GIVING THANKS

GIVING THANKS

By Tom Gumbrecht

Originally published in Horse Directory, Nov-Dec 2015

On Thanksgiving, we pause to give thanks for the things in our lives that we are grateful for. As time goes on, I find myself asking the question, “Am I grateful for the things that I've been given, or have many things been given to me because I'm grateful?” As the years pass, I've begun to think it's more the latter.

Recently, I read a line by Melodie Beattie that sums up what I've come to believe: “Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend.”

Thankful for a wonderful trainer, friends and family.

Thankful for my tirelessly supportive
wife Mary, and my sweet OTTB
mare, Lola.

Conversely, I believe, a life without gratitude can turn an idyllic setting into a barren wasteland. Join me at the horse show: Without gratitude, everyone who parks their trailer except me is an idiot. Without gratitude, my trainer is always preoccupied with others and I don't get the attention I deserve. Without gratitude, other trainers in the warmup ring are all inconsiderate jerks. Without gratitude, the judge is either blind or politically influenced and I had no chance of winning even before I came into the ring. Without gratitude, everyone who places above us does so only because someone bought them a more expensive horse. Without gratitude, every choice I've made to get to where I am seems like the wrong one, everyone who rides or trains differently is misguided, the show secretary is too slow, the classes start too early or run too late and the coffee from the catering truck sucks.

Without gratitude, it all sucks.

When I'm grateful, my twelve year old truck and trailer is just fine. When I'm grateful, I am amazed that I have a horse that can do what mine does, and does so willingly. When I'm grateful, my trainer is the very best trainer and she just always seems to get me and my horse.  When I'm grateful, there's nothing better than a cup of hot coffee while going over our courses while waiting for our division, I'm ecstatic with the $100 we won in jumpers when the day cost us $400+, and I can't believe that a formerly sedentary sideline

observer of sports such as I, found his niche in equestrian competition.

Thankful to be able to share my
passion with baby Daniel.

I know one thing, above all else, to be true: There is no happiness without gratitude. I've learned a lot since becoming a member of the horse community, and the most important thing I've learned is to say thank you. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

BROMANCE

BROMANCE

By Tom Gumbrecht

Originally published in Horse Directory, October 2015

The human heart protects itself from pain sometimes. It works with the mind to tell it that the thing we have become separated from and miss so badly, was perhaps not as good as we remembered.

DannyBoy was not my first horse, but he was the first horse I rode in competition. He was the first horse of my own that I rode in a regular program of lessons and daily practice. He was the horse that made an older rider's crazy dreams of competing over fences a reality. We learned together; he had courage enough for both of us, and I learned to be secure enough to channel his energy and stay out of his way.

We had a few good seasons in the lower
levels of eventing.

We had had a couple of good seasons in lower level eventing and jumpers at local venues when Danny took a bad step. It was serious enough to require surgery, and his rehabilitation had a setback or two. I learned to know him on a whole different level throughout that experience. I was, through daily therapy, laser treatments and handwalking, taking care of the of the legs that had taken such good care of me. He seemed to appreciate my efforts, and was a remarkably good patient, given his gregarious personality that placed little value on quiet rest. It was eighteen months before he had healed enough to be considered sound.

During that time period, I had begun working with my OTTB mare, Lola, and she required all of the time that I could afford to spend on riding and still maintain my other duties. At the same time, young Samantha had come back from college and her horse Bella had been sidelined with a soundness issue also. A solution was needed, and into the mix went my personal time constraints, a now-sound horse that required a good rider, and a good rider in need of a horse. From those ingredients came the team of DannyBoy and Samantha who enjoyed a great season in jumpers and a refreshed perspective toward competition for both team members.  I was proud of both of them but distanced myself from DannyBoy somewhat, at least from a riding perspective, as I thought their experience would be best served by limiting the team to Sam, Danny, and our shared trainer.

Life doesn't often follow the orderly course that we lay out for it, and life put many new experiences and responsibilities on Samantha's plate. Danny's show career was once again interrupted; I was still very busy with my Thoroughbred mare, and my riding relationship with Danny was now relegated to the occasional trail. My experience with the mare was so completely different from what Danny and I had, that my mind had begun playing tricks on me.

Danny needed to learn a lot of skills, but once learned he only needed guidance in directing his efforts; emboldening him was not required. Lola, conversely, needed encouragement in every aspect of riding. As a former pilot, I recall the difference between flying an airplane and a helicopter. An airplane can be set up to cruise, and you can kind of sit back and let it fly itself until some change of altitude or direction is needed, and then you apply the appropriate control pressures. A helicopter needs to be flown actively all the time. Lola is a helicopter.

Riding Lola over fences required much more mental and physical focus than I had been used to. She made me a better rider, for sure. But over time, in my mind that experience insidiously began to negate what DannyBoy and I had. I began to think that what we had was all him, without much from me. Was I merely a passenger at all of those shows and Horse Trials? It was beginning to seem so.

One day while reminiscing, we said "Let's do this!"

One day this summer, I looked out at Danny and he looked at me. Normally the class clown, his personality would change when he was tacked up and that day proved no exception: as expected, he went from goon to warrior by the time the girth was tightened. I felt a wave of confidence that day and set up as big a gymnastic as I could fit in my ring, first all ground poles, adding some crossrails as we went along. At last we increased them to all verticals at a height which would require a little bit of a jumping effort. I took a breath. It was a short approach. He turned an ear back; I answered with just the hint of a leg and his ear went forward. I tried to maintain the light contact that Lola required over fences and he reminded me with two cocked ears that he was not Lola. Hands forward, eyes up, heels down, breathe in, breathe out, one fence, two-three-four, beautiful! A slight turn of his head enabled eye contact enough to say, "How was that?" A vigorous pat on the neck was how I answered.

We were a team. Time had interrupted our performance, but the team was still intact. Surely Lola required more of an exacting ride. But Danny required trust. Enough trust to let him do his job and not get in his way and attempt to micro-manage. Riding that line, we were having a conversation. I told him what I wanted and he complied. He told me what he needed and I gave it to him. I used to make him shout his requests at me. Now he merely needs to speak them, and when we're at our best, he need only whisper.

My very dignified partner, DannyBoy

Recently, Danny and I spent a day at a local park. The early fall day was cool and invigorating. We walked leisurely, had a few brisk canters and were heading back when we came upon a gentleman on horseback who was eager for conversation. We stopped and chatted, and Danny was patient for 3-4 minutes and then had enough and wanted to move. I suggested that we walk and talk as my guy had a time limit on his idle setting. To my surprise I received a kind of admonishment for not having a horse that would stand still indefinitely. Not normally a fan of unasked-for advice, I nonetheless was as polite as I could force myself to be: "I admire people who take the time to train for that, and I admire horses that do that. We were eventers, and what was important to me was to build a mutual trust that would have him walk through fire for me when needed."

As my acquaintance continued his insistence that I assign what he considered to be a serious safety issue the same importance he did, we came upon a sizable fallen tree on the trail that presented itself as about a three foot fence. Danny looked, I looked, he cocked an ear and I answered with leg. In an instant we were on the other side, and we waited quietly at the next bend for our acquaintance to find a path around the tree. "Nice jump." "Thanks." We continued on at a brisk trot, Danny taking the lead now. If there any further admonishments, we didn't hear them.

We arrived at my trailer, and I jumped off and loosened his girth. I pulled his saddle and switched bridle for halter and he was grazing within seconds. Continuing our conversation, about five minutes passed when the horse began dancing under my acquaintance and they beat a hasty exit. "Gotta go!" "Ok then. Be safe!” In the warm afternoon sun, Danny and I indulged ourselves a bit; he on the delicious grass and myself on the irony.

God, I love this horse.

LIFE'S TACK ROOM

LIFE’S TACK ROOM                                                                                     September 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht 

The dictionary defines “tack room” as “a place where bridles and saddles are kept.” In the case of our barn, it is that: a 12’ X 12’ room with a 7’6” ceiling, a fluorescent light and a floor covered by stall mats. It has racks for saddles and hooks for bridles and shelves for saddle pads, bandages and wraps. Our tack room doubles as a feed room so there are feed bins and drawers for supplements and cabinets for medications and dressings. Simple, functional storage. But it is more than that.

It is home base for a life that became centered around horses fifteen years ago. It is the 

"Preparing to hang the first saddle"

classroom where many of life's important lessons have been learned, the altar where we have 

prayed for positive outcomes of the challenges of our charges. It has been the command center during a crisis, refuge during a blizzard, shelter during a hurricane. We have celebrated victories and mourned losses here. We have dreamed lofty dreams and been made to face harsh realities here. It has been ground zero for the myriad of emotions that have accompanied a life with horses, and been the place that we have stored the memories of all the life lessons they have taught us.

Top: Early feline inhabitants  Center: Two
cats sharing four kittens  Bottom: Guarding
the tack room.

When the barn was first completed, we didn't yet have a horse of our own to occupy it, so the 
first occupants were a pair of feral kittens that Samantha rescued from the grounds of her 
elementary school. She borrowed a large crate and put it in the corner of the tack room and 
nursed and cared for the kittens which were without a mother. Within a few days the kittens 
were joined by a one-eyed barn owl that set up housekeeping near the peak of the rafters. 

Within the month our first equine family member, Buddy, arrived. He was adopted and came 
with an old, dusty western saddle which sat in stark contrast to the shiny new saddle rack that 
it rested on. In another month Buddy was joined by a mare, Magic, who had retired from the 
hack line at a trail riding barn in Pennsylvania. Now we had two bridles gracing the dozen or 
more hooks on the wall. Little by little we filled the shelves and hooks with tack and equipment 
garnered from friends, swap meets and mail-order catalogs. We became regulars at local tack 
shops and the room filled up quickly. 

When Buddy got sick we learned to mix his medications on the counter here, and devised 

A low-tech barn "message board"

clever ways to sneak them into him. We made a mess trying to mix poultices and did it again 
until it became second nature. We threw T-shirts covered with paste wormer into the trash can 
here until we figured out how to administer them more cleanly. We assisted feral cats with breached kitten births and witnessed another cat taking over for an overwhelmed mother who abandoned her litter and then returned unchallenged to accept her responsibility. We were shocked by a possum and several raccoon squatters and learned how to politely evict them. We were enchanted by white tailed deer peering in the window and startled by walking into giant spider webs.

On a small bench here, we have sat and dreamed of how far our horse might take us in the 
show ring, and have at other times wondered how we were going to pay the next hay bill. We 
have daydreamed about a horse taking us to the next level and prayed that our senior please 
stay healthy for another winter. 

Fabulous friendships were begun within these four walls and a few that needed to end also had 
that happen here. It was here that I was faced with making that dreaded decision that all 
animal stewards are ultimately called to make, and here that I had to tell a young Sam that her 
mare’s young spirit needed to be freed of her sick and aged body. On these walls hung the first 
tri-color ribbons from one horse and x-rays showing the need for many months of rehabilitation 
on another. 

Our tack room is rustic, yet with some
unexpected comforts.

Upon these rubber mats have fallen tears of grief and tears of joy. Here we have experienced 
the best and the worst of life and learned to be grateful for both. Because within these four 
walls, we have not just observed life… we have learned how to live it. In this room is stored 
saddles, bridles, boots and the memories of a life spent in the company of horses. Our tack room is not air conditioned, it is dusty and has cobwebs and no curtains on the windows. It has no furniture to speak of, no TV or WiFi. But it is the most comfortable room we have.

NEW BEGINNINGS: The Birth of a Horse Farm

NEW BEGINNINGS – The Birth of a Horse Farm        

Originally published in Horse Directory Magazine,  AUGUST 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

I like my job as a self employed electrician, I like horses, and I like helping people. Occasionally I get to put the three of them together, and that, I love. It's the most fun part of my job. When someone hires me to do a job, I become part of their life for a period of time, which depending on the size of the project could be hours, days, weeks or months.

Recently playing a small part in having a new barn owner
realize her dream of a beautiful new horse facility.

We have occasionally in the past used these pages to lament the closing of horse farms on Long Island, and the mixed feelings generated by being both a horseman whose passion depends on preservation of open space, and a tradesman whose livelihood depends on progress and development. But sometimes, development comes in the form of creating a new horse farm. When that happens, I feel no inner conflict. It's the best of both worlds, and I'm in my element. As a professional electrician, I have acquired the knowledge and experience to properly advise clients on the unique electrical requirements for horse barns. As a equestrian who evolved from student to rider to competitor to horse owner, I made the leap to barn owner and horseman. It was more than a new title, it was a totally new lifestyle and I know really well the mental gymnastics that go along with taking on such a life changing commitment.

I've been around the electrical trade for over forty years so I'm ok with being called an expert in my field.

Putting the finishing touches on a new
barn as its first occupant moves in.

I've been around horses for seventeen years this month, not a long time in the horse world by any means, so I don't consider myself an expert in the world of horses. What I do have is experience, the willingness to share it and a true desire to have others learn from my mistakes. That puts me in a unique position to sometimes be able to be of help when someone makes the leap from being a rider and a horse owner to taking on the role of barn owner/ manager, horse caregiver, groom, chauffeur and vet tech, not as an expert so much as a coach. When I get hired to wire a new horse barn for a first time barn owner, I frequently also become a de facto backyard barn consultant.

I look at your eyes when you begin to speak of your horses and the prospect of having them at home, and maybe I see the same sparkle that I had at that point and I share in your excitement. You are a sponge for knowledge and we will likely speak of things like grading and drainage and proper access for hay suppliers and farriers and veterinarians and the management of manure.  We might touch upon arena construction and maintenance and tractors and trucks and trailers.  A million things that never needed to be thought of but now demand to be addressed: stall footings, bedding types and storage, lighting, ventilation, water service, plumbing, snow removal, handling of sick and injured horses. These are the things we rarely needed to think about as boarders: hay and grain storage, fencing types, fence maintenance, gate placement, hot wires, stock tanks and heaters, blanket changes during the day, management of meds and supplements and special equipment and secure storage for tack. The list seems endless and the details can become overwhelming.

A decrepit swimming pool is transformed
into a riding arena at the author's barn.

There are a million places to get technical advice online today. Everyone has an opinion and some are convinced that their way is the only way. I try not to add to the confusion because I’m just sharing my experience. By the time I get to see you, generally your mind has already been made up.  You have made the commitment to keep horses at home, and are now getting caught up in details, perhaps second guessing and experiencing self-doubt. What I try to convey is my belief that if you have the commitment, you have it all. When things turn difficult as they inevitably will, commitment finds a way. Commitment doesn't think twice about spending a night in the barn to make sure an ailing horse is all right. Commitment happily makes personal sacrifices so that the horses don't have to. Our horses grow older but they never grow up. They never outgrow the need for our commitment. If you have it, you have everything it takes, for everything else can be learned. If you don't have it, even with the best horses in the most well-appointed stable, you don't have much at all.

When I sense that commitment, I use the opportunity to offer my hope, confidence, and an underlying assurance that everything will be all right. The naysayers and fear-mongers have all taken their best shots at you, and you have decided to do it anyway. Now you need to know that you can do it, and I offer myself as living proof of that: an ordinary person with ordinary skills, ordinary athletic ability, ordinary finances, and perhaps a level of commitment that's a little above average. I share the fears I once had so that you know you are not alone when you experience them. Sometimes, I get to be there when your horse comes home for the first time. You can't believe that this is actually your life and all the planning, paying and working has now culminated in you having your own farm. It's a privilege to be able to share in that, and it’s one of the best parts of my job.

Sometimes when the struggles of working and being in business occasionally wear on me and I wonder what

Nothing like bringing a new horse home to a new barn.
Here, the author's mother-in-law Connie welcomes Magic.

life would have been like had I made different choices, I remind myself of the benefits of the opportunities that sometimes cross my path: I get to provide a needed service, for people I enjoy being around and share a common interest with, and perhaps pass along some of the passion I've acquired for the horsey lifestyle.

I got to see for myself how horses could transform a life from the average to the passionate and committed. To witness that phenomenon in others is especially gratifying.

We don't get to speak "horse" on the job
all the time, but it's fun when we do..

A JOB WITH BENEFITS

A JOB WITH BENEFITS           

Originally published in Horse Directory,  July 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

I’ll be 62 this month. For some, that means thoughts of retirement, but for me, being self-employed, not so much. I enjoy my work anyway. Still, it has fostered thoughts of what life will be like when the aging process continues it's slow erosion of a body whose work and recreation have been of the physical kind. I've been lucky in that regard, so far.

Sometimes the physical demands of horsekeeping
can be great.

Keeping horses is a physical endeavor, and each year the demands are a little greater, no doubt exacerbated by the harsher winters we seem to have been experiencing. The winter chores are the most difficult, and can seem at times to be an un-winnable battle.

The prospect of one day being on a fixed income brings other concerns about sustaining a horsey lifestyle. Even owning the facilities and doing all of the work ourselves, it's still a significant expense. We've moved on from competing regularly and although we still train, it's for the continual development of horse and rider rather than the clear goals of competition. We do take the horses to the park for trail rides as time and weather permit, but it seems that most of what we do consists of horse care and farm maintenance.

That's the side of the story as might be told by a financial planner, but as we all know, there's more to it than that, and another kind of cost/ benefit analysis:

 I have a reason to wake up early each day. The first hour of every day is spent in a tranquil environment where I am gently but enthusiastically greeted by soft nickers and soft eyes that say “welcome.”

It's said that there is much peace to be found in organization and routine, and that may be part of the reason that I feel so peaceful in the barn. It is one area of my life that is well organized and the routine is familiar.

Much is said about the benefits of living life from the point of view of gratitude; it's kind of the latest pop-psych buzzword. Our barn is a world filled with mutual gratitude that is clearly expressed when I take the

The author, Samantha and DannyBoy introduce
grandbaby Daniel to the world of horses

time to listen. Intentions are clear, and there are no hidden agendas. Actions are the main tools of communication and words are unnecessary. The is no ambiguity here. What you see is what you get. Relationships are easy when you always know where you stand.

I was able to uncover a hidden passion for horses that transcended riding, not to downplay that part. But I discovered within me certain qualities, a patience, a teach-ability if you will, and the willingness to care for ill and injured horses. When a human is sick or injured, my immediate reaction is to call someone equipped to handle it, and take the role of support staff. When an animal is injured, my reaction us to jump in immediately, do what I can, and call for help later if needed. Are my priorities misplaced? I don't know. Theses are qualities that have surfaced that I seem to have been born with, so I attempt to make the most of them.

It's a nice thing to start and end each day with the feeling of accomplishment of clear needs squarely met. It helps to balance the frustrations that daily life and business can sometimes bring. People make extensive plans to attend spiritual retreats in order to connect more closely with a Higher Power, God, the Great Spirit, the Universe or whatever name we wish to give a power greater than ourselves. I have the privilege of living such a retreat daily, at least for a few hours.

Those are some of the line items on my cost/ benefit analysis, understood fully by those fluent in the language of the heart that is spoken in the barn.

Knowing that the horses are securely tucked
in gives a warm feeling.

RESIST NOT CHANGE

“RESIST NOT CHANGE”

By Tom Gumbrecht               Originally published in Horse Directory Magazine, June 2015

The list of uncomfortable changes that I've gone through in my life with horses is an extensive one. To the casual observer, it might seem like some really bad luck in copious quantities. Here are a few highlights:

Circus gave the author many firsts,
including his first unintentional dismount.

The first seems so minor now, but it felt like a big deal when it happened. I began riding at a lesson/ show barn. I enjoyed my lessons and free riding on the flat, but I kept exploring the far reaches of the property during cool-down, secretly always wanting to canter the vineyards across the street. I finally talked my trainer into taking me over there, and within the first minute my horse got spooked and after a bad spin I hit the ground and my horse high-tailed it back to the barn, crossing an active roadway in the process. I emerged from my first unintentional dismount ok physically, as was the horse, but I was riddled with guilt for having pushed and pushed to do something that ultimately put a horse in danger. I vowed to never leave the safety of the property again.

The next episode was a tough one. I had slowly become part of the horse culture, if not yet the show culture, of the wonderful barn where I had learned to ride. It was my first exposure to a barn family and I was accepted into it. Life was good. And one day it all changed when the owners made the decision to relocate out of state. The farm was sold as a non-horse property and the horse facilities were dismantled. My comfort zone and new-found barn family just evaporated. My riding life was over.

In another instance I found myself in a rough board situation, sharing a horse with a very experienced owner who no longer rode. I had almost unlimited access to a really good horse, a wealth of knowledge at my fingertips and magnificent trails on an adjoining preserve that no one else used or even knew about, for the price of some hay. All this within 10 minutes of my western Long Island workplace! It seemed to be too good to be true, and I guess it was. There developed some conflict at this little barn that ultimately made the arrangement unworkable. With a heavy heart I had to say goodbye to what seemed like paradise.

The first horse I ever actually owned was perfect for me. He had a great personality, and was older and

Buddy, the first horse owned by the
author, seen with mom Helen..

tolerated my frequent gaffes and miscues with aplomb. Although a senior, he still had plenty of spunk and gave me just enough of a challenge to make our rides interesting without being dangerous. We rode for three years when he got sick and could no longer be ridden. His illness was all-consuming, emotionally and financially. It felt like being on a roller coaster: the highs reached with short-lived improvements and the lows terrifying with more setbacks.

Our second horse was a stalwart. She was, dependable, healthy, honest and fun. Always there, always up for anything and a great baby-sitter. A senior also, she brightened our days for four years, when she had a bad colic and was gone within several days of taking ill. It seemed as if our dreams were star-crossed.

A point came sometime later where I had gained enough experience and confidence to enter the world of horse showing. In the small world of eventing on Long Island, I had acquired a courageous horse with a natural talent that we developed with the help of a trainer and did well in the lower levels over two years or so. Unexplainably he injured his suspensory ligament and had to have surgery which put him, and me, out of the

DannyBoy with the author at an early eventing show.

show ring for 18 months. If it weren't for bad luck, it seemed I wouldn't have any.

My focus was diverted to a side project at one point, and myself and another person planned to try our hand at procuring an OTTB at auction, retraining and showing the horse and selling it before picking up another in a small effort to give some ex-racehorses a new start. A magnificent plan which fell apart 24 hours after we picked up our first one at New Holland. The following day the drugs that had apparently been given to this very recently off the track mare, wore off revealing an injury that would have her incapacitated indefinitely. My project partner was understandably not up for this level of challenge so I found myself in way over my head and alone. It was beginning to look like I should have perhaps taken up a different sport. But things are not always how they initially seem…

So here is, as Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story:

The incident in the vineyard did not lead to never leaving the supposed safety of the riding ring again. Instead, it enticed me to find a different and safe venue to explore trail riding. While still learning to be a better technical rider on my leased horse at the farm, I would supplement that with weekly (or more) trail rides at a local hack stable. I learned to ride many different horses under many different conditions and met a lot of people who shared my enthusiasm.

The closing of my home barn set into motion a creative quest to stay connected to horses in some way. That

Magic was dependable, brought comic relief and
gave us our first lesson in letting go.

led to the rough board situation where I learned from an expert, how to care for a horse’s needs in addition to riding. This was experience that would become invaluable later. A short time after I was forced to end that situation, I resignedly answered an ad in the newspaper seeking volunteers for a local therapeutic riding program, simply as a way to, again, stay connected. What I got was much more. I experienced another side of the horse world where horses were the teachers, counselors and therapists. I again expanded my network and made what have become lifelong friends. I was reintroduced to formal training through renewed contacts from my first barn who had resurfaced, and joined some of them at a local HJ barn where I proceeded to pursue my dream of becoming a jumper rider.

The difficult loss of relationships with horses, and its effect on me, prompted my wife to suggest that I get my own horse. I expanded on that to include getting our own barn and she went along with it! That's in effect how Dreamcatcher Farm got started.

My first horse’s illness was devastating for him, inconvenient for me. When I finally was able to see things that way, I was able to use the skills I had learned at the rough board barn to keep him comfortable and nurse him back to health. That was a long journey but along the way I became a horseman. I learned how to not give up when situations looked dire.

But I needed another lesson. I needed to learn when and how to let go, and our second horse, the mare, taught me that hard lesson. That there was a difference between giving up and releasing with love. Later, the untimely injury of my event horse allowed me to spend a lot of time just being with him. He was (and is) a take-charge kind of guy, and although we worked very well on course together, he was not an easy horse to bond with. Hour-long leg treatments, wrapping and handwalking every day for many months provided that opportunity and provided valuable experience for what would become my next challenge.

Lola, not long before she landed at the author's stable.

The lofty dreams I had for my beautiful, muscular ex-racehorse were dashed when the veterinarian confirmed our fears of a serious front leg injury. I felt as if I was between a rock and a hard place, and I didn't know if I could willingly take on a situation as grave as this. Yet the alternatives seemed to be to misrepresent and re-sell her as had been done to me, or euthanasia, and I wasn't willing to consider either. As I wasn't able to fathom the level of commitment that I would need to muster, I just took things a day at a time. And a day at a time we worked, and we bonded; we were jubilant with small victories and crushed by setbacks. We asked for help when we were in over our heads, which was frequently. And she got better, and I got better. She didn't know much except the racetrack, and how to be a good horse, but that ended up being enough. We got trained to train her, and we did. And we got to ultimately be the person in the irons when she trotted into the show ring in front of the first crowd since the one at her last racetrack. That remains my most cherished ribbon.

Through her and all of the others I found my little niche in the horse world. It wasn't bad luck forcing situations upon me, it was the universe opening doors that I would not have otherwise known were there. The thing is, I wouldn't have chosen any of these situations had I been given the option. Were they good things or bad things? Neither. They were necessary things. Necessary in order to bring me to the point where I am now, which is prepared for unknown opportunities already on their way.

Even though I seem to not always remember it very well, things work much better for me when I live my life in preparation for something better to come.

HORSES AT HOME

HORSES AT HOME                  

                                                                  Originally published in Horse Directory,  May 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

Should I keep my horse at home? Many horse owners have considered that question at some point in their horsey lives.

To those expecting an in-depth analysis of the financial and practical pros and cons of keeping horses at home, I apologize. You won't find that here. I am a fairly practical person in other areas of life, but when it comes to horses, practical is not the first adjective that would come to the mind of most in describing me. This is just a story about my very unlikely journey from a green-as-grass newbie to a rider, horse owner and barn owner.

Dreamcatcher Farm.. before the bulldozers

 When I was first introduced to horses and riding at age 45, I had been through a few hobbies already. I was a private pilot at age 20, captained my own sailboat at age 29, and was into semi-extreme off roading at age 42. I had always jumped into my pursuits with both feet, became completely immersed in them, reached a certain level of competency and then began looking for the next challenge.  I didn't plan it that way, but that's the way it always seemed to happen.

I experienced probably all of the frustrations that an adult beginner experiences, sometimes thinking that it would be prudent to just give up, but I never seriously considered that.  I investigated many disciplines along the way in an effort to find my niche. I met jumpers, hunters, trail riders, reiners, barrel racers, dressage riders and most seemed to have found their way in the horse world. They were pleasure riders, competitors, those seeking to experience their personal best with their equine partner. Some no longer rode at all, and just enjoyed the social atmosphere of the barn, and the bonding that takes place while hand grazing and grooming and just being with their horsey friend. I could identify with all of them, but since all of my acquaintances at that time were boarders at commercial barns, I had never met many people who had the aspirations that I did: to have my own barn and have horses at home.

Oddly, this wasn't a dream that built up slowly over time.  I realized it as soon as it seemed that my interest in horses was more than a passing fancy. It was reinforced when, several months into my training and to the shock of my friends and family, it seemed quite sensible for me to lease my first horse. Still, the idea of owning a horse property on Long Island seemed unattainable. Then, something else happened.

 

Riding ring base going in.

About a year and a half after my arrival at the barn, it was announced that it would be closing in a couple of months, being sold to a non-horsey purchaser, and the owners were moving out of state. The owners, touting the climate and value of the area they were moving to, sent me listings of horse properties in the area. While relocating was not a real possibility, my interest had been piqued, and at this time the real estate business was beginning to have a big presence on the internet. Looking at properties, once an arduous process of endless rides with agents on weekends, had now been streamlined to the point where one could sift through a hundred or more properties or more in a single evening on the couch. And so it was that I began a “just for fun” search for horse properties on Long Island.  After meeting an agent who was also a horseman, the idea was planted to search for, rather than established horse facilities, properties zoned for horses and properly laid out to accommodate a barn, paddocks and riding ring that we would build ourselves.

Beginning to look like a barn..

Being in the construction trades, the prospect of such a project was not daunting; rather it was kind of exciting. We made a list of things we needed to have and things that we wanted to have and within a couple of months found a place that met just about all of our requirements. What started out as not much more than a lark, ended up in the realization that by doing a large amount of the work ourselves, we could actually have a horse property in western Suffolk County, Long Island while still being within reasonable commuting of our jobs in Nassau County. And we did buy it, and build it, and so was born Dreamcatcher Farm.

This summer will mark the seventeenth year from the time that I rode my first horse, and this fall the fifteenth year since we bought the property. There have been many challenges that we have faced since then, but the underlying theme for our experiences here has been, quoting from the movie Field of Dreams, “If you build it, they will come.” Many incredible people have come into our lives since we created our little farm, and I remain convinced that raising a family in the company of horses is how I was meant to live my life.

 

Buddy, the first resident of Dreamcatcher Farm.. on his first day!

In working with horses, I have found my proper place. I'm no longer looking for the next challenge because each horse presents a new challenge on each new day.  I have been a farm hand, a student, a competitor, a teacher, a groom, a physical therapist and a nurse. I have smiled much and cried some.  On the practical side, it has allowed me to keep three horses at once, which I could not do in a commercial boarding situation. Why three, non-horse people seem to always ask? Simple: the up and coming youngster, the dependable and confident middle-aged guy, and the one who has done it all and is now mostly retired. I love being able to jump on a horse and ride, having the flexibility to work with a young horse and having the ability to care for a senior.  I love them all for some of the same reasons and some different reasons.

Is keeping horses at home for everyone? I’m sure it isn't. I probably get to ride less than my friends who board, but in my case it was the path that I was always drawn to follow. It ended up being the right path for me. But, assuming that most people who keep horses at home don't employ staff to provide the support and care for them, it is a major lifestyle change, and commitment. Some can't provide that level of commitment, other won't, but for me it just seemed to fit perfectly. It can be a lot of work but as the saying goes, if you’re doing something you love, you won't work a day in your life.

At this point, I have amassed many thousands of days that begin and end with caring for horses. Since the beginning, that has always been the best part of most of those days…

 

"If you build it, they will come".. The author with Buddy,
and a young Sam with Magic.

LETTING GO

LETTING GO                                                                                             April 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

Intellectually we who love our animals know that if things play out the way nature intends, we will outlive them and as their stewards sometimes we are called upon to humanely accelerate the natural process.

The brain understands it this way:

Euthanasia (from a Greek word, meaning “good death”) is the practice of intentionally ending a life in order to relieve pain and suffering.

The heart, however, knows euthanasia as “taking our friend’s pain from them and making it our own.”

No matter how completely the brain understands the concept, we are are never really ready until the heart concurs. In my own experience, I was a horse owner for some years before I had to deal with the inevitable.  At that time we had two horses, Buddy and Magic.  Buddy had a myriad of health issues and was only rideable for three of the ten years we had him. Magic, a very sturdy and sensible mare, was never sick and was always up for anything that was asked of her.  Given Buddy's history, I had forced myself to let him go emotionally many times before his uncanny life ended naturally at age 33.  Magic’s health was never a concern so when she suddenly took sick it was very hard to process, but the severity demanded a swift decision that I felt totally unprepared to make.  It was the Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving when the decision was put to me, and I selfishly and unthinkingly wanted to delay the inevitable until the day after the holiday.  My veterinarian, normally a matter-of-fact, practical sort, uncharacteristically put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, “That would be asking a lot of your horse.”

My breath caught. He was right, of course, and I knew what the right decision was. I had not been prepared to let go so quickly.  Arrangements were made, and I did not sleep that night. I remember praying that she passed during the night so that I didn't have to face the task in front of me. That night the most aloof of our three dogs, Mickey, wrapped his body over mine in a poignant display of empathy.  Daylight came and I reluctantly rose to carry out my duty as steward for my animal.  Magic loaded onto the freshly bedded trailer that would take her to the crematory later in the day.  The vet came, and my friends and family were there.  Magic was looking through the slats in the trailer into the paddock and her eyes were locked with Buddy’s who returned her soft gaze. I held Magic until the medicine took effect and when it did, I backed off as her legs dropped out and she fell upon the thick bedding beneath her.  I was totally unprepared for what happened next; as Magic slipped away, Buddy let out a deafening whinny, the kind that if you were on his back when he did it, your whole body would vibrate.  The vet told me this was a common reaction but I never expected it.

As I closed the trailer in preparation for the trip, I noticed that Buddy walked into Magic’s stall and sniffed her blanket on the rack through the open door. He licked the two lead ropes that were still suspended from the ceiling, which had been holding her IVs, and I thought the whole scene touching. As I started down the driveway with truck, trailer and Magic, Buddy, normally as quiet and serene as you could expect a horse to be, bolted out of Magic’s stall, wheeled around and kicked the top rail of the fence closest to us, shattering it and sending splinters flying toward us as we exited the farm. When I returned later that day I was told that immediately following our departure Buddy went back to grazing on bits of hay in the paddock as if the day were like any other.  Buddy went through the entire grieving process in twenty minutes, and in doing so, began to educate me in the art of letting go.

I have lost many animals since that day, some naturally and some whose passing I had to help ease. Does it get easier? Actually, yes, because I no longer try to avoid the feelings that inevitably accompany euthanizing a friend. I don't try to manipulate them, or myself, and basically just let them run their course. Sadness is an appropriate feeling so I allow myself to be sad.  I allow the emptiness to come, and then to go. I no longer cling to it as I once did, thinking that prolonging my sadness, guilt and emptiness was a form of respect for my departed friend.

We recently lost a dog, Dusty, who had been with us for twelve years. His health had been slipping but he still had an obvious quality of and zest for life.  That changed very quickly one recent evening when he had a neurological episode that left the rear half of his body paralyzed and he was scared and confused. We were able to make him comfortable until the vet came the next day and eased his passing. In sharp contrast to my first experience with euthanasia, this was, in a way, a very beautiful experience as I held him gently and felt him lightly breathe his last breath surrounded by the family that loved him during his life. At that moment I felt honored. Brief bouts of sadness and emptiness come to me still, and I let them come and I let them go.

As I have been finding more and more frequently, I find that my animals have taught me many of life's lessons that I needed to learn: to love fully, to trust completely, and to let go. Of all the emotions that accompany the carrying out of what inevitably needs to be done, what I ultimately feel most.. is honored.

A STABLE FRIENDSHIP

A STABLE FRIENDSHIP

By Tom Gumbrecht

The Pennoyers were my clients and became my friends. I had the incredible privilege of sharing a horse on their property and riding with them on their 25 acre preserve in the years between the time that my first trainer Skip Lauinger moved to Virginia and my building my own stable in Fort Salonga.

Converted stable, home of Paul and
Cecily Pennoyer, background.
Current stable, foreground.

Their horsey lifestyle was chronicled in Newsday September 7, 2000 in a story titled “Stable Conditions” by Jan Tyler:

….A somewhat different scenario threads through Cecily and Paul Pennoyer’s 50 year history of living the stable life.  The Pennoyers actually made their home in their family’s 1926 stable for a couple of years, even before the horses were relocated.

Although Paul Pennoyer, an attorney, is a grandson of J.P. Morgan, he and his wife opted for the simple life on the Morgans’ 100- acre estate where several family homes and outbuildings plus a working farm were part of the complex.  “The stable was beautiful; it’s even more so now. It’s a rural paradise,” says Cecily Pennoyer. “We raised five children in this place, where they learned to split wood for the fire, gather eggs, grow carrots, beets and beans and bale hay for the horses.; we had the only baler left in Nassau County.”

At first, the Pennoyers lived in the fully equipped former farmhand’s quarters, a wing attached to the stable’s huge midsection.  Moving the horses to a nearby pig pen, where three are still housed, the couple gradually converted the ample spaces into habitable rooms.

The horse stalls became a 35-foot-long study with mullioned windows fitted into the door openings. The equally large living area, which had stored equipment, is now a cozy living room where a fire burns almost continually in a colonial style brick-oven fireplace and a small stall for a pair of donkeys named Concertina and Clarinet became a telephone room, the animals’ hoof marks sentimentally preserved on the wainscot paneling….

….It would be hard to find a place evocative of more storybook charm: A long dirt road that winds past rail-fenced pastures where horses still graze leads to a patchwork of picturesque coops, pens and corrals close to the rambling converted stable behind a low stone wall. A clock tower (its mechanism, wound weekly, chimes on the hour) adds an architectural distinction to the former stable’s façade, now nearly obscured by mature laurels and climbing ivy…

The floor here is of worn brick that Cecily Pennoyer put down herself in the mid-1960’s after rescuing them from her family’s abandoned home on the estate. “It was a house that Grandpa Morgan gave my husband’s mother,“ she explains. “He gave a house to each of his children”

That house was demolished five years ago when the land, once a favorite route for the Meadowbrook Fox Hunt, was subdivided. Part was sold to a developer, 25 acres were donated by the Pennoyers to the North Shore Wildlife Sanctuary, and 13 acres were retained for their homestead.

….”We’ve paid heavily to live the rustic life,” says Cecily Pennoyer. “Our homegrown flowers, vegetables, eggs and honey all cost more in the long run, but they’re fresh, organic and taste wonderful; the taxes inch up every year.  But our roots are here; that’s what really counts…”

 

The bucolic pastures of the Pennoyer Estate.

I was a middle aged but newly trained rider with about a year and a half experience when I noticed an empty stable while doing a job for the Pennoyers.  I inquired about it and found that their horses had recently been retired to Massachusetts as it was getting more difficult for the couple to care for them. They did find that they missed having the horses around however, and I was able to assist them in returning their horses to Long Island. Others had the knowledge and the horsemanship and I had an insatiable appetite to learn about all things horsey and the willingness to work. It was here that I began the transition from novice rider to horseman, experience I would need around the stables I had planned for my own horse property.

Having been born and raised in Glen Cove I knew the names Morgan and Pennoyer and at first was a bit awestruck of being in the presence of such a venerable name.  Mr. Pennoyer diffused that with his humble, down-to-earth way, and treated me, a tradesman and fledgling horseman, with the same respect and interest that I’m sure he showed to heads of state and industry. He had a way that made anyone in his presence feel important. Our talks, seated on a log or mounting block, will not be forgotten as I encouraged him to recount his tales of cruising to Europe in the summers of his childhood on Grandpa Morgan’s yacht, The Corsair. I was equally riveted when I was able to circumvent his natural humility and get him to recount his adventures as an aviation attorney in the days before the NTSB, when attorneys representing parties to lawsuits conducted their own investigations, including in Mr. Pennoyer’s case, riding on mule-back to the bottom of the Grand Canyon to examine the wreckage of an early airline crash. 

At the time we were acquainted, Mr. Pennoyer had found it physically difficult to mount a horse, so I constructed a large staircase- type mounting block in order that we might take the occasional ride together and continue our chats on horseback.

Maggie, the Pennoyers' sweet "watchdog."

That is a fond memory, but one of the fondest memories I have from my early riding career happened in a totally impromptu manner when Mrs. Pennoyer on a late fall evening invited me for a moonlight ride through the woods and on the neighboring estates.  Cantering through wooded trails by the light of a full moon was an experience I was not sure I was up to at the time, but I didn’t let on to that fact and I was rewarded with a riding experience I will not forget. Lights went on and blinds opened as we trotted up to the stately homes, and Mrs. P. would tap on the windows from horseback and introduce me to the owners.

Horses, I have found, are the great equalizer.  In my experience, acceptance as a fellow horseman has not been dependent on social or financial stature. A quiet confidence around the stable, a foot that knowingly finds an iron and a leg that encourages, a generous hand into which reins fall naturally and an inherent empathy toward the horse are some of the requirements for membership to this club.  “They say that princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason is, the brave beast is no flatterer.  He will throw a prince as soon as his groom.” – Ben Jonson, c.1600