The Tugboat Chronicles Needs a New Name!

I have spent the last few years writing a middle grade pony novel which has been called The Tugboat Chronicles ~ Confessions of a School Pony. I now need a new name and am asking for your help.

The editors who have worked with me over the years say I need something a bit more "bouncy," and fun. Something that will say it is a pony story by the title, which will be seen only on the spine of the book. I am also told using Tugboat's name in it implies it is for boys, and my market will be more girls (although I would HOPE there will be some boys who love the book, too!)

The book starts out when Tugboat is 4 years old and arrives at a new farm to be trained as a school pony. He isn't quite sure what a school pony is, and he doesn't know why he was taken from his home to this new farm. He would have been terribly lonely except for the friendship he has with a young homeless girl named Elizabeth, who visits him only at night when everyone else has gone home.

Tugboat is trained by Joe, the manager of the riding school, and soon becomes the most beloved lesson pony ever to trot around the ring. But even with all the human adoration, what Tugboat misses the most is the friendship of another pony because the stall next to him remains empty.

When a new pony finally arrives , Tugboat is taken back by how ugly and old Rusty is. He initially feels disappointed, but soon realizes Rusty is good and kind, and Tugboat becomes his devoted student and friend. It is through Rusty's life that Tugboat learns about the special bond between a pony and a child, and it is Rusty's death that plants the seeds of longing in Tugboat's heart to find the one child who will be lucky enough to call him "mine."

Throughout the book several different horses and ponies move in and out of the stall next to Tugboat and become his friend. Each horse/pony arrives with their own history, and each ones life turns a corner and goes off in a new direction when they leave. Through it all, Tugboat watches as one person after another claims his friends as their own, leaving him to wonder why no one picks him.

Now it would be silly of me to tell you the ending, so I won't. But it isn't what you're thinking.

So let those pieces of information noodle around in your head for a while, and if something clever, bouncy and captivating comes up, why please let me know!

When Your Daughter Says She Wants To Ride A Pony

Once upon a time a little girl named Emilie who lived in the city told her family she wanted to ride a pony. The family was very busy and knew nothing about ponies, so they scratched their heads and hoped if they didn’t mention it again the little girl would forget and pick another activity. Like soccer. Or playing with dolls.

But the little girl didn’t forget and every time they drove past a stable with ponies grazing in a field, she pressed her nose against the window of the car and dreamed of wrapping her tiny hands in a mane and galloping through the woods. She went to the library and checked out books about ponies. She learned all the different breeds, the assorted colors, what ponies ate, where they came from, and most importantly she discovered the yearning she felt was not going to go away. So she asked her parents again if she could please ride a pony.

The parents loved their daughter, so they made arrangements to take her to a free lesson at the local stable on a Sunday afternoon. Before they knew it, their daughter was enrolled in a weekly class. Every Saturday morning the Mom, Joy, drove her daughter to the stable and watched from outside the ring as Emilie learned to go up and down, up and down, and soon their car smelled like leather boots and mud and hay and peppermints.

Joy noticed that Emilie’s whole week was planned around the one hour lesson she took on Saturdays, and she saw how her quiet daughter laughed when she cantered around the ring. When Emilie started jumping and could speak of nothing but the excitement and happiness it brought her, Joy thought there must be something to this horseback riding thing and signed herself up for lessons, too.

Meanwhile, back at the city house, the very busy, high powered attorney father named Norm woke up one Saturday morning and realized he was alone. His family had all gone off to do their various activities and he had become an “accidental hermit”. The Dad thought of how each night at dinner his wife and daughter chatted happily about the horses they loved, the new things they learned together at the stable, and the way their favorite ponies warm breath felt on their hands when they lifted treats from their palm. So he put on his boots and drove to the stable where his wife and daughter were riding.

As soon as he took his first lesson, the Dad knew he was hooked. So he signed up for more lessons. He and his wife and daughter rode together in the evenings, and now at the dinner table, when they joined the son named Jed, they chatted together about horses and ponies and hay and mud and boots and bridles and horse colors and cantering. The brother Jed listened carefully and was happy for his family. But he was so busy with his own life he decided not to try riding himself, and that was okay.

One day the Dad found out he had a disease called MS, or Multiple Sclerosis. His doctor said he couldn’t run anymore, but for exercise he could still ride horses. So the Dad bought a horse for himself, one for his wife, and another for his daughter. Now the family included the Mom and the Dad, the little girl named Emilie, the brother named Jed, and three horses: Music, Jewell and Jake.

When the horse named Jake became sick he was retired to a farm with lots of grass, and the Mom and Dad bought the daughter another horse named Katarina. When they found out Katarina was going to have a surprise baby, they scratched their heads and wondered what to do. The high powered attorney and his family realized they didn’t want to live in the city with the traffic and the noise anymore, so they bought a house in the country and moved their horses across the bay. Music, Jake, Jewell, Katarina and her foal, who would be named Conan, made their home at a new farm across the lane from the country house where the family now lived.

Every morning when they left for work and school the family waved at their horses, grazing happily in their fields. Emilie, who was now a big girl, wondered if little girls pressed their faces to the window when they drove by her horses in the field and wished they, too, could ride a pony. Each evening the family walked across the road and spent many happy hours together at the stables with their horses.

Years later the daughter became a veterinary technician so she could help ponies who were sick. She raised and trained Katarina’s foal by herself, and lived surrounded by the horses she loved. The Mom, Joy, lost her beloved horse Jewell, so she bought another horse and decided she wanted to ride her new horse in competitions, like her daughter had so many years before. Norm, the high powered city attorney with MS, became a professional bird watcher and amateur photographer, and worked to save the land on the other side of the bay while riding his best friend, Music, through the fields and down the lanes. And in the evenings, when they gathered together, the family all laughed and scratched their heads and wondered what they would have been doing if the daughter hadn't asked to ride a pony.

The moral of this story is ~ when your little girl says she wants to ride a pony, remember all the possibilities life has to offer and embrace them. Then go buy the best pair of muck boots you can find, because you’re going to need them.

Many thanks to the St. Landau family for including me in their journey.

Ponies of the Heart, the Short Story

One of the best parts of my job as manager of a riding school was getting to play Santa and delivering ponies to the children for Christmas. The following story is a compilation of many different magical Christmas mornings. Please note, this was written and published before the "real" Tugboat book and is not connected in any way except for my never ending love for that pony.

Ponies Of The Heart

By Nanci Turner Steveson

I found Lemon Lane and made a wide turn to the right, clearing the side walk by at least a foot and leaving three sets of tire tracks in the fresh snow. Elizabeth didn’t know I was coming. Or at least, her father and I hoped she didn’t know. It had been a year since her mother left, and the sadness hung on.

Every Tuesday and every Friday eight year old Elizabeth came to my riding stable for her lesson on Tugboat. And every Tuesday and Friday she told me the same thing: “Tugboat is the pony of my heart.” Today he would become more than the “pony of her heart,” he would become “Elizabeth’s,” and I played the role of Mrs. Santa Claus.

Walking towards Tugboat’s stall yesterday, Elizabeth in her pink jacket with blonde hair tumbling down her back, and Tugboat in the pink saddle pad she had bought him, his golden tail swishing back and forth against a deep chestnut rump, the pair had an ethereal quality. Elizabeth cocked her head and whispered something, then put one tiny, pink-gloved hand out, offering him a sugar cube. Tugboat lifted it with his lips and crunched as they turned into his stall together, like water dancers.

The trailer fit snugly into the cul de sac parking spot, and the door rattled as I opened it and pulled down the ramp. Tugboat stared at me, baffled, the red bow I had tied in his forelock still in place. Our feet made tracks in the snow as we followed the path behind the row of suburban townhouses. Elizabeth’s father, Dan, told me to count past four back gates, and the fifth would be his. He was going to tie a red ribbon to the outside. It would have been embarrassing to end up waiting in the wrong yard, a pony in a red blanket by my side, most likely leaving a steaming gift behind in the snow.

The crimson ribbon had fallen to the ground, but I knew it was the right yard when I saw an old broom laid across the top of two trash cans. It was every horse-girl’s signature, a make-shift obstacle in the backyard to jump on their imaginary ponies. Through the sliding glass door I could see the Christmas tree, all the decorations hung on the lowest branches. Dan saw me and quickly turned away. This was the moment! Any minute now Elizabeth would see us, and one of her dreams would come true.

I warmed my hands under Tugboat’s mane. Soon something pink appeared by the tree. It was Elizabeth. Everything in her life was pink, except her pony. “Her” pony! The thought sent a shiver from the top of my head to my toes and I put my arm around Tugboat’s neck. Elizabeth’s head tilted back, her eyes studying the tree as she searched for something. Her father stood at her shoulder giving clues, but not once looking out the window to where I waited with Tugboat. Kneeling down, Elizabeth looked up the tree from underneath, her pink bunny slippers with pom-poms on the toes about three sizes too big for her feet. I suspected Dan hadn’t quite gotten the hang of buying clothes for her just yet. There had been so many things for him to learn.

Elizabeth pushed herself up off the floor and brushed stray pine needles from her hair, glancing outside for a split second before turning back to the tree. Suddenly her body twirled around to the glass door, her face blank, eyes wide, and her hands stretched out in front of her, forgotten. Tugboat’s breath fluttered from his nostrils like sheets of ice crystals. He stood so still I thought, “He must know.” Then his ears pricked toward the pink image and his body tensed.

“Be still,” I whispered. “It’s only Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s right hand touched her cheek, and when it landed she inhaled sharply and mouthed the words, “Daddy.” Dan stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other unlocking the sliding glass door. When he pushed it open snow filtered down from the gutter into the living room, landing on Elizabeth’s pink bunny slippers.

“Daddy?!” I could hear her this time.

“It’s real, Elizabeth, it’s Tugboat, he’s here … for you…. for Christmas.” Dan’s words stuck in his throat. His eyes were damp. There was a momentary hush, then a noise escaped from Elizabeth that must have released a years worth of anguish. The stillness shattered, Elizabeth tripped out the door, skidded across the slippery deck, jumped into the snow and raced across the yard. Behind her, one pink slipper hung by it’s pom-pom from the edge of the deck; the other came off about half way across the yard.

“Tugboat! You’re mine! Forever and ever, you’re mine!” She flung her arms around Tugboat’s neck and buried her porcelain face into his mane. Laughing and crying, her feet continued to dance in place, her tiny toes barely touching the ground. Dan struggled across the yard, picking up her scattered slippers while trying not to slide on the snow. “Elizabeth! Your slippers! You lost your slippers!”

I heard a boy’s voice from the house next door call out, “Hey! Look! Elizabeth got a pony!” A family, still dressed in pajamas, peeked over the top of the fence. A muffled voice coming from the side of Tugboat’s neck proclaimed, “Not just any pony. I got Tugboat! The pony of my heart! He’s mine forever!”

Epilogue:

That night after I tucked the horses away and pulled the barn doors tight, I walked home across crunchy snow. A single light shone through my kitchen window. Inside, my grown daughter stood in her white flannel nightgown stirring a pot of our special Christmas hot chocolate. I remembered the pony of her heart the year her father died, a brown pony we called Coco. Looking up at the endless blue-black sky heavily laden with white lights, I knew that each one of those stars could represent a girl whose life had been made more secure, even for just one moment, by the “pony of her heart.”

Tugboat's Heart Butt

This was too cute not to share. Tugboat and Ceara did their first Beginner Novice Event last weekend. If you look closely at his hindquarter, Ceara scooped a heart shape out of his trace clip.

Congrats to Tugboat and Ceara for their success! What a truly happy pair. :-)

Black Beauty and Anna Sewell

When I was nine years old I read Black Beauty for the first time. When I turned to the last page, I knew at that moment I wanted to be an author, and I wanted to write about horses. It has taken me a while to get to this point, but I am now in the ranks of "struggling writers" who work odd jobs here and there to pay the bills so there is time left in the day to do what makes our hearts sing ~ write.


Anna Sewell, the author of Black Beauty, was also 51 when she wrote her first and only novel. Although her mother was a well known Quaker author of children's fiction and verse, Anna had never shown any particular inclination for writing. But after witnessing an incident of cruelty to a carriage horse, she felt moved to write in their defense. Out came one of the best loved novels of all time.


Anna had been crippled since she was a child, and at the time she wrote the book she was not expected to live for another 18 months. To begin a book while halfway to her deathbed might have looked pointless, especially when she could never sit to read or write for longer than a few moments. At times she became so weak from writing that she had to stop and rest for days at a time.

Her writing progressed with agonizing slowness between long bedridden stretches. Her eighteen months came and went. She was still alive, though close to death. But she lived another eighteen months, and another eighteen, and another still. In August 1877 she made one of the final notes in her diary: My proofs of Black Beauty are come—very nice type.

The completed story recounts the life and times of the well-bred horse of the title, and such stable companions as gentle Merrylegs and the angry and spirited Ginger; echoing throughout the book is the memory of Black Beauty’s mother Duchess, with her admonitions to stay gentle and mannered at all times. Surrounding these horses is a procession of good, bad, and indifferent owners: the well-meaning but inept rookie Joe Green, the drunkard Reuben Smith, the cruel cab driver Nicholas Skinner. Sewell sold this story, and all its rights, to the publishing house Jarrold & Sons for the staggeringly cheap advance of £20. But she was wise to get her cash up front.

Black Beauty is one of the best selling books ever published; a century after its publication, Sewell’s dying work was estimated to have sold approximately thirty million copies. Several decades since have surely added many millions more to that total. Black Beauty has been translated into everything from Swedish to Hindustani, and made and remade many times over in both silent and sound movies, as well as a TV series.


Anna Sewell may have died with only an additional £20 in her pocket, but what she left the world through her book has made her legacy far richer in honor and decency than any other author I know.


Parts of this post are taken from an article by Paul Collins.

Equine Herpes Virus

In 2005 I managed a horse farm with over 100 horses that was placed under quarantine for 11 very long weeks due to an outbreak of the equine herpes virus. Prior to this outbreak, like most other horse owners, I wasn't aware of how easy it is for a horse to pass this virus on to an entire farm. It is very possible that a horse who came for one of the shows we hosted could have "dropped off" the virus when it coughed on a gate, or a fence post. It is equally possible a horse who came through for a trial left it behind, or that one of the school horses we had on the farm was a latent carrier of the disease.

I was naive in thinking we were safe because all our horses were vaccinated religiously. For everything. Like clock work. Silly me. When the first three horses died in the days leading up to the largest 3 day horse show we held each year, I felt like someone had misled me. We were so cautious about vaccinating new horses as soon as they arrived, and keeping our own horses on a strict schedule, I just didn't know how it was possible this could happen. But it did.

Because it happened as show horses were being trailered onto our property, and because we were the largest riding facility within hundreds of miles, it was one of the most public outbreaks of the equine herpes virus the state of Maryland had ever experienced. We lost six horses in that outbreak. Six horses who were teachers, the stars of our stables, horses and ponies who had carried hundreds of children and adults on their backs and taught them how to ride. For those of us who worked at that riding school, they were our pets, our family, and we mourned their loss deeply. It was a very sad time.

But like all dark clouds, we learned from that experience. We learned about proper quarantine procedures, we learned never to let our horses drink from a public water trough at another farm. We learned it is possible the lack of sunlight through the winter diminishes the horses immune system and can cause this virus to rear its ugly head, and we learned that even the best vaccination practices, the best feed, the most love and the best care, it can happen to anyone, on any farm. In a riding school like ours, with over 100 horses stabled in four barns, bacteria and virus's are everywhere. Horses that are kept outside in a more natural setting and in the open air are less likely to catch something from another horse like that.

As the days get dark earlier, as we head toward winter which is when most of these outbreaks occur, I think of those horses we lost: Aviva, Bailar, Gem, Shaggy, Winter and Cherry. I will remember them always.

I also remember the old horse we almost lost, Radar. It was only because of the round the clock care of his loving owner, the delivery of a sling to hold Radar upright when his legs failed him, and the team effort of our barn workers, the vets, the other boarders and students who pitched in to help, that Radar still lives today. He is retired now, living the good life in green pastures where his owner, Bill, still visits him every day. I will get an update on Radar and will write about him soon.

In the meantime, put bottles of antiseptic pumps between each stall at your farm and use it all the time to clean your hands. Be sure your horses are vaccinated because it does help minimize the severity of a disease, even if it doesn't prevent it. If possible, put winter lights in your barn to compensate for the lack of sun in the winter, and quarantine all new horses for a minimum of 14 days, but preferably 21 before allowing them to mingle with the others. Ask for vaccination records of all horses coming onto your property, and the second a horse shows signs of illness, remove them to your quarantine area for the duration.

Where Did Our Ancient Equus Go?

It may surprise you to know that the early equine species originated in North America and remained on our soil, roaming what are now the Great Plains, for about 57 million years. That's a hard number to wrap your head around, I know, especially when you consider the fact that horses are not considered "native" to America. Well, there is a gray area of truth to that, because for unknown reasons, the equus ~ ancestor of the horse as we know it today ~ became extinct on our land about 10,000 years ago, most likely due to changes in the environment, over killing by humans who hunted them for food, and disease. Fortunately, before that happened, many had moved along to other continents where they continued to evolve in Asia, Europe and Africa.

By the time the Spanish Conquistadors began their exploration in North America the 1500’s, they had spent generations selectively breeding Arab, Barb and Andulusion horses to produce sturdy, intelligent and beautiful steeds. These were the horses they brought with them on their voyages, and the same who are ancestors of our American Mustang today. Some of the physical traits of these early Spanish horses can still be seen in the mustangs. You might notice the slight dish of a head like the Arabs, while others show off long, feathery hairs on thick boned legs, and massive flowing manes like the Andulusions.

After the Spanish introduced the horses to Native Americans, some of the horses became free and gathered in bands, or herds, throughout the western U.S., maybe drawn back to the Great Plains by the call of their fore bearers. Generation after generation they prospered, prey only to mountain lions and wolves, and sought by Indians who had learned to appreciate how these swift horses could benefit the quality of their lives. It is because they originated from captive horses that the mustangs in America today are not considered true “wild” horses, but instead are called “feral.” No doubt if they could have maintained their status as true wild, native animals they would have garnered more protection, like the American bald eagle, or even a state wildflower or tree.

For hundreds of years the mustangs lived in the hills and mountains, on the plains, and in the deserts of our country. By the late 1800’s there were about 2 million roaming free in the American west. Having adapted to the harsh and rugged environment, they developed shorter cannon bones, a thicker hoof wall and tougher constitution. They developed their own societies, and co-existed with their own understanding of the hierarchy among themselves.

As the pioneers moved west with their larger European bred horses, mustang blood was used to beef up their strength, agility and intelligence. As the west continued to develop and cattle ranchers claimed the land, mustangs were forced out of their homes to make room for the more profitable cattle. The fewer places there were for the mustangs to live, the more urgent the need to manage their numbers. Which is why we are at this impasse today, why someone needs to decide how to protect them so commerce and industry don't push them into the slaughter houses in Mexico, where they will be butchered and end up on someones dinner plate in Japan.

I am reminded of a short essay I read from time to time called Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, which is where we all learned how to share. There are days when I would like to send a copy of that essay to all the members of Congress who are assigned the task of deciding the fate of the mustangs, who are as much a part of our history as Christopher Columbus, Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln..

The Mustang Issue

The issue of the wild mustangs in America continues to rage. While progress is being made to help these icons of the American west, there is much work still to be done to protect them from the possibility of euthanasia.

Yesterday, while trying to gain a better understanding of how I might be able to help, I watched a DVD that stunned me. Not only was it beautifully made, shot in the mountains of Montana over a period of seven years, but the film was done in a way that made me feel I was right there in the middle of the herds. For a few hours I was a part of the lives of these wild horses, with an understanding of their society like I never was before. I came away with so much passion for their plight, and I would like to encourage you to watch the film, too.

You can buy it on Amazon for less than $13 including shipping by clicking here: Cloud, Wild Stallion of the Rockies. It is well worth the investment, and is a movie you will watch time and again.

Chincoteague Ponies and the Feather Fund

As I prepare for the Mustangs on the Hill Rally tomorrow, I have been thinking a lot about wild ponies in general. I want to share with you an organization that helps children buy Chincoteague ponies each year at the round up made famous by Marguerite Henry in her book Misty of Chincoteague.

Take a look at their web site and read the touching history of how the organization got started in honor of a woman named Carollynn Suplee. Since its conception, The Feather Fund has been led by a woman who critiqued my pony novel, The Tugboat Chronicles ~ Confessions of a School-Pony at a writers conference several years ago. Lois Szymanski is the author of many children's pony books, including a non-fiction work on the Chincoteague ponies.

You can go to the web site by clicking here: Feather Fund.

Who Was Wild Horse Annie?

One day in 1950, a tiny secretary from Reno, NV named Velma B. Johnston was driving on a highway and noticed a truck in front of her with blood dripping from the back. She followed the truck and discovered that it was carrying injured, but live, wild horses to a slaughter house.

Repulsed and distressed, Johnston began researching how wild horses were rounded up by "mustangers"—ranchers and hunters that captured wild horses for slaughter. When she became aware of the inhumane methods used to round up the mustangs, and their horrific journey to be slaughtered, she became determined to make a difference in the lives of these horses who represented the pioneer spirit of the American West.

Johnston began a grassroots campaign that involved mostly school children. Young people from all across America sent letters to newspapers and legislators and attracted enormous attention that outraged the public and made them aware of the issue. As public attention grew, some of Johnston's critics snidely began to call her "Wild Horse Annie." Over time there was no louder outcry from the American public over this issue than any other with the exception of the Vietnam war.

Annie and her supporters continued the fight—and newspapers continued to publish articles about the exploitation of wild horses and burros. In January 1959, Nevada Congressman Walter Baring introduced a bill prohibiting the use of motorized vehicles (helicopters and trucks which were used to chase down the terrified mustangs) to hunt wild horses and burros on all public lands. The House of Representatives unanimously passed the bill which became known as the Wild Horse Annie Act. The bill became Public Law 86-234 on Sept. 8, 1959.

This law did not include Annie's recommendation that Congress begin a program to protect wild horses and burros. Public interest and concern continued to increase, and with it came the realization that federal management was needed. In response to public outcry, the Senate unanimously passed a law on June 19, 1971. It became known as The Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971.

The federal statute calls wild horses "living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West" that should be "protected from capture, branding, harassment, or death." But the same law also requires the government to achieve "appropriate management levels" of roaming horses so they don't overwhelm federal lands -- and that's the part that has been vexing for bureau officials.

Unfortunately, something has gone terribly wrong and there are over 30,000 wild mustangs who have been incarcerated in holding pens, standing rump to rump, without shade, in Nevada, for over three years now! There are people who want to help, who are willing to help and have the financial resources to help.

For more information, click here: Mustangs On The Hill

The Wild Horses of Bay Head

There is a lot across the street from my parents house at the ocean where I spent many happy hours as a child, galloping along twisting paths of grassy sand dunes, pretending I was a wild stallion protecting my herd. For whatever reason, 40+ years later this little piece of earth is still untouched. Whenever I am in Bay Head, the first thing I do each morning is look out my bedroom window, across the top of those same sand dunes, to see the sun rising over the ocean.

Like all good horse girls, my imagination allowed me the power to tame many a wild stallion purely through my gentle nature, or to become that wild stallion, or a mare who had strayed from his herd with my newborn foal. But never did I ever imagine capturing the wild horses in my mind, forcing them into work, to live in a stall, away from their native land where they ran so wild and free.

I think I first read Black Beauty about the same time I saw the movie Born Free. I was nine years old (and I did not read an abridged version) and very moved by the words on those pages. It was reading Black Beauty that made me decide I wanted to be a writer, and I wanted to write about horses. I wrote several stories as a child, which ~ thanks to my sentimental and thoughtful mother ~ I still have today. Little pages stapled together, complete with illustrations, all about wild horses resisting being tamed and a girl who sets them free.

In thinking recently about the wild mustangs plight happening right now, and watching the videos posted on the internet of the "gatherings" as the BLM gently refers to them, I remembered a poem I wrote one day after I came in from the sand dunes. I found it in my box of childhood treasures and thought I would share it with you. Following is how it was written when I was 9 years old:

Wild and Free
This one shall never feel the pain
Of stinging whip or bearing rein,
For he is born so wild and free
Just like all others were meant to be.

Out on the prairie, his mother near,
He doesn't yet know the meaning of fear,
But soon he will learn to run like the wind,
When man comes after day out and day in.

For if they catch him (the thought is ill),
They will teach him to go only at their will,
And never again will he ever be,
Running and living so wild and free.

Nanci Tuner
Age 9

Mustangs On The Hill Rally

HELP RESTORE OUR AMERICAN MUSTANGS!

Attend and submit comments at Wild Horse & Burro Advisory Board Meeting on the SEPTEMBER 28th at Hyatt, 1325 Wilson Boulevard, Arlington ,VA 22209 from 8 a.m.-5 p.m.

Attend "MUSTANGS ON THE HILL" gathering on the West Front Lawn of Capitol Hill on SEPTEMBER 29th from 8a.m. - 4 p.m. to support the ROAM Act (Restore Our American Mustangs, S. 1579) and urge Congress to preserve and protect OUR wild horses. We encourage people to bring signs and stand with us united, for OUR wild horse’s future and preservation of OUR heritage and history.

For more information, please visit http://www.thecloudfoundation.org or Mustangs On The Hill Web Site Flier.

Thank you to all for your support!

The Art of Successful Training

I read on Facebook today about an old student of mine who is going for her C3 Pony Club rating this weekend. Chrissy is one of the hardest working kids I have ever known. From the time her little feet didn't even reach the bottom of her saddle flap, she has had a work ethic that would make a grown man tremble. Chrissy probably studied more books than any other student I have ever had, spent more hours at the barn watching and learning, and kept her eyes and ears open. She is now in college and is finally achieving her C3. Finally, after years and years her hard work is paying off.

I also read on my brother Jamie's web site (http://60secondmarketer.com/blog) an interview with an old high school classmate of ours who is one of the nation's leading commercial photographers (www.ellisvener.com). Jamie asked Ellis for his tips on succeeding in business. Here is his #1 piece of advice:

1. Persist and prepare. It takes time to refine a craft. Eric Clapton spent a year or two in his room in his mother’s house practicing learning how to play different styles of blues guitar. Adobe says it takes 10,000 hours to completely master Photoshop’s tools. Andy Warhol said just do the work. All these things prepare your mind to see the right opportunities and go through those doors when they appear. And the process of practice and preparation should never stop if you want to keep on growing. Warren Buffett still does his homework, shouldn’t you?

My point is, hard work and humility pay off. Whether you are trying to perfect a dressage test, increase your precision and speed in barrel racing, or struggling through fitness training for endurance riding, it all takes work. Hard work. At times grueling work. And it takes studying. Watching other riders perform, standing behind the judges box to hear their comments, watching videos, asking question after question after question, reading, reading, reading, followed by practice, practice, practice.

But the reward is simple. Success.

Wild Mustangs' Trail of Tears

"Are they still real?" a young girl asked. She wasn't talking about Santa Claus, she was asking about the wild mustangs of the west. And the answer is "Yes!" for now they are real. But maybe not for long.

Currently there are thousands of wild mustangs being rounded up by the BLM with the intention of sending them to slaughter, or sterilizing them. The most famous wild stallion alive, Cloud, is part of this plan.

Cloud is a pale palomino stallion living in the Pryor Mountains of Montana, a range the Crow Indians call the Arrowheads. Cloud has been documented from the day of his birth by Emmy-winning filmmaker, Ginger Kathrens. Her films about Cloud, “Cloud: Wild Stallion of the Rockies” and “Cloud’s Legacy: The Wild Stallion Returns” air on PBS’s Nature series and represent the only on-going documentation of a wild animal in our hemisphere. Ginger’s Cloud chronicles have been compared to Jane Goodall’s work with chimpanzees in Africa. Ginger has written two books about Cloud.

Here is a copy of a letter written by Ginger Kathrens, who witnessed the capture and release of Cloud. This letter and more information can be found on The Cloud Foundation web site: www.thecloudfoundation.org.

"Dear Friends of Cloud and his herd;

On September 9th six of us stood atop a low hill near the corrals where the Pryor wild horses would be set free. The first band to be released was Cloud’s. But, the family was missing the young members of the band and Cloud knew it. Instead of racing to freedom as he has done twice before, he dashed in a circle around his mares and lone foal, Jasmine. Again and again he tried to snake them back toward the corrals where part of his family was held captive.

It is the stallion father’s job to keep the family together and we saw a display unlike anything I have ever seen as Cloud swept past his band trying to keep them from returning to the mountain top. The whole time wranglers on horse back drove the band and yelled at the horses, trying to get them to leave. Cloud paid no attention to the riders on their tall horses. Instead he tried in vain to reunite his splintered family. In the end the mares won, racing away with Cloud grudgingly following. With tears in our eyes, we watched him disappear into the desert.

Two days earlier we had stood on high hill over looking the corrals watching as bands were driven in from the mountain top through the desert. My heart dropped as I spotted the pale horse in the distance with his band. It was Cloud. The helicopter pilot dipped and swerved, doing its best to bring his family in through the desert foothills. With the Black in the lead, the band broke back time and again, as if knowing what lay before them. Finally, the helicopter was able to press them into the wings of the trap and Cloud took the lead.

The Judas horse was released and raced past him. What happened next was a first for me. Cloud completely ignored the lure of the Judas horse! When the corral came into view he slowed and the band pushed in around him, trying to run away from the helicopter. Dust swirled around them as Cloud stopped and turned to face the chopper and stood still for a few seconds. Then, he turned following his family into the corral. I have never seen this kind of defiant courage . . . ever.

And so, I ask that we take his lead. Courage is what we need now. Courage and tenacity.

We must keep up the fight."

Haflingers

Although we were never really positive about Tugboat's breeding, we always believed he was at least part Haflinger. The photo to the left was taken during his first two weeks at the horse center when we couldn't catch him. Seriously, once we unloaded him from the trailer and got him into his paddock, it took two weeks and five grown men to finally get a hold of him again.

You'll be able to read all about that when my book, The Tugboat Chronicles ~ Confessions of a School-Pony, is published. It's right there on page one.

Below are two photos of current day Tugboat. First, you can see where he has calmed down quite a bit. A few years as a lesson pony, followed by getting his own human who takes him to shows, will calm anything worth calming.

But if you look closely you can see his mane and tail, over time, have turned dark. No longer the light cream color that stood out so from his deep chestnut coat. In fact, he is beginning to look like a bay pony.

What does this mean as far as his breeding? Well it means he is certainly not 100% Haflinger because they are always chestnut with light mane and tail. But the fact that he is built the way he is, and his coloring, or his previous coloring, suggests a Haflinger cross.

The breed origin can be traced to medieval times when writings told of an Oriental breed of horse found in the Southern Tyrolean Mountains of what it now Austria and northern Italy. Many of the villages and farms in the Tyrol were accessible only by narrow paths requiring agile and surefooted horses for transportation and packing. Artwork from the region in the early 1800s depicts a noble chestnut horse with riders and packs traversing steep mountain trails.

During World War II there was a shift in breeding practices because the military needed a packhorse that was shorter and stockier. Consequently, the breed ended up as large ponies or small horses. Regardless of their size, characteristics of a Haflinger are a strong constitution, a solid conformation with substantial bone, and an uncomplicated personality.

Haflingers are considered "easy keepers," and can carry a lot more weight than other ponies or horses their size. Currently the American Haflinger Registry reports they are ridden in almost all disciplines, including dressage, western riding, driving, eventing, and especially trail riding.

Riding In the Shadow of The Tetons

I've spent some of the happiest moments of my life at the TriangleX Ranch in Moose, WY. Yes, the ranch sits just to the north, and in the shadow of the Tetons. There are wonderful deals to be had this time of year at TriangleX. I encourage you to take a peek at their web site and dream a little dream. I cannot go this year, so I want you to go in my place. Check it out.

Click here to go on your journey.

Maryland Horse Industry

Even though I am temporarily stuck in Austin while my son recuperates, I am still a resident of Maryland and part of the equestrian community in that state. The Governor met recently with close to 300 leaders in the Maryland horse community to discuss the state of the industry. Below are a few interesting facts, as stated by Governor Martin O'Malley, that give an idea of how influential horses are on the state. The full article can be read at http://www.equiery.com/.

DID YOU KNOW?

o There are more than 20,000 stables in Maryland with over 87,000 horses, worth a total of over $680 million.

o Horsemen and women own $3.9 billion in Maryland land, fencing and facilities. And the entire value of all horse-related assets is $5.2 billion.

o This industry supports nearly 29,000 full time jobs in Maryland and it produces goods and services valued at $614 million.

o And all in all, our State’s horse industry makes an annual economic impact of $1.6 billion. That’s a very, very important part of our economy.

We know also that horses have more than just an economic impact in Maryland, they’re also helping us to preserve our farm land and our open space and are, therefore, very important to the environment that all of us share, regardless of what our daily profession might be.

Food for thought.

And because it is that time of year again, I want to repeat an earlier post regarding the best way to find a riding school for yourself or your children. Click here to be directed to the post: http://theequineexpert.blogspot.com/2008/08/how-to-find-riding-school.html

Tugboat

** This post was the last I wrote before my son became critically ill. Since March 11th I have been in Austin, while he has fought for his life in the hospital. We are nearing the end of his journey to wellness and I am so happy to report, he pulled through, is doing well, and I will return to Maryland soon. My apologies for the big gap in posting. You can read about Parker's Journey at: www.leapoffaith111483.blogspot.com

~ I went to watch Ceara ride Tugboat in a dressage show yesterday. I have never seen him look so happy, more fit, more relaxed or so loved in his life. He is one lucky pony!

One of the things I wanted to point out is that Ceara and her trainer, Carolyn, have worked very hard on getting Tugboat to be able to let his neck go long and low in a free walk across the diagonal. Tugs has such a muscled neck, the "free-walk" part of his dressage tests are always tricky. But Ceara is a dedicated equestrian and has done a fabulous job with him.

Like I said, what a lucky pony!

Horse Girls Part II

Today I went to a horse-friend's baby shower. This is a friend I have known for about 15 years, since she was a little teenager running around the barn where I got back into the horse business. The friend goes to Wyoming with me, and whose mother was my mentor. I remember how we used to sit in the barn office in the evenings while she did her homework and my younger son, James, was learning to post on Chocolate Chip. Now my horse-friend Kate is all grown up and getting ready to have a baby of her own ~ a boy.

Kate manages a horse farm like I did when I had my first son, Parker. I gave her the same gift I received, a papoose type snuggly which allowed me to continue to work in the barn while Parker was held safe and secure against my chest in his carrier.

Most of the people at the shower were "barn people." Horse girls, all of us. Some of us in our 70's and still riding. Many of us middle age, not riding as much as we used to, if at all. There were plenty of younger girls who wear ankle bracelets and dangly earrings and flip their hair the way horse girls do. One of them, an adorable teenager named Michaela, was a toddler when I first met her. She ran around the barn after her mother in her diapers and boots, and rode an old pony named Watergate.

I realized something while I was there. The job I have now, at the florist, I try to create outings or get togethers with the girls who work for me as a way to bond, to cement ourselves as a team. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But when I managed the horse farms, I didn't have to create anything. I never had to worry about one of the girls getting sassy with me or copping an attitude when I asked them to do something. It was completely different. Because the thing is, the common bond we all share is that we are all horse girls. We are there because we want to be there, not because we have to be there. We are there because it is the job of our heart, it feeds our soul.

It is all still the same, I can see that in these young girls. It hasn't changed. Horse girls are horse girls are horse girls. Tomorrow I will write about one of my ancesters who read Black Beauty, then saw a horse being mistreated and stood up for the horse in court. That was back in the 1800's, so apparently horse girls were the same back then.

The Magic Shirt

This may look like an ordinary, run of the mill red polo shirt to someone else, but this shirt has magic powers for me. Horse people tend to have superstitions with clothes, or tack, or colors, and this is mine.

This is my writing shirt, and amazing things happen when I put it on. It was my father's shirt, and I get some of my best writing done when I wear it. I sit down at the computer and the words just flow from my heart and soul and spill out onto the paper looking like a seasoned writer's polished novel. Not that I still don't have to edit ~ it isn't quite that magical. But I am so happy with everything that I write when I wear it, I almost feel like I am missing my left pinky finger when i don't.

It's my lucky shirt, my creative muse, my happy place and comfort food all rolled up into one. I think I'll wear it to the Princeton conference the end of this month.See how the editors I will meet like it.

Arabian Foals

I was very happy because I thought I was going to go see Dallas over the weekend. Dallas is my Arabian mare who lives at my friend Kate's farm about an hour away. I don't get out to see her much, so I spent the week very excited about spending time with her.

But then the snow storm came. So instead of driving in the storm to go see her, I took the time to organize old photos. I came across this photo of Dallas's ancestor and set it aside to have it enlarged someday and put up on my muse wall.

The gray mare's name was Sar Ra Leila. The foal with her would have been a half sibling to Dallas's great-grandmother, Sar Ramora, through their sire, Sar Farafic. My brother Jamie took this photo.

There is something so photogenic about an Arabian. Especially an Arabian foal.

The photo on the right is Dallas, who is now 6 years old. I need to see her soon.

On Friendships and Horses - and Marianne

I had news of an old friend the other day, news that brought Marianne back to the forefront of my mind. I have not been able to shake the image of her since.

I moved to Houston when I was 13, leaving behind my first boyfriend and my first pony. It was an awkward time in my life. For health related reasons I couldn’t go to school for the entire year I should have been in 7th grade. I was already different, a Yankee from Connecticut, but to have a weird thing like that hanging over me … well, just imagine how hungry I was for friendship.

The first time I saw Marianne she was riding bareback on her horse across our front lawn. Marianne kept her roan gelding at her house at the end of our road. My horse, Lori Lye, was boarded at Mr. Garrison’s stable about a mile away. I don’t remember exactly what was said that first day, but I do have a clear memory of watching her canter away, and the feeling deep in my body that something magnificent was about to happen in my life.

Almost everyday after that Marianne and I rode together. She would show up at my house shortly after school and reach her hand down to help me swing my youthful limbs up behind her on Sandy. And off we would go.

Riding with Marianne wasn’t like riding with my barn friends. We didn’t practice our perfect Western Pleasure lope for horse shows, and we didn’t time ourselves racing around barrels in the arena. We rode bareback, preferring the security of gripping our horses’ bodies with our legs, rather than being burdened by the constraints of a saddle. But what we did do, what we did learn when we rode together, was the art of friendship.

I was so in awe of her. She was spirited and generous; haunted and lovely. I followed her everywhere. We meandered down the dirt paths along the bayou near our homes, under the canopy of oak trees dripping with beards of Spanish moss, not aware of the heat and humidity that plague me now.

We were heroines. We were going to save the planet ~ or at least our tiny corner of it. When builders began the work of clearing the woods where we rode, we galloped along the dusty paths on the far side of the bayou, pulling up wooden construction markers by their brilliant orange ribbons. We truly believed we could keep the new housing development from being built; concrete, bricks and pavement that would take away our favorite riding places. Cantering along, we would reach down, trusting our horses to carry us honorably, as we grabbed the orange ribbons and tossed the stakes into the swirling waters of the bayou as we galloped away.

In the dark of night, the sound of pebbles hitting my window pane told me Marianne was waiting for me outside by the magnolia tree. I’d tip-toe past my parent’s bedroom, climb up behind her on Sandy, and together we rode across the lawns of our neighbors, guided only by the moonlight. In this way we traveled through our adolescence with the blissful ignorance of Peter Pan.

Coming from a family of six I was accustomed to older brothers who hid from me, who didn’t want me interfering with their lives and their friendships. But I learned a good lesson about the strength of family from Marianne in the way she loved her little sister.

Sister had a fat little pony named Ajax with hair as white as her own. Often Marianne and I would be trotting down the road only to hear little hooves galloping behind us, and Sister’s voice calling out, “Wait for me! Wait for me!” as she struggled to catch up. Where my own brothers would have run faster to get away, Marianne always pulled up and waited.

When Sister was with us there were places we wouldn’t go because Marianne thought it might be too dangerous for her. There was an unspoken blanket of protection around her, and I don’t know if Sister knew it, or felt it, but it was there. No one was more important to Marianne.

On weekends we rode our horses to Town and Country Shopping Center and tied them to the bushes outside the stores. We’d ride through the Jack-in-the Box to get our lunch, and once we had our picture on the front page of the Houston Chronicle. There was no where we couldn’t go, nothing we couldn’t do when we rode our horses together.

There was a point in time when Marianne and I took different paths. If I could go back and change it and tell her to follow me, things might have worked out differently. But something tormented her. To this day I don’t know what it was, except that it drove her in the wrong direction toward the wrong people who damaged her life.

By the time I buried my beloved Lori Lye I had lost track of her. The family had moved away from the neighborhood and I only heard bits and pieces of news from time to time. None of it was ever any good, and with each sad story my heart sank a little deeper for my free-spirited friend who was shackled by something intangible, something she couldn’t canter away from anymore.

But I never stopped loving her. She had accepted me, the odd new girl from Connecticut, when others stayed away. It was Marianne who gave me some sense of normalcy in the midst of my very crazy world. Her friendship offered the same approval and unconditional love that I now get from my two beautiful golden retrievers. The kind of love that is rare between humans.

Eventually it became too painful to think of her, to know of her life the way it had turned out. The Marianne I heard about was only a shadow of the girl who offered me friendship and the shotgun seat behind her on Sandy. So I stopped thinking about her. When memories would rise to the surface, I stuffed them away with the idea that I would re-examine them later, at another point in my life. Maybe later I could face the fact that I knew she had turned a corner, had chosen the wrong path, and I hadn’t reached my own hand out to save her. I had turned and walked away. It is not what she would have done for me.

I stopped thinking of her until I heard from her sister. This time, the news was good. Marianne seemed to have found solid footing. Her first boyfriend, the older one who intimidated me, had found her after 30 years and had taken her to live with him. The email from Sister said he loves and cherishes her, treats her well and is making her healthy again. But the best part of her email to me, the part that let me know Marianne really would be okay, was the last line when she wrote, “And he even bought her a horse.”

Since then I have thought of nothing but Marianne. I’ve seen photos of her grown children. I search their faces to see pieces of the girl I knew, and I am happy. I will call Marianne today, and I will ask how her horse is. Then she will know who I am.