UNITY: THE SECRET INGREDIENT

UNITY: THE SECRET INGREDIENT

By Tom Gumbrecht

Is there a secret ingredient that exists in some barns which brings out the best in riders, boarders and even horses? I think there may be... and I think it may be unity, the pulling together as a team toward a common goal.

If we want to learn to live in harmony, we need look no
further than our horses. DannyBoy and Diesel
demonstrate

 This year especially, there seems to be a lot of disharmony in the air; I suspect it may stem from the unusually discordant political campaigns we've been subjected to. I'm not comfortable with it, but it has triggered some self-reflection. It's easy to recognize dissension in others, but what about myself? Do my words and actions foster unity, or are they sometimes divisive?

Most of us have been at barns where, upon arrival, some outgoing and seemingly friendly soul immediately begins to give us the low-down on everyone else in the barn. It seems comforting; we've made a connection with someone who is looking out for us, but I've found that it is generally an illusion. Gossip is not about exchanging information, it's about power. "I know what you don't, and I've chosen to let you in on it. No need to form your own opinion, I will do that for you, and claim you for my team." Environments such as this can leave us feeling suspicious, guarded and confused.

If we're lucky, we've also experienced barns where there is no trace of a judgmental undertone. People are accepting, helpful, and mainly discuss concepts, ideas and events rather than people. When we find ourselves at such a barn, we are refreshed, encouraged and hopeful. These environments do not exist by accident; what is tolerated is perpetuated. The embers of gossip die out without the oxygen of an interested audience.

In my life, I've been as guilty of these sins as anyone. My dad was a good man. He and I

Gossip has no place in a harmonious environment.
Bella and Flo breaking the rules here.

were both tradesmen, and there were times in his life that we couldn't relate on a lot of levels; gossiping about the different characters on the job was where we bonded. It was comforting, it was reassuring and it filled an uneasy silence. It took a long while to let go of that false sense of security, and realize that he was doing the best he could to connect, just like I was. But I no longer want to walk that path.

To keep myself on the path I would now hope to follow, I ask myself some pointed questions:

* Am I a healing, unifying person or am I divisive? Am I judgmental of others?

* Am I a peacemaker, or do I like to "stir the pot?"

* Am I tolerant of those who rub me the wrong way, or am I abrasive?

* Do my remarks carry an air of superiority about them, or to I remember where I came from?

* Do I put down some equestrian activities as if I were a cut above for not participating in this or that aspect of riding?

* Do I share my defeats as well as my accomplishments that others may identify and grow, or do I need to appear an expert?

Unity allows us to do together that which we cannot
do for ourselves.

I'm lucky that the very first barn I landed in radiated an attitude that was supportive, tolerant and patient, and not indulgent of those with other agendas. It was the beginning of my own transformation. Now I have my own barn and I have to always be conscious of the fact that it's me who sets the tone. Just as the barn requires constant maintenance, so does the environment we have created here.  It is maintenance of a more spiritual nature, and while our horses may create the need for much of the facility maintenance, it is they who provide us with maintenance for the soul.

A harmonious workplace doesn't just happen.
Just like the barn and fences, it requires work to build and maintain.

KICKED FROM COMPLACENCY

KICKED FROM COMPLACENCY

By Tom Gumbrecht

We've all had it drilled into us: "Don't stand behind that horse, don't walk too close to that horse, don't pass so near to that horse, you'll get kicked! We find ourselves repeating the same doctrine to novices and people whose horse sense we are unsure of.

Lola's racing days. Were there things from
her past that she couldn't tell me about?

We also develop a sixth sense about the horses under our care: we get a picture of a horse's emotional condition beginning at dawn when we flip on the barn lights and walk by his stall. Is he calm? Still groggy from sleep and not alert? Concerned? Agitated? Scared? A horse tells us with his ears, eyes, and body just which version of him we will be dealing with that day, and we gauge our interactions with him accordingly. 

But sometimes, complacency can set it. At least I've found that to be true, especially with a horse that we've known for a long time, and formed a close bond with. It might start out as a small transgression, such as crawling halfway under a horse to paint a hoof rather than getting up and walking around to the other side. If anyone else is in attendance, we might throw out a disclaimer, "You should never do what you see me doing right now," as our actions belie our words.

So it was with Lola, the Thoroughbred mare we had acquired two weeks off of the

Lola, the sweetheart of the herd,
still feels her oats.

racetrack where an injury had ended her promising career. During her lengthy rehabilitation and recovery period, we formed a bond and mutual trust that was unbreakable. That trust was hard-won and very real, but I was probably just a little more conscious of my movements around Lola than with our other horses. Any quick hand or arm movement around her or over-zealous use of a manure fork in her stall had the potential of causing her lightening-quick reflexes to send her retreating smartly backwards into the stall wall. There were things in her past, it seemed, that she was unable to tell me about.

We knew a lot of things about each other, and made allowances for them; that's what enabled our relationship to work. I never thought of her as difficult, but she was very sensitive. Lola may not have been 100% trusting of anyone, but from what I observed in nine years caring for, training and riding her, there was no other human that she trusted more. She would give the boss mare, Bella, a very wide berth and back down in any situation that had even the potential of conflict, her strides being very tentative. With me by her side though, she would confidently prance right past her, ears forward, with a purposeful stride. Sometimes I would chuckle to myself that maybe she had a little too much faith in me; Bella could easily take us both out if she ever had the mind to.

Lola's stall, the scene of the crime.
Mine, not hers.

One recent evening after returning home at around 9:00 pm, I headed out to the barn to put the horses in for the night. I switched on the paddock lights, and Lola meandered over and made her way past me and into her still darkened stall, like she always does. As she passed, I noticed something on her underside, maybe a small burr, and instinctively reached out to touch it, forgetting for a moment that I had placed myself beyond the scope of her peripheral vision. My next recollection was of a wrenching pain in my gut, a blinding light as my eyes were looking straight up into the paddock floodlights and a sharp, hard thud that was my head hitting the ground. For the first time in eighteen years around horses, I had taken a kick! I next had a unique view of what a horse looks like when she is jumping, from the point of view of the jump. Lola bolted out of the stall and jumped over me in her hasty exit, being mercifully careful in where she placed her feet. Or lucky. I got myself up and tried to make sense of what had happened. There was blood all over my left hand and as the shock wore off I started to hurt everywhere. It took me a while to get the horses in after the commotion, especially Lola, who had retreated to the far corner of the paddock and needed to be coaxed and reassured that there would be no repercussions to her fear-based reaction. All of her movements were now very jerky and tentative as if she were waiting to be punished. I lingered by her stall door for a long while before turning away from her, and only then did she cautiously approach and put her head out and bury her nose in my chest. It's ok, girl. Your body reacted totally on instinct which is a part of your blood and bones. And I know better. No hard feelings.

After I had made my way up to the house to be checked over by my wife Mary, a nurse

Someday, young Daniel, I'll tell you all  about
your pal Lola, when she was known as
One Precious Gem.

by profession, I went to bed but although I was very tired, sleep would not come. What kept me awake was not the fear of playing out "what if" scenarios, but rather an intense feeling of gratitude. The last few months, I have been exposing my two year old grandson, Daniel, to the wonders of horses, to the delight of all humans and equines concerned. It occurred to me that I had at some point started thinking of our horses as big teddy bears, and perhaps unconsciously transmitting that attitude with the best of intentions but the carelessness of familiarity. I was very grateful that it was me that paid the price for that lapse in judgment, and not Daniel. It was a very small price to pay for an important and timely refresher course. They are not teddy bears. They are horses.

The fact is that I had frightened Lola and she responded the way frightened horses do. Then she laid low for awhile, then allowed me to walk her back to her stall, and when she thought it was safe, came and expressed affection. I am grateful because Lola teaches me how to be: there was an overreaction to stimulus, a retreat to regroup, then a making of amends. I had to wonder, if this had been a human-human interaction, would it have been resolved so quickly and amicably?

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.

A BEAUTIFUL SOUL

A BEAUTIFUL SOUL

Originally published in Horse Directory, March/ April 2016

By Tom Gumbrecht

Dave was an artist whose medium was music

Dave Jensen had a gift. He had the ability to take what was going on in his mind, heart and soul and put it into an art form to share with us. He was an artist whose medium was music. 


The first time I saw him perform it was at a coffeehouse on the South Shore of Long Island. I arranged to meet Samantha there, who was in her early twenties at the time, back from college, and we weren't always seeing eye to eye. She agreed, somewhat reluctantly, which was understandable for a child who felt obligated to be in the company of a parent whose attitude had not been endearing. 


By the end of Dave’s two sets, we were beginning to get back on track; we were connecting. 
My heart was becoming light and I felt it opening. Dave’s gift was bringing people together, 
and he did so with his music. He made a connection with every person in that room, and in 
doing so connected us all.



Dave had bipolar disorder. He was very open about it, and used it as neither an excuse nor a

Dave's personality brought out the best
in people and horses.

 
free pass but rather to attempt to get others similarly afflicted to identify with him. He spoke of his illness, and how he dealt with it, in a matter-of-fact way, like we riders might speak of a broken finger and how we adapted our riding to it. It wasn't a complaint; it was an exchange of 
information. 


Bipolar disorder is not curable, but its symptoms are treated with medication and therapy. After Dave and I became friends, we discovered another way: horses. He responded to them, and they responded to him. We know that mental illness can carry a stigma, and as humans we 
can become judgmental of those that suffer even if we don't want to. Horses don't respond to stigma because they don't know what it is. They respond to the soul of the person standing next to them, in Dave's case the soul of a person who had the ability to channel life's beauty 
into the language of the heart. That language is exactly what horses understand! We humans got to appreciate it through his music; the horses got it just by being around him. 

Bella is very choosy about her humans, and she
chose Dave.

Many of us are initially attracted to horses through their beauty and power; then if we pursue riding, by what they can do for us. Eventually if we work at it long enough and have it in our hearts, a partnership may evolve and we might be have the privilege of working as teammates toward a common goal. Ultimately, if we are lucky enough, a true relationship might evolve where we can appreciate our horses for who they are rather than what they can do for us.

Dave seemed to never have to evolve like that. From the first day, he appreciated our horses for who they were and was content with merely being in their presence. He immediately “got” what the horses had to offer, an awareness that had taken me years to develop. 


Dave passed away recently and left a hole in our close-knit barn family. Early one recent 
morning I was out in the barn in the company of our horses, making sure that they were fed 
and warm enough to brave the new year's first major snowstorm. Like many days since I got 
the sad news, I was thinking of Dave. He loved it here.


Without meaning any disrespect, that day in the barn I was sad but not devastated. As I 
attempt in my mind to explain myself... my feeling that although I am very sad, I feel he is still 
very much with us and the best parts of him will never leave this barn.... I picture Dave flashing 
a smile and waving me off: "I get it, bro... I get it!" That’s the thing: if you were a person whose 
life was touched by Dave, you know that he made it safe to be and to express exactly who you 
were and what you were feeling at that moment. It was a gift every bit as beautiful as his music.




The world was not always a safe place for Dave but he went out there and faced it anyway

DannyBoy was Dave's favorite horse. He
responded to horses and horses
 responded to him.

 
because that's what he had to do in order to share his gifts. By his unflinching acceptance, he made it a safer place for those of us who struggle with such things, to be ourselves.


What do we call a person who faces danger and in so doing makes things less dangerous for others? Around this barn we call him an inspiration. Dave Jensen will continue to be an inspiration here for as long we have challenges to face and need a beacon of hope. The fuel 
that warms this barn is love, and Dave left our tanks full. 




Explore Dave’s music at www.reverbnation.com/davejensen

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..