booking it to get back home in time to teach Little lessons. With no time to spare, I rolled up to the barn, stick-on bra and all, and got to teaching.

Teaching Littles is a physical activity. You're up moving around, demonstrating, making them smile. It's part of the job description. (The best part, after watching them learn.) I get PAID for helping little girls have fun and learn about how awesome horses are. I get PAID for making each ride fun and silly and educational. Isn't that crazy awesome?

My job rocks.

I do a lot of moving in my lessons. There are jumps to be set up; there are stirrups to adjust. There are silly games and stretches we do. And midway through my first lesson, I realized I was moving maybe a little more than usual..
My stick-on bra and I had met the first bump in our relationship.

I resort to not jogging anywhere in the arena or doing any of our wiggle exercises. We made it through the lesson fine. With just one more lesson to go, I figured we could stick through it. (Corny pun totally intended.)

Unfortunately, my lesson mare was/is/will always be a complete COW. Little squeezes; Cow stands there. Little kicks; Cow stands there. Little turns a pitiful face to me; Cow makes a bold attempt towards the gate.

"Okay, Cow." I said through gritted teeth, knowing full well Cow is perfectly capable of being wonderful. "We'll start on the lunge line to get you going forward."

Cow glared at me but was perfectly compliant on the lunge line. We played Simon Says, using stretches and transitions and other tools Littles need in their toolbox. Cow trotted around while the seven year old did no stirrups. She walked when asked to, stopped when asked to, went on when asked to. Perfectly wonderful.

I took the lunge line off. "Okay, let's start with diagonals! Which one are you gonna do first?"

"KXM." She replied matter-of-factly and, with a determined scrunch of her face, aimed Cow's nose in the right direction. She nudged her. Nothing. Kicked her. Nothing. Cow stood there as if her hooves had filled with lead. Really, one would think she had died if not for the look of determination in her eyes.

I stared her down, trying to telepath the image of dog food to her. Elmer's glue. I think she got it, but if anything, it only seemed to underline her decision. There was no way on God's green earth she was moving.

"Okay, kid.. Hop off." The Little looked dismayed. "It's okay.. I'm just going to get on and remind her of her job." I pulled on my helmet and took the reins of the old bag, who balked once she realized we were not headed for the gate.

You must be kidding. Her ears flicked back, and her face got the same cranky look my Italian grandma gets when you tell her not to tear the leaves off the cabbage at the grocery store.

No, I'm really not. Move it, fatty.

I stepped in the stirrup and swung up.. And realized with horror that my feminine curves were not locked and loaded. No, no. Instead, I was "free". Sorry, 1960s feminists. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

It's okay, I thought. Indian women rode. Lady Godiva rode. Both of them did it with ease and grace, or so I convinced myself. They'd probably be proud to have my modern (albeit fly-trap-esque) brassiere.

I was fine at the walk. Even the beginning of sitting trot wasn't the worst thing I've encountered. It was the fifth or sixth step in when I swear I saw the image of a girl dragging along her saggy buxom. Someone in the background said, "If only she'd supported and not tried to do sitting trot with them.... Such a shame. They were far too young."

Lucky for me, Cow decided Littles were more fun than me very fast.

I slid off, landing gently to reduce potential future saggage. Ten minutes of riding, and I was already terrified my feet weren't going to be the first things that hit the ground. At that moment, it occurred to me that riding Indian warriors were male and that Lady Godiva only went for a walk down the street.

The minute I got home, I pulled on a holy sports bra and a t-shirt.

It takes a lot of support to raise a horsewoman.

-- Girl

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The Masochist was Too Nice, So The Sadist Tried Dressage Instead.

"What do you want to work on?" I eyed her as I walked into the arena. She was sitting up but not supporting herself one lick, and her reins were a mile long. Her mare had a neck stretcher on.

"Jumping." She said absentmindedly. "Or maybe something else. I don't really know. I should probably work on Dressage." She walked a circle, and I watched with the same expression one finds in a horror film. Basic geometry massacred. Oh Lord. "Maybe something I don't usually do."

"Just ride for a few minutes and let me watch." Well, she did, and I did. Finally, I stopped her.

"What are your goals?" She wanted to show, to do a baby event, other reasonable things. As she talked, I unrigged the neck stretcher. "You realize what has to go if you want to show?" She pointed to the neck stretcher as I tossed it out of the ring. "Precisely."

Then off came the stirrups. And on came the lunge line. I could tell she was a bit off-put. Here she was, a worldly pre-teen undoubtly talented in the saddle, on the same line that the seven year old was on early. "Today, we are going to work on balance and using your seat to influence your horse."

Stare.

Forty minutes of no-stirrup Dressage work is good for the cocky pre-teen soul, and after hours of teaching my littles, I was frothing at the bit to get into some Dressage theory. We discussed being counterbent, balance, and sitting trot. The dynamics of the Dressage seat and how it applies to jumping. The elusive outside rein.

I was having a blast. Being a bit of a sadist (a must for working with young horses and children), I recognized her grimace as a sign of a lesson well taught. Of course, there were other signs too - improved balance, posture, movement - but let's face it. No pain, no gain. Somewhere between discussing stepping into the outside rein and core strength, I realized..

Oh, God.. Not possible.. I could not have..

But it's true, friends. I have become a Dressage nazi.

The sight of a counterbent horse makes my insides twist, and I fantasize about putting pins on the backs of saddles because cantles were not put there to sit on(my littles will tell you, giggling, "We don't sit back there because we pretend we'll get poked in the bottom and that's no fun.").

Circles are the essences of life, and dear God, make them round or I might have a coronary. The littles will also tell you the inside leg and outside rein say where to go and the inside rein says where to look. You know you've got a problem when you catch yourself teaching that to seven year olds.

At the end, she walked her mare out, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Maybe I need to start working more than just riding around if I want to show."

Epiphany. Shocking. "Maybe." I hesitated. "So did you have fun?"

"I'm sore." Not surprising, I'm sore always. I do not consider this a bad thing. "But I feel like I learned something new."

And that's the name of the game.

-- Girl
(note, obviously not written about my working student job.. jumping out of chronological order for post.)

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