Lessons From Penn State

Lessons From Penn State                                                                 

Originally posted as an editorial comment in Horse Directory, December, 2011

By Tom Gumbrecht

 Surely every human being not totally isolated from the outside world has experienced some kind of strong reaction to the recent sexual abuse scandal at Penn State University.
For most it may be outrage, disgrace, or disgust. Some may experience the pain of reopening old wounds from their own childhood. For many it might be fear of the unspeakable happening to their own children.

We involved in equine sport can perceive ourselves to exist as somewhat of an island amidst the sea of other athletic pursuits. But are we in fact exempt from human failings? When a young person finds a connection with a horse, a passion can be unlocked which is often life-changing. Those who work with our children can be thought of, often rightly, as facilitators of miracles, by student and parent alike. 

We are fortunate to be able to provide our children exposure to a sport that is full of wonderful people dedicated to creating a rewarding and positive experience for them. To bear witness to the process is inspiring, joyful and fulfilling.

To that, we add vigilance. As parents, it's our job to create an environment in which a child feels it is safe to tell us if someone they trust has done something to make them or someone they know, uncomfortable...even a miracle worker.

Hopefully, the lesson of Penn State will be that no one is beyond reproach.

Thomas Gumbrecht

Fort Salonga, NY

Larger Than Life

LARGER THAN LIFE                                                                                                                           

 Originally published in Horse Directory, January 2012

By Thomas Gumbrecht

Thomas G. “Tommy”  Fernan,  1962-2011, was my cousin through marriage.  You likely didn’t know him, because although raised on Long Island he hadn’t lived here for many years. His only connection to the horse world that I know of, was his relationship to me.

The words of his eulogy are still with me from today’s funeral mass: he was larger than life, a mountain of a man; a former NYPD officer, football player, bodybuilder and power lifter.  He was powerful, tough, fearless, and self assured.  He was an athlete who went out to win, if he went out at all.  He rarely asked for an opinion because he trusted his own. I liked him and enjoyed seeing him on holidays and special occasions, but I couldn’t really relate to him because basically, he was everything I was not. I never felt uncomfortable around him, though, because he never made me feel that way. But we lived in different worlds.

In 2005, I acquired DannyBoy, a very solidly built APHA gelding with lots of attitude.  Danny transformed me from a casual rider to a committed competitor in Horse Trials, and later Jumpers.  He was powerful, tough, fearless, and self-assured.  He showed up to win.  He didn’t ask for your opinion, he just needed a clear instruction of what you needed him to do. The “how” was up to him, and he was usually right. His world was different from mine also but as I was the one on his back during his displays of bravery and acumen, he carried me into his.

I believe it was on Thanksgiving in 2006 that Tommy and DannyBoy first met.  After dinner, he asked to go down to the barn and see our horses, as was his custom.  I happily obliged, but always thought that the request was a concession to his children T.J. and Taylor.  Kids love horses, and Tommy indulged his children’s interests.  When DannyBoy met Tommy, he bulldozed his way past the other horses to get his attention.  That was his way. Tommy took to him immediately, and showed a side of himself with which I was not familiar.  His quiet way and gentle touch with Danny belied his public persona.  He knew just how to be, and what to do, instinctively.  Words were never necessary, just a knowing nod from a man and a bow of the head from a horse who bowed to no one. Enforcer meets terminator. They were equals, and neither had anything to prove to the other. They had each other’s number.  They were connected.

From that day forward, whenever Tommy brought his family to our home, his first stop after the required pleasantries to the humans, was the barn.. “How’s that paint horse”? he would ask. “Go see”, I would reply. “He’s waiting for you”.  More than a horse-human bond was forming during those visits.  A connection was forming between Tommy and me, two guys as different as anyone might imagine.  An unspoken connection, of course, but he knew and understood a part of my world, and I understood a part of his.  I saw the man in a different light since then.

I’m sorry that Tommy left this life too soon, but I will always be happy for the opportunity we had to get to know each other better that was made possible by our mutual connection to a horse who was also…. larger than life.

Tommy Fernan with son T.J.

The Language of the Heart

The Language of the Heart                                                                                                                  Originally Published in Horse Directory, December 2011

by Tom Gumbrecht 

During the holiday season, someone invariably brings up the old European legend that states that on Christmas Eve at midnight, our animals can speak in human voice.  This quickly leads to amusing banter about what our horses would say to us. How we wish we knew what our horses were thinking about us!

But do we? Do we really need human language for such a conversation? We are all students of the Equus language. The very best of us become fluent in it.  After quite a few years of study, much longer than it would take to get a Master’s Degree, I still only have what I would call a working knowledge of it.  When we meet someone who is fluent, we have found a great horseman.  When we meet someone who is not only fluent but can translate for us into human language, we have found a great trainer. Equus doesn’t always translate readily into human language, but the best trainers find the words in the same way an artist uses oil paint to capture the feeling of a magnificent vista. But the words of the trainer are just there to facilitate the real, nonverbal, horse-human connection. Equus is a language that words take away from, not add to.  It is purity, simplicity, honesty, integrity. It is the language of the heart.  And that is, quite possibly, what attracts us to our equine partners.

Honesty, in a word, defines the human-equine relationship.  Honesty fosters trust, and trust is what we require in order to do what we do with our horses.  Actions, not words, create it.  People say, but horses do.  We are what we do; what we say is how we want to appear.  Horses don’t care how they appear.  Sometimes when I come back from a solo trail ride I’m asked, “You went alone”? Trying to appear witty, sometimes I’ll reply, “Alone? No… I was with my horse!” But I mean it… the time spent with just horse and rider to me has been a priceless asset in my study of Equus. In those moments, words are a distraction… an interruption in the flow of messages between us. So, while I enjoy the companionship of a like minded rider, I also value, no, treasure those times when it’s just me and my horse. They are my language lessons.

It has been said that princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason, the saying goes, is that the brave beast is no flatterer.  He will throw a prince as soon as his groom. Truly, when we have earned the respect of a horse, we have really earned it. They have no ulterior motives. Their language doesn’t include flattery to entice getting what they want, coercion to force getting what they want, sarcasm to ridicule into getting what they want, courtesy to put a different spin on what they want, or withholding of truth to spare the other’s feelings. When we learn to speak Equus, our language is simpler:  asking for what we want, observing the reply to the question, rephrasing the question when it’s necessary, and expressing when we are pleased with the effort.  When failing to make myself understood, I need to change the way I’m asking.  It’s such a simple rule if I can just remember it.  The better we get at remembering that, I believe, the better horsemen we become. 

So, what is it that makes our relationship with our horses so unique and compelling?  Perhaps it is the opportunity to converse in the language of the heart.  Because what comes from the heart, touches the heart.

Dear Lola: A Love Letter to a Racehorse

Dear Lola:                                                                                     

A Love Letter to a Racehorse

By Tom Gumbrecht

 Originally published in Horse Directory, February 2011

Dear Lola,

 I have a confession to make.  The day after I brought you home from the auction, I was angry and resentful.  Not toward you, but at the man who brought you there, who told me that you were sound and gave you drugs to make you look like you were.  The drugs wore off, and you couldn’t walk. And he didn’t return my calls.

Your injuries, no doubt incurred during your short career at the racetrack, were of the type that would likely take a long time to recover from.  That’s what made me upset. I didn’t know if I had it in me to endure the roller-coaster ride of horse rehabilitation yet again.

I had some people giving me advice, which ranged from euthanasia (no), to breeding (didn’t know enough about you and didn’t have the knowledge, time, or facility), to just bringing you back to the auction (which would make me just as bad as the man who had brought you there).  Or…I could just take a deep breath and deal with it.

My decision was really already made; I made a promise to you in my trailer before we left the auction that I would never hurt you, and that I would always do everything in my power to give you the best life I could.  Luckily, I keep my promises.

Oh, that crying into your mane when we were alone it the stall?  That was just me feeling sorry for myself.  And scared.  I was projecting about months of care, medical expenses, chances that you wouldn’t recover.  That’s just how my mind works sometimes; especially when I’m scared.  I think a year at a time.  But life gets lived a day at a time, and that’s how we managed.  A day at a time.

You patiently let me wrap your legs until I became skilled at it, but you never lost patience with me.  You stood still to let me run a cold hose on your leg, and you let me hand walk you with no complaints when I know you didn’t feel like it.  You seemed to know that I needed encouragement so every time I came into your view, either after an absence of thirty seconds or four hours, you would nicker furiously like Black Beauty reuniting with Farmer Grey.  You found a way to express gratitude in a way that a human could understand it.

Days built upon days which became weeks and then months, and your body slowly became whole again.  I was as cautious as you were anxious.  You broke out of your small day paddock into the riding arena one day and your enthusiasm set our program back a few months.  I became doubly cautious and did not read the signs that you were ready.  Somehow you broke out again, and as I watched you from the house I was at once awestruck and petrified.  Awestruck by the beauty of you expressing your elation at being free to be a horse again, and petrified at the prospect of yet another setback.

I waited days for the consequences of your adventure, but they never came.  It seems that you knew best.  You had healed!

Luck stayed with us as we found our friend Laura Ruben, who taught you to be patient with me and me to be patient with you.  I learned the ways of the racehorse and you learned the ways of…I don’t know what… perhaps the ways of an older guy who many might think should be out on the golf course and not riding young racehorses.  Through our interpreter, Laura, we are figuring each other out and training now for the jumpers.

Lola, you are more than just a talented horse.  You are not my first horse, nor the first horse I have bonded with.  You are my first mare, my first Thoroughbred, and my first racehorse.  Other horses have allowed me into their world.  You, however, have always made me feel that I am a part of yours.  You are always trying to be a better horse for me, and it makes me want to be a better rider.  From the very first time I met you at the auction,  I felt not sympathy for your situation (which would certainly have been warranted) but connectedness.  Your dark, kind, liquid eye told me that you felt the same.  You weren’t pleading.… you were knowing.

The other day I ran across the business card of the man who brought you to the auction.  It had a little religious symbol on it that I once cynically thought must have been put there to throw the unwary off track… to expect honesty and trustworthiness where there was none to be found.  For a while, those thoughts were used to fuel a resentment.  Now, however, I believe that man was an instrument in the plan of some higher power, a plan to bring us together which could have worked no other way.  It was a better plan than I could have devised.  Had it worked any other way, I would have been cheated out of what may be my once in a lifetime horse.

                                          Lola learns to jump.

A Ribbon For Mary

A RIBBON FOR MARY                                                                                                                                     

By Tom Gumbrecht       

Originally published in Horse Directory, 2009

photo: Mary with Buddy

If there is one thing I like almost as much as riding, it is talking about riding. When I get the opportunity and the audience, my dissertations are regularly punctuated with the word,“I”. “I” learned to ride as an adult, “I” bought horse property and built a barn, “I” trained and eventually began to compete, etc., etc.

Occasionally I would throw a “we” in there, referencing my equine partner when I was attempting to appear humble. Aside from those sparse references, you would think I was quite the self-made horseman. It’s easy to think that way now, because at the moment our equestrian “infrastructure” has been in place for some time, and a lot of the family equestrian activities are centered on my horse, and my riding. Samantha went away to college with her mare, Bella, and Mary is a non-rider. But anyone who knows the real story, knows better. And they know Mary.

Mary is my wife, and the source of my moral, emotional, logistical, and every other kind of support as an adult amateur rider. When I was first exposed to the horse world a little over ten years ago, Mary, I suppose, thought it was “cute” for a middle aged man to take up riding, English riding at that. She indulged my little ‘interest du jour’, most likely thinking it would be another one of the many “phases” I had gone through in our then twelve years of marriage. I had started our niece, Samantha, in lessons a few weeks before starting my own, possibly thinking, in the process, that it made my own endeavor appear a little less self-indulgent.  Then, a few months later when I came up with a plan to lease a horse, Mary may have gotten the idea that it was more than “just a phase”. That thought would be further reinforced another year and a half later when, having gone through a couple of occasions of suffering the agony of developing a relationship with a horse and having the horse be sold, relocated or otherwise unavailable, Mary beat me to my well planned-out plea and suggested that it might be time to buy my own horse. Of course, I had been thinking just that. But what I was also thinking, was, well….I wanted my horse to be a family member. Which meant purchasing a horse property. Which meant selling our beach-community house that we had recently finished making just the way we wanted. We loved it there and more or less assumed that, like our parents’ homes before us, it would be our first and last house.

Now things were getting serious. This was no longer a little fling, a weekend endeavor to be taken up and put down like a game golf or tennis. This was a life changing, long-term responsibility we were considering. I felt in every fiber of my being that this was the right course to take. Mary, however, an animal lover but a non-rider, had only, through me and Samantha, felt a trace of the joy that we knew horses can bring to your life. She supported us.  She did it on faith and a belief in me, which made her the braver one, for sure.

We spent many months searching for the perfect horse property, and we settled on an older house, in Fort Salonga, where we basically had to start over again in terms of repairs and improvements. It had no horse facilities but had enough property to build a barn, some paddocks and a riding ring. We put our Centerport house on the market and spent a summer of sleepless nights when it didn’t sell as quickly as everyone told us it would. Eventually that perfect buyer did show up and we spent two months packing our lives of the past thirteen years into cardboard boxes and inventorying them into composition books. We moved in, and the preparations needed to create a barn site and riding ring turned out to be a bit more expensive than we had considered. Mary’s take on it was, “We’ll find a way to do it”. She didn’t know how these decisions would affect out lives in the years to come. It made me happy, and she supported it, that was all. Everything eventually came together and we had our very old house and a brand new barn, paddocks, and riding ring. And we had my first horse, Buddy, followed two months later by Magic, a mare we got for Samantha. I had promised Mary a new master bathroom, which remained as a sink and a toilet sitting in a gutted room of bare studs and rafters for about a year and a half while the barn was complete and the horses had everything you could imagine.  The roof over that bathroom leaked in a heavy rain, but the barn roof was of course, brand new and water-tight. I never got any more of a complaint than the rolling of eyes when Mary’s mother asked, “So how’s the bathroom coming along?”

Why I felt the need to push to build this little horse farm, I don’t know. But I knew I had to. It was a little like the “Field of Dreams” thing, but a lot less spooky. No ghosts of old athletes walking out of the woods. But I did have the sense that this was the exact right thing to do, and I never really had any evidence to that effect except for a feeling. The sense of a bigger plan came two years later, when Samantha’s mother, Mary’s sister, died suddenly and we found ourselves first-time parents of a then twelve year old girl. Then slowly, and sometimes painfully, the plan began to make a little bit more sense, if ever any sense can be made of such a situation. Mary, a nurse by profession, is a natural-born nurturer. She fell into the parent role easily, or seemed to. I had to be taught. And the horses taught me, a middle aged guy who never thought that much about anything other than myself, how to care for another being, be responsible for another life, to put someone else’s welfare before my own. Skills I would need in my new role. It also gave me something to have in common with that little twelve year old girl that would bring us together, for better or worse. No matter how bad I may have made things in my clumsy, ham-handed attempts to be “parental”, Sam and I would still eventually have to work together, getting her horse ready for the weekend show, trailering, grooming, doing the emergency tack shop run for that one forgotten item. Our horses forced us to work together, even when we really wanted to be away from each other. After years of having adopted the role of parents, I’m sure that Mary could have done it under any circumstances but I’m also sure I couldn’t have without our horses as teachers, mentors, catalysts, competitors, and companions.

It seems now that a lot of those growing pains are behind us. I just returned from picking up Samantha and  Bella, from Ohio after finishing their first year of college. Now I get to train and show sometimes on the weekends, and Mary helps me and wakes up at the crack of dawn and grooms for me at the shows. She beams when we win a ribbon, and encourages when we don’t. She…understands.

She understands that this isn’t a luxury for us, as many people might think. It’s a lifestyle. A lifestyle that we were predestined to live, I believe. It’s not what we do as a family, it’s who we are as a family. Made possible by the faith that Mary had, and continues to have, in me.

If you have a person in your life that has supported your horsey endeavors even if, or especially when, someone with an ounce of common sense would give up on it, someone who would wear old shoes when the horses need new ones, who would do all the dirty work on show day and then take a picture of you holding the ribbon, then you know what I am, quite inadequately, trying to say. I am trying to say thank you.

The Day Buddy Got His Nicker Back

The Day Buddy Got His Nicker Back - June 2005

By Tom Gumbrecht

Anyone who has had a horse with a serious long-term illness knows how emotionally wrenching the roller coaster ride between improvements and setbacks can be. Buddy started off heading into the winter of 2003 a bit shy of his normal weight. We had some tests done, thinking that perhaps some worms got past the normal rotation of wormers that we use. No other symptoms were present so this was really just a precaution. The blood tests, however, painted a different picture. They showed a significant deterioration in his liver. While planning a course of action to follow, one cold day Buddy's feet appeared frozen to the paddock. He moved so painfully and slowly, and it was shocking to see this 23 year old horse (who normally acted like an 8 year old) in so much distress. Further tests showed that he had Lyme disease to such a degree that they ran the results twice because the lab had never seen them so high. Forty-five days of antibiotics, 100 pills a day, showed slight improvement, but then another worsening. He had foundered. I am told that the anti-inflammatory effects of the doxycycline can sometimes mask some of the symptoms of founder. At any rate, Buddy then was tested for Cushings and was positive. He got bar shoes. He went on Pergolide and we set out on the long road of managing that disease and the resulting founder. He had good days and bad days. He had many abscesses pass through and we spent many early mornings and late evenings soaking his achy hooves and rubbing his tired legs. We managed his medications and changed his diet. We pulled his shoes and tried a different trim. We wanted answers. We got possibilities. We wanted a definitive course of action. We got a hundred different opinions. I don't know how it is for other people, but the sequence of emotions with me went something like this:

1) My horse is not really that sick. These people don't know what they're talking about. They don't know my horse. I do. We can get through anything.
2) My horse is really sick. What on earth am I going to do? What if he dies? What will I do? What will I do with his body?
3) Can't any one agree on a course of action here? What do I know, anyway? They're the ones with the medical degrees.
4) I better learn as much as I can about this stuff.
5) Most of what I'm worried about hasn't happened yet. His life is in God's hands. His comfort is in mine. A day at a time, I think I can manage that.
6) I miss riding him. But of all the things I get from Buddy, riding is only one of them. I still get all the others. I get the rubbing of my back with his nose as I soak his tired feet. I get his puppy-like inquisitive presence following me around the stable yard as I do chores. I get his loving, liquid eyes locked to mine at dawn every morning. I get to give back to this horse who has given me so much.
7) This is not so bad. We can do this.

We took Buddy to the New Bolton Clinic of the University of Pennsylvania in October of 2004. We hoped for more definitive answers. We had an ultrasound and a needle biopsy done of his liver, which came back clean, although blood tests still showed elevated liver enzymes. Not a clean bill of health, but not devastating. The sports medicine and radiology departments then got him, and digital radiographs showed the large degree of rotation we already knew about, but categorized it as significantly more serious that had been diagnosed on the local level. Or probably, more accurately, we were just more willing to accept what we had already been told. I do not want this information but I need it. Is this life threatening? How long can he stay alive without being in terrible pain? Not years, I'm told. Months. And not many. The long trip back from the university is not a pleasant one. I came for hope and I'm going home hopeless.
In the days to follow, I do what I'm now trained to do, make him as comfortable as I can and deal with each day as it comes. Days become weeks, and weeks become months. His bad days are bad, but not as bad as they have been. His good days are better and more frequent. Spring comes, and he jumps up and kicks his hind legs in the air. I'm concerned that he's going to hurt himself. Don't worry, his now alert eye reassures me, looking down as he prances around the paddock with his mane flowing and his tail up just like he used to be. Not every day is like this. Some are better than others. This is a good day. He is not the horse he was, but I am not the man I was before this ordeal either. I have learned the power of faith, patience, and love. I wanted more answers. I got only more questions. I wanted facts. I developed faith. I wanted reassurance from the doctors. I got it from Buddy. He doesn't know he's sick, and he's not depressed about it. He gave me faith. I wanted him to keep teaching me to ride. Instead, he taught me how to be.
And today? Today was a very special day in my barn. As I prepared Buddy's breakfast just after dawn, I heard the soft wuffle that crescendoed into the beautiful sound I have waited eighteen months for. Today was the day that Buddy got his nicker back.

Update, 2007:

Buddy amazes us, and our veterinarian, constantly. We have two young horses now who are his pasturemates and he has found a new “career” as their babysitter. He chases my young paint gelding around and around and they rear at each other and throw kicks in the air. I was worried at first that he would get hurt or worn ragged. Again Buddy taught me to trust his judgement and enjoy watching him spend his twilight years just being a horse.