First day of school, with style. PICKUP TRUCK HICK STYLE!

The trunks were packed all summer, ready to move back to college, the teenager girl was excited, and the mother didn't need to cry the second time around.  All set.  Except for one big problem: The HONEYBADGER was having a difficulty.  And I'm not just talking about the driver's side window which quit working about six months ago.  (Just glad it quit in the closed position or I'd be driving a swamp.)  My truck eats exhaust systems.   I had my ol' man get a look under it and well, it turns out, there's nothing left to fix.  The crossover pipe between the engine and the catalytic is pretty much cheesecloth now.  The last patch job he did on it held up long enough that I forgot about him patching it up two years ago.  He tried the best he could, but it only made it slightly less unbearable. So we were facing an hour's drive with only one window down for air, and a rumble so loud that teeth rattle and skulls go numb.  AND twice the gas guzzling, because a vehicle with no exhaust is gutless and needs to be stomped hard to move.

Then my ol' man offered to move her there in his truck.

Well!  "Hey, you wanna have Papa take your stuff in the F100?"

"HECK YES!"

The college always has teams of students who've moved in early to help with the grunt work.  You should have seen these kids when my dad and daughter showed up.

Eager 19-yr-old dude: I'll carry everything in if you let me take that truck for a spin.

My ol' man: chuckle chuckle chuckle nahhhhh I don't think so.

Oh yeeeeeaaaahhhhhh!

Last year, backing up to the front of the residence building in the Honeybadger was one of those experiences that normal people would be embarrassed by.  The thing looks like scrap metal.  But we're weird.  We love our nasty truck.  We don't even really think of it as old.  It's only 24 years old.  My dad's truck?  That's old.  Well, most of it.  Parts of it are a variety of vintages.  Our truck is awesome in a defiant kind of way.  

Papa's truck is awesome in... well, every way, pretty much.

Besides being awesome, these two trucks have only one other thing in common: they're both packing a small block Chevy under the hood.

The family that moved in later with a perfect Chevy SS truck with low profile tires and chrome rims?  They think it's awesome.  We'll let them....

Meanwhile, Bucky was planning his own arrival at school.  It's his last year of high school, and he got his G2 licence this summer.  He had to drive himself to school today.  It's only right.  

But he opted not to drive his favourite little VW.  He's taking the truck.  

Why?  

BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME.

Faded paint, peeling off the front fender, dents, mismatched rims, rust spots, inadequate exhaust... the thing runs perfectly and stops, so what's the problem here?

Well heck.  It only takes 20 minutes to drive to his school from here.  I'm sure in that time he won't be deafened.  Or get pulled over.  Or run out of gas.  

STYLE.  That's how we do things around here.  

Good thing I moved some junk out of the way before the photo session in the hay mow...

Somebody had to do a photography assignment when she came home from college this weekend.

The Girl With Camera is making good use of the barn on the Ol Homestead.



Now tell me how much you love that coat.

COLLEGE: Like Kindergarten. But way bigger. And more expensive. And a lot farther away.

So we shipped our first born child off to college this past weekend.  So far she's been busy bonding with her three new roommates, exploring the grounds, and getting fed at all the free events the school's been throwing.  The rest of the time she's in her room with the Mac Book Pro (all the photography students get a computer issued by the program) editing photos she took here at home.  Oh yeah, she also showed up at her first class yesterday.  On time.

She's rocking this.

Now you're wondering how I'm doing.

I'M GREAT!

No seriously.  I'm handling this better than I thought I would.  I squeezed out a few tears on Friday night, in my bed, with my face stuck to her daddy's shoulder.  That was my hard time.  I'd spent the last half a year preparing myself for the basic idea that my kid will be not living in the same house as me during the week.  I introduced to her the concept of self-nagging.  She ended up not getting a steady job this summer, and while it would have been good to have some money earned up, she had time to work on her photography skills and talk to her mother about life and stuff, and also, grow up a little.  I had time to enjoy her presence.

I just had that one moment Friday night.

Okay maybe I've been choked up a couple times.

But I'm way more okay than I expected.

That child walked into the kindergarten yard all those years ago in her floweree-ree-ree-ree jacket and cute skirt and red rubber boots, wide eyed and free of expectations.  She walked out a couple hours later, looked at the yellow school bus, and burst into tears when I told her that she could't go on the bus because we lived just down the street and she had to walk home with me and her little brother.  That was my forehead slap moment.  I didn't prepare her for that!  I'd told her how when I was a little girl living on Grandma's farm I took the bus to school.  I forgot to tell her that kids who live two blocks away from the school walk home, holding mommy's hand, with little brother in the stroller.

Now she lives about an hour away from the school.  Her new home away from home is a residence building, just across the lane from a nice cafeteria and mere minutes from the school's photography studio.  Everything is a short walk.

I am pretty sure I thought of everything this time.  I told her about how my one and only year of college was different because I was 20 and married.  And how I had only been on a city bus once in my life.  And how I had a meltdown beside a bus shelter the night before my first class because the posted bus schedule looked like a Russian blueprint and what the hell was I doing living in a place with all these buildings everywhere, right beside each other... while my young husband sat on the curb with his head in his hands wondering what he was thinking, taking this little hick out of her natural habitat, the full realization sinking in that he had just married a crazy chick.

Selina is a little odd and quirky, but she's not crazy.  And she's not typical.  She's not swayed by what everybody else is doing.

Not like back in kindergarten.  She went in with full sentences and decent grammar and clear enunciation.  She came home the second day talking like a baby.  Oh wow.  Poor kid looked around with those big eyes and open ears and figured out that this is what we do in kindergarten.

I'm not really concerned that she'll come home next weekend talking with full-on vocal fry, sentences all dipping down at the end, eyes rolling, hair flipping, slouching, post-valley-girl apathy.  (Luckily so far her roommates don't fit that description.  Whew.)

MEANWHILE, back at the Ol' Homestead.

Bucky went to school yesterday without his sister for the first time ever.  He was ready with time to spare and had nobody to nag at to quick hurry up get ready don't make me miss the bus.  He drove over to the bus stop and everybody got to see him get out of the driver's seat.

I will now be the recipient of all Bucky's practical jokes and advanced trolling.  Unless he text spams his sister.  Which he will.  Because waiting five days for her to come back is a lot longer than waiting two hours for her to come home.

Arrgghhhh, extreme lack of blogging!!!!

I have reasons!  Some of them are even good reasons!

- I've been legit busy.  And that's not something I want to complain about!  I'm doing up to seven lessons in a five-day week, which is right about where I'd like to be.  I could handle more, (especially if all three of my horses are sound and happy at the same time) but this is just enough to keep me busy and not burn any of us out.  Eventually I'd like to do more group lessons but we'll get there.

- It's summer.  For all of July, it was ride, teach, get in the pool.  This is how I've been dealing with an extremely hot summer.  Now that things have cooled in the last week or so, I've got to catch up on stuff I didn't feel like doing when I was boiling internally.

- I've got this teenager who's going to college in two weeks and besides freaking the heck out about it, I'm helping her get her stuff together.  By "stuff" I mean, actual things for her dorm room, sorting out paperwork, telling her that even though I really don't feel ready to let her go that I am so super proud of her and I know she's going to rock this thing, and it's exciting and I'm happy for her and... you get the idea.  It's a really big deal.

- Mac White, at the ripe old age of five, seems to be having some problems. I have no idea what those problems might be, and in fact, even Bucky The Nerd is a little puzzled as to why it can't decide how much blank space it has in its... um, hard drive? is that where it keeps all its stuff?  I'm a horse person, not a computer tech...!  It tells me I can't load pictures from my iGadget and it seems to regularly stop to have a little think before getting on with what it's supposed to be doing, so I dunno what.

- Can't load pictures.  I want to show you pictures.  And I can't.

- I have way too much to write about.  I can't sort it out and decide what to focus on.

- I really should reply to email first, before I blog.

- The dishes have still not learned how to wash themselves.

- If I ever get time with my husband and kids in the same building, I am NOT going to blog.

Aaaaaaand one more reason for the extreme lack of blogging....




I'm writing, but not here.




So that's all I've got to say about that.





For now...

Why the Best of 2011 List is not done yet

I have this teenager who needs the computer to apply for scholarships. As in, college. Photography. Yeah, college. That really is more important.

The List is going to be great though. I'm getting James Franco to host. I hear he's done a hosting gig before and therefore has experience.

A slightly embarrassing story about me, a self portrait, and a cardboard box.

As some of you know, a long time ago in a place a little farther away than here, I aspired to be an artist.

And having these arty goals, I developed a strange habit of doing a self-portrait every couple years.  Sometimes more often.  It was sometimes hard to get someone else to sit still for me.  If I had a mirror or two, I could draw myself, and I was a great model.  My face is quite asymmetrical, so I could look different at any angle.  I could have the up-smirk or the down-frown.  It was a great exercise in identity as well, which was a favourite subject of mine from age 12 until... well, I'll let you know when I figure it out.

In high school, my grade 12 art assignment was to create a pastel portrait of myself based on a photograph.  A few girls with some decency and brains chose a cute baby portrait and gave the finished piece to their mothers.  I know, so sweet.  But me, for unknown reasons, chose a school photo from Grade 11, with my awesome layered shaggy hair and my big toothy grin, you know the one, with more teeth showing on one side and the collar of the shirt hanging crooked.  I'm not kidding, my hair was awesome.  I didn't consider myself any great beauty, I didn't have a knockout figure, and I wasn't particularly brilliant at anything obvious, but holy smokes I had great hair.  I didn't colour it or perm it or curling iron it or anything.  It was just naturally awesome.  Maybe that's why I chose that picture.

When it was done, the pastel portrait looked pretty good.  Except for the eyeballs that looked straight at the viewer rather than at the photographer like in the photo, it was decently well done.  It even resembled me.  I handed it over to my boyfriend, who went into his dad's woodshop and made a nice frame for it.  He actually liked it and hung it on his wall.

As newlyweds, we lived in a big crappy apartment on the only bad street in a ritzy town, above a Scottish pub, a Portuguese hair shop, and a cockroach infested Chinese take-away.  The place smelled funny.  (Not funny-haha, funny-bad.)  A few of my high school masterpieces came with us, including my huge crazy abstract painting, which I still cherish and always hang in a prominent spot, and the pastel self-portrait.  A few more joined them as I worked my way through my one year of art college.  Then we moved.

The job offer was in Memphis Tennessee.  Since we were facing a possible 6 months to a year of paperwork to get through immigration, we packed up all our belongings, every single thing, including wedding gifts we hadn't even used yet.  We were young and penniless when we got married, which made us easy to buy for, I guess.  Most of the boxes got stored in a big and mostly unused room at his Mum's house, while a few boxes came with us to the farm.  We lived for six months there, with our cat, in the room I'd slept in when I was a teenager.  Cozy.

Then we stayed at his Mum's house in town a few more months before moving to a great apartment up the hill in the woods, where I ran into all kinds of life changing adventures which you might have to wait to read about.  (I have to go out to the barn and thaw a water pipe, I ain't got all day to write here!)

Years went by. Eventually we moved into the cute bungalow in the subdivision and I got busy chasing my toddlers and unpacking long-forgotten boxes.  And being me, filled that little house to overflowing over the course of 12 years.  Now I've spent this year getting rid of, giving away, and saying goodbye to all kinds of things while I pack up the things I want to keep.

For the second time in my adult life, I am moving in with my parents.  This time I'm bringing two children, a dog, a cat, soon a husband (same one!) and every last one of my pared-down possessions.

Squeezing two houses into one is not easy.  It takes a lot of tough decision making, especially for two women like my Mom and I, who both like our THINGS.  There's been a lot of purging.

In order to find storage room for some of my valued things, I need to clear out the old apartment/ summer kitchen on the back of the house.  The last tenant moved out years ago, and since then it's been used to hold the freezer, recycling boxes and lawn furniture over winter.  But you know what happens when you've got a big empty room, right?  It's gonna get filled up with stuff.  Now it's my job to clear out that stuff.

Yesterday I pulled a large box off the stack.  My own handwriting commanded that this box be stored at my mother's place.  It appeared to be full of brown packing paper.  On closer inspection something appeared to be wrapped in it... I pulled some of the paper away.

I saw the handmade wooden frame and the strands of awesome hair in the picture.

I set the box down.

I didn't have time to dig into this.  I had to pick up the kids from the bus stop.

I felt kind of disoriented though.  This box had been there since... when did we leave our crappy apartment?  1992?  1992?

It's been out there for seventeen years????

I was just thinking or dreaming about that picture.  I dream so much I often can't tell if a memory is real or dreamed.  Never once did I realize that I haven't seen that thing in ages.  I didn't wonder where I stashed it all these years.

It's been on my mind now since yesterday afternoon.  I feel like a total slob for leaving it there for longer than my kids have been alive.  I wonder what the heck else I've hidden away.  I wonder if I'll ever find that skull collection I hid in the barn when I was a kid.  (Relax, they were rodent skulls.  I was a weird kid but I wasn't dangerous or anything.)

Today I must tackle that old apartment/ summer kitchen, because there are a few more things to come to the farm, and time's running out.  I need room.  I'm going out there with a jackknife to cut up cardboard boxes.  I have no idea what I'll find.

I do know this: it is embarrassing to publicly admit that I packed up my precious valuable meaningful stuff and then forgot about it for almost twenty years.  What does this say about me?  That I'm forgetful and have a bit of a packrat problem.  I'd be ashamed but I've made it a point to abolish shame.  I will go face my face, haha.  Speaking of my face though...

The portrait is kind of haunting me now.  I mean, think about it.  I drew it when I was about eighteen.  I hid it away when I was twenty-one.  I think I've aged since then -- I can see it, but apparently nobody else does.  I've gotten used to being carded at the beer store.  I try to be flattered by it.  Just yesterday I got asked if my daughter and I were sisters, and I laughed it off.

But... but... what if I get out there today, take the paper off that framed picture and... find a hideous account of nearly 39 years of cold winters, working outside in the summer, bouts of depression, the stress of living with a workaholic man and not enough income to keep everything fed and paid for?  Every day I go over my face looking for whiskers to pluck -- what if they're all grown in thick and black in the picture?  What if I don't really take after my mother and her father, who didn't sprout grey hair until their 50s?  What if in real life I have straggly witchy hair but it only showed up in the picture?  What if my forehead is creased with visual evidence of all the worrying I do?  What if I have much more than just my cherished laugh lines?

What if there's a murdered heart beating under the wooden floorboards???

Oh wait- that's a whole other story.  Never mind.

Am I Dorian Gray????

(Apparently a movie came out/ is about to be released and I missed out on it.  That's what I get for living under a rock surrounded by cardboard boxes!)

So do feast your eyes on this lovely fella with his fresh new portrait.  I may not look so pretty by the time I turn 39, in like, a week or so.  Wish me luck.

In some respects, I suspect you've got a respectable side.

Yep, it's still guess the lyric.  Now let's talk...

Who do you respect, and what does it take to earn your respect?

Me, I respect people who say what they mean.  I don't like hearing words come out that don't match the body language.  That stuff weirds me out.  I confuse easily.

I respect people who know what the hell they're talking about.

I respect people who walk the walk.

I respect people who are artists, of any kind.  Writers, poets, painters, actors, musicians.  Craftsmen.  Photographers.  Bakers.  Dancers.  Auto body technicians.  Farmers.  Songwriters.

Some on that list don't get respect.  I think that's a darn shame.

Fencing, with a chainsaw and hammer and nails, not slightly creepy white outfits and fake swords

Earlier this year I made a decision: I will no longer have the manure pile in the corral!  I don't care how convenient it is to have it just outside the barn door, I want it gone.  I don't care if I have to push the wheelbarrow twice the distance through snow and mud.  I don't care if it means a day's work to cut a gate through the corral fence.  No more manure pile in the corral.

I don't mind of that corral has to double as turnout area for the horses as well as training/ riding space.  That's fine; we can ride without walking into the watering trough.  But the pile, man, it not only gets in the way, it cuts the riding area almost in half, and creates a big mucky moat around it.  Not to mention the flies.  And stink.  That's IT I've had enough. So far this fall, if the horses have spent the night in the barn, I've pushed the wheelbarrow all the way out the pasture gate and around the corner to the new pile.  It gets old fast.

I figured with the old liquid manure tank right on the other side of the fence, I already had the perfect spot.  It's concrete, it's got drainage holes into the tank for all the nasty runoff to disappear into, and I can just drive the tractor onto it to scoop everything up in the spring and take it away to compost.  All that stood in my way was that fence.

And in case you're not from the country and you're wondering... YES much of my thinking space is taken up with fences and s**t.  These two topics are a constant concern.  If these are my biggest problems I consider myself lucky.

Yesterday afternoon, I convinced my ol' man to come out to the corral and bring his tools.  It wasn't raining and I wanted to get this done.  Armed with the chainsaw, hammer, knife, crowbar, and a box of nails, we got to work.  Dad cut the rubber strips which we use instead of planks.  I like this system, because it looks good (black, and never needs to be painted) and when it sags we just tighten it up like a belt through loops.  We had two cedar fence posts to be used as cross braces.  A fence post holding a gate or corner can't just be sunk into the ground and expected to stay up.  It has to be braced to the next post.

My ol' man is an Eyeballer.  He eyeballs the angle he's about to set the angled post, and then cuts a matching notch into the vertical post.  Over the years he's learned to not cut too much off at once, because there'll be a few adjustments before it sits just right.  The brace post gets a slanted end cut, and then we do the other side.  My job is to hold the brace post so he can eyeball it and cut it.  He doesn't measure when doing a job like this.  Kinda blows my mind, even though I'd probably do it the same way, only I'd for sure screw it up.  Maybe he's just screwed up often enough by now that he doesn't have to anymore.

Once the end post is braced to the next one, we get out the fence stretcher tool.  Like a lot of stuff around here, the ol' man made it.  It's just a metal pole with a curved spike at the end.  I stuck the spike through a hole at the end of the rubber strip, braced the pole against the post, and leaned on it with all my weight.  He hammered a few nails in at strategic places and we're on to the next one.

Most of the time taken, truthfully, was locating and carrying all the darn tools around.  Also, the fact that neither of us moves particularly fast, that really stretches out a task.

I had to laugh at our horses.  They had to come up and see what we were doing.  I joked that Phoenix, aka "The Mechanic" would be watching and learning, because he has that look.  Sometimes I swear he's gonna start speaking to me in my own language, he just looks clever.  He likes to untie his lead rope then just stand there, to prove a point.  We're lucky he doesn't have opposable thumbs. (I have a thing about curious geldings: Champ was the same.  Dad used to joke that that horse would be driving the tractor if he could ever figure out how.)  Phoenix had to sniff each tool and pick up a rubber strip in his teeth.  When Dad fired up the chainsaw they both did this totally lame routine where they went, "Wah, we're horses, like, we're supposed to act like we're scaaaared, whoo ah, awright what are they doing now let's go see."  The second round of chainsawing had the two of them flicking their ears and rolling their eyes but they couldn't be bothered to do more than that.  I sure do like my Appaloosas.

They weren't sure about this new gap in the fence.  It took Phoenix about a half hour of investigating before he ventured through.  I still haven't seen the little mare try it.

This afternoon, we'll build brackets to hold the planks in place.  When I need to get through with the wheelbarrow, I'll lift the planks out of the way.  Easy, right?  I might have to put the manure on a toboggan to get it across the snow, at which point I'm sure I'll see my ol' man snickering at me.

In the evening I worked a bit more on my tack room project, while thinking about all the fencing we need to do around here.  One side hasn't been changed in decades and is looking pretty rough.  Do we have enough materials to fix it?  I sure don't have the funds to buy any new fencing and my parents aren't able to throw any money at it.  At this point, any new fencing will have to wait until spring.

I sat on my decrepit chair gazing around my tack room, thinking about these things, these things that are so important in a life full of horses and pasture and a busy highway out front.  A lot of folks have no idea how much thought goes into this.  A fence keeps the neighbour's kids out of their dog poop in the backyard, or vice versa, but in my world, a fence keeps horses out of the path of oncoming transport trucks.

I actually worry about that less than you'd think, simply because of all the thought put into fencing already.  For now all I'm thinking about is keeping my horses out of s**t.  Which if you think about it, is kind of the same thing, not?

What I'm doing to get ready for My Big Exam tomorrow

-believing that I really do know what I'm talking about 

-visualizing what it might be like to teach my lesson plans in front of the Evaluator

-and in my imaginings, I do a great job of it

-getting all my gear together:  all the leg wraps and bandages, the grooming kit, first aid kid, lunge line and whip, and my binder full of notes, papers, plans

-deciding what to bring for lunch

-getting up at 3 am for the last five days to take my Side-effexor, so that when I wake up at 6 (or, tomorrow morning, 5 am) I don't feel as queasy because I've slept it off for awhile

-writing lists

-blogging a list of lists, haha

-realizing that in my entire life, this is the only formal education that I've ever really cared about.  High school?  Pfah.  College?  Fun year.  This?  This matters.

-practicing

-reading my Western Rider manual over and over again

-thinking like an instructor

-cleaning all my grooming tools and tack boxes and making sure everything looks neat and PERFESHNUL.

-congratulating myself for sticking with it for the last three years, cuz y'know what?  IT HAS NOT ALWAYS BEEN EASY TO STICK WITH IT and many days I felt like giving up.  But.  There are a lot of things in my life I cannot control.  This, all I have to do is stay stubborn, keep my head down, and plow through it.  Sometimes I have really, really enjoyed it, and that keeps me looking for the next good spot.

-knowing that nothing in my life has come to me easily... I'm a slow learner and I don't take directions well, I confuse easily, I have a hard time paying attention.  I'm a klutz.  I sometimes fall into a deep pit of depression when things are looking really great.  I'm a bit of a mess, really.  But I've got that good old Mennonite work ethic.  I have to keep at it.  It's just in me.

-deciding that this could actually be kind of exciting, doing this exam.

Think about it: Eight hours in a horse barn, showing off my SKILLZ, talking about horses.  Wearing my pretty pink shirt and my Stetson.  Ooh, and my blingy belt.  And my Wranglers (I hope they fit tomorrow!)  

I get to ride, and teach others how to do something.  This could be...fun.

If I get an attack of the panic, I can ask my Evaluator for some time to take a breath and collect my thoughts.  I can do this.  

It is exhausting to prop myself up like this, buy hey look at me, I'm doing it.  

See ya on Monday...

Life With a Very Old Cat

I didn't expect, way back in the summer of 1991, that the big beautiful black cat we brought home from the pound would still be with us after 6 homes, two human children, a puppy, a giant renovation job, a million trips down the biggest highway in the province, and almost eighteen years.

Assuming that he was born in 1990, Nigel the cat is 19 this year.  For any cat, this is quite an accomplishment! Considering that he had some health issues, it's amazing.  He had some chronic cystitis at about age 5, and was on medicated food for years.  The vets warned us that his kidneys would be compromised by the medication, but I figured it was better to avoid that awful cystitis.  I opted for quality of life rather than quantity.  And look at him now.

Yeah, he's still here, but the years are really showing on him.

I bundled him up for a visit to the vet on Monday.  I don't take him every year any more.  I mean, why?  He's a house cat.  He's old.  He doesn't like going to the vet.  I'd rather leave him on the couch where he's happy.  Well, after a little squeeze here and there, the vet told me that he's... old.  His kidneys are pretty much shrivelled little prunes, which would explain why he drinks so much water and his litter box needs to be picked through twice a day.  He's lost all his muscle tone, he's probably totally deaf, and his balance isn't good. Clearly, he hasn't got much longer with us.  

We spent most of his check up discussing what to do WHEN.  What if he expires during the night.  What to do with his remains: the kids want to keep his ashes.  Will I stay with him if he needs to be put down: damn right I will.  If I have to make that decision, he's going out in my arms.  

I got some advice on feeding him, like continue to mix up his food since he's become a picky eater in his old age.  Add a bit of water to keep him hydrated.  I was asked how his quality of life is, and I answered honestly that this guy has a pretty good life.  He's the same guy he's always been... just a lot slower!

He fully deserves the best retirement I can give him.  He has gotten me through some tough times.  When I was newlywed, and lonely because my young husband was locked up in the recording studio for 72 hours straight, I had my big vigorous cat to talk to.  He calmed me when I was the 20 year old married-chick college student, not sure exactly where my life was headed.  When we moved twice a year for a couple of years, we dragged him along with us.  When I was stuck in an apartment with no balcony and a nasty view of the dumpster in the parking lot, Nigel was my connection to nature and the animal world.  He sprawled across my pregnant belly and purred two babies into the world.  During our toddler years, he only scratched a kid once - and she learned real quick not to torment the cat!

He has definitely earned a peaceful life for his last years.

Giving him that good life in his old age has a whole new set of challenges.  

Because of his little dehydration problems, we have to make sure he's always got water to drink.  It requires constant vigilance, because the dog slurps up a fair amount as well.  There's a double bowl upstairs in the dining room, plus another in the downstairs bathroom.  He's got a bowl for wet food and one for dry kibble.  The wet food is a mess.  The kids hate spooning it into the dish for him.  

He doesn't wash himself anymore.  Jethro figures he decided he doesn't have to... because I'll do it for him.  Yup, I will.  He doesn't use his scratching post anymore, which means I have to trim his claws.  He's also developed a strong aversion to having those claws trimmed.  I suspect a bit of arthritis.  I do one claw each day or so, and get it over with fast, preferably while he's snoozing.  I don't want him to struggle and hurt himself.

He tracks cat litter all over the house.  He isn't very agile anymore, which means that he often steps in the wet stuff on his way out of the box.  Yep, it's disgusting.  I sweep up litter every time I'm downstairs, and we've all learned to crush down our revulsion at finding litter-critters on the couches where he curled up for a nap after taking a wiz.  I have a really hard time with the litter-critters.  I hate finding it in my bed.  So gross, so gross, so gross.  But I love that cat, and he's still alive, so I brush all the litter crumbs away and wash my hands and tell myself that I put up with it to still have him.

At least once each day I have to pick wet litter clumps out of his paws.  Yick.  I seriously love this cat to do this!  

He was never allowed to sleep under the bedsheets or on my pillow... until he got OLD.  Now he sleeps right beside me, covered up, or on my pillow wrapped around my head.  

Sometimes his body creaks when he walks.  Last week I watched him turn around in the sunbeam to find a nap spot in front of the sliding doors, but instead of gliding into a nice lie-down like a cat does... he fell over.  I felt awful.  He sort of sprawled there for a few seconds, and then curled his tail over his back paws and pretended he meant to do that.

We handle him very cautiously now. I remember when Jethro and I would pat him by slapping him in the ribs repeatedly.  He'd lean into it and purr!  Can't imagine doing that now.  All four of us pick him up gently and are constantly aware of his location to avoid stepping on him or bumping him.

He rewards us by being his wonderful sassy, demanding, superior self.  Even though he's just fur and bones, he asserts himself and his need for attention when he feels it's necessary.  We will always make room for him if he needs lap time.  He lets us know when his dish is getting empty.  The cat who wasn't allowed on the table now perches there, staring us down, when he needs something.

If he remembers, he jumps up on the Girl's bed and purrs her to sleep, just as he has for years.  That purr used to be strong and constant, but has become squeaky and louder on the exhale.  The content look on his face hasn't changed much though.

He is like the cat version of the little old man with his pants yanked up to his ribs.  Slow, deaf, forgetful, and stubborn.  He has his routine: bed, dish, water, box, couch.  Repeat.  He makes his way from one end of the house to the other, stopping for a loud howling meow ("What ya say there, sonny?") and navigating the stairs one... at... a... time, rather than jumping two at once like he did years ago.  He always makes it to the box on time.  

And when it's necessary, which it is quite often, he'll take the time to slap the dog across the face.  

Ah... The Golden Years...

The teacher, the student, the teacher's teacher and the student's student...

Nope, no punchline!  Just a few thoughts about how each of us is both student and teacher.  

Last month, I went with Susan to see a Level 2 Western Coach.  I was there to babysit the little feller, who was just shy of his first birthday.  In between stroller walks and biscuits, and pointing his chubby fingers at the horses in the pasture, I got to catch a few pieces of information.  "Spyder" and I sat on a lawn chair in the barn, where he could sit on my knee and watch his mommy wrap a horse's leg in a very complicated knee bandage.  

I had to think about this little ladder of knowledge.  I'm a Level 3 Rider.  I get my lessons from Susan, a Level 1 Coach.  She in turn gets her lessons from Maggie, a Level 2 Coach.  

I need to reach Level 4 Rider, then take my exam, to become an Instructor.  After that, I have the option to study what's called a General Component, which will qualify me for another exam, after which I'll be a Level 1 Coach as well.  (This might take a few more years!)

Susan's at the point where she's sort of eyeballing the Level 2 Coach thing and thinking she might go for it one of these years.  She didn't need the General Component in 1999.  It's a course of study that makes sure the coach has a broad knowledge of western riding disciplines, such as reining, equitation, and barrel racing.  There's also a more intensive look at stable management and first aid, which is why Susan was learning all kinds of obscure leg bandaging techniques. 

It was quite odd to see my own teacher being taught.  

It was reassuring.  

She's not only a good teacher; she's a good student too.  She asked questions, made mistakes, and kept trying.

I try to be a good student, but I am so aware that I'm a slow learner.  I have a hard time getting the lessons through my ears and brain and into my hands and legs.  I have to do things wrong several times before I get it right.  Even if I understand the concept, or at least think I do, it takes a lot of physical work to really accomplish the goal.  It doesn't matter how much I love horses; this riding lesson thing is very hard work.

After Susan's session with Maggie, she had a lot of ideas for coaching me.  I'm one of her most advanced students.  She's throwing it at me hard, teaching me stuff I won't even need to know for my Level 4 test.  I will be very prepared when the time comes.

But the most interesting part has been my own teaching style.  I can't even name the specific difference, but I feel like I've gotten some benefit from that afternoon.  Maybe it's confidence from seeing firsthand that we are all teachers and students.  I still get my left and right confused during lessons, but I feel like my students can trust me more.  Is it authority?  Does it come from knowing that we're all learning here?  Because I can tell you this: when I'm teaching a riding lesson, I definitely feel like I'm learning from my students!

I didn't always do well in school.  But I loved learning.  This learning process has been so incredibly rewarding.  I love knowing that I've got a whole lifetime ahead to learn more!

My Abandoned Art Career

It appears that I have a little part of me that hasn't really shown its face here on my Hick Chic blog. Before I made the decision to let myself be a writer, before I realized that I must do something with horses, before I became a mother, I took a crack at being an artist.

It's common knowledge around here (folklore? legend?) that I was the kid with the hair in two braids, wearing my ratty old jeans, hanging around with my ponies, and dedicating myself to writing only about ponies in my Grade 4 english class.

What I haven't made a big deal about is my little side career illustrating my stories.

Looking back it amazes me that I had enough attention span to actually finish those little books I made, all stapled together at the fold and with a dedication page and everything. And yes, the dedication was always, "To my beloved ponies, Beauty and Chocolate." Always.

I loved drawing all the way through school. I have boxes and boxes of scribbles and masterpieces. Even through all of my sickly phases and then my rebellious phases, I dabbled with drawing. I wasn't always good at it. I failed grade 9 art because I didn't finish stuff and came to class drunk a couple of times. I wish I was kidding.

I took art all the way through high school. Sometimes I finished my work on time. Sometimes I hated what I finished. Sometimes I created something that I loved and have carted around with me ever since.

This was one of them.



To get a sense of scale, it's about three feet high and hangs on the wall that faces the front door. Up close it's incredibly detailed.

I still love it. If people ask me what it is, I say, "It's a representation of what's behind my eyelids."

My art teacher in 1988-89 was a towering mountain of a man who referred to himself as Doc. Most kids either disliked him or were afraid of him. I had a fascination/ fear of the lumbering grumpy art teacher. By the time I got to Grade 12, I was going out with a certain long haired guitar freak who happened to be family friends with Doc- they were members of the same Anglican church and had British ancestry in common. This never came up in class. He was just my art teacher. He was a total curmudgeon, sharing his sarcastic opinions and never hesitating to criticize. I snickered at his blistering tirades. I silently agreed with his scathing criticisms- even of my own work. Sometimes, if I had access to a car for the day, I'd bag off the entire day...except for Doc's art class.

He's mellowed a bit in his later years. That abstract painting was a restoration project of his about ten years ago. It had been in storage after one of our many moves and I was devastated that the canvas had been stretched out. Doc was out of teaching and into art restoration. He first inspired that painting and then repaired it.

In my last year of high school, I turned back into a 9 year old girl, because our final year assignment was an independent study of art history and my chosen topic was...The Horse. My art teacher didn't get it. She thought I was nuts. My argument was that without the horse, human history could not have progressed as it did and that there is evidence of their importance in art. I had all the representations to prove it.

This painting was one of my projects this year but damn if I can remember what I was trying to prove with it. Cubism? It's not very Picasso. Art Deco? Who cares anymore? I just like it. I'm not a perfeshnul artist, so I can say things now such as "I like it" as opposed to expounding on its artistic merits.




And yes, it's my horse, the King. It's Champ.

I thought about going into art as a career. I still don't know how I thought that would be a good way to make a living. At the time I was very busily subconsciously talking myself out of being a writer. I believed that people like me didn't get to be published authors. I have no idea now what that means. People like me? Girls? Country kids? Fragile people? I never let myself believe that I could do it. And there's never really been any role model for me that a living could be made with horses. I didn't know anybody who made a sole career in the horse business. I didn't really know if there was a horse business, just a bunch of people who had horses in their backyards and went for rides when they were done with their other work.

Only art was left as a career choice. To my credit, I did know that it wasn't a good one, that I'd have to work way too hard for not enough money. At that time in my life, I figured that was what had to be done. It's all I'd known.

Two months after the wedding, I went to college for a course called Craft and Design. I majored in Ceramics and minored in Textiles. I spent many days hunched over a potter's wheel, covered in sticky wet clay. It was awesome. I really loved that tactile/ visual experience.

The program included Photography, Drawing, and an elective, which for me (duh) was Creative Writing.

In my drawing class I did this, my self portrait, which I am so proud of.





It's based on a black and white photo that one of my friends took of me. That photo session was fun. We messed with the lighting and wore black lipstick. I sketched out the photo and reduced it to lines and shapes, then into hot and cold, light and dark. I scared the crap out of most of the guys in my class. I think they were worried about the safety and sanity of my young husband, who in turn figured they were just jealous.

I loved being surrounded by art. It pleased my eyes and expanded my brain.

But there was one huge problem.

I didn't love it enough.

I found it hard to be creative on command. This was not uncommon, and it's one of the hardest thing for any artist to develop. Even now I have days when I have to force myself to write, but I know now what I didn't know 17 years ago- if you practice, it gets easier. If I write even when I don't feel like it, the next day the words come more freely.

One turning point for me in 1992 happened in my Creative Writing class. My pal Dstewart ("what the F*** is a silent P???? Why can't I have a silent D in my name?"), who was a frightening intellect and had Axl Rose's hair, was the only other Craftie in my class. I wrote an intense story about a girl who is stalked down into a corner while working in the barn, and threatens to bash the hell out of the guy's face with her spurs if he comes any closer. My friend was shocked by the violence in the story. He was impressed with my vivid imagination. After I read it out loud in class and silenced the room for a few minutes, we walked back to the Craftie corridor together. He shook his head. "I don't know why you're doing this, Heidi. You should drop this and write. That's what you're meant to do."

Some day I need to track him down and thank him.

I started probably two or three books in that time. They'll never see daylight. Ever. They were practice.

Meanwhile, every sunny day had me itching to get on the highway back to the farm and ride my horse. A few of my friends commented that I should do something with horses too, out there in the sticks, with a potter's wheel in the barn and a wood fired kiln out back. Sounded great to me. But how to do that when my husband worked in Mississauga, snuggled up in the armpit of Toronto, cleaning up Axl's spit on the studio floor?

College got cut off when Jethro got a job offer in Memphis, Tennessee, and we attempted our move to the US of A , which is another story I haven't gotten into. Maybe someday. Once the dust settled with the immigration lawyer, I no longer had the heart to go back to school. We'd moved back to the farm, where Jethro agonized over which direction his career would take, and I spent all my time with my horse. I felt a black cloud over me and all of our uncertainties with our careers and our homelessness and our young marriage. I took Champ for a ride twice a day, in the pasture, in the plowed field, down the dirt road. That horse got me through a very tough time.

But something else nagged at me.

I was not supposed to be an artist.

My art would come out in a different way. In a couple of years I had a baby and poured all my creativity into her. One of the last self portraits I did was my own pregnant body, about two weeks before my son was born. Between the births, I started writing another book. And stopped. And started again, and finally seven years later I could say that I'd finished writing a book.

Five years after that my husband bought me a computer. The rest is all here in this blog.

I hung onto a few brushes and charcoals. I have sketch books on my shelf. Sometimes I get an urge to draw something and I bust it out. I take pictures with my little Cybershot that I'm reasonably proud of. My pictures and paintings are all in my head now, in that beautiful place where imaginary people have lives and worlds, and all I have to do is observe carefully and choose the right words for them. I don't feel deprived.