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Elizabeth and Ginger
Written By: Bonnie Marlewski-Probert
It was bone chilling cold that first Saturday morning of the New Year. One of those Indiana winter days when staying in a warm bed was more valuable to me than all the money in the world. Unfortunately, the phone rang at 7:00 a.m., there were horses to feed, ice to break out of water buckets and the girls were coming over at 9:00a.m.
When I was in my early teens, my trainer had encouraged me to spend my entire Saturday at the barn. I loved every minute of it and vowed that when I had a barn of my own; I would pay back that debt by offering the same opportunity to my students. Today, the five regulars arrived right on time, as always. Cheven, Elizabeth, Beth, Denise and Sherry all wearing English riding boots just visible underneath their heavy winter trousers. Hats, coats, scarves and gloves so thick that it was hard to tell who was who. I could always pick Denise out of the crowd because her bagged lunch was always packed in the smartest carrying bag. The other girls were from farms in the area and carried their lunches in brown sacks, but Denise?s folks owned a successful business in town and made certain that she always had the best. Of course, in the world of young girls, that was actually a handicap for Denise, but at Whitehall, everyone understood that it didn?t matter where you came from, everyone was equal in the eyes of the horses.
My neighbor and good friend, Connie, had gotten me out of bed that morning to ask if she could bring over an older mare that had been abandoned by its owner and left to fend for itself in a barren field. Even though I certainly didn?t need another mouth to feed, she knew that I couldn?t say no. I too knew what it felt like to be given a leg up just when you were sure it was all over and to pay back my debt, I took in strays. Stray dogs, horses, ponies and people. Today I would meet a stray that would change all of our lives forever.
After a morning of riding, mucking stalls and cleaning tack, the girls and I settled in to have lunch. Soon after, still savoring the warmth of my barn office, sipping down the last of our hot chocolate, we heard a truck pull into the driveway. I had told the girls that there was a new horse coming in and I was going to try to find a good home for her. The girls scrambled to put their hats and gloves on and were out the door like a shot.
As I left the barn, the bitter wind cut my face like a knife. It had been unusually cold that winter and the driveway was an ice-skating rink, making it hard to get the 150 feet to and from the house each day to feed and teach. There in the driveway sat an old, dented red pickup that had seen better days. Standing in the bed of the truck was the skinniest horse I had ever seen. Her coat was long and dull and in spite of the length of her hair, there was no mistaking the fact that you could count all the major bones in her body. Connie stepped out of the passenger?s side of the old pickup and the owner of the horse stepped out of the driver?s side. I welcomed them both to Whitehall and even though I wanted to horse whip this man as I saw all too clearly the condition he had allowed the mare to get into, instead, I thanked him for taking the time to do right by her. Without a word, he dropped the tailgate, grabbed the lead line that was hanging from her ill-fitting halter and asked her to jump down onto the icy driveway. She was too weak to argue and nearly feel to her knees while exiting the bed of the truck. He handed me the lead line and headed for his truck without a word. We shook hands at the truck door and I never saw the man again.
"I can?t believe that you didn?t read him the riot act," Connie said. "I wanted to, but at least he had the sense to do something before she was dead. For that reason alone, I didn?t." I responded, watching the old mare shiver. Connie understood just how close the old mare was to dying and agreed that in the end, ironically, this man had been responsible for saving her life.
"What a sack of bones!" Denise exclaimed. All of the girls were shocked by what they saw as I led the mare into the barn, except for Elizabeth. "She may not be as fat as you are Denise, but she is beautiful just the same." With that said, Elizabeth ran over to the new mare and threw her arms around her neck, welcoming her to Whitehall. "You are home now. We are going to fatten you up, brush you, take good care of you and someday soon, you are going to be beautiful." I was so moved by the instant connection the pair made that I invited Elizabeth to name the mare. It was as if they had known each other forever. Before the mare had been in the barn for more than five minutes, Elizabeth exclaimed, "Ginger. That is what I will call her and when she gains weight and her coat slicks out, she will be the color of ginger snaps." The other girls laughed and poked fun at Elizabeth for thinking that bag of bones would ever look pretty, but there was no changing Elizabeth?s mind. She somehow knew that Ginger would get better, that she would transform herself into a beautiful horse and Elizabeth was prepared to make sure that it happened.
Ginger was not the first stray I had taken in over the years at Whitehall. But there was certainly something different about her. Even the toughest retired livestock men in the community were interested in this old mare. When Reither stopped by the next day for his normal daily visit which included a cup of coffee while he watched me clean stalls, I brought him over to see Ginger. He was a retired pig farmer and he knew the ins and outs of fattening up livestock. "Who the hell lets a horse get like this?" Reither asked. "I don?t know Reither. All I know is that I?m glad he brought her over and didn?t leave her to die in that field." Reither stayed at Ginger?s stall while I returned to cleaning the stall next door. "You know Reither, you could grab a pitch fork and give me a hand!" I said laughing. Reither sipped on the coffee he poured in my office as he entered the barn and replied, "look, I?m not the fool who bought a horse farm in Indiana. You just carry on; you?re doing a grand job! Besides, I did my fair share of cleaning stalls over the past 80 years and my work is done. I?ll just stand here and watch you work." Reither sipped his steaming coffee and stood silently as he studied the old mare through the bars of her stall. The following day, and everyday there after throughout the winter, this grizzled old man brought Ginger carrots each morning as part of his normal daily visit.
Even 84 year old Al who had slaughtered cows, pigs and farmed for most of those 84 years, felt sorry for the mare and started to find excuses to swing by Whitehall several times a day over the coming months. I think both men knew what it was like to be used up and thrown away. In an odd way, Ginger represented both of their lives and at least in her case, I think they both hoped the story would have a different ending.
Tom Black, our local vet came out the next day to look at Ginger and assess her overall condition. He agreed that she was the skinniest horse he had ever seen and guessed that her age was well over 20 years. This confirmed what I had already suspected. She was old enough to be someone?s grandmother and was left to starve in a cold field. It shouldn?t be like this, ever. Tom cautioned me to feed her small amounts of food until her digestive tract was acclimated. He also warned me that she was very weakened by the experience and may never be rideable. I heard him well enough, but thought to myself, Ginger old girl, you and I are going to prove Tom wrong. I don?t care what I have to do, by God; you are going to make it.
For the next three months an almost miraculous transformation occurred, not only in Ginger, but also in everyone who spent time with her and there were plenty of people who spent time with her. Whitehall started to resemble a tourist attraction with students, neighbors, retired farmers and friends stopping by everyday to groom her, feed her carrots and apples and just visit with her. However, no one spent more time with Ginger than Elizabeth. She actually convinced her school bus driver to make a special stop at Whitehall so that she could come over immediately after school every night. She would quickly change into her barn clothes, pick up an armload of brushes and carrots and head into the stall with Ginger, shutting the door behind her. Many nights I would sneak into the barn to check on the pair, only to hear Elizabeth talking to Ginger as though they were having a normal conversation. "This is what life is supposed to be like," I would think to myself. A quiet barn, twenty good horses all in their stalls nibbling on the last bits of their dinner and one young girl sharing time with her favorite horse, like you would a best friend.
As winter faded into spring, Ginger had blossomed into a swell looking little mare just as Elizabeth had vowed she would. In the time that Ginger had spent at Whitehall, she and Elizabeth taught all of us about unconditional love, about looking beyond outward appearances to see the real beauty within. Their devotion to each other had rallied an entire community. We all rooted for them in our own ways and for our own reasons. Al and Reither rooted for them because Ginger was them. They were also old and to some, used up. I rooted for them because it broke my heart to see how badly she had been treated. Even the other students who were also waiting for their first horse rooted for Elizabeth and Ginger. There was no mistaking the love between those two..... pick up a copy of Horse Tales for the Soul, volume 1 for the rest of this story and volume 3 for the second part of Elizabeth and Ginger's story.
Trickster
Written by: Elizabeth A. Berry
One summer day, an older man was taking a walk when he happened to pass by where Trickster was grazing. ?What a handsome old gentleman he is. I bet he has some good stories to tell about his younger days,? the man said to me. So, I decided to tell some of the tales of our very special horse called Trickster.
It was in 1985 when I first met Trix at a lesson boarding barn where I had taken a job in New Hampshire. I was a city child who had finally made it to the country at the age of 32. Always loving horses, I didn?t want to own one until I could care for it myself at my home.
Trix belonged to a boarder who took lessons on him and treated him kindly. She had bought him from a summer riding camp, because he was thin and overworked. He was a bright red 15-year-old chestnut gelding standing at about 15.3 hands. He had a habit of escaping from his turnout when he thought it was time to go in. He also opened his stall door unless it had a clip on the latch, and ran around the barn or arena creating lots of excitement. I enjoyed his clever escapes and started visiting him a lot.
My three-year-old son and four-year-old daughter, who accompanied me to work, liked to pet him and groom him. I noticed how gentle Trix was with them. He always made sure to stand very still when my children were with him. He loved the attention and care they gave him, so I offered to buy him if the owner ever wanted to let him go. Come the spring of 1985, she was moving, so using our tax refund, ?The Trickster? became the family horse.
In the riding ring, with my son and daughter riding him, Trix was quiet, gentle and careful. His great love was to go out on the trails, which we explored for hours at a time in the back woods. His favorite time was when we would go racing with friends and their horses; his speed would even out- distance a long-legged Thoroughbred. Trix did flat work and jumping lessons with me for years with a willing disposition, but it wasn?t his passion. His joy was to go out after lessons, even for a short trip, onto the trails.
After a year, we moved from the horse farm to our own home with a barn and then we bought a little palomino pony named Blaze to keep Trix company. Soon we bought a slightly larger pony, Matilda, to add to our herd.
Every spring, very early in the morning, Trix and I would go off by ourselves for a run to celebrate life. He would run until he could run no more and stand blowing, snorting, and prancing happily. Eventually Trix developed tendon problems and I used him only for trail riding. Some days when there wasn?t time to ride, my husband and I would take the two ponies for walks like they were dogs. Trix especially enjoyed going to the lake to splash and roll in the water. We live way out in the woods, so when I went trail riding alone, I usually led a pony to help Trix be brave. We jokingly nick named Trix ?strong heart? because of his fear of usually invisible terrors.
Often while cantering, I would find myself sitting on air when Trix did one of his famous leaps to the side to escape some imaginary monster. He would even remember where a deer or a dog had previously startled him and would still be on edge nearing that area, ready to save himself, even after months had passed.
Trickster was the first to greet me in the morning with his deep, soft nicker. No matter how quietly I tried to come into the barn, he would hear me and call out his greetings. When he was groomed, he would slowly fall asleep from total relaxation. He was the undisputed king of the ponies and with just a turn of his head and a fierce look, he would put any horse under his all-powerful rule.
As the years passed, he went into a gradual full retirement, but he never missed his early morning spring run. His teeth by this point were so worn down that he left hay balls everywhere because he couldn?t chew properly. But, he enjoyed eating hay so much he was still given it and everyone joked about Trix?s piles of hay balls. Eventually, his eyesight grew dim to that of a person in need of strong glasses. He was still happy with his small turnout and free access to a double stall. The three oldsters spent their days napping and grooming each other every day.
At the age of 33, his front tendons gave out on him. He kept re-straining them, because he would lay down a lot, and he would have to get himself up afterwards. Although comfortable on strong pain pills, I realized it was time to let my old friend go.
On a beautiful crisp sunny day in the fall, the time came. Trickster had enjoyed a peaceful day of eating, napping, and grooming his best pony pal, Blaze. I also groomed Trix and spent the day with him. Trix was put to rest as the sun was setting in a green rolling pasture at his home.
His mare, Tilly, called for him for three days and nights. Blaze mourns for his best friend still, but after nine months he is acting a little happier. Trickster taught everyone in the family many things and it was an honor to have had him in my life. I will miss him for the rest of my life, but picture him running strongly and happily in green pastures until we are all together again.
Biography: Elizabeth A. Berry - Born in Natick, Massachusetts, in 1953, Elizabeth was educated at the University of Massachusetts, with a degree in Park Administration. She moved to a small horse farm in Dublin, New Hampshire, with husband, Robert, son Jason and daughter Sarah. The dream of owning a horse was realized in 1985 with Trickster. The herd grew with Blaze of Lightning, Waltzing Matilda, Chesapeake Bay and Kelpie. Liz has learned much and been loved so well by many animal friends. She still resides in Dublin with horses and ponies, dogs Little Bear and Claw, cats Pearl and Skylar, and best friend, Bob.
A Dream Trots Into Reality
Written by: Margaret C. Hevel
Hooves touched the soft earth in a rhythmic beat, wooden cart wheels creaked, and family voices played tag with the warm June breeze ? a page from the annual ride-a-thon at Twin Peaks ranch.
A halo of blond hair framed the tanned face of my four-year-old grandson. ?Grandma, is it almost my turn??
?Almost. When the horse stops and the woman calls us, I?ll help you into the cart.?
Tucked into my hand, his fingers gently tapped my palm. ?Grandma??
?Yes Sam.?
?Do they step on a brake to stop??
?No, honey, it?s like when you?re horseback riding with Grandpa or me and we pull back on the reins??
?And I say whoa.?
?That?s right.?
And then, Sam?s long-awaited moment. I watched horse and cart, Sam and driver, move in a large circle. Puffed clouds drifted across their blue arena. Memories of a young girl in love with horses flowed through my mind. Sam waved and smiled as the cart rolled to a stop.
?Did you see how fast I went??
I nodded. ?You looked great.?
We thanked the tall, soft-spoken woman and turned to leave. ?Aren?t you going for ride?? she asked.
?I thought you were only taking children,? I said.
?Anyone can come, just climb aboard.? Her smile and invitation was all I needed. Sam?s mother walked him back to the bleachers. I stepped into one of my dreams.
My fascination with the cart and horse began as a young girl once I saw my first sulky race at the fair. ?Someday? was a mantra that tugged at my heart every time I saw one of those races. And now? almost there!
?Would you like to drive?? My heart quickened. ?Really??
?Sure.? She handed me the reins. Exhilaration swept through me. It wasn?t a sulky race, but I was driving a trotter at a marvelous two-beat gait! I wasn?t prepared for what happened next. Anyone who has felt that beautiful shift into a oneness with their activity or the innate connection with an animal knows the electric charge that flowed through my hands and body. I shivered with pure joy!
?You are a natural,? she said. I was hooked!
Around the bend of my dream was another exciting chapter. My husband and I joined others volunteering for the Whitewater Therapeutic Riding and Recreation Association in our community. I obtained my NARAH Instructor?s Certification and am currently working toward certification as a driving instructor. What a joy to extend the invitation for others to experience the pleasure of driving a horse and cart. Maybe another young girl?s dream will trot into reality.
Biography: Margaret C. Hevel. ? I was a consultant and reviewer for educational materials with Marsh Film Co., Kendall School for the Deaf, WA. D.C. and Gallaudet College. As a Nurse Health Educator, I was founder and director of a child abuse/neglect prevention program. I presented at workshops, seminars and conferences in the northwest and nationally. My poems and short stories have been published in magazines and newspapers. I have written four novels. The last one was in collaboration with my daughter and I am a driving instructor with the WTRRA Equine Therapeutic Program.
Beautiful Hearts
Written by: Cindy Mitchell
How gently can a horse touch the heart of a child? Like the tickle of a feather not really noticed at first, but the presence there and softly reaching out to caress the soul. My daughter Christie had been with horses since she was able to breathe. When she was a wee babe, her time was spent in a playpen at ringside. As soon as she could sit up, maybe even before, Christie was on a horse. Sunday mornings would find her competing in the local lead line classes, the spectators taken with the love and trust between the little girl and her mare. Ah, she rode a special little mare, and was always quick to groom her, help feed her or clean the stall. Horse treats were never forgotten. The child was riding on her own at four years old, a bond between horse and rider that came easy. She hurried home from school just to ride, and everyone in the class knew Sable by name.
Christie's nights were spent dreaming about the next show. The training for youth classes was going well. Instead of lead line, plans were going well for advancement including showmanship, pleasure and trail classes. Sable was learning to back an "L"' for Christie.
Together, my daughter and I had chosen a stallion and planned to breed Sable. Christie was so much looking forward to the baby. She could picture a little foal dancing around the field with her and wanted it to be a filly that she could help train and show. To Christie, loving that little mare was something that was as sure as the sunrise. But how quickly things can change. One dark February night the mare colicked and was gone.
How do you tell a little girl she won't see her friend any more? How do you take a heart and mend it when you have no thread? It?s hell explaining death to a child, especially when it is so sudden and unexpected. I didn't understand it myself. We entered the barn early one morning as usual. Sable nickered when she heard us but she was down, her breathing irregular. As she lay back into the straw knew something was drastically wrong. Christie didn't understand what was happening and at that point, neither did I. My daughter wanted to come close, but I wouldn't let her for fear Sable would struggle and injure her. I didn't realize the mare was dying. My mind was in such turmoil; Christie was rushed off, the vet came. We tried to keep Sable warm but there was no helping her, so with her head in my lap, she made her final journey. Christie never had the chance to give her friend one last pat.
I told her that horses get sick and even though the vet tried, her horse couldn't be helped. I explained that Sable had gone to heaven to be with Grandpa. Christie wanted to know why her mare had gotten sick. What had killed her? How could I tell her a tummy ache had caused a death? So many questions from a little girl who'd had so many plans for her horse.
Days, weeks and even months went by as I tried to work through the grief. Sometimes Christie looked so sad and when I hugged her, she would only say "I'm missing Sable." She would ask what I thought Sable was doing in heaven and if I thought she was happy there. Christie would tell me Sable was her best friend and I could understand why. Each night when I tucked her in, she would say her prayers and ask God to take care of her special little mare. "Do you still miss Sable Mommy?" she would ask me with a deep sadness in her eyes. I could only hold her and let my tears flow, as there were no words of comfort and only endless explanations.
Sable had been the only horse we had, so there was a big void in our lives now. Both of us missed the riding and horse care. We missed the contact and passion that flows in the blood of a horse lover, the pleasure and relaxation of afternoon ride, the companionship of the stable chores we had shared. After much thought, I decided to get another horse and began looking even though I knew I couldn't bring back the one we'd lost. I could only hope Christie would find the strength to work through her grief with my love and support.
I made a list of requirements for this new horse and began calling friends, stables, tack shops and breeders. I scouted magazines, billboards, newspapers, riding schools, horse shows and auctions. I wrote lots and lots of letters, pouring out my heart to complete strangers. The people at the gas station loved me, as I frequently fueled up and with Christie as my sidekick, headed off on our search. We covered a lot of territory, met wonderful people and rode a lot of super horses.
At one point, we went to a stable that had a number of horses for sale. Christie ran to the stall of a big mare from the track. She was chestnut with a blaze just like Sable and that made Christie's heart flutter. It made mine wilt. I tried not to like the mare and told myself to pick her apart objectively. When we opened the stall door, the mare lowered her head to Christie. She was unsure what to do with her, but curious and gentle, with an inquisitive eye.
While being ridden, the mare moved nicely and although green, she seemed very willing. When I got on myself, it was as refreshing as a warm spring rain. There was an immediate connection, a flow of warmth and power aching to express itself. I didn't want this mare to be in my heart, but she was already there.
When I left the barn, emotion overwhelmed me as I realized that I had made my decision. This mare was young enough to accept training but well past the coltish stage. She was good breeding and performance stock, a very strong animal; she seemed very willing and adaptable. The price was right, so I thought about it for a week and continued to look at other horses all the while. I didn't want my emotions making a decision for me, but I couldn't get that mare off my mind and it seemed neither could Christie. She mentioned a few times how soft the nose was, what a pretty face and how she could touch the sky from the mare's back.
I finally called and made an offer. After a vet check that all was well, arrangements were made for delivery the following week. The new mare arrived on a Wednesday and seemed to settle in nicely. I didn't encourage a lot of contact between the new horse and Christie, because I felt that the child might still have unresolved emotions and I wanted to give her time to deal with those. She came to the barn with me frequently and played in the fields while I rode. She shed a few tears, because it was impossible to do with the new mare what she had done with Sable. I didn't push the relationship and Christie seemed content just to be around the stable.
Our mare had never been around children, especially not young active ones that did the least expected things at the least expected times. She tended to be a flighty mare and had broken her share of snaps and leads, but this little blond that was always around kind of worked on her curiosity. Christie would reach up through the bars of the stall and pat the soft nose. Her touch was gentle and kind, probably much kinder than anything the mare had experienced before. After the mare's workout, Christie would sometimes sit in the saddle and brush her, stroking the soft neck and talking to her all the while. The big chestnut never offered to move and as I stood there watching, she became more calm and relaxed, thriving on the extra attention. Christie and our new addition seemed to be in their own little world.
As the warmth of summer came, Christie seemed to blossom with her new-found friend. She would share her deepest feelings with the mare, even though she hadn't found the words with human kind. One day, she expressed concern to the new mare that Sable would feel hurt and left out if we went on without her and cared for our new horse. I couldn't let that thought linger, so I explained to my daughter that Sable had loved her and wouldn't want to see her sad. I tried to tell Christie that Sable would always be in her heart. She just wasn't in a place where we could pat her or put the saddle on and go for a ride, although we still look toward the stall and expect to see her there. I told her she could remember all the fun there had been in the times they had together. Those memories would always be there to love and to cherish. If Sable and this new horse had known each other, they would probably be friends and even share the same pasture.
As if knowing what the conversation was about, the new mare nickered a bit and nuzzled Christie's arm. It was like she had a sixth sense. This mare from the track with a different owner for every year of her life had some qualities no one had found yet. Her deep brown eyes had a depth I could only feel. It was like she was saying, "Don't worry over explaining things. Just leave Christie be and let it happen." And I could trust her with my little girl's heart. That seemed my only choice and for sure the wisest.
We took the mare out to the paddock and Christie climbed the fence. Our chestnut visited for a while and then wandered away to nip some mouthfuls of sweet grass. The day was warm and bright so we just stood there leaning on the fence to soak in the sunshine for a while. The sky was clear blue with not a cloud in sight. The trees had a gentle sway, to and fro. An occasional bee landed on the pink clover blossoms and butterflies danced in the air. Our world was a peaceful, quiet place.
Christie broke the silence by saying she'd decided what to call the new mare. She had a registered name, but it was too long for everyday use, so Christie thought we should call the mare Red, because that's how she looked in the field. The way the sun shone on her that day, she was a bright, beautiful chestnut with every color of a summer sunset glistening on her coat. Christie called the name out and the mare must have approved, because she reached down, took another mouthful of grass and sauntered over to us.
I decided now was the time to tell Christie the mare was in foal. I explained that over the long winter months her tummy would grow and in the spring there would be a baby dancing in the fields. I told Christie that Red would need special attention to her diet, occasional vet visits and lots of tender love and caring. Christie wanted to know if Red would have to go to a horsey hospital for the birth. I told her no, she could probably manage that herself and we would just walk out to the barn one day and meet the new foal. Christie, of course, decided it should be a filly so she could put a pink halter on it. She also ordered a camera for Christmas so she could take pictures of the baby. She told Red not to worry. She would be in the pictures, too.
Christie asked me what we were going to name the new baby and I didn't have a clue. I know the name of a registered horse is supposed to carry on the name of their parentage, but I really hadn't given it any serious thought. It dawned on me that maybe Christie should name the baby and as we walked toward the house, I asked her if she would like to. Seeing the excitement in her eyes was answer enough, so I promised her that when the foal was born she could name it. As time passes, so do troubles of the heart. At least that is what happened here. For the past few months she has been able to talk about Sable, reminiscing about the things they did with a happy heart.
Looking at photographs of Sable as a foal, Christie remarked how sassy and cute she was. She made up her own little album for all her horsey friends; Sable, Red, a picture of the stallion Red is bred to and a few empty pages for the new foal.
Christie rushes home from school to ride Red in the paddock, practicing walk, trot and whoa. Red has become docile in her pregnant state. I think she realizes there will be two to look after, a fuzzy little foal and a tag-along kid. Christie has taken pictures of Red to school to ' Show and Tell' about pregnant mares. She has decided on a name for the foal and seems to have put a lot of thought into it. My daughter explained to me that Sable made her feel warm in her heart until she died. Then her heart felt all achy and sore. The little girl thought hurt would always be there. It would never go away. For a while she didn't want it to. She told me that as time went on, the hurting didn't happen as much, even though she still thought a lot about Sable. She said that even after the hurt went away, thinking about Sable made her feel warm inside, and even though she still misses her she knows Sable won't be back. Christie went on to tell me there is a warm place in her heart for Red ??cause when I think of her mommy, it makes me feel warm inside too. I'd love her even if she wasn't going to have a baby, but I love her more that she is. I want to name the baby Beautiful Heart, so when I think of her, my heart will be warm.?
A gentle touch, a timely glance, a soft nuzzle placed on a child's sleeve. Horses have paved the way to a lifelong experience for my child.
This mare, Red, has taught Christie things I couldn't begin to explain. Her persistence made an injured little soul want to live again; not only live, but also reach for life's glory and bask in it. For a species so gentle and kind, for a mare so persistent in giving, for a long-awaited foal so inquisitive and trusting, what better name than Beautiful Heart?
Spring finally arrived and one crisp sunny morning while the dew still hung in the air, Red gave birth without a problem. Christie was still in her nightie, but with sleep in her eyes I took her out to meet the new little filly. The blond child stood for a few moments in awe. It seemed like she was still dreaming. Her big blue eyes were full of amazement with a few tears gathered in the corners. She reached out a hand and the little filly nuzzled her curiously. Christie took a few steps closer and threw her arms around the new foal?s neck. They both tumbled gently into the straw and lay there contentedly, patting and nuzzling each other with care. Welled-up tears spilled onto the new baby's coat and emotion held thick to the air. Christie whispered ' Beautiful Heart' as a little ear tickled her cheek. It seemed a fitting name and all was well. Red and I stood back and watched a fuzzy, still-wet foal tickle the heart of a child and the child tickled back. They giggled and snorted and touched.
How gently can a horse touch the heart of a child? Gently enough to help her forget the pain of death, to teach her that life goes on; gently enough to nudge her into friendship with innocence as the backbone of their souls; gently enough to show that love and the cycle of life are infinite and strong; gently enough to do all this without the child aware and to teach her the warmth of a beautiful heart. A little pink halter now hangs outside her best friend?s stall.
Biography: Cindy Mitchell - ?I was born and raised in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. Animals, and particularly horses, have always been my closest friends. I am married with three children - Sean, Christina and Natalie - who have been a great source of inspiration and enjoyment to me. A registered nurse by profession, I have a lifelong interest in writing poetry and prose. I ride as often as I can and am involved with local clubs as well as the Ontario Standardbred Adoption Society. As a matter of interest, Beautiful Heart is the first Appaloosa frozen semen baby in the world!?
Overcoming Adversity
A Quest for Symmetry: A Freak Accident Becomes a New Opportunity
Written by: Lani Wicks
I believe that what you think has a great effect on the outcome of an event. The event, in this instance, was my riding accident, and the outcome is my continuing recovery from a TBI (traumatic brain injury).
What actually happened was in the left lead canter of a flat class, Nicole (my young mare) lost her footing behind and went down under me and got right back up, leaving me on the ground unconscious. Although I have no memory of approximately five minutes prior until the 4th or 5th day in the Rehabilitation Hospital (about two weeks), what they called progressive amnesia, I did see a video of the accident taken by someone taping another competitor in the same class.
Although there are hundreds of thousands of mild TBI?s sustained in this country every year, my TBI was more severe than most, and was therefore labeled ?moderate.? The specific medical name for my injury was a Coup Contre? Coup which translates to ?blow by blow?. It describes an injury in which the brain hits the skull on one side and then bounces over and hits the other side of the skull. At the time it happened, I was instantly rendered unconscious, and then suffered two weeks of post-traumatic amnesia. It took five months before I felt ready to send for my medical records, and began asking the questions I now wanted the answers to.
What I learned was that I was unconscious longer than six hours (6 hours or longer indicates a more severe TBI) and was in a semi-comatose state. I also learned that my correctly fitting helmet with chinstrap was removed in the emergency room. I was in the ICU for four days, and my family was told that I was ?a very pleasant patient.?
The neurosurgeon who first examined me thought at first that I would recover in a few days. When it became apparent that this was not the case, I was moved to the brain injury floor of a rehabilitation hospital. It was there that I ?woke up?. It was a very gradual and ?foggy? awakening. For two weeks I had a taste of the reality of life as a paraplegic. I was only able to get around in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse, and was transported for tests at other facilities in a wheelchair van. With daily physical, speech and occupational therapy sessions, I slowly progressed from wheelchair to walker. When I asked to go home (at the earliest opportunity) I used a walker for a month while I practiced with my new cane.
At home, tasks as basic as getting up and down stairs, using the toilet and bathing were a major challenge every day. Emotionally, I was filled with gratitude for my fianc?, Ray, and for my students and friends who kept the barn going and the horses cared for while I recovered. The physical result of my head injury was ataxia, resulting in a partial paralysis of my right side from hip to toe. I felt that I was dragging a concrete block with my right hip. This basically left me with no balance at all.
Although, looking back, I was a prime candidate for a serious depression and the medication prescribed for it, there were two things I think prevented it for me. First, I had no regrets about what I did, and I had a life I very much wanted to get back to. A life that demanded a lot of time and effort, and it also required me to be physically active and shoulder a great deal of responsibility. I knew I had many ?levels? of recovery to go through to get back to that life.
Today, thirteen months following my accident, I can rate myself at level eight, with ten being the highest level possible. Once it was hard to even try to answer the question ?How are you?? Now I answer with enthusiasm ?I?m glad to be here and it?s great to have the first year behind me.? I know from others that it can take five to ten years for a full recovery. I?m shooting for a recovery at 110%. If I only shoot for 100%, I might fall short. I?ve found a bolder voice to inspire others and my students, and I?m enjoying it immensely.
My riding rehab is progressing slowly and steadily, and I could write a book on riding the walk! I compare my progress to that of a turtle, slow and strong, but it gets there. I?m still going to special physical therapy. I still have a long way to go, but now I have even more reasons for my recovery. This injury has forced me to work on my asymmetry from scoliosis, with a longer, weak left side and shorter, strong right side, something I dealt with before my injury, but had no time to change.
My right leg was affected most by the brain injury and will come back with a lot of rehabilitation. I have great therapists. They say I?m doing very well. Certain qualities come to mind, which are definite requirements to achieve a successful rehabilitation after an injury like mine; courage, patience and determination, which are also the requirements for success with horses. So the way I see it, I?m up for the task.
Biography: Lani Wicks. Lani teaches, trains and consults from Fairhaven Farm in Gonic (Rochester), New Hampshire. Her focus is on classical riding with the comfort and willingness of the horse, and the safety, confidence and understanding of the rider. Having ridden well over 100 horses of many different breeds, and held positions as groom/rider, farm/stable manager, show groom, to trainer, competitor, instructor, she has been full time since May 1982. Lani has experienced the sporthorse disciplines of Dressage, Combined Training, Showhunters O/F, U/S, in hand, Foxhunting, distance pleasure and competitive rides. She has bred and trained two sporthorses from her mare to keep. She utilizes Bodywork with Groundwork to find pain and solve problems in the horse. Lani travels within 40 miles to work with clients. You can speak with Lani directly at Fairhaven Farm, 80 Church Street, Gonic, New Hampshire 03839-5200 or by phone at 603-335-5256. | 
