As a proud owner and lover of senior horses, and with getting older myself, these poems really hit home for me.
He was tied up to the trailer out behind the stands,
a blaze-face sorrel gelding, roughly 15 hands,
High withers, slightly ewe-necked, back a little swayed,
white hairs on his muzzle, eyes sunk in with age.
An old warrior with his best years long since gone away,
left here baby-sitting at a small-town horse play-day.
Watched over by her parents, a young girl kissed the horse;
they coached her on the fine points and wished her luck, of course.
He hardly seemed to notice when the small girl took his lead;
he followed without balking but not with any speed.
She climbed on and walked him round some, he went without a fuss;
his head was down, the reins were slack, his feet dragged in the
dust.
When they called her name his ears pricked up, she sat up in her
seat;
trotting to the gate there was new lightness in his feet.
When they got into the alley he flared his nostrils wide,
picked up the bit and arched his neck, she latched on for the ride.
She let him go and as they went the years melted away,
and he was once again the barrel horse he'd been in younger days.
With eyes on fire and muscles bunched, raw power in his stride,
blazing speed and energy wrapped in horse's hide.
He had chased the cans from old Cheyenne to the Calgary Stampede,
from Amarillo to Salinas, he had lived the game horse creed:
'Run to live, live to run,' it was printed in his genes,
from nose to tail his big heart pumped blue blood through his veins.
Coming through the pattern they touched the last can some;
it was still up on its edge when they were halfway home.
When she asked him for a little, he gave her all he had;
the barrel stood, the run was good, and the time was not too bad.
When she pulls the saddle he's an old horse once again,
but while he's running barrels, he's all he's ever been.
So here's to that old gamer -- may our golden years like his
be filled with golden moments and glorious memories,
Of races run and races won, of places that we've been,
of friends we've made along the way and good things we have seen,
And someone who will need us for what we still can do--
may our needs be small, our wants be less, and our troubles be but
few.
For the First Time
I was too tired to ride
I was afraid I would be hurt if I was thrown
I heard someone say my barn was too shabby
I let someone tell me I was too pudgy to ride
I realized I was old
I had to face that I could no longer keep up
I had to let go of my dreams
I felt my heart break
I turned my back on my friend
I knew I was done
Today, for the last time,
I felt warm, braided leather in my hands.
I ran my stirrups up so they wouldn't bang my mare's sides
I released the buckles on the girth and watched my girl sigh
I slowly dropped the bit so it wouldn't hit her teeth
I gave my mare a cookie to thank her for the ride
I buried my head in her soft, warm neck
I inhaled the sun and the dust in her long winter coat
I closed the gate and trudged to the muddy porch
I tracked hay and horse hair into my house
I pulled off my boots and felt the sting of warm blood returning to my
cold toes
Today, for the first time,
I cried after my ride
I felt my hands shake as I set the saddle on its rack
I hugged my young trainer a final goodbye
I waited for the new owner's trailer to arrive
I set my boots in a box to go to the Goodwill
I sighed at the wear on my riding gloves
I had no hay in my hair
I did not hear nickering when I opened my back door
I felt worse leaving the barn that I did when I entered
I had no one to check on before going to bed
Tomorrow, for the first time,
I won't have to buy hay
I can stay in bed longer
I won't see the poop pile grow
I won't be able to fly on four legs
I will be sorry I listened
I will regret letting her go
I will be angry at God
I will be angry at myself
I will cry the day away
I will be glad to die
Day after tomorrow, for the first time,
I will awaken in tears
I will know I was wrong
I will defy all the judgment
I will ignore my old bones
I will return the buyer's check
I will bring my friend home
I will take my boots out of the box
I will be reborn
For the rest of my life,
I will have a horse in my yard
I will ignore the cruel judging
I will watch the poop pile grow
I will have hay in my hair
I will track mud in my house
I will bury my face in her soft neck
I will let my soul fly
I will never be alone.
Author Unknown
The "Old One"
The young couple had made their usual hurried, pre-Christmas visit to the little farm where dwelt the elderly parents with their small herd of horses. The farm had been named “Lone Pine Farm” because of the huge pine which topped the hill behind the farm, and through the years had become a talisman to the old man and his wife, and a landmark in the countryside. The old folks no longer showed their horses, for the years had taken their toll, but they sold a few foals each year, and the horses were their reason for joy in the morning and contentment at day's end.
Crossly, as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks. "Why do you not at least dispose of the “Old One." She is no longer of use to you. It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners and save where you can. Why do you keep her anyway?" The old man looked down as his worn boot, scuffed at the barn floor, and his arm stole defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her to him and rubbed her gently behind the ears. He replied softly, "We keep her because of love - only because of love."
Baffled and irritated, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a Merry Christmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley. So it was, that because of the leave-taking, no one noticed the insulation smoldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall. None but the "Old One".
In a matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames were licking at the loft full of hay. With a cry of horror and despair, the old man shouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save their beloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove him back. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury.
By the time the fire department arrived, only smoking, glowing ruins were left, and the old man and his wife. They thanked those who had come to their aid, and the old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shoulders as he clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana. Brokenly he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home on this eve of Christmas. Let us, therefore, climb the hill to the old pine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down upon our home and give thanks to God that it has been spared."
And so, he took her by the hand and helped her up the snowy hill as he brushed aside his own tears with the back of his hand. As they stepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they looked up and gasped in amazement at the incredible beauty before them. Seemingly, every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering, snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenly candles. And poised on its top most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistened like spun glass. Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this.
Suddenly, the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy as he pulled his wife forward. There, beneath the tree, was their Christmas gift. Bedded down about the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was the entire herd, safe.
At the first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and had led the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back, she had led them up the hill, stepping daintily through the snow. The foals were frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at the crackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they licked their lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as she moved calmly up the hill and to safety beneath the pine. And now, she lay among them and gazed at the faces of those she loved. Her body was brittle with years, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered her gift --- because of love --- only because of love. (Author Unknown)
"Rescue Me"
The sparkle of life has long since left my tired eyes
Years of neglect have brought me here
A steel hand is all that I have felt
The bang of an auction gavel sealed my fate
But a golden ray of sunshine comes upon me
A soft voice whispers in my drooping ears
A gentle hand touches my tired withers
Although I flinch, I do not feel the sting of a whip
Calming words and a soothing voice ease my fears
A halter & lead rope are gently placed on me
Another trailer stands before me now, I am urged to go inside
I struggle with fear and pull back hard on the rope
Awaiting harsh words and whip lashes, I pull harder
But no harsh words hurt my ears
No sting from the whip piercing my skin
I only hear more gentle soothing words
With fear and trepidation, I step into the trailer
My entire body quivers in fear
A huge mound of fresh green hay awaits me
At my destination, I am gently led into an enormous stall
with deep, soft bedding
A trough of clear, cool water to drink from
A feed tub with fresh grain awaits me
I peek out my stall door to a pasture of lush green grass
I wonder to myself "Is this the Rainbow Bridge?"
The horse in the stall next to me nickers, "No, it's an equine rescue."
By Dana R. Hendrix
I think all us older horsewomen can relate to what this woman has written!!!
A page from an 87 yr. old horsewoman's handwritten Journal
I Ride....
I ride. That seems like such a simple statement. However as many
women who ride know... it is really a complicated matter. It has to
do with power and empowerment; being able to do things you might once
have considered out of reach or ability.
I have considered this as I shovel manure, fill water barrels in the cold
rain, wait for the
vet/farrier/electrician/hay delivery, change a tire on a horse
trailer by the side of the freeway, or cool a gelding out before
getting down to the business of drinking a cold drink after a long ride.
The time, the money, the effort it takes to ride calls for dedication.
At least, I call it dedication. Both my ex-husbands call it 'a sickness.'
It's a nice sickness I've had since I was a small girl bouncing my
plastic model horses and dreaming of the day I would ride a real
horse. Most of the women I ride with understand
that meaning of 'the sickness.' It's not a sport. It's not a hobby.
It's what we do and-- in some ways-- who we are as women and human beings.
I ride. I hook up my trailer and load my gelding. I haul to some
nice trailhead somewhere, unload, saddle up, whistle up my dog and I
ride. I breathe in the air, watch the sunlight filter through the
trees and savor the movement of my horse. My shoulders relax. A
smile spreads across my weathered face. I pull
my floppy hat down and let the real world fade into the tracks my
horse leaves in the sand.
Time slows. Flying insects buzz loudly, looking like fairies. My
gelding flicks his ears and moves down the trail. I can smell his
sweat and it is perfume to my senses. Time slows. The rhythm of his
walk and the movement of the leaves become my focus. My saddle
creaks and the leather rein in my hand softens with the warmth.
I consider the simple statement: I ride. I think of all I do because
I ride. Climb rocky slopes, wade into a lily-pad lake, race a friend
across the hayfield... all the while laughing and feeling my heart in
my chest. Other days just the act of mounting and dismounting can be
a real accomplishment. Still I ride, no matter how tired or how much
my sitter bones or any of my other acquired horse-related injuries
hurt. I ride. And I feel a lot better for doing so.
I think of the people, mostly women, that I've met. I consider how
competent they all are. Not a weenie in the bunch. We haul 40 ft.
rigs, we back 'em up into tight spaces without clipping a tree. We
set up camp, tend the horses.
We cook and keep our camp neat. We understand and love our companion, our horses. We respect each other and those we encounter on the trail.
We know that if you are out there riding, you also shovel,
fill, bathe, wait and doctor. Your hands are a little rough and you
travel without makeup or hair gel. You do without to afford the
'sickness' and probably, when you were a small girl, you bounced a
little model horse while you dreamed of riding a real one.
"My treasures do not chink or glitter, they gleam in the sun and neigh
in the night "
BURNT BISCUITS....
When I was a kid, my mom liked to make breakfast food for dinner every
now
and then. And I remember one night in particular when she had made
breakfast after a long, hard day at work. On that evening so long ago,
my
mom placed a plate of eggs, sausage and extremely burned biscuits in
front
of my dad. I remember waiting to see if anyone noticed! Yet all my dad
did
was reach for his biscuit, smile at my mom and ask me how my day was at
school. I don't remember what I told him that night, but I do remember
watching him smear butter and jelly on that biscuit and eat every bite!
When I got up from the table that evening, I remember hearing my mom
apologize to my dad for burning the biscuits. And I'll never forget
what he
said: "Honey, I love burned biscuits."
Later that night, I went to kiss Daddy good night and I asked him if he
really liked his biscuits burned. He wrapped me in his arms and said,
"Your
Momma put in a hard day at work today and she's real tired. And
besides - a
little burnt biscuit never hurt anyone!"
You know, life is full of imperfect things.....and imperfect people. I'm
not the best at hardly anything, and I forget birthdays and
anniversaries
just like everyone else.
What I've learned over the years is that learning to accept each others
faults - and choosing to celebrate each others differences - is one of
the
most important keys to creating a healthy, growing, and lasting
relationship.
And that's my prayer for you today. That you will learn to take the
good,
the bad, and the ugly parts of your life and lay them at the feet of
God.
Because in the end, He's the only One who will be able to give you a
relationship where a burnt biscuit isn't a deal-breaker!
We could extend this to any relationship. In fact, understanding is the
base of any relationship, be it a husband-wife or parent-child or
friendship!
"Don't put the key to your happiness in someone else's pocket - keep it
in
your own."
God Bless You..... Now, and Always....
So Please pass me a biscuit, and yes, the burnt one will do just
fine.!.!.!.!
Author Unknown
