Vicariously

   
        When I was younger and looking ahead to the future, the year 2000 seemed so far away. It does once again, though now in retrospect. When I foxhunted with the Elkridge-Harford Hunt Club there was an "elderly" 69 year-old lady who kept up with the younger folk, galloping and jumping. I decided back then that I wanted to be like her. Other older adults whom I cared for as a nurse, who didn't exercise, who didn't seem to care for themselves, perplexed me.

       In the last few years I have been diagnosed with osteoarthritis and--far off from 69--I am unable to foxhunt anymore. Cantering a horse can be painful, much less galloping and jumping, and so  along with golf and skiing, hunting is added to the "I used to..." list. It's really easy to become self-absorbed and sad about it. When the feeling hits hard I watch Go-Pro videos of others' foxhunts. But one great thing about having children is that we truly can live vicariously through them.

       I am doing that right now as I write, warm and dry in a small ski lodge. Snow Creek must be the tiniest ski resort anywhere with three runs and a vertical drop of, like, 300 feet. But we're talking the Kansas/Missouri border! So it is a wonderland, a paradise for kids and mid-westerners who haven't the time nor means to travel farther. I might have once joked that more time is spent riding the lifts, with only about 30 seconds to ski down to the bottom of the longest slope, but how misplaced that humor would have been. I'm looking up now as people schuss and pizza and jump and wipe-out and laugh. There is challenge and there is joy on this hill. 

       I just met a beautiful couple in their seventies and eighties. There was a twinge of sadness: I had wanted to be like them. But the feeling was quickly replaced when I saw their joy in life. It made me joyful, too. They let me take their photo.

       As the morning goes on I've watched Stephania (who is visiting again from Columbia!), Gus, and two of my friend's girls take lessons and hit the slopes. 

       The tentative, jerky first forays have transitioned into more courageous, smooth runs. And wipe-outs. Gus is snowboarding for the first time. He just came back from the longest run at the slopes. While brushing snow off his helmet and from inside his coat, he told me with a huge smile about how he fell, rolled and landed back on his feet to continue down the hill. I remember well. And I've let loose the feelings of yearning to be right there with them. Watching is good. Listening to their first-hand accounts is exciting.

       Bruce likes to say, "Enough is a feast." It is enough to watch, to remember, to take part even through the window, in their fun and excitement. And so, today I participate in a feast...of abandon and the joy of living vicariously.

Nostalgia

     
       We watched the movie, Midnight in Paris, and I was struck with the realization that the nostalgic desire for a bygone era is not limited to modern people. The main character, who has had a chance to travel back in time, meets a lady who longs for an even earlier age. 

       In November my daughters and I had a lovely evening at the World War I Museum in Kansas City. We went to meet and listen to Sir Alastair Bruce, the official historian to the Queen of England and the historical advisor to the popular British series, Downton Abbey. We were so excited; we love history so much, that we were almost giddy to meet Sir Alastair Bruce. He was gracious and kind and best of all, so genuine that one would think he was an old friend. A gentleman, he asked if he could place his hands on our shoulders for a photo. He introduced himself as "Alastair."

       Susanna asked if he would allow her to "...do the teenager thing and take a selfie?" He graciously and enthusiastically obliged, later answering her tweet as to what a great shot it was!

       What a kind man. His lecture was fascinating and entertaining. My four oldest daughters and I have always loved historical dramas. Perhaps because most Americans have ancestral roots from other countries, we love pieces set in the UK and continental Europe. For example, I love to watch the British mini-series North and South, because my father's family were cotton millers from the Scottish border and Northern England in Carlisle. Alastair Bruce discussed the changes in aristocracy and landholding between the late 1700s through World War I. Due to great taxing of the large, old country houses, many were no longer financially viable and were literally blown up. Thankfully, Highclere Castle and others were preserved. Highclere is the setting for Downton Abbey. Another great house, Chatsworth, home of the Duke of Devonshire, is used as Mr. Darcy's Pemberly in the most recent Pride and Prejudice movie. Netflix has some great documentaries on these houses.

       I found myself saying to the Geek Squad guy who came and straightened out our router (they really do visit in little orange and black painted cars) that I must have been meant to live 50 to 100 years earlier. Technology, though miraculous, is frustrating and complicating far too often. To my children's chagrin I really do remember playing outside all day and using my imagination well. I truly did ride my horse, or someone else's, for hours and hours in wind, rain and snow. It was a beautiful childhood. Will my children say that all of the gaming and TV viewing was "beautiful" one day?

       The character from Midnight in Paris does find contentment in the present. He uses his nostalgia of the past to share with a new friend, and to write novels. I am glad that I can share my love of history with my daughters, to sit with a pot of tea and watch a beautifully filmed show. And of course, to write.

Ch- ch- ch- ch- Changes!

       ...turn and face the strange changes...

       I was a teen when I first heard David Bowie sing Changes. I don't think I ever contemplated the meaning. How old was he when he sang those lines? Thirty? Did he think himself old? How he must sigh now.

       What changes we have seen in the last forty years! I'd wager they are more than in any forty-year period, previously. Horses to cars. Cars to planes. Planes to a man on the moon. Man on the moon to the iPhone.  Eve took a bite of the apple for what? To know everything. I know virtually all that one can find out in a question posed to "Siri." And on the back of Siri's housing? A bitten apple.

       Oh, the changes.

       Bruce and I flew to Maryland and, thankfully, had no calls of accidents back home. We attended the wedding of our friend's daughter, who is also our daughter's friend. It was in Annapolis and we were able to walk the historic streets. So beautiful.

       And the water! I miss it in Kansas. I miss the seafood, too, so we ate as much as we could of it!

     The State House in Annapolis has had some renovations. My friend's son is a master-plasterer, and participated in the work. In tearing out some damaged plaster they found vestiges of old designs. History is so fascinating, as are the people who walked in it. George Washington gave his resignation speech in the State House. America became governed not by the militia, or a king, but by the people.

       I took a long drive through my old stomping grounds in Northern Baltimore County. My Lady's Manor was about 10,000 acres of land when inherited by Lord Baltimore's daughter, Charlotte. It was apparently deeded back to her father-in-law to pay off the debts of her husband. I knew it as the land I took hayrides through, partied with friends in, and fox-hunted over. It is as gorgeous as any English countryside. Even past the autumn peak of colors it is breathtaking.

       I was probably at someone's party in Monkton when I heard Bowie's Changes. I'd never have imagined that decades later I'd be looking back on them. When we are young it seems we are immortal and indestructible. I wouldn't jump the four foot post and rails I did back then! The incredible memories. I am thankful for them.

       Things have inevitably changed. The Baltimore beltway is always congested now. Even on some of the country roads, people drive and pass with such urgency. What was a pumpkin patch in the 1970s, and then the Hunt Valley Mall of the 1980s built "in the boon docks," is now a redesigned outdoor mall with a movie theater, scores of restaurants and a very crowded Wegman's grocery. I told a man at the DSW shoe store that I worked at the original mall. " I remember it, too," he said, " I was just a little boy!"

       Big smile, and sigh.

A Single-Subject Spiral, and a Sharpened Pencil

       I mentioned my screenplay. Screenplay writing is formulaic. Even so, talent is a must and I claim none. When I was a little girl, my friend Bev and I wrote novellas. We'd exchange them and giggle. They were almost always love stories. A single-subject spiral notebook and sharpened pencil are still two of my favorite things. Other writers understand the hypnotic attraction.

       I still see my story as a movie. Novel writing is much harder. My daughter Marie has written a few and I urge her to publish. She's gifted.

       I decided to try and write my story. I'll start here. It is inspired by one of my favorite people and her gift of giving. The character in the novel is not the same, however, in that events are purely fictitious. A name here and there, a line, a setting--but the rest is from my imagination.

       It is the story of the people influenced by a woman named Renata. Renata means rebirth. Some say that for all women, their genius--their greatest gift--is life-giving. Whether we have children or not, we have the ability to inspire, to support, to love in a very unique and special way.

 

Reminiscing

      
       Myers-Briggs and other personality tests attempt to describe a person's tendencies and temperament. The temperament types were originally identified by Greek philosophers and were attributed to the four "humours:" blood (Sanguine), yellow bile (Choleric), black bile (Melancholic) and phlegm (Phlegmatic). It's worth a google search if you've never heard of them. 

       I'm not fond of the association with body fluids but reading about each type is interesting. The one thing I know is that I am not choleric. I kind of wish I were, because the typology reminds me of my friends who are so organized, on top of everything, know what to say at any moment, and their cars are clean.  I seem to be jumbled up when it comes to temperament type, but test consistently with Myers-Briggs.

       It explains why some enjoy reminiscing more than others. Of course, much of it has to do with whether or not the past was worth reminiscing about. I would think that most have some fond memories, the ones which comfort us--of being held by a loving parent, of a favorite pet, of a place, of an old friend. 

       We've had a great experience visiting family and friends on the East Coast recently on vacation. I feel like it's recharged my soul. All of the sights, the smells, the memories can't possibly be chronicled. I'll block the fact that it is so much more crowded in many areas. Cars go faster, there are six lanes where there were two, houses have sprung up where I remember vast fields. But some areas are not changed. 

       Northern Baltimore County is lush and green and I find myself wondering how I never noticed it as a child and young adult. I rolled down the window when driving up the road I grew up on, covered in a canopy of trees beside the stream I knew every inch of. I drew a deep breath and memories flooded back. The smell--I hadn't experienced it in years and quite honestly, I was almost in tears. Wet granite with last autumn's leaves mulching into soil. The sound of wind in the trees and the water cascading over rocks into pools. My brothers and friends and I built dams and caught crayfish and salamanders. The minnows and water-striders were too fast so we watched them when we were tired.

       We never seem able to see all the folks I wish to when coming back to Maryland. I saw one old friend I rode ponies with. I kept my first pony at Amy's farm. We rode to pony club each Sunday, at first with her Mom, then later just the two of us. The roads were less traveled and young teen girls could giggle and canter, crossing fields and roads the four miles to Bacon Hall Farm, carefree. It took a good 30-45 minutes and we loved it. The United States Pony Club Association teaches young people how to care for and ride horses. There were horse shows--Amy did a whole lot better than I--and three-phase events: cross-country jumping, show-jumping and dressage. 

       Seeing Amy again brought a flood of memories and much laughter.  Sometimes I wish I were less melancholic, remembering and feeling so deeply. The balancing parts of sanguine and phlegmatic bring me back and help put all into perspective.

       I'm happy to focus on the positive. All of us have sad times we'd rather not dwell on. As long as they've been dealt with in a healthy way I'm happy to let them go. I don't live in the past, but the past helped make me. I hope that it won't be too long until I can roll down the window again and experience the aroma of memories.

Childhood Friends, Lifelong Friends

  
       I am looking forward to seeing two of my oldest friends later this week. We have not been together--the three of us--since 2000 when my late husband passed away. Though Bev lived hundreds of miles away with a busy speaking and teaching schedule, she was by my side within hours of Bob's death. Sandy was there within minutes. I count myself so blessed to have friends like them.

       My work colleagues cautioned today, "Don't get into trouble!" The worst I can imagine us doing is laughing too hard and annoying some around us. I admit I feel I will become childlike again. But I have gotten pretty "in-touch" with my inner child. My temperament allows it. A Myers-Briggs INFP, a melancholic with sanguine as well as phlegmatic flares, I guess I am a natural contemplative.

     My brother once commented that I was more like my mother than he. "I wish I could care more about things sometimes, like you do." I admitted that I wished sometimes I was not so empathetic: it takes a lot of energy. It also leads to some disillusionment, as I have intimated in the last couple of posts. Without disillusionment, though, is life realistic? For many it leads to anger and distrust. I reflected in my last post about trusting God with the big picture, and that thankfulness was a key to true joy. Happiness is momentary and transient. Joy is a cenote: a wellspring under the surface.

        It is thought that the Mayan culture, which grew to an estimated 20 million occupying the Yucatan Penninsula in the first millennia A.D. survived because of thousands of miles of cenotes: underground caverns full of water. Crystal clear. Life-giving. Though joy may be unseen and unfelt because of tragic life events, that spring is ever there, ready to well up when we least expect it. I felt it--not as happiness, but of peace--when riding in the ambulance just after Bob's death. I felt it again a month later driving to my Mom's place in South Carolina. One minute wondering how the world could go on, the next feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit, the Comforter--it seems implausible. The Peace of God which passes all understanding. Truly.

          Sandy and Bev and I have differences, especially in regard to politics and religion. We all three feel emotions very deeply. We are testimony to deep love and understanding and tolerance. I think that much of what Sandy and Bev and I will talk about will revolve around our life experiences and how we've met the challenges faced. We'll talk about memories as well as menopause. Sometimes life events are themselves the cause to ponder, and sometimes they are the signal that it is time to ponder the past. Tears as well as laughter can heal. I plan on much of both--with some feasting and thankfulness and joy.

Teenagers!

    

     I was recently in touch with one of my childhood friends (thanks to Facebook), and found myself explaining why I would miss yet another High School Reunion. Once upon a time I was Vice President of the Senior Class at Hereford High School. After graduation I helped organize our five and ten year reunions but after that, life got really busy.  It seems the best I can do these days is to try to find old friends and classmates on Facebook and spread the word.

     It’s our thirtieth now. I remember my High School as though it were yesterday. Mine was not a perfect experience, but it was a good one. Good teachers, good friends, good fun; a lot of learning, and not just of the academic sort. Sometimes I was just plain lucky--or had a great Guardian Angel!

     Wouldn’t it be fun to go back in time with all we’ve learned in our adult years? I now give such amazing advice to my High Schoolers! They may not think so, but they’ll see someday. A thought ran through my head the other day while talking to Bobby about his religion class on the drive to school (he is back for a second year!).  The thought was how much I enjoy the teen years. Perhaps it is because of my own experience, or that my job for the first decade and a half out of college was working with teens.  Whichever reason, the teen years are a unique time of experiencing life in a new way, an exciting and potentially confusing way.

     I’ve known teens who had little adult support. Though my teenagers might feel it would be a luxury to have the latest iPhone, computer, Wii, X-Box 360 (all in their bedrooms), and no curfew or dating rules, I’ve seen the downfalls of affluence abuse and neglect, and the absence of parental support and structure.

     “No,” I tell mine, "you can’t meet at the local donut joint at 2am because everyone else is,"  "you can’t date until you’re sixteen, "you can’t be out past 10pm on a non-school night" (a formal might be an exception but then there’s a list of rules there, too).  I need to be asked first if they get a ride home, and need to know that person’s number and home address. I’ve said no to certain events. But we talk it out, and though they may not like a particular decision they understand our rationale, and they know it is out of love.

     "Rules without Relationship=Rebellion." The relationship, the love, has got to be there.

     Multiply all that by the number of teens we’ve raised/are raising and it can be challenging, but rewarding. There are six more coming along in our household. I'd better like it, I guess, because Bruce and I will be doing it until we're nearly 70. Crazy? Maybe. Paradoxically awesome? I think so.

     Hence, there is little time for my reunion. I will miss catching up, but like a wedding, I’d probably still come away wishing for more time with each person. To my old classmates and friends who read this: "I am sad, and I will really miss you, but perhaps I’ll get there for the Grey-Hair-and-Cane Reunion.” I sure hope so. Life is precious. Teen years are no exception.

God bless,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

PS: Thanks, Shari!

Saint Who?

    
     I never used to pay attention to why cities like St. Paul, San Francisco, St. Augustine and St. Joseph were named after saints.  I was raised Episcopalian and was used to the surname; I guess I realized these people were remembered for something. People of all Christian faiths acknowlege certain early Church Fathers such as Augustine of Hippo and early martyrs like Stephen. When Marie and Susanna were homeschooled we used a great history text that detailed the European settling of the New World, and the different styles of the Spanish and French and others. I had not studied in such detail in public school.

     We can all acknowledge documented historical events. Of course we may interpret them somewhat differently, but it is fascinating study. Sometimes I've felt that my own geneological research, while interesting, is moderately futile. Twenty generations back and we all have close to a million ancestors--so why would one thin line of them mean anything more than another? I lost my drive for geneology, but not for history in general. As I studied them, I realized what incredible, spiritually inspiring people the saints were.

      Each city named after a saint has a good reason for it. I do not understand how people deny the Christian foundations of our country. There was tragedy involved in some cases of "religious" settling. There was horror in the case of many Native American Tribes. Man is fallible. Good intentions may not always produce the results that I think God would have wanted. Man, throughout history,  is sadly inhumane to man. So instead of focusing on the evil, I find it better to focus on what was learned and most especially what was good. The lives of saints are such stuff. Recently up for sainthood is Mother Teresa. No one would deny that hers was a heroic life. Try Googling some lesser names like these: Maximilian Kolbe and Edith Stein, both of whom died in concentration camps in the Holocaust. Just incredible people.

     Four years ago on July 20th,  an obscure saint became known to me. Mary Pat was prep'd in the OR, ready to have a gastrostomy tube, or "GT" inserted at five months old. A GT enters directly into the stomach through a stoma created in the abdomen, and is used for feeding. Mary Pat could not nurse. She could not suck from a bottle. All those months since she was out of the NICU we'd been managing a Nasogastric tube or "NG". That's the feeding tube that goes up into the nose and curves down the back of the pharynx, through the throat and espophagus and into the stomach. The mucous membranes are very sensitive and tender, especially in the pharynx. Insertion is at best uncomfortable to a cognizant adult. Most people describe it as intensely irritating or painful. During insertion there is a good chance of putting the tube into the lungs, rather than the stomach. As a nurse I'd inserted NG tubes so I felt at an advantage. But those were adults. And this was my tiny baby struggling for life. I prayed so hard to God to let her suck from a bottle. I pumped for six months to provide her with the best nutrition possible. I ached to nurse her, but the chance of her taking a bottle would be a miracle to me. It wasn't to be. Every time she needed the NG reinserted she screamed and cried and turned blue. I prayed and tried to be so cool and clinical. Being an RN did not make it any easier.

      Mary Pat additionally needed a procedure to tighten the top of her stomach.  She had such bad gastric reflux that one day she stopped breathing and had to be life-flighted back to the hospital. She had an apnea monitor at night which I needed to attach to leads on her chest. False alarms in the middle of the night were not uncommon.  I prayed that Mary Pat would not need any of this, but the answer I wanted did not come. We checked into the hospital and dressed Mary Pat in her tiny gown. The nurse took her and I cried as I had before her other surgeries. Mary Pat had additional difficulty with each of her surgeries when intubated, because of her cleft palate, jaw surgery and anatomy.         Dr. St. Peter was her surgeon. He was very kind and comforting. He spoke with us before the surgery and was just the confident, calming presence that I needed. Bruce and I settled in for the wait. My reading led me to the "Saint of the Day." A Feast Day is usually celebrated on the date of death of the saint...the day they entered the hereafter with Christ. This day was the feast day of St. Apollinaris.

     St. Apollinaris was the first bishop of Ravenna in the first to second century. He was a great preacher and many came to know Christ because of him. He was brutally beaten and tortured more than once by the Roman officials but he kept evangelizing and was eventually martyred. St. Apollinaris had been ordained and sent to Ravenna by St. Peter himself. St. Peter! This fact may seem in no way to be connected to Mary Pat, but I knew that in God's great love, He knew about what would happen to Mary Pat, and when St. Peter did ordain St. Apollinaris He knew that centuries later it would give comfort to a frightened mother. Mary Pat was indeed in His hands.

     Dr. St. Peter came out after the surgery to tell us that it had gone well. As we began to breathe a sigh of relief, he informed us that he encountered something serious. Because of the need for that surgery, Dr. St. Peter found a life threatening condition called a diaphragmatic hernia and expertly fixed it. He also found that her large intestine was not where it should be. Part of it was basically unattached and could have led, undetected, to a fatal condition of twisting and strangulation of the bowel. He fixed it. If God had answered my prayer and allowed her to nurse, or even to be fed from the bottle--to be spared of the NG tube and later the G-tube--these conditions could very well have killed her. I learned the beauty in unanswered prayer.

     I have a thirst for wisdom, knowledge and history that will never be quenched in this lifetime. Though eternity may be incomprehensible, thinking about getting to know all those who have gone before us--is a taste of paradise to me...

...as is Mary Pat.


God bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

And Summer Vacation Begins...

The end of the school year brings joy and readjustment. More children are at home all day and I have to draw on skills learned from my homeschooling days to construct a schedule. If I didn't, it would be chaotic. Teens cannot sleep all day, boys cannot watch TV and play video games all day, toddlers need structure. We all need structure. We first got the idea from theFlyLady.net who called it "Camp GonnaWannaFly." The kids now call it "Camp Abbey Farm".

Essential is the monthly calendar. We put holidays, birthdays, events, feast days, appointments and planned dinners on it. I do plan meals at the beginning of the month. Each week or every few days has a theme. Oregon Trail, Pony Express, Dairy Day, Aerospace Day, Everything About Goats Day, Pond Ecosystem, Pirate Day, are but a few. Today was Birdwatching Day. We didn't see as many as I thought we would, but we had a great hike, took notes, and ate GORP.



Great Blue Heron flew to the top of the tree!





Mom got a workout, Two-year-old got a ride. She started out with a hat...



Ben's rendition of the Heron on the Tree

On the way back to the house, Max stated, "I shall cherish this day for the rest of my life."

I will too, Max. Can't beat that for the first week of summer vacation.


God Bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

Henry The Bull

    
     Growing up on a cattle farm, I spent hours and hours in the pasture. My mother warned me to stay away from "Henry" the Black Angus Bull, and I did. His progeny were a different matter. Over those years I perfected a method of befriending the steer and the calves. Cattle are shy creatures. I patiently gained their trust. I'd get closer and closer to them over a few days and then sit and wait. Their curiosity piqued, they would inch closer, necks outstretched, nostrils snorting and breathing deeply. I would offer an apple then, and bristle-y tongues would dart and arc out of their mouths to chance a taste. The group would move as one, but there was always a leader a little more bold than the others. He'd get the first contact and back up, the whole group backing away with him. He'd come again and again. Finally, he'd get a bite of apple.

     I considered it a success if I managed to get a touch or a pet in. They were cute. The mothers were remarkably trusting. Henry pretty much stayed away, and ate to fuel his giant body. Years later as an adult, I'd still enjoy watching the Black Angus herds on neighboring farms. Susanna was two or three when she asked to go see the "Black Mangoes." Took me a minute, but with a laugh we jumped in the car and did just that.

     A well-known method of relaxation is to imagine yourself in a peaceful place, maybe on the beach or at a park or beside a bubbling brook. To this day, my place of refuge is in the pasture, under the trees on the farm where I was a child. We had no PC's, no videos, no cell phones. No, but we did have hours and hours of play, adventure, exercise, creativity and make-believe. I want to be sure that my children have that.

     Old Henry? He really was calm--except when a neighboring Hereford Bull broke out one day. Henry cracked out of the post-and-rail fence as though it were chopsticks, and faced off. He'd be sure that no other bull would get to his cows. Mr. Mayo, Henry's owner, saw it all and raced to the scene. With courageous effort he managed to scare off the other bull. Henry, however, would not budge. The story goes that Mr. Mayo had to grab a 2 X 4 to "convince" angry Henry to go back through the broken fence.  It was about the only Henry drama we ever knew.

     A few years ago we acquired a bull calf. A Jersey. We named him Henry. It didn't take long for us to realize we'd have to either castrate him or sell him (what were we thinking?). Luckily, a local woman who milks her own cow needed a young calf. Her cow's calf had died and she wanted to see if Henry would be accepted by her; that is, if we could part with him. We were happy for Henry to have a better purpose in life than to fulfill a memory or a whim of mine. He didn't need to be paraded over little jumps and ridden one day (cattle do jump!). We certainly would never have been able to send him to slaughter. We had bonded, and he was just too cute.

     There are so many good memories of the old farm that I'm thankful for. It's why I asked Bruce if we could try our hand at small-farming. It's a lot of work. Bruce's co-workers talk about perfect lawns and carpentry workshops and television viewing. Bruce plays with children and cuts grass. Many children and lots of grass. He never complains. I love my suburbian-raised husband for loving me enough to take on this farm. He says he loves our place, too.

     I don't think we'll ever raise beef cattle. I just have too many memories of my friends,
 the Black Mangoes.

Suzy,

The Abbey Farm

Photography by my brother, Chip Greene

Floating

   "On a cloud," "subbing at work" or "like a boat" are more common applications of the word "floating." Lesser-known is "filing of horse teeth." Horses' teeth grow continuously until old age when they begin to wear down. It's a fairly steady process so that a horse's age can be determined by its teeth. Most of us are familiar with scenes in a book or movie when people argue over the age of a horse and someone yanks open the horse's mouth to look inside. Horses are grazing animals and eat for a good part of the day. Their side to side chewing action causes sharp edges to build up on the sides of their teeth. The sharp edges become painful and can interfere with eating. So we need to "float" them.

     I once created quite a problem when I had my horse's teeth floated. It was one of those times where the unfortunate or ridiculous happens, when certain conditions and events fall into place for no reason to annoy us, to confound us, or to get us angry. Though we don't have a choice that it has happened, we do  have a choice as to how we react.  Patience and temperance are virtues. I claim to be no expert, but it is my job to teach them to my children. It makes me feel better to consider that the Olympic coach who can't perfectly execute the "Round-Off, Back Handspring, Back Somersault"-- can teach someone to do it.

     I love the movie, "To Kill A Mockingbird."  I love Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch and Robert Duvall as Boo Radley. There are profound lessons in the movie. Lessons on prejudice, innocence, law, justice, disabilities, and my favorite: self-control. Atticus Finch is my hero. Watch the movie to the end and see why.

     We are called to be good examples to our children. We need to teach them self-control and self-reliance, as well as humility and how to accept help.  A predator picks off a victim and separates it from the herd. When we are separated and alone we are most vulnerable. God knows, we need each other. For help. For inspiration.

     Goodness, what has this to do with horse teeth? Our vet's patience was stretched, I'm sure, when I insisted he come to our farm to float old "George's" teeth. George was an extremely large Thoroughbred, standing 17.1 hands at his withers (base of his neck). That's 69 inches; an average sized man could barely see over his back. I was unable to find a trailer big enough out here in "Quarterhorse Land" to fit him. As much as I wished, I couldn't cut a hole in the top of ours and transport him like the circus animals on the train in "Dumbo." So I asked the vet to please come to us.

    
     Our vet has a great facility. He has the newest equipment. In the "olden days" of my youth we grabbed the horse's tongue, pulled it to the side which forced the mouth open, felt around bravely and somewhat blindly for sharp edges and inserted a rasp (large 1 1/2" X 18" file) to grind down the edges. Inevitably, a finger would get chomped on, scraped or cut. The vet has a much better system. He has a speculum which is inserted into the horse's mouth and secured by a halter. He has an electric burr grinder attached to the end of a two-foot metal pole with a trigger that starts it. And he has a stall-like "stock"  for the horse to be secured in, standing. The owner brings the horse to the facility. The horse is put in the stock, given a mild sedative and the halter/speculum is put in place. Then a lead shank (rope) attached to the halter is thrown over the top of the stock to hold the horse's head up, mouth open wide as the vet burrs away. It is very convenient and efficient.

     Coming to our farm was neither convenient nor efficient, but Dr. McCool graciously consented. Yes, his name is McCool. He is cool. He and his wife are both vets and are fantastic people. We are blessed. Truly. But I don't think he felt blessed that day.  I think we ultimately fell into that "extremely frustrating and annoying event" category for him. George had stood perfectly well all his life to have his teeth floated the old fashioned way. This, I knew, would be a breeze. After parking his truck near the barn, Dr. McCool drew up a smaller than usual dose of tranquilizer, explaining that Thoroughbreds were sensitive and did not need as much as some breeds. George patiently endured the injection, we placed the halter and speculum on him and Dr. McCool threw the rope attached to the halter up and over the rafter just above the stall door. It was tied at just the right height for the doc to peer straight into George's mouth. George was perfect.

     Until he began to sway. To Dr. McCool's "No, no...Oh, no...", George's twelve hundred pounds pitched forward and collapsed. Halter still tied to the rafter, he was suspended by his head.  I froze, wide-eyed, but Dr. McCool deftly pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced the rope. George fell. Thankfully, no broken neck. He lay there and groaned in a drugged stupor, his mouth still open wide.

     Dr. McCool probably wondered why he let this crazy redhead talk him into coming out. He threw all his equipment back into the truck. For me, all at the same time I was amazed, relieved, embarrassed and kind of--fascinated. George was breathing and relaxed and in no pain. He was lying on his side with his head sticking out of the open stall door. I couldn't help but get down on my knees and stare into his gaping mouth. I'd never seen it all so clearly and still. I reached deep inside and found the sharp edges of his teeth. I felt his velvety smooth tongue. A horse's mouth is cavernous. I kept repeating, "Wow!" Slowly and resigned, Dr. McCool came back with his equipment. With a sigh he dropped down beside me. His face was calm. I moved over, and he proceeded to finish the floating job--lying down.

     In the end, George had smooth teeth. I had a bigger than usual bill because of the farm-call. That was understandable.  What made it a little bizarre, was that in hanging George from the rafter, an electric conduit was crushed, cutting off electricity to half the barn and requiring yet another farm-call:  the Electrician. A floating that should have cost $25.00 ratcheted up to $300.00.  There was nothing I could do. On the bright side, George was uninjured and healthy. Dr. McCool went well beyond the call of duty.

     There are certainly tougher things that happen in our lives: serious illness, loss of work, death. The little annoyances are trial runs, so let's not sweat the small stuff. Our character should be shaped, not distorted. The tough stuff will come. I learned that when I lost my husband, Bob, suddenly. What sustained me was God, my family and my friends. People said, "I can't imagine what you're going through." The truth is, I couldn't either. I had no choice but to go through it. One breath at a time, one moment at a time. There was deep pain, but I can say there was no panic, no shock, only a oneness with the Holy Spirit that I cannot describe. I told Him He needed to carry me. He said He would. And He has, so very far.

     Stressful mornings before school, spilled milk, difficult teeth floating and annoying events don't compare with death. I have found myself remarking that I weather the tough stuff better than the small stuff. I need to work on my reactions to the smaller things for the sake of my children. They need good examples of patience and temperance and self-control.  Like Atticus Finch.  And Dr. McCool.


God bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm