DEJA VU

DÉJÀ VU

Originally published in Horse Directory, June 2016

By Tom Gumbrecht

The house I grew up in was a charming little Cape Cod in a post-war development of similar
homes in Glen Cove. It sat on a lot measuring 60' X 100', but it seemed much bigger to us. 
Behind the maple tree in the back yard, the terrain dropped off sharply to a flat, grass field of
about an acre's size, and around three feet lower than our property. It gave the visual
appearance of a much bigger property than we actually had, and we were allowed to use it to
play ball and frisbee and catch fireflies on summer evenings. We called the field "Perkins' Lot"
after the family who owned and maintained it, the same family that ran an old-time pharmacy 
in town.

Scence from the authors youth:
the barn at Perkins' Lot

 In the far left corner of Perkins' Lot stood a very old horse barn that by then served as a
somewhat precarious garage for one of the Perkins brothers' 1953 Plymouth Savoy. In the neat but somewhat cookie-cutter similarity of working-class tract housing, the view from our backyard was uniquely bucolic, even for that era. The field was separated from the nearby elementary school fields by a row of scrub trees, and even though it was neither fenced nor 
completely isolated, it was a rare day that any uninvited kids from the school grounds 
infiltrated "our" field. If I had to now choose a word to represent the memory of feelings I got from my days looking out over that field, it would be "serenity". We were uniquely privileged to grow up with that resource, but of course we didn't realize it. That was just the way things were.

Years later, as the owners of "our" lot successively passed away, the property was sold and 
developed into an assisted living facility. As young men do, I eventually moved away from that 
little house and yard and started my own life with my wife in a community of eclectic little 
houses in a beach community in Centerport. It was a charming place with little houses and 
bungalows terraced into hillsides, many converted to houses more adapted to raising families.

The old barn held secrets from the past.
The new barn holds promises for the future.

We had one of the enclave's newer houses, 25 years old as opposed to 60 years old, and the neighborhood included a small private beach, boat ramp and pavilion. We had no reason or desire to ever move; no reason at all. Then, I discovered horses.

As my interest and enthusiasm for horses and riding blossomed, I realized that I wanted more than riding and lessons and trail rides; I wanted horse property. I wanted my own horses and I wanted to live with them. I was lucky enough to have a wife who wanted me to be happy and sensed how happy I was in my new-found element, and so the search for horse property began.

Being somewhat impatient when I can clearly see the path in front of me, I naturally wanted a ready-made horse facility. I was amazed at how many horse properties existed on Long Island, and how varied they were in size, utility and character. Surely, I thought, I would have no problem finding the perfect fit. After looking at dozens of properties, I wasn't so sure.

Dreamcatcher Farm today.
"If you build it, they will come"

There was the one with a beautiful house, but a poorly situated barn with rocky and hilly paddocks. There were some that covered many of the requirements on my list but were too far from our jobs. There were a few that were good in many ways, but were located on busy roads, which for us was a deal breaker, and some with park access, but barely enough room for a round pen on the property. Some had beautiful barns but no natural privacy, it felt as if everything we would do would be on display. Nothing felt right; was I just being fussy, or did I
have no idea what I wanted? In desperation, I extended our search to include properties zoned for horses but with no existing horse facilities.

Armed with these new parameters, after a few false starts we found a place in an older section of Fort Salonga that seemed to cover all of the bases: the house was dated, but had potential. It had enough bedrooms and bathrooms and an office for my business, was on a quiet street and had a separate driveway leading to the back yard, which offered natural privacy and a buffer of un-developable property in the rear and left side. The site would require a lot of work to develop, including removing a huge, overgrown concrete in-ground pool, extensive tree removal and grading for the barn, paddocks, riding ring and roadway, as well as fencing, barn construction and utilities. A big undertaking, for sure, but one I felt was not only do-able, but it was the right thing to do. It felt right. We signed some papers, and jumped in with both feet.

In the ensuing year, with some money, luck, work, support and help, we created Dreamcatcher
Farm, home to our growing family of humans, dogs, cats and horses for more than fifteen years
now. When people would ask about the vision I had for this property, I used to wax on about
how we outlined our priorities, starting with the "must haves" and only when all of those had
been met, moved on to the "nice-to-haves". It was all about the list and about being logical and
not getting caught up in emotion. Do that, and you will end up with the perfect place, I said.

The author went shopping with a list of property
requirements. Was he really looking to recapture
the serenity of his youth?

I believed it when I said it. I really did. And it wasn't until several years later when I was sitting on the deck overlooking the property that I realized I had no idea what I was talking about. I looked past the maple tree, down to the gate where the property dropped down about three feet and leveled off. I looked around at the row of trees which screened without isolating, and at the woods to the left side and rear, which made the property appear bigger than it actually
was. A few hundred feet straight away from our back windows stood the horse barn, with the horses peacefully grazing in the evening shade. I realized then that what I had been looking for was serenity. I was looking for Perkins' Lot, and I found it.

MOMMA'S BOY - A Mother's Day Reflection

MOMMA'S BOY – A Mother’s Day Reflection

By Tom Gumbrecht

When I was growing up in the late 50s and 60s, being labeled a Momma's boy had a decidedly negative connotation to it. It meant you couldn't handle things on your own, that you were always dependent on someone else to fight your battles. I was called many things in my youth, but never a Momma's boy, and I was proud that I had avoided that moniker. 

My dad was stoic; cool. He never asked anyone for help that I can recall. He was a tradesman, and we took care of any and all repairs and improvements in our little post-war house in Glen Cove ourselves. I learned the basics of everything to do with construction from him, and lived for his very reserved nods of approval. Dad had artistic talents as well, but his painting, mostly realism, was a very private affair to him. He would create in private and then bestow his work on whomever he though might appreciate it most. 

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My mom’s name was Helen, and she was into the arts. She was a professional ballerina, and later a teacher of ballet in a small studio Dad built in the basement of our home. She was also a lover of animals, the importance of which was lost on me until much later in life. She had the heart of a rescuer, if not always the means and the opportunity. It was obvious that I was my father's son; I had learned a trade, was reasonably adept at it... and I did everything I could to avoid asking for help.

I always liked animals, but they were in the background. I would play with the neighbor's dog, fed my mother's cat, and occasionally dog-sat for an employer or a friend, but shied away from the responsibility of having a dog of my own. Then a niece with whom I was close offered me a puppy from the litter of her German Shepherd that I had developed a fondness for. We named the puppy Jessie, and in raising her our lives were changed forever. We lived then in a beachfront community in Centerport, with winding streets and charming little homes with pleasant families of which I had made the acquaintance of exactly two. Then Jessie came into our lives, and in walking those streets she made friends with everyone and took me along on her cuteness tour. The private beach that was formerly just a pretty view our our back window was now a place for Jessie to meet neighborhood kids, chase frisbees, catch a ball and learn to swim. I was 43 years old and felt like a kid myself.

Several years later a business project placed me at a show stable for several weeks, and I found myself attracted to the horses so began to take lessons and ended up pursuing horsemanship with a passion. How did a woman who had never been involved with horses give me the gift of horsemanship? It was a randomincident a few years ago which helped to crystallize the images in my mind of the influence she has had on my life all along. I was sitting on the deck of a close friend who I had met through riding. Caryn is a wildlife lover and has rehabilitated many squirrels and prairie dogs over the years. To sit on her deck is to be immersed in a Disney movie with squirrels coming up on laps, looking over shoulders, hanging from screen doors: a real sensory overload for the uninitiated. On this afternoon, we were feeding them nuts, and I was in awe of the connection I felt to the wildlife. That's when it hit me: my mom had been totally immersed in the wildlife on our little 60' X 100' plot, feeding and caring for squirrels and birds of all description. She took care of a neighborhood cat who wandered in and never left, for 20 years, and she made our tiny yard into a botanical garden. We made fun of her squirrel stories as adolescents, but now the memory of them was pulling me closer as I reflect on my voyage of discovery into my own identity. 

With the clarity of hindsight, I can easily see how so much ofthe quiet shaping of the man I was to become, had come from my mom:

• I got my entrepreneurial spirit from Mom. Dad was a skilled and hard worker but it was Mom who hung her own shingle and put herself out there in the world at the ballet studio which inspired me to a self-employedcareer which allowed a horsey lifestyle for 30+ years. 

• My love of animals definitely came from my mom. Dad tolerated them and was never unkind, but they brought pure joy to Mom, as they have to me in later life. She saw responsibility as a gift, not a burden.

• Mom was a person of faith, whereas Dad was a little jaded by the sometimes harsh experience of inner city Catholic School life in the early twentieth century.  I went through the motions as a child, but fully embraced my spiritual side in later life. Mom never forced her beliefs on me, but possessed that quiet assurance that I wanted for myself and eventually accepted. She communed with her Creator in the quiet splendor of nature, and her example inspired me to do the same. She believed that the joy she got from her animals was evidence that her God loved her and wanted her to be happy. I find that I am closest to my Higher Power when in the company of my horses. 

• My mom had a spirit of adventure, and I definitely inherited that from her. Starting in my early twenties I flew small airplanes, sailed boats, did semi-extreme off-reading and rode horses. Mom supported and occasionally joined me in all of my hobbies, including riding one of my horses at age 84. Dad was the official photographer, offering support and interest but from a safe distance.

I grew up with two great parents, who both taught me life's important lessons, mostly with me never realizing I was being taught. While she was not a horsewoman per se, the horseman I became was as a direct result of the influence of my mom. Mom has been gone for some time now, yet she is with me every day.She never did teach me to dance, but I think she would have been pleased to see me dance with my horses in the dressagering at our eventing competitions.

While I would have cringed at the thought of being a "Momma's Boy" in junior high, I now wear the title proudly.