Like Tides

 They may shake their heads, some people of more conventional thought, when you say "my Life is like tides."  They will not understand.

I will say my Life is like tides, with no more dramatic example than the last week, of the near-unnatural ebb and flow of circumstances. One moment I was frozen, a near year's worth of hoping, working, and attempting to manifest something gone in a flash. Next thing I know, I couldn't have more to do and yes, indeed, I am grateful for the workings of it.

To catch you up, the past tale involved waiting on a farm with baited breath: there was a job, a farm, a wedding planned neatly together...but that did not happen. But there was also this rather unusual project floating about in my head, the type some would shake their heads at as pure poppycock. I have this crazy animal/art/adventure proclivity, you see, and it's gotten me into trouble before. Because I've spent a good part of life creating reality out of dreams as a performing artist, I know near-impossible things are possible. Or, I'd like to hope so. And so it is that I decided to truly chase--or make my craziest attempt at it--the Beyond Vagabond Project. And so, off it went!

 And truly, I couldn't have guessed how quickly the mossy stone would roll into action once I announced--and took heart in--the idea of doing this uncommon journey: it's been quite a steeple chase. I could not roll any faster past hedgerows and hills, trying to catch up to myself.

To reiterate: this project involves the process of one city person conquering the logistics of working with a horse drawn wagon adventure. This involves a huge background skill set and a deep respect for horses.  To that end please note:

This adventure may or may not go forward with horses. It has been suggested that I might be able to do this part-way with horses, and another with a wagon/gypsy wagon (vardo) being towed by truck. Which I would indeed consider, to keep the animal in question safe. The safety of the animal is my utmost concern.

However, I would like this idea to continue. To that end, I am hoping to work "smarter," in this way.

Because I have a huge and varied "bag of tricks" (so to speak), the gist of this trek is:

•  To go across some part of the Americas via wagon. In each place I stop I hope to find lodging amongst friends 
•   Film some sort of old fashioned folklore of the place, interesting people, someone reviving an old-fashioned skill, etc 

• Teach classes...I am fully aware that I will need to continue funding this project (and be able to pay for a cup of joe, should I need!) as the project continues, and I am to be a self sufficient as possible. However...

This project WILL need some help from friends and friends-to-be....

• Right now, Kira, my dance/photography friend, has me coming back down to Florida, possibly, to participate in a historic mule expedition from that state to Alabama. Hundreds of mule teams are participating and we are invited if only to see what it is like to work wagons going for quite some distance. This is happening March 3rd, so quite soon I may or may not be amongst a mad caravan of beasts and men and dazzling them with my wit and weird hair!

• There are other points: we have a camera.
  We have some sort of modern transport.
  I have yet to find a horse--and that's more a question of logistics than not having a few pennies squirreled away.
  I have get to figure out a wagon situation as well, though Kira has an idea about one in Florida. Several other friends have tracked down folks who have apparently undertaken some sort of long distance drive with a horse.

In the interim, I would be buoyed by any additional help or advice!  So, I have redecorated this little cobweb-y site somewhat. You can now find information about the project above, and various ways you can help. I am possibly the most hopeful about hosting classes and paying my way, so please browse the top tabs for how you can host, how you can take classes, and the class listings.

Other ways you can help are simple...perhaps word of mouth. I will also have items for sale here soon. Or perhaps you don't mind donating via the donate button here, with many thanks involved.

I would also very much like to hear any advice from horse people, people interested in the project, and more. What can I or should I be doing? How would you make this project better? What are your thoughts?

Many thanks, friends, and more details soon!

All Who Wander Are Not Lost...

 Every year, for some time now, I'd buy a daily planner, and scrawl these words at the top: I'd Start A Revolution, If I Could Get Up In The Morning.

To me, it simply means that you can (and maybe should) attack life, while you have time, though ironically, the phrase is based on Aimee Allen's song of the same name, which implies lost opportunities through living a life of excess.

My life is too precious for that sort of time-frittering (or maybe I'm just so old that I've now reached "uncool" status) . And yet, for the past six months, here it was: the waiting game....one that still has no resolution. I am no good at this sort of limbo...the wandering aimlessness, lost in purpose.

So, much of last year was then spent divesting into other adventures. And that, my friends, was the silver lining. In the between small fits of worry, I traveled across the country, met new people, taught people to cook, dance, and keep bees, enveloped myself into the world of art, learned about horses, learned about myself. Each experience was bone crushing in its beauty and meaningfulness. It was a whirlwind of goodness.

But the fact still remained--I was rootless. And there were no immediate answers to the situation the Sweetheart and I found ourselves in. It's hard to attack life when you have nothing solid to aim at....as you know, from my last post.

That post! What a shocking and kind outpouring of comments! I still shake my head in disbelief that people think this is a good place to stop and READ. Who bothers to take the time to offer sage advice, when all the world might be sent to bits, in this day and age? You have no idea what each little word meant, each piece of advice and thought. And that got me to thinking...

I realize, now, that I'm sort of living a double life. On the one hand, I was waiting for some other element to help me along in creating the sort of life I wanted. On the other, I was already creating these projects, anyway. Here I was, traversing states, teaching, and reveling in the magic, a horseless gypsy traveling project, subconsciously doing the very thing I was dreaming of.

I forgot I knew how to do these things. The training for this was etched into my bones already, and I have to laugh, as the whole idea reminds me of the ancient Chinese story of the maiden, sold from one owner to another as a slave, picking up a new skill at each household--sewing, crafting with wood, map-making--until she is able to create her own sailboat and sail back to her family.  So a woman with a background working with animals, events planning, advertising, farming, and with interviewing skills can take a horse expedition idea and do something similar, right?

So I am done waiting, a treacherous thing to do to one with a fidgety predilection. My sluggish teenage self would be mortified at my caged twitching now. Give me a project, a challenging project or two, and I'm home free. Life is short and precious; I marvel at people who even dare to be bored.

And to that end, here is what  I plan to do:
The Beyond Vagabond Project is still happening.

Please understand, I am not saying this idly. This IS an OFFICIAL announcement.

There has been much legwork behind the scenes; I am hoping to do this thing, finally, this year. However, a project of this size will need help, so I am asking for your HELP, Friends. Any and all good fellowship is humbly appreciated!

Right now, here is the idea: I am looking to journey across SOME part of the country. Whether this involves horses fully or not will depend on circumstances; I think it might be unduly harsh to have an equine move clear across this big country, at least not without the aid of a horse trailer for transport, at some point. I am still working out the journey route.

The journey will be FILMED, if only for some sort of posterity, but I'd also LOVE to interview the various wonderful people I meet. Since I love the old fashioned life, I might just interview farmers, people with old fashioned skills? But I don't know, I'm open to documenting really authentic people across the country, as well.

At the same time, to offset costs, I will also be offering a host of "gypsy" (I need a better name for this) classes--this simply means, a big menagerie of all of the odds and ends of various skills that I've learned across the span of my three-ring life. 

These include:
Organic Beekeeping
Eastern Dance/Flamenco/Indian Dance
Woodworking and Wood Burning
Doll Making/Old Wood Painting/Painting/Art Quilts/Jewelry making
Cooking classes (I make great exotic foods, and a mean strawberry pie)
Farm Advocacy
And any sort of speaking....
I'll add more as I think of them.....

If anyone is interested in HOSTING these sorts of classes, or attending any of them, please let me know.

If you are an artist who wants to perhaps team up to create a workshop type situation, I would love to team up with you! Please let me know!

I also might be selling some bits and pieces of art, jars of honey, and more. An old style peddling cart of sorts, which should be interesting....


In the meantime, stay tuned for the next post, with more updates!

In the interim... any kind word, advice, recommendations, thoughts...and perhaps a word or two about this little project to others you might know? I would be deeply grateful.

Also, if you wish, you can follow these adventures more fully on Facebook via the little badges on the left. I think it might be easier to perhaps update daily, there, especially what might prove to be the logistics of scheduling, state by state, the classes and journeys.

And I thank you very much for your support!

Holding On With Both Hands

 Guinea feathers from Marcy Grant's farm. Magnolia seed pods from a forest nearby her property

 There is a saying amongst the ancestors in my family: "To see the soul of an animal, look into it's eyes. To see the soul of a man, look into his eyes.... and his hands."

This, my friends, has proven to be true. You will see what people not only through  their hands (the Gypsies knew the story of human lives in reading the lines of the palms of their hands), but what they have done with them.

My own hands are well worn and practical. There is nothing particularly lovely or well manicured about them. Their lines will speak to you about mundane things, such as household chores. There is a scratch, a nick: the dangerous work animals I've done in the past. There are grooves on the edges of some fingers: where a never ending serious of drawing pencils and paintbrushes have perched, creating art. For all of this, my hands are small and, lately, their work feels inconsequential....

It's hard to know what to write in this space, this public spot where, similarly, so many people write about their lives.  This world, this little blogging realm, is a modern phenomenon: so many people put so many interested, enchanting, enlightening posts up into the electronic atmosphere...a dizzying array of words about existences. Starting THIS blog,  about a whole new adventure that might be the craziest and most unknown thing in my life, I wanted to stay honest, and at times, that means bursting a certain bubble of perception about myself, or this funny life I'm living.

Right now, I am trying to hold onto everything I have with both hands. While the world looks dreamy up front (and it is!), the business of being an artist is not easy.  You may snicker at this, but there it is, the constant haggling to keep something most people consider at least a lifestyle choice (true enough) and at most, a convenient excuse to ditch working, paying bills, and other doldrums some people would rather skip out on, themselves.

I want to simply say: it's a fun time, truly, but I am no different than you. I have HAD a job or rather, various "regular" jobs for over 10 years, working with animals. But these weren't easy jobs, and what eventually, fully, drove me away was the realization--then--of what's come to pass now.

See, it's easy to look at an artist and say: "why would I live my life with uncertainty?" To be an artist might be foolish, best get oneself a practical degree and then a secure job. Friends, at least in this country, ALL JOBS--with a few exceptions (politics, anyone?), are rarely secured anymore. I've known folks with Master's Degrees, Ph.D's even, who are out of work. I've seen folks tenured for thirty or forty years suddenly booted out of a job because a previously successful business has suddenly gotten the trap door sprung from underneath it. The truth of the matter is that security, truly, lies in the heart of each person; the knowledge that in any storm, there is within oneself the ability to find footing somewhere.

I would need this more than ever.

All around me, I see people groan and grumble under their breath as loyalties to the companies crumble. As they lose jobs (jobs they barely liked, mind you, but which "paid benefits"), assurances AND insurances, family benefits, hours, or any number of things--I, meanwhile, would change my full-time job to part time status
And eventually leave the madness of  office life altogether. This was no attempt to ditch responsibilities; I should hardly think that one would rest on their laurels while creating and running a freelance animal care business, LEADING a dance troupe, LEADING a Farm writing group, running a little art business, and more.

Slowly, surely, my involvement with the handmade, creative life would wend  me towards the ideas of laying roots but, of course, this being me, I was not content with the archetypal picket fence suburb-ed life, no siree. My active personality wanted more than convenience shopping (which never is convenient, mind you), and the normal four walls.

There was no doubt that I wanted a farm...I've wanted one now for how long, I don't know. I wanted to use muscle and mind to create my life. I was tired of the pricey food, the expensive and cheaply made items I was forced to buy in the city, and the grind of urban life. It was too much, too fast, very impersonal.

For a long time, I'd searched for jobs around the countryside. There were silly little plans with what to do with this phantom of future property, the least of which was to stretch the bones; the urban life will crush you into it's own particular mental and physical submission, at times. Even the idea of putting up a hammock, outside, was something I'd throw a parade about.  I wanted to learn how to grow  and preserve food or, heck, at least plant this cache of seeds I'd been saving for the last year or so. Maybe it's mad to be curious to recreate the life your grandmother had, but I had a hankering for just that.  I wanted to ride a horse, and card wool and get ridiculously dirty and not care. Stupid little dreams...and yet, as unreachable as if I asked to become the queen of a country.

Finally, last year, it looked like our little crooked path had straightened. Perhaps it was a mixture of hoping, manifesting, networking, and general good fellowship, but I was meeting new people, going to other parts of the country I could not have wildly imagined, and exchanged kindnesses with souls along the way.  There were prospective jobs and an actual, possible, farm to live on. This would change our situation in the city, which was deteriorating as our client bases were drying up, as are much of the jobs in the city now.

I had big ideas for this farm, as well as the horse drawn wagon tour.....

But now... now that seems uncertain. While I won't go into the details, it would seem that our previous plans will probably not come to pass. To be fair, there is no finger-pointing about the situation: there is no one to blame and at best, I can only say that the shape of the events were tossed about by the fates and the economics of the time.

This news, of course, came right when I got back to the city. After a month of being away, of being fully able to meet even more wonderful people, work with animals, and get so many projects done, I returned to a sterile, stifling place. There are no vast expanses here, no eager or knowledgeable friends wishing me onward with my crazy projects. There are obviously no horses with which to train--and with dwindling job prospects and no new projects to learn or do, there's a feeling of..well...community discord,stagnation and...uselessness.

So, the best laid plans are on the lurch. I am trying to stay focused on other ideas to get us better footing but--honest to goodness--I've no idea right now what that is. I have some ideas, but my bigger worry lies not in failure--but in the uncertainty of it. I don't mind the wolf at the door, but I dread staring out into the darkness, not knowing if there is a fact a wolf  nearby, an even darker and more danger beast, or if my mind is working overtime creating a monster that doesn't even exist. This should be a cake walk: I KNOW this isn't as bad as it could be, and I am humbled--besides, in my life, I've literally and figuratively tackled large unruly animals, even more violently unruly people, and any plethora of obscene scenarios. But uncertainty? That will sink me as if I were thrown into the rapids wearing cement shoes.

There are either now very few options, or too many options, moving forward. Right now, farms, jobs, wedding plans...all seem to be so far away. All these hands want to do is hammer a life out of  jagged rock, but they now seem tied. What the next step is seems continually, perpetually, a mystery. I have a few ideas of regrouping, but I feel like I'm in a never ending magic trick: I reveal the prestige of making a wall disappear to expose...yet another wall!

So what do you do with a beekeeper/artist/organizer/writer/dancer/somewhat-horse driving expert with no foothold anywhere to speak of?

Dancing Queen...

By Day: Mild Mannered Farmy type. By Night: Mistress of the Dance...

Lest you start thinking that this place is nothing more than a den for fledgling animal activism ("call my father!"), I'm here to tell you that, no, that alone would not classify one into the category of vagabond-ism (which is slightly less crazy than James Bond-ism, but that's another tale for another time) for which this blog was named....

No, my Friends--life around here is one topsy-turvy stew of many types of adventures, a veritable circus of near-useless--but very fun-- talent (which some would call art) of all sorts. This type of multi-talent would be quite handy, especially during my holiday break, while I was training with horses big and small.

Somewhere in the midst of all of the equine cornucopia, there would be dance. Yes, you are reading that true: I would be dancing...actually, teaching dance, on my vacation. How did I manage to swing that, you might ask? Pull up a chair and grab yourself a tea, for I shall tell you...

Oddly, I wasn't a dancer to begin with, I was too busy drawing or acting or doing all sorts of creative things.Just not dancing. I was not one of those spindly-toed lassies, not a baby ballerina, nor a prodigy of movement in my teens....I never had a dance lesson to my name in my youth. After I had finished University in the big city--with the big, fancy Film and Television degree, my father became sick (or rather, sicker, as he was always sickly),  and so I decided to go home and help my parents for a few months.

Well, a few months became FOUR years. And so what's a girl to do? If you're like me, you plunge headlong into ANY type of creative job you can find. Apparently, in a small town, a big fancy degree will get you places....even if that degree has NOTHING to do with the jobs you are applying for. Thus it was that I became a RADIO DJ and a newspaper reporter. Granted, the newspaper thing was temporary, but still--it would be the start of, apparently, a whole lotta scribbling I would be doing in the future.

But neither here nor there...

One of my first assignments at the local paper was to cover a human interest story. Huh?  This was a small, beach-side town whose claim to fame was its ridiculous Spring Break destination for young people....and I frankly wanted to stay away from that kind of trouble. I knew there was a small arts scene...but, it had been covered extensively in local print and T.V. Finally, one of my friends mentioned this: there was a local ethnic dance troupe in the area. They taught all manners of Eastern dance, and maybe even gypsy dance.

I was intrigued. I got the phone number of the local teacher, and a date was set to interview her. We met. Immediately, I was impressed with her. She was not an exotic beauty, but a beauty of another sort: she was an "older lady" (I say this because the automatic assumption is that the only "legitimate" types of dancers are young, good looking girls), well kept--I dare say she was impossibly good looking for her age, and extremely funny.

I talked with her for a good hour. It was clear she was passionate about what she did, passionate about teaching this little class each week. She also knew well the history of the dance, and proceeded to pull out brochures and write ups about the dance form, along with all sorts of sparkly scarves and costume items. She then asked me to come to a first class, to "experience the dance firsthand," and I did. I was hooked...but...

..it was all a bit overwhelming. Not because this was new information. Exactly because it wasn't new. See, to some degree, my people came from this background. The Roma (gypsies) had influenced the European aspects and Eastern aspects of both my parents homelands. I grew up typically around it: we knew the music, but we didn't dance.

Why? Because, true to those cultures, dancing was taboo. Dancing was to be around people of the same sex, if at all. You didn't dare dance publicly (on-stage was out of the question), and you were considered nothing short of possessed to declare dance as a career.

Even now, traveling to many upland regions along the Baltics and into North Africa, there are clear insinuations that if a woman is a dancer, even should she be successful, it was because she HAD to be one; she must have been too poor to be able to properly educate herself or marry into some sort of money/security or--far worse--that she was seeking attention, even sexual attention, and that was her motive to do such scandalous thing. Heaven forbid if she was just inspired to do it.

In this country, too, there are remnant notions about these same ideas. I mean, when was the last time you looked at a dancer--even a Baryshnikov type--and thought: "wow, he's smart." Indeed, because a dancer uses his body, that's what most people see...a strong, agile, even sexy creature. Since most non-dancers don't have the time or access to ply those in dance with actual discussions, they'll never know that person's personality or intelligence level; they are left to deal with the image of dance, and nothing more.

Even now, I've sort of had to wrestle with this, even wondering if I should post about this at all because..well, people look at you funny, think of you differently, when you tell them such things. As I've mentioned before, people have a way of already loophole-ing me because of my interesting "look,"  and life. But mention I'm a dancer? Indeed, it's always fun watching as people's eyes suddenly glaze over after I've offered that bit of information up, as if all of the intelligent things I've just said is now null and void.

Worse still are the strange "admirers" who I, and my female troupe, always seemed to need to placate, even though we were doing serious work. Since the sorts of dance we did were historically done by WOMEN, we created a theatrical dance troupe that modernized the form, and we were doing serious womens issues through the dance. That wouldn't stop a gaggle of men who thought we should be giggly Marilyn Monroe types in front of them.

Ahh, I can go on and on about the many woes of dance life, but suffice it to say, I slowly, eventually would leave that scene after about a decade of seriously working with it. I loved my time there..but let's just say that teaching is probably about as far as I would go, at the moment. I will always love the art of dance...the business of dance...ahh, that's another story.

And speaking of teaching...here are a few fun photos. My friend Kira--the ever multi-talented videographer of some of my horse adventures, is also a dance friend (yes, apparently she also is a many-faceted vagabond type!) and took some photos of the dance class:

Pre-class hijinx (yes, that is me at the front, left side)...

More serious class teachings...

In case you are interested in gypsy history or music, I highly recommend checking out "Latcho Drom" on Youtube. It is a beautiful film about the journey of gypsy music as it goes around the world. It starts in India (yes, the Roma are of ancient Indian descent), and moves along through North Africa and then Europe. You will see different montages of singing, music, and dancing in this film...which I found fascinating. 

Here is the opening, which starts with the desert Gypsies of India (Rajastan and the Thaar Desert):

Words For Friends: Katherine Dunn

Art logo by Katherine Dunn, used by permission of the artist

 So I've been thinking: this year I wanted to reach out a bit more, give a bit more, and do a bit more. There are so many compelling people, and stories-- and interesting people trying to do good and create delight, so why not try to help, or at least highlight them here?

I'm not sure how, or if, this humble idea will work in the long run, but you can only start at the beginning, right?  I'm not sure what to call this sort of thing: Words For Friends? Let's just use that for now, and see where it goes...

So here it is, today's post features a fellow Dreamer, and a braver soul than I; she is, in fact, someone I want to be when I grow up. No, seriously: Katherine Dunn is one of the few people who has gotten me into the predicament I'm in. Because a few years ago, I stumbled onto her amazing blog, and what I found had affirmed all of the notions I was told was too crazy. She is an ARTIST, A FARMER, and A WRITER. All of the very things I had hoped to combine, but was told that it was useless trying to pursue ANY of them, much less try to juggle ALL THREE.

But here was a woman doing it. Spectacularly. Confidently. Even heart-breakingly. Each word told a real story, a poetic her-story, but there it was, warts and all. I can't fully speak for Katherine, of course, but her art is magical, of an otherworldly quality, but also quite still and simple, as are her words. There is something frank, lovable, and stark about her whole life, and I think she has been very candid about her love of nature and her animals, and her respect for life and death.

I get the feeling her life is as lucid and as complicated as yours or mine. Her worries about being an artist, being taken seriously, being able to make money, being able to negotiate the lives of her animals only made me want to do the same thing even more. 

You can find her art, words, and photography almost daily  HERE
And you can view more of her art HERE

 She is an accomplished artist and writer, and what I find particularly endearing is that she is a rescuer of animals, particularly those that are elderly and sick, the kind that would be easily overlooked. She takes in senior barnyard animals, campaigns for animal rescues that care for older, or abandoned animals. She has a particular affection for donkeys, it's true, but it doesn't end there. She has made it a mission to host a Pie Day on her farm, annually, to help animals and senior humans, and in general, she makes it her business to care for creatures of all shapes and sizes, and document these adventures in her own unique way.

Currently, Katherine is trying to create and publish a book about these animals she has come to know, and this life on her farm, called Misfits of Love. Publishing a book is downright difficult (I can say this to some degree, as I have friends in publishing and--oh, my stars--is it ever a crazy thing to do, getting a book published), so Katherine could use your help.

She currently has a Kickstarter campaign, to try to fund the publishing of what promises to be an enchanting book...

If you are interested in the project, or would like to help a fellow farmer and dreamer get to her goals, HERE IS THE LINK.
You can peruse the site and learn more about the project itself, or view the video.....





In any case, if you'd like to make a donation, there are about 9 days of the Kickstarter campaign still left to go. It is a small, but kind gesture on one artist's hope to bring the interesting and impactful stories of animals to light. Or, perhaps, you can pass along this info so that others might know of it, too...


If nothing else, you can also visit her site and say "hello." Just tell her "Zan sent me!"

They Shoot Horses, Don't They

Soldier and horse during the Civil War. From ancient times, the horse was placed into battle.

If you've been reading this far, you'll know that I was knee deep in horse training over the holidays and, since one illustrious film about horses happened to be opening at that very same time, it would be inevitable that I would have to and see it.

This is a story about War Horses. I should probably preface this by saying that I am not a horse person. I was not raised around horses since I was knee high. I didn't show them, or win ribbons with them, nor did I understand those girls my age who dreamed about doing such things. In fact, I knew no such little girls, and was so far away from that life that I didn't know to be envious of the privileged lives they lead. Indeed, horses have become a thing of luxury.

You, most likely, are not a horse person.  In fact, many people have never been on, or around horses in their lifetimes. The ever progressing world has made true horse power a thing of rarity, replaced by its wheeled successors. We are not horse people. But we should be.

I've written on this before, this idea of the Ode to the Horse. Because of my freakish curiosity about history and animals, I'd long known that, if you went back far enough, the horse--like farming--was part of everyone's family. So, no matter how "far" you think you've gotten, at one time, everyone and I mean, EVERYONE, owed something to the horse (and farmers, too).Without cars, horses pulled, carried, delivered, and saved countless things, and people.

I come from a long line of people who respected the horse from afar; those animals were first on the list of noble creatures, with a grand lot of lore and superstition surrounding them. My grandfather, perhaps best prepped for a horse lifestyle in the countryside of Europe, and whose main job was threshing on OTHER people's farms, did not work the beasts, and I remember a story in which he said the horses "were too good for the drudgery work of machines."

For a long time, because of my curiosity for all things old, I knew something of the history of the horses of WWI, and while I won't give away the story in the film, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out:  folks, this is about war, and Mr. Spielberg, the director, has done a fine job of showing the brutality of the event on both men and beasts.

However,  because of that dogged history fever of mine, I had to research it more myself. What I found was that war, itself was far more horrific than even the film portrayed.

People, that war eventually used 10 MILLION horses and mules from all sides involved in the war, with some estimates being that less than half returned. The example that floored me was Australia's record: that country sent roughly 120,000 horses towards the war effort. Only ONE returned home.  In most cases, the pitiful beasts died of gunfire, disease and sheer exhaustion from pulling and carrying artillery and tanks for untold hours, on little food and rest.

If you're hot under the collar reading that, then this should raise your temperature as well: the number of dead animals are not ONLY due to war losses--those that survived the war were often then taken to SLAUGHTER in France and Italy; most horses were long missed from being identified by their rightful owners, and usually auctioned or sent off to the butcher. This, a fine way to treat animal heroes.

I could go on and on about so many parts of this story that are heartbreaking, and angering (and if you're shaking your head about my reaction to this, perhaps you should "call my father."), not the least of which is how this sort of history is so easily forgotten (but then, what am I talking about? The actual WWI monument was the last approved monument at Washington's Great Lawn, finally created long after most of it's veterans died).

Mostly, I just want to close my eyes and ears to the whole thing. I have NO IDEA why people treat animals this way (and for the record, millions of homing pigeons and dogs were also used during that conflict), and continue to do so. I have heard every story in the book as to why people can, and even should, discard animals....with horses it seems particularly so, as they have become nothing but pasture ornaments; indeed, the end of the Great War would signal the end of the Golden Age for horses--cars and automechanation would soon make them obsolete. You would never find as many horses as in the Edwardian Age, which preceded WWI.

I occurs to me, too, that most horses you will ever see are descendants, in some way, of those original battle equestrians of the First World War. Every horse is a war horse. They are made to do, and are in fact valued, when they do what we ask them to do, even if we force them into something so odious as war, a human thing no animal knows or should know.

And even now, when these animal lose their value, things like horse slaughter (yes, it exists and has now been reintroduced into the country), are perceived as necessary, or good. I have heard people tell me that they'd rather take their precious pet horse to slaughter, than have to pay the very expensive price to humanely euthanize it.

Oh horse people, how I envy you! How I envy your giant steeds, and how I even envy the day to day concerns you have for keeping your animals. Your same horse that came from a long line of horses who have probably suffered in some great way.  Do we have other answers for them? Is it about more responsible breeding, more work for horses? Could these sort of answers be part of a dialogue we have for all domestic animals? If we are indeed the smartest creatures on the whole planet, can we find some better solutions for our animals then to simply send them away in trucks, lock stock and barrel?

Yes, these are complicated and frustrating issues, or maybe my mind is turning this over far too much.  But I firmly hope the answer to much of the plight of equines isn't answered with the age-old, infamous question: "They shoot horses, don't they?"

Please note the below are pictures and videos of WWI horses. They are graphic in nature, so please use your own discretion in viewing

Call My Father....

You may have seen this fluffy mug  in a few posts before.

If she seems to wear the cute tongue in cheek (or in this case, tongue out of cheek), expression in every picture, there's a reason. This is Polly, our rescue Pyranees, and her jaw is permanently twisted. She is one of a long line of beneficiaries of my animal love--her story involves being abused and found at only half her weight--before we loved her back to normal. She inherits this throne as part of my animal lovemongering...and if you ask me where THAT affliction came from, I will say to you: "call my father."

People, I am an unabashed animal lover. Some might call me a fluffy-bunny hugger, and that's okay. I mean, what can you do when your WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE has been set up to love animals. That is not an exaggeration.  What do I mean by this?  My father holds the key to this sort of mania.

See, when I was a baby, way back in the old country from which my father hailed, he decided--whether for knowledge's sake, or because he thought children and animals were a good mix--to take me to the zoo. Now, this was not any old zoo, but the Capital's Zoo and it was (and still is) one of the larger zoos in that whole continent. Folks, this was on par with the Bronx Zoo--it stretched for acres and housed untold numbers of animals. Having visited it again, a few years ago, I dare say it's one of the most comprehensive zoos on the planet.

But neither here nor there...

So my father took me to this zoo. Every weekend. For two years.  Every single weekend, folks, and then he'd buy me books on animals, which I would gape at when I wasn't at the zoo.  And so submersed was I in this world of animals, that there are stories still circulating, via various family members, that by the time I was two years old, I knew both the common name AND the LATIN name of most common zoo animals. That's a whole lotta beastly knowledge.

The man with the animal plan...my father and I....

There are other rumors out there, mostly from a time I can't even remember: I was told that when I was three, my parents were holding a party for their friends and, since where we were living was rife with reptiles and amphibians, a salamander crawled into the house......

Now, I should explain here that the irony in my father's grand animal escapades is that he himself had a dual relationship with animals. Like most folks raised in his era, he both respected them, but found them a commodity at times. Further, because he was trained as a pathologist, much of his opinion of animals was skewed by his learning: animals were just dirty, walking hosts for parasites and worms. Got that? Ok...

So please don't be surprised when I tell you that when my father saw this salamander on the wall, he promptly got a shoe and started hitting it. Yes, I'm sorry to say, that was how he remedied that particular situation. And then, the story goes, I SAW him do this and started SCREAMING in horror. Screaming loudly enough to stop the party. And I continued to scream and cry long after the incident. Mind you, I can't remember a smidge of this now. But the vision of my three year old self doing this isn't hard for me to grasp...I often feel that way about animals and their suffering, even now.

There are people who will understand this, and there are people who might click past this post, even whisper an annoyed  "animal activist" under their breath,  and I understand that. Oddly, I am probably the most logical animal lover you will ever meet, and that might qualify me as a hypocrite to some. I'm a vegetarian, but I don't demand that anyone else practice it, simply because it's foolish to think one has the right to police others. Further, it occurs to me that millions of cows, goats, chicken,  and sheep are not meant to be pets, the resources of the planet won't support it...and finally, NATURE already is set up as a place of suffering; animals must die for others to live. I don't know why these rules are in place, they just are, and must be respected; you can't force a lion to become a vegetarian...long before you or I came to be, something in the Universe has set this sort of equilibrium up, for it's own reason.  So I understand this, and understand that all animals cannot be saved in the name of salvation...

I only draw the line in the name of compassion. I find it ironic that some of my carnivore friends have no idea-- or could care less-- that the very food that keeps them ALIVE, has been so disrespected in the name of a dollar. Most meat in America is farmed in a most unnatural way, with animals so abused, it would make your eyes swim. Many of you know this, many of you are outraged, but many have no idea, or worse, they know and yet they turn away. It is no secret that we do horrible things to animals in the name of "progress." Horses and dogs are possibly the biggest animal assets we have (most wars up until the middle of the last century were fought using both animals extensively), and yet the most cruelly treated and disposed of.

I know this. I have worked with animals at a day job for almost twenty years of my life. It's such a second skin for me that I often don't list it in the long hyphenated laundry list of things that I do. When people ask me how in the world I've managed to work with animals so long and so exclusively, I say: "Call my father."  He's the one responsible for this animal fever, a quagmire I'm still trying to escape.

Ironically, we had no animals when I was a child. My father was still convinced that animals were harbingers of disease, although he respected them as their own noble entities. Just not in our house. That didn't stop me from sneaking stray kittens into the house and begging for anything that even remotely looked like an animal. My poor mother--who was raised around many animals on her family's farm--had to gently tell me that, no darling, there'd be no parakeet/guinea pig, cockatiel, puppy, or anything else coming.

This all changed once I moved out of my parents house. I managed to work with animals, and I finally got my own dog--Gypsy the wonder-border collie (wow, this gypsy theme figures into everything around here!), a whip smart creature fully trained, and destined to die at the kill shelter in three days. There was no question that I would adopt her on the spot.

We never did know how she ended up at the shelter. She never barked in the house, never jumped up on people,  never destroyed furniture or shoes, never did a THING out of place. She would scratch the back door when she wanted to go out for a bathroom excursion in the yard. She waited patiently for her food, and when I moved back to the family house for a short time because my father was sick, she ended up staying--it simply made more sense, since I have yet to meet a border collie type who would prefer to be a leashed up city dog over a huge yard in the country. And when my father accidentally fell out of his chair late one night, and couldn't get up, she went and lay by his side all night.

After that, everything changed. We officially became a dog loving family, a full on, real paramour of animals. We added another dog, Maverick, this one rescued from Columbia University behavioral labs. He didn't know how to bark, he'd never been outside before I rescued him. We loved our little canine menagerie, we laughed with them, and we wept horribly when they both died in their later years.

But we still love animals. And Polly the Pyranees is our latest animal orphan. She is a jester and a blue-ribbon hole digger of rose bushes, which drives my mother to tear her hair out, but she is a class-A snuggler as well. And her jaw is only slightly deformed...for reasons that are a mystery to us, but she can eat and do everything else normally, despite this handicap. She is part of the large net of love, and it's all my father's fault...

And I'd do it all over again, championing the largest animal to the saddest three legged pup. Why? Call my father...

And when my landlord looks at me skew-eyed because I'm taking so long harvesting the honey from our bee hives., because I'm trying to avoid possibly crushing bees, I say: "call my father."

When a few of those same bees end accidentally end up flying into the house, and I choose to gather them slowly, one by one, in a glass to let them harmlessly outside instead of crushing them, my poor, deathly allergic Sweetheart gives me a mind-boggled stare. And my response, by way of explanation: "call my father."

And when you wonder why a girl would choose to go cross country with HORSES instead of, say, a van...I say....darn it, you should have my father on speed dial by now!

Vagabond Chronicles 6: The Middle Of Nowhere

Photos by Kira Burdeshaw

Ask most people from my part of New York City, and "the middle of nowhere" was the last place they wanted to be. "Don't go to that part of town," they'd say, "it's in the middle of nowhere." In other words, those sort of areas denoted places where trouble was lurking. In the country, the Middle of Nowhere seemed to me to hold another sort of danger: horse people tended to live in those little tucked away places, places in the middle of nowhere...and that's where I wanted to be.

My friend Kira was going to take me to her farrier friend, Keely, who lived not quite in, but close enough to, the middle of nowhere. And that was fine by me. We whizzed past the thoroughfare of the little town my family lives in and then skirted down a few turns where the trees hung lazily, and then everything suddenly became bucolic. In the span of 20 minutes, we seemed to completely drop out of the bottom of civilization altogether;  quaint houses peaked from behind thick trees and bushes, and livestock gates of all sorts held precious goats, chickens, and of course, horses. Wildness was everywhere.

Keely's property was a facade:  from the front, coming up the gravel driveway, you saw the nicely kept lawn,  where you  parked your car...a few requisite trees, and a nice house. Nothing fancy, it could have been anything from modern suburbia. But walking out the back door, it was all horse business, literally--we were suddenly in the thick of horsedom.

The barn was a straight shot back from the house, we could walk to it in less than 2 minutes. It was a beautiful place, newer, airy, well-constructed. Whereas Mr. Pete's place saw horses on various parts of his property, Keely kept her four horses together in a huge paddock. They were Sonja, a draft cross, Bunny, Keely's retired paint police horse, Tui, the paint horse Keely's son rode, and the daintiest of them all...Zoe, who would be my teacher (what is it about small horses teaching me driving??)....

Zoe is a Paso Fino cross, though for the life of me, I can't remember the other part of the mixture. Whatever the case, her heritage imbued her with possibly the most fairy-tale look of a small horse that I have ever seen. True, Paso Finos are considered lovely and gaited horses in the Latin countries from which they hail, although I'd read that their physique varied wildly from pixie to powerful.  In Zoe's case, she was Tinkerbellish with her fine legs and face, and the pastel painted patterns on her hide.

Keely had worked with horses since she was 8, and it showed. She was quiet, yet firm in her workings with the horses, and this sort of stoic love worked well with them.  After she introduced me to her herd, we took Zoe into the barn to ready her for the wagon. I was dying of curiosity; Keely owned a four wheel wagon and I was interested in knowing the difference in it's movement, since I had just come from the two-wheeled forecart type wagon at Mr. Pete's.

Prepping for this ride would bear little difference than my earlier cart prep with Mr. Pete's Princess. The horse must still be brushed to remove irritants from it's coat:

Brushing Zoe

The driving lines and harnessing are then applied to the horse, and then finally the wagon is attached to the harnessing (and vice versa). I will say, as a special treat, the fine, shiny harnessing equipment included bells along the driving saddle..so we literally had all the bells and whistles!

Then, we were off. There was a distinct, nostalgic feeling about the whole thing--a bonny horse bedecked with bells, the cart, a charming old fashioned thing, and because it was cold, we were wearing gloves. Kira had graciously decided to be our camera-person, and she'd hopped into the back of the cart, a blanket draped over her, while Keely and I rode the front seats.

Off we galavanted, along the slower streets, around quiet neighborhoods, past the nearby park, and even down a dirt road. All the while, Kira filmed, and I asked questions, and Keely calmly answered them, using Zoe to demonstrate what she meant. Zoe was an intelligent creature, and illustriously trained--even the smallest pressure and combination on the driving lines would tell her what, and how fast, to move. Conversely, Keely sensed her horse's body language, reading along each muscle, each ear twitch, what Zoe wanted to do. This human/equine communication would be crucial for the safety, and mission, of the driving to get done, that much was clearly apparent. I also learned about proper shoeing, proper line pressure, and what to do for problem situations. Mostly, it was a fun, up-close-and personal view of how the horse and wagon operated, especially in real life road conditions. We worked in traffic, past people and other roadside machinery. It was interesting to anticipate what Zoe would do, and learn the proper way to handle each situation.

Funnier aspects of our little jaunt didn't necessarily even focus on the horse. First, as we turned out of Keely's driveway at the beginning of our excursion, I suddenly noticed a black blur out of the corner of my eye. I suddenly realized it was a DOG, and he was running alongside the wagon. I quickly deduced I'd seen this same terrier type dynamo when I first pulled into visit Keely; this was the neighbor's dog. The little rascal, as per Keely and Kira, was either named Willy, or Wheatus, or any number of things, because no one liked his real name (the rumor was that the neighbor's children named him DONKEY, of all things). Anyhow, Wheatus ran behind us for the ENTIRE journey. Yes...through the streets--where he tried to get himself run over by vehicles, despite our attempts to call him over to us--and the park, all along the dirt road, and then back home. That little codger didn't quit!  He reminded me of the old Dalmations, the firedogs that ran alongside the draft horses with the hoses that fought fires during the Victorian era. Heaven bless Wheatus, that crazy little bugger.

The next crazy incident involved a duck. You read that correctly. Keely was explaining what to do should a horse spook, with Kira taping the whole explanation. At the time, we were going past an area that would be extremely irritating, even frightening, for some horses: we passed a worker removing Christmas decor using a cherry picker on his truck, the trucks engine was puttering loudly, the area was cordoned off with orange street cones, and two nearby park users were walking their dogs. All of this was foreign to Zoe, and distracting. However, since she was well trained, her best attempt to avoid the situation was to veer off  slightly (as opposed to out-and-out bolting). After successfully explaining the situation and going past the obstacles, Keely moved us onward, and Kira turned off the camera.

BAM! Just was we passed the concrete walled entranceway to the park, one of the ducks in the park's nearby pond, hidden behind the wall, shot straight out in front of us, flying away. There was no way to see it and we were all started, Zoe included. She have a sudden, startled hop, but Keely had a good grip on her. Now THAT, folks, was a classic instance for spooking. But training and planning kept it from being a four alarm situation.

Once we winded our way home, it was simply a question of removing the traces, buckles, and bits, and Zoe was allowed out of her servitude. She's a spritely endearing thing...and like Princess, I knew I'd miss her.

While there were other fun surprises in store, I'll probably leave the story here, for now, with the idea of good horsemanship and fellowship...all this, in the "middle of nowhere."

In the meantime, though, enjoy this video of the first part of our riding (excuse the noise of the bells in the video!), and the moment I first realized that Wheatus, our little canine friend, was along for the trip....

Newsy Intermission...

In between all of these horse activities, there's been the underlying thought about what to DO with all of the horse activities.

While you have been reading about some of these adventures at this very spot, I've been thinking more and more about what to do with this strange little goal I've set for myself, as it seems to have burrowed further and further into my life....

Used to be, I could kind of get away with blogging once a week or so here, but I find that those stories become long in length, and oft times, I miss lots of details that happened days or weeks ago. I also found that there were lots of little side links and stories I would love to put up, but they made no sense with the chronological stories I was already telling....

Meanwhile---on more than one occasion people have mentioned--you know, when they weren't saying how unusual/strange/outrageous/awesome/crazy the idea of learning to drive horses around the country is--that they would love to see video documentation about the story.

After some time and thoughts on both counts, here is what I've decided...while not Earth-shattering by any means, I think it's a nice and significant change to the blog and the project, and I hope you'll join in?

First--because I have some sort of inkslinging fever (people, I write for four blogs!)-- I will be blogging here more often. If you've noticed, there are a few more posts than usual this week.  I took those on as an experiment to make sure I didn't get faint, dizzy, a nosebleed, or spasm from the added writing....sure enough, extra postings have not killed me, so starting next week, this Beyond Vagabond thing gets a bit more busy! Expect to read more on the project, old fashioned lore, music, cooking, general farm longing, musing and...who knows?

Now, the bigger news is that the Vagabond Project Filming project will be going forward-- yes, folks, I might have a videographer and partner for the journey but, truthfully, this needs to be done appropriately and with funding. So stay tuned, there are people who might be getting involved in this project in a bigger way (crossing fingers!) and  because I am money poor (but in excess of ambition!), maybe someone will be interested in tossing a few coins in the hat in the near future?

In the meantime, what footage I have from all of my little journeys so far will soon be edited, and coming straight to YOU! Speaking of which: Beyond Vagabond has a NEW Youtube Channel! So if you'd like to subscribe, just type beyondvagabond into your Youtube browser (I needn't tell you that this will only work if you already have a Youtube account) and click the "subscribe" button. This will keep you up to date on all of the videographed mayhem and more.

Up next...more horsing around, of course!

Vagabond Chronicles 5: Six Degrees of Separation..

Once I started working with horses during my Southern stay, it seemed like everyone I knew had them,  and that everyone who had horses knew each other, as well.

The whole driving lesson shenanigans started with Bonnie, who knows my family. For years, I heard she had horses, so I sheepishly approached her for a recommendation for horse driving or riding. Imagine if I hadn't! She's the one who recommended Mr. Pete. Mr. Pete knew my friend Kira, a friend of mine from the dance world, who has a horse and a mule. Kira knew Marcy, with the black Percheron. They also knew Keely, a horse farrier and trainer, who I would also be meeting. And so it went, on and on....

Suddenly, it seemed like it was six degrees of separation from one horse person to the next and yes, indeedy, there suddenly were horses, horses, everywhere. I'd seen more horseflesh in the span of that month than I did in my entire life. Not that I minded, but it kinda makes you think about how much easier this little project of mine would be if--say, I LIVED around here. I mean, this much equine presence would not be happening in the concrete jungle of the city.

In the meantime, there were horses to enjoy one's company with....

Here is Excalibur. He is Bonnie's behemoth Draft/Thoroughbred cross. He's also a PMU baby that was shipped to safety from Canada.

Here is Bonnie's newest addition, Dixie:

Bonnie's mare Star is fine mother of this pixie legged trouble-maker. Don't let that sweet face fool you, she's all mischief!

Besides general horsing-around, there were still lessons to be had, and before I left Florida, I was treated to not one, but TWO days in a row of horse driving curriculum.

The first would actually be the last--I was to meet with Miss Charley, Mr. Pete's wife, for the last in a series of our horse driving lessons. I had grown fond of my teachers, and respected their no-nonsense way of horsemanship. By now, I had experienced some of the pitfalls, and triumphs or riding in this little chariot, and while I knew I was far from being a pro at driving a horse and buggy, I felt more proficient, and definitely more comfortable at that stint.

With each lesson, I was given a little more to do by Charley, and the last lesson proved that rule: she placed a few orange street cones out as a sort of obstacle course for myself and my little charger, Princess the mini-horse (*note: I have been thoroughly corrected by Charley in that I called Princess a pony in my previous post on this story. She would be correct; there are enough differences in the species to classify horses and ponies as different. In other words, Princess IS a very small horse, and that post has been corrected to clarify this).

By now, Princess seemed more used to working with us. For my part, I had gone from someone basically contorting their upper body to get any sort of response from the horse when turning or stopping was required, to a slightly better, slight-of-hand and wrist action. This were the appropriate measures one SHOULD take when attempting to use the lines to communicate with the horse, but I was still raw, still learning.

The cones were not TOO difficult, though at times Princess was basically sidestepping to get around the tight formations that Charley had us do. It was good to be aware to not only angle the horse so that it cleared the obstacle, but also the CART, as this was wider than the horse.  We also went around the property a few times, at various paces, so I could become more and more familiar with various driving conditions, and what to do when it all didn't go well (although it did for this round).  Overall, I feel like I become a more confident, more aware driver, though I know this is an ongoing story that I must revisit...which I would be doing the very next day, when I would meet Keely Bass, a farrier and friend of Kira's, who was a friend of mine...who was a friend of Mr. Pete, and Charley...well, you get the picture.

In the meantime, Marcy and Bob Grant, had come by and were kind enough to video tape and photograph some of the horse lessons, and so I'll share one with you! Enjoy!

Up next...more of the story, and an update on the Beyond Vagabond Project!

And Now A Word From Your Friendly Vagabond...

 A girl with wild hair and an animal predilection.  Who knew it was the right combination for trouble?

 Have I ever mentioned how Beyond Vagabond got it's name?  If I somehow missed this chapter, My Lovelies, here is the quick rundown....

A vagabond (as you may or may not know) is the word for wanderer, a nomadic person and--I guess you could say--it's is a word that's been used on par with terms like "gypsy." I suppose the whole thing denotes a carefree, happy feeling and of course, it refers to my many jobs and experiences in life, and my love of travel.  But there's another meaning here, too, one I was quite conscious of when I took on the terminology.

See, in some places, the word takes on a negative intention. As with the closely associated word "gypsy," vagabond at best means "misfit" or "outcast," and in some cultures, it is considered a high insult. Heck, in some places, being a gypsy or vagabond might get you killed.

Why am I telling you any of this? Because I am fully aware that in many ways, I am the round peg in a world full of square holes. Now, let me clarify that my life on the Misfit List IS NOT, in any way, to be compared to the long and horrible suffering of the actual Roma people, better known as Gypsies. I am also not telling you any of this for any sort of pity; I've long held my particular brand of unconventional living as a big badge of..well, just being me, for a very long time.....

Baby Zan, ready to take on the world...

However, there are times when I'm made acutely aware that what I'm doing actually bothers someone, or rather, that they've placed me into a certain "box" because of the way I look or act. It occurs to me that some of the stuff that I am talking about here might be seen as charming, or at least entertaining (if goofy). It also occurs to me that others might see me as outright crazy, obnoxious, or weird.

I knew what I wanted early on. Here I am,  trying to cut my first birthday cake by myself,  and apparently trying to send my mother to the first in a long line of coronary fits.
This was in Italy--apparently this traveling bug started early, too!

I'm telling you this flat out in the middle of my horse training stories to be chronologically accurate: on two separate occasions, during this time,  I was made aware of, well, who I am--scratch that--who people think I am.  And the problem with much of life is that there is the truth, and then there is perception. And half the time (at least in my experience) you are always working against perceptions--your own, and other people's.

While I won't go into the particulars of what happened (and to be fair, I think one instance involved someone unknowingly putting their foot in their mouth), it got me to thinking--how many of us do this, and why?

Why do we feel the need to box each other into cute, compartmentalized classifications before we know the whole story about a person? And conversely, why do so many of us allow ourselves to get boxed in? I say this not as a person who is afraid of being boxed in (I mean, have you seen me, lately? We are long past the "fear of being called crazy" stage!), but as someone who once WAS, and who sees this all the time in other people (particularly women, I must add). I've seen people give up on even entertaining the thought doing something they really loved because their parents or their co-workers might not approve, they might get ridiculed by friends, or disappoint people they care about or want to impress. Folks, the people that matter will not care what you do, if you really love doing it.

I am not saying it's easy--both doing what you love, and getting yourself UNboxed (blazes, my parents were pretty "boxy" when I first told them I wanted a career in the Arts!), but one should not spend a lifetime not even trying for a little bit of their dreams.

Sassy from the get-go. I still don't know how my parents didn't realize I wanted a career in performing arts...

Conversely, we need to give each other more credit than the fleeting drive-by judgement scenario. What does it mean when people have tattoos? Weird hair? What about skin color, religion, sex, age?  Ok, I should probably get off my high horse now (see, I can get a horse into this post, as well!) and it occurs to me that I am probably preaching to the choir here...but hopefully this might make a small difference in ideas to someone who never thought about it?
 

 The origins of the "weird hair": created for a performance, as dance troupe director...

In my case, the fastest way to get my goat (and farm animals are in the post, too, by golly!) is to insult my intelligence...I fully understand that I am a city girl with funny hair, but that doesn't mean I can't wrangle with the best of country folk or that I have bad morals. But the same folk that probably think that would have no idea that I'm probably more versed in a ridiculous variety of subjects, and also still searching for answers to many, which is why my curiosity keeps yanking me down these various roads...

 

I like danger...and the environment, apparently. I work with bees in the city--just call me an outlaw!

And I will say, before this sounds like high ego, that I'm no rocket scientist, and I still couldn't tell you when two trains will meet at Grand Junction if one is coming from Alaska at 20 miles an hour and one is coming from Minnesota at 40 miles per hour....uhh, the answer is....green??

My point is, give us "outsiders" a chance--after all, we (and by this I mean, all humans) each and every one of us have a bit of something eccentric about us--and we might just surprise you in a good way. In the meantime, there also shouldn't be a worry about being boxed in, either, because the box is YOURS.
Own The Box.

Vagabond Chronicles 4: Tales of an Urban Milk-Maid

 Your favorite wild-haired city slicker, on the business end of a milk goat. Yes, trouble's a'brewing, folks!
Photo by Marcy Grant

It's the first time, in a long time, that I was up before the sun. And I wasn't a bit tired--nope, not me. Instead, I was as excited as a mutt whose masters have just walked through the door. Energy coursed through my veins as I hustled to get myself showered, brushed up, and out the door. Why, oh why should a city girl be excited to be up and about at some obscene time, in the middle of the rural South? Because I was going to a farm, of course.

Funny how simple roads diverge into totally unexpected places, how journeys can become wild, unexpected, and surprising expeditions, if only we open ourselves to the opportunities. I had already been presently surprised--blessed--to be able to go home to my parents for a whole month, and then luckier still to be able to finally, amazingly, learn a LOT about horses. So when one of my horse (and mule!) riding friends introduced me to Marcy Grant..well, I was getting myself into a different heap o' trouble all together.

See, Marcy and her husband Bob have a 40 acre farm, only 5 minutes away from my trainer, Mister Pete's horse farm. A horse farm less than five minutes from a working farm sounded like Divine Providence to me!

The farm, indeed, was a sprawling, rambling thing, a huge amount of production and ingenuity realized in just three years.  There was tons of fencing and housing for what seemed like an endless amount of goats and, even better, baby goats. There were chickens, big and small, easily underfoot. There were even guinea hens, that seemed panicky, shouting their "buck-WHEATS" all the while. There was Lucy, the stunning black Percheron, gazing adoringly at Marcy, and lazily at me. There was Buttercup, the hilariously funny, if bossy, Jersey cow, that seemed annoyed when I petted her head, and who manhandled her way past the goats to get to the best bits of grain.

There were also tons of innovations on the Grant's farm, not least of all growing PINEAPPLES and bananas in their large and well built greenhouse. That building also held their Tilapia operation, a feat of environmental engineering that allowed them to heat these fish (originally hailing from South Africa) all year round. It was interesting to learn about the water recycling, food and space requirements that made it possible to raise, and potentially sell, these fish, and I remembered that this model was now used in urban farming as part of aquaculture and hydroponics.

Inside, Marcy was also a marvel at sustainability in the kitchen: her blueberries and tangerines went into her jams and marmalades, and her goats provided the milk for her chevre cheeses and yogurts. She was also one mean baker; I ended up with some some serious sweets that would ruin my figure for sure, and it didn't help that she handed me jars of jams and a container of cheese. Who Nelly, a feast made by humble hands, and no preservatives, to boot!

I was glad to be able to ask Marcy some questions about animal feeding and care while I was there, and exchange information about various techniques in urban/rural farming. I have to admit, it was both thrilling and strange to be able to talk to someone and get the same thrilled response back, instead of blank stares and open mouths. Yeah, city folks usually aren't as enthusiastic, on the whole, talking about goat breeding and milking, or horse shoeing. I still have hope for them though...

Best of all, there was plenty of animal snuggling and learning. There was the requisite and obvious scheming on my part in regards to stealing every baby animal in the joint. Two particularly cute SPOTTED Nubian kids that I was bottle feeding were the best candidates for stealing, and folding into my suitcase, but I realized it would be hard to get them past the TSA on my plane trip back to the city. Curses, foiled again!
They were still cute enough to bottle feed though....see the super-cuteness here:

My shining moment, however, was DEFINITELY when I learned to milk one of Marcy's goats. Her goats, like most caprines, were intelligent and inquisitive, and also very patient with me. The poor doe that would be used in my milking instruction did very well while I did all the wrong things with her sensitive body parts. I'm sure she would have laughed--if she could--along with everyone else when I ended up squirting milk everywhere but IN the milking pot!  In other words, it was another typical session of teaching a rank urbanite how to milk.  I will say I DID finally manage to get the hang (literally and figuratively!) of milking, but it ain't for the faint of heart, Sweethearts!


To top it off, my super-duper friend Kira got it all on film so--cross your fingers--we might have an adventurous episode or two up for you soon!
A big thanks to Kira, Marcy and Bob for a fun day of frolic on the farm.  Would I get up that early again for more farming? You betcha!

Vagabond Chronicles 3: Human-Training

 Charley, my trainer, and Billy, her son, flanked by their cattle dog and Princess, the Amazing Wonder-Mini Horse!

If you've been hanging around here long enough, you might know that amongst the hyphenated laundry list of things I've done, animals have played a large part of my life. And after working with them for more than half my life, I know this much is true: you don't train animals, they train you.

It's no different with horses. The workings of a horse are formed over centuries of evolution, their thoughts trump ours by ages. While all of this would sound grandiose, you'd chuckle to know that a dainty munchkin sized horse would be my wizened teacher.

As I mentioned before in THIS POST, I had the luck of finding a local horse training couple on my holiday visit with my parents in Florida. On their rural piece of heaven, they catered to a small bevvy of horses, and horse-lovers, and between them, Mr. Pete and his wife Charley had about half a century of horse experience. Yep, these were the folks to go to for just about everything equine. It helped that they had their own particular Southern charm; it had been awhile since I've seen a couple comfortable and quaint enough to call each other "Mama" and "Papa," but I loved watching them talk to each other, and me, in their Ante Bellum way.

 Young colts on Mr. Pete's Farm...

Princess was the miniature pony who would guide me past the difficulties of harnessing equipment, driving lines, horse etiquette, and much more. I quickly learned that driving a horse is a bit more complex than driving a car. While I understood that these were intelligent creatures, it never occurred to me that even a wee horse could be wily enough to bob and weave; this definitely was not about auto-piloting in a straight line. Princess was as all creatures tend to be: she had her own mind and will, and despite ten years of driving training, this half pint horse needed my full attention each time we drove.

Our second lesson involved Charley first guiding me through the long and specific way to put on the seemingly endless coiling leviathan of the harness tack, and then hopping onto the two wheeled forecart to teach me the proper way to maneuver the lines so that Princess would know where to go. Even the slightest twist of the wrist would communicate to our little heroine whether she should go straight or turn, when to go quickly or slow to a walk.

While that in itself was a skill, this lesson also involved a few extra insights into controlling the horse's fears (Charley's term for this: "boogering") and unwillingness ("buffaloing") to pull in particular patches of our driving. Princess's particular fears were apparent as we trotted down the quiet street from the horse farm. A few feet down, one of the neighbors had two loud barking dogs blazing through their front lawn. It's probably common sense that excitable dogs can spook a horse (or any other creature, for that matter), and even a fool could sense the stilting gait that our little driver took on as we rounded the neighbor's yard. Charley expertly guided me on techniques on how to tackle the issue and at one point, true to her instruction, she hopped out of the cart, grabbed the horse's head-stall, and led her past those angry mutts, as horses must be paraded past their worst monsters in order to eventually realize that they are something to be ignored.

On the other side of the barking menaces, there was Casper, the paint horse that used to belong Mr. Pete and Charlie. While Princess was acquainted with the young colt, she was not familiar with him, so Charley turned the cart to the opposite side, so that the two could sniff each other, a delicate process. Other obstacles involved the llama at the farm at the opposite end of the road (the horses "boogered" at llamas, which they seem to dislike), and the weird smell of "dead animal" somewhere along the middle of the road. Charley was a great teacher, and quite entertaining, to boot.

I think that I did relatively well with the sudden and new onslaught of information, and it was most definitely an interesting outing. I wasn't ignorant enough to think I was done with lessons---not by a long shot-- and I had planned a follow up to this one. I was, however, pretty proud: had conquered my own worries about my horsemanship and hey, even though I had mastered this work with a teensy horse, it was still a horse, right?

So imagine what fun it was when one of my old-time dance friends, who lived near Mr. Pete's, showed up on her mule, along with a few horse riding friends. Yes, they had RIDDEN there, along the streets, and there was a strange, old-time feeling about their surprise journey. There aren't too many people in my neck of the woods who could say they've used that particular mode of transportation--hooved mounts don't do well on heavy concrete.

Along with Kira was Marcie, a woman farmer who lived about 5 minutes in the opposite direction of Mr. Pete's place. Kira had her come along so I could meet her; her 40 acre farm was on it's way to self sufficiency.  It had milk goats, a cow, a greenhouse that housed tilapia, blueberries, tangerine trees, and much more. Best of all, she showed up with her riding Percheron Mare--a draft horse!

Here is Marcy...and her horse Lucy!

Better yet, I'd be visiting Marcy's place...and milking goats!
But that, Friends, is the next tale on the journey!