The Six Phases of Sandy

THE SIX PHASES OF SANDY 

    

Originally published in Horse Directory, December 2012

By Tom Gumbrecht

"So that's what the noise was about last night" - Bella

 To those of us who keep horses, the forecast of a hurricane or other severe weather can carry an extra level of anxiety.  In addition to the safety of ourselves and our families, we also have to consider the well-being of our large, not-easily-evacuated equine companions.  We realize we may be forced to consider the choice to yield to pressure to evacuate and leave our horses to fend for themselves, or to go with our instincts to stay and protect them as best we can, no matter what.  Hurricane Sandy was not my first major storm since having horses at home.  In dealing with the threat of potentially catastrophic weather, I seem to go through a process of six phases:  Awareness, Denial, Fear, Action, Focus, and Acceptance.  The time elapsed between the first phases was days; between the final phases only minutes..

Awareness comes as I hear the first TV and internet inklings of the possibility of a severe weather system.  I react like a horse hearing a sound that may be of concern: I turn my ear toward it.  My concern is there, but it is in the background. At some point my awareness morphs into denial. The hype of TV or internet weather services seems to go “over the top” and use terms like “doomsday”, “monster storm”, and “perfect storm”.  I steadfastly refuse to get sucked into what I perceive might be ratings- driven drama. My seeming apathy masquerades as skepticism but has its roots in fear. 

A cracking tree is scary for horse or human!

When fear takes over, I begin to think... “it might actually happen!”  Maybe it’s not weather drama this time. What if it’s true?  What will happen if it’s as bad as the threats suggest? What will happen to my horses and other animals? My mind rapidly builds a huge wall of worst-case scenarios, but eventually moves me forward into action. I gather supplies, gas up the generator, clean the gutters, move vehicles from under trees, buy batteries, and put ID tags on the horses.  I set out old hay bales to protect the riding ring from erosion and check the barn door latches, as they are rarely used.  Motion for the sake of motion is how it generally begins, as it satisfies the need to “do something.” At some point, my motions become more organized.

For me, in some cases, organized motion precedes organized thought:  it allows me to focus.  I experience clarity of thought and efficiency of action. When I am focused, things seem to just fall into place… and when they do, I gain acceptance. I accept that it’s happening.  I’m prepared.  I’m committed, and I’m calm. What will happen, will happen. I’m glad my animals have me, and I them.  I believe that their best shot is with me.  I feel a sense of oneness with my charges; they sense it and settle into an alert calmness also.  And so we wait…

At 3:30 Monday afternoon, through my window I see the tall, sturdy old trees on the property across the street bending nearly horizontal. This storm is no joke. A snap, a crash and the lights go out. My electrical service is on the driveway, and a large tree is on the garage roof.  I go out to survey the damage, and connect the generator.  Technically the storm isn’t even here yet, and its power is incredible.  My wife Mary had been called in to work at her job as a nurse at the hospital, and so it is me and our three dogs huddled closely in the den listening to the radio for updates. Reports are sketchy, disjointed, and not particularly informative yet I sit listening, mesmerized, and cannot turn it off.  I begin to consider the safest place in the house to be, and believe that I’m probably in it.  At 7:00 pm, another huge snap and crash in the rear of the property upsets the dogs and I dress to go out and investigate.  A large tree had fallen across the farm driveway, and sat covering half of the front paddock, smashing 30’ of fence on the way down.  I retreat from the winds into the barn to check on how my horses are tolerating the meteorological mayhem outside their windows.  DannyBoy, our big gregarious Paint, seems unaffected, which is not surprising to me.  I find it curious that our normally somewhat high strung young OTTB Mare, Lola, has kept her wits about her also.  Bella, our Arabian mare, is visibly upset, uncharacteristically pacing circles in her stall. I stay with her for a while in her stall.  She stops the pacing but I feel the tension in her neck that she has, again uncharacteristically, allowed me to cradle in my arms. After some time has passed, I give them hay to take their focus off of the crazed howling of the wind just outside.  It seems to work.  I hate to leave but I need to check on my dogs in the house.  My female German Shepherd Dog, Zoe, does not do well with the intense, strange noises that the high winds are pummeling the house with.  Dusty, our male Labrador and Hailey, a female lab mix, seem unaffected.  They all seem to want to be on my lap at the same time.  At another time it would be funny; now I find it comforting.  I wait with my lamp, my dogs and my radio until after midnight, when the reports say the very worst of the storm has passed.  I do one more barn check, and everyone seems to be ok. My one concern is that Bella has not dropped manure, but she is drinking water and has good gut sounds.  I feel confident enough to say good night to my charges.

 

Bella surveys the damage...

I drift in and out of sleep.  An occasional gust is strong enough to shake the house on its foundation, and Zoe wakes me, barking furiously, each time that happens.  Dawn breaks and I get up and check the fences before letting the dogs out. I can see that the vehicles and trailers are safe, but the tree that fell into the paddock is actually two trees, the one at the bottom of the pile being of fairly substantial girth.  I feed the dogs, send Mary a text with the report that we have survived, and go down to the barn. Everyone there is fine, but Bella has still not left any manure.  I put her on a longe line and trot her for twenty minutes; she eagerly moves forward with no encouragement so I put her back in her stall as I isolate the downed trees from the paddock with rope and jump standards.  When I go back inside, I see that she has left a gift that only a horseman can appreciate: a large pile of manure on the floor of her stall!

A neighbor later comes over, and armed with two chain saws, we have the trees cut up and out of the paddock and the fence repaired in a couple of hours. An electrician by trade, I put the electrical service back together and connect the still de-energized power lines.  Without TV or newspaper, I have not yet seen images of the destruction that had befallen the island, but within hours my phone begins ringing off the hook with pleas from customers to help them to restore electrical service.  That ends up to be just the prelude to a 12 hour/ day, 14 day straight electrical marathon that was to follow.  The days that ensued were surreal, working under headlights in third-world like conditions with whatever equipment and material that could be scrounged.

My reprieve was to be found in the beginning and the end of each day, exhausted, overworked and overcommitted, yet stopping first at the barn to feed, care for, and simply be with our horses.  They tethered me back to reality just by being there, and being who they were.  They have no care or concern for what is going on outside of their stalls, paddocks and arena.  Their needs are the same today as they were on the day before the storm: hay, grain, clean water, the shelter of a clean stall, some attention and some exercise.  By expecting, even demanding routine, they brought me back to normalcy every morning, and every evening. ..at least for a little while.  That is the way my horses give their gifts:  they demand routine of me, the execution of which provides the gift of normalcy.  It’s the best deal I have ever made.

A feral cat gives up her hobo existence for a night to ride out the hurricane in the tack room..

                                             

Somewhat Less of a Rider

SOMEWHAT LESS OF A RIDER  

                                                    Originally published in Horse Directory,  November  2012

By Tom Gumbrecht

It happens. Middle age spread. When we step on the scale and it’s obviously broken. When the dryer keeps shrinking our stuff. When chair legs loosen and couch springs snap. All clues, gone largely unheeded. More comfort was found in believing, “They just don’t make things the way they used to” than in facing reality.

Reality, though, is the place where our horses live, even if we as riders take occasional, or frequent, excursions from it. My Paint gelding, DannyBoy, was gregarious and huge, and a few extra pounds on his rider didn’t phase him in the least. But I was no longer riding him regularly, working now, instead, with my Off-Track Thoroughbred mare, Lola. It was a harsh wake-up call when I saw her approach me with a loving eye and a Weight Watchers brochure in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet while never breaking her liquid gaze that said, “You are my everything. I just wish there were a tiny bit less of you.” Partly because I knew the message was true, and partly because it was delivered by such a gentle soul, I answered the call.

Middle age spread. It happens. DannyBoy never minded much.

 I went online to check on the local Weight Watcher’s meeting. I knew it worked, because it was not my first trip down this path <sigh>.  My weight gain was slow and gradual, maybe a half-pound a month or less, over a period of seven or eight years. And I knew that crash diets didn’t work for me: my loss would need to be gradual and consistent as well. I introduced myself at my first meeting.  As is typical in these gatherings, new members are encouraged (but not compelled) to share what inspired us to walk through the doors of WW. Predictably, people made statements such as, “I want to live a healthier lifestyle” and  “My doctor said to live a longer life I should lose weight” or, “I want to be able to play with my kids (or grandkids) instead of just sitting in a chair, watching them play.”

All probably true statements, and very worthy inspirations, for sure, if perhaps just a little trite.  Then they got to me:  “My inspiration is a nine year old former racehorse named Lola.” Without much encouraging, I expanded: “The horse I used to compete on was a big guy who didn’t care, or even probably notice, if I put some extra pounds on.  Lola, on the other hand, is slender of build as Thoroughbreds tend to be, and while she doesn’t complain, the depths that our partnership have evolved to has made me want to be absolutely the best rider I can be, to be worthy of riding a horse such as she.  Part of that involves losing the weight I have put on.”

The room fell silent.  I’m not sure if people were spellbound by the gravity of the testimony they had just borne witness to, or they thought I was crazy. Either way, they continued to treat me pretty well in the aftermath.  And so my journey began.  As a person, I am tailor-made for a program such as this, where you can basically eat anything you want as long as you account for it.  Somewhere in the accounting process, I found myself making better choices.  And the weight started to come off weekly, three pounds, one pound, two and a half pounds, and time continued to pass as the scale became increasingly kinder each week.  Now, eight months later, with some new breeches and new belts to hold them up, I am at the weight I set out to be last winter, and Lola no longer bolts when I go to catch her in the paddock.

Lola. I'm her everything, but she's glad there's now less of me.

 Lola has become somewhat of a celebrity at my weekly meeting.  Although none of the members has actually met her, they seem amused by my slightly exaggerated tales of Lola’s campaign to get me to, and keep me involved in, a weight loss program. Recently, we were asked once again to share from personal experience, this time about the ways in which our weight loss had benefitted us.  “Much more energy!” Yes, of course. “Less joint pain.”  Yeah, me too. “Lower blood pressure, less snoring, lower cholesterol.” Didn’t have those problems (with possible exception of snoring) but yes, that’s a huge benefit.  Then, my turn..

“Here’s a huge benefit I’ve seen, which is largely symbolic but truly valuable in a practical sense as well. Probably not many of you know or can appreciate the significance of what we as riders call ground mounting.  In an English saddle, most of us use a mounting block or get a leg-up from another person to mount our horse. Ground mounting, which involves bringing your toe up to your belly button, placing your foot in the iron, and thrusting yourself up onto your 16hh horse’s back, is a technique reserved for teenagers and Olympic athletes.  At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past few years.  Well recently, I decided to school Bella, another mare of ours, on the trail.  A point came where I had to dismount to guide her over what she thought was a life threatening monster looming under the bridge spanning a creek.  Once on the other side, looking around for a tree stump or a log to aid my re-mounting, I found none.  I thought for a minute, then decided to try something I had not been able to attempt in over ten years: I slowly brought my left foot up to my belly, pushed it with my fingers into the iron, bounced on my right leg one, two, and YES! I was in the saddle! And THAT is what losing weight has done for me…”

Lola no longer bolts when I catch her.

Once again, my non-horsey audience was riveted by tales of my accomplishments on horseback. They were… cordial. Okay, tolerant. They indulged me my moment. Which was just fine. This is one time I’m glad to be thought of as “less of a rider.”

Also visit us on Facebook: Tom Gumbrecht, or on Twitter @tcgelec

As The Twig Is Bent..

AS THE TWIG IS BENT                                                                                                                     

Originally published in
 Horse Directory, October 2012

By Tom Gumbrecht

There is a saying that states, “As the twig is bent, the tree inclines”. Put in the context of training of the horse and rider, it could be taken to mean, “A casual suggestion, helpful or hurtful, when uttered from a respected source, may affect the kind of rider he or she may ultimately become”.

In becoming an effective rider, some of the things that need to be developed are balance, stamina, independent aids, patience, and self-image.  The first qualities are obvious, but self-image? What does that have to do with riding a horse effectively?

Having begun my riding career in my mid-forties, my only experiences are as an adult rider.  As adults, there are usually a few things we’re good at: our jobs, raising children if we have them, perhaps a sport or two, maybe a special skill like gardening, sailing or home improvement. We tend to stick to the things we’re good at because… well, it’s more fun doing things we’re good at than doing things we’re not good at.  So that’s pretty much what I did until age 45 when I rode my first horse.  Then it all changed.

Those afflicted with a love of horses and riding need no explanation for what ensued; those who haven’t been won’t understand anyway. While I found that I loved being around horses and learning to ride, I also was a bit uncomfortable at being so bad at something.  I was not what one would call a “natural rider”.  As I developed my balance, strength, and seat, I found that I needed to work on something else as well… my self-image. Self-image is not so much who we are, it’s a kind of combination of who we wish to be, who we’re afraid we are, how we think others perceive us, and what we believe ourselves worthy of.  In the beginning, my self-image as a rider was fragile. An ill-placed comment could discourage me for days; a great lesson had me trotting on clouds.

Curiously, I had an image of myself as riding jumpers almost from the start. Investigating many disciplines, nothing seemed so perfectly correct in my fledgling vision of how a horse should go, than watching a horse and rider on course in a jumper round. I found myself volunteering to help set up jump courses on Friday afternoons before weekend horse shows, and taking photos of the riders and studying them.  I secretly thought my aspirations were a bit juvenile and unrealistic, like a kid wanting to be an astronaut. Still, I designed a logo with the name of the barn I was planning to build that featured a jumping horse…. before I had ever jumped a horse. I saw myself in boots and breeches long before I had the guts to wear them. While I could ride all day, I found it tiring watching other people ride… except for the jumpers.

As months and years passed and time in the saddle began accumulating, it began to seem as if my goal was not totally unrealistic. As small successes boosted my resolve, I found myself becoming more protective of the image of myself as a rider that I was fostering.  Let’s face it, riding requires a major expenditure of mental and physical effort, time, and money.  If I allow my self-image to become damaged to the level that it’s no longer fun, there’s no point. But exactly how can I protect it?

At some point in my riding, I began to develop a point of view of my own.  I developed, or more accurately, became aware of, my own standards of how a horse should be treated and trained, and how I as a student of riding and horsemanship would allow myself to be treated.  I began associating with people who shared my point of view.  I chose to train with those who took the positive aspects of my riding and used them as blocks upon which to build me up as a rider. Those who sought to focus on negatives were left to find other victims.

We all tend to act out the roles we feel have been assigned to us.  That role exists in the image we have of ourselves.  The different facets of the horse world are like a row of doors, locked so we can’t get in, but made of glass so we can see what’s on the other side.  Our self-image holds the key to the one we belong in, and that’s why I’ve grown to protect it so fiercely.

I ride jumpers.  Don’t look for my name in the LI Jumpers Hall of Fame because it won’t be there. I am not accomplished. I am not polished. I am competent.  I used to dream of flight on horseback. Now, when the whistle blows, I can go out in front of a judge on one of those courses I used to set jumps on and fly.

That wouldn’t have happened had I permitted skeptics, naysayers and contrarians to bend the twig that might have leaned the tree in a completely different direction.  I’m grateful for the knowledge, kind words and encouragement from those whom I chose to accompany me on my journey that have helped it stand tall.

                                          High on my list of positive people: Trainer Laura

                                          Ruben of Affari Horse Farms returning from longing

                                          DannyBoy as I walk the course at Hunters' Isle

Who's The Workhorse

WHO’S THE WORKHORSE?  

                                                                   Originally published in Horse Directory, September 2012

The author and Lola training at Affari Horse Farm

 By Tom Gumbrecht

It’s generally the same question that gets asked when someone finds out that you keep horses:

“Aren’t they a lot of work?” Even though I’ve heard it a thousand times, I’m still sometimes stuck for an answer. I think of work as something that you have to do, and leisure as something you want to do.  But the dictionary says this:

Work  [wurk] noun

 Exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something; labor, toil.

So.. maybe horses are a lot of work, because that’s exactly what we do a lot of: directing our efforts to accomplish something.  Sometimes the comment is dismissive, as in, “I would never want to do that much work for a hobby.” But sometimes the questioner seems genuinely interested in what is involved in keeping a horse. Attempting objectivity, I will sometimes run down a typical week in my backyard barn:

Monday- Friday:                    Morning feed, care and cleaning, 6:00am- 7:00am

                                                Riding (when possible), 3:30-4:30pm    

            Afternoon feed, care and cleaning, 4:30-5:30

            Evening hay, care and cleaning, 8:00-8:45pm

Alternate Fridays:                 60 mile roundtrip to pick up feed and bedding

Saturday:                                Normal daily routine, plus:

                                                Trailer out to lessons at trainer’s facility, 8:00am – 12:00 noon

                                                Barn, paddock, trailer maintenance, 2:00pm-3:00pm

Sunday:                                   Normal daily routine, plus:

                                                Trailer out to horse park, 9:00am – 12:00 noon

                                                Barn, paddock maintenance, 2:00pm – 3:00pm

This is a typical week but can change fairly radically when we are showing, or when we have a sick or injured horse, or some major project like ring footing or barn painting. In an average week I spend close to 40 hours on the horses. In addition to my day job, which is a full time, non-horse business.

So, I guess, yes, it is a lot of work. It just doesn’t feel like it. It feels like leisure, but the dictionary says this about leisure:

Leisure [lee-zher] noun

Freedom from the demands of work or duty.

Hmmm. So, I guess it’s not a leisure activity, because it is somewhat demanding work, and there is definitely a sense of duty involved.

The thing is this:  My day job can be physically and mentally challenging.  The work is competitive, and every new bid is like interviewing for a new job. Schedules can be tight and inflexible, clients can be very demanding, and payments can be slow. That’s when it feels like work. But sometimes clients actually look forward to us coming, respect and appreciate what we do and show it, and the transaction feels less like business and more like a means of exchange of love and service to our fellow man.

That’s how my horses make me feel, all the time. I feel missed, needed, appreciated and loved. That’s why the time I invest in their care, training and performance doesn’t seem like work. That, and the scores of people I’ve met over the years who feel just the way that I do, has made mine a much richer existence.  For a long time, I didn’t really know exactly how I fit into this giant puzzle called life.  As someone else once said, “When I’m with horses, the question of where I want to be and what I want to do, has been answered.”

Perhaps we need a new word to convey that which is hard work, but at the same time fun, relaxing, rewarding and fulfilling.  What do you call someone who works hard at a job that is never done, but seems to never tire or grow weary of it, and never wants it to end.  How about just call me lucky.

The Author and DannyBoy in the dressage ring at Good Shepherd Farm