Pam's Blog...February 2

There are moments, I believe, that not only require embracing our 'inner
child,' but also beckoning the irresponsible and fearless teenager that
lurks deeply beneath the stodgy middle aged exteriors that encase many of
us. The kid that never wore a bicycle helmet, drove far too fast into the
night without headlights "just to see if I could do it, Officer," and the
kid I once was: tearing bareback through summer fields with girlfriends,
collapsing into our horses' manes with laughter, certain that we would
always be 14 and perpetually in love with Peter Frampton.

Two mornings after our recent snowfall, before sunrise, my rubber muckboots
cracking through the frozen crust on the way to the barn, I made my way
gingerly toward the routine of morning chores: feeding and cleaning stalls,
breaking the ice in water buckets and re-adjusting blankets.

It is so rare to experience a moment of perfect stillness, I find. Even
determined efforts of meditation and prayer are often interrupted by the
shrill of the telephone or the wandering thought of checking email or the
flash of worry over a bill forgotten to be paid. However, this particular
morning, my path illuminated by a full moon suspended confidently above the
pink-tinged horizon, beckoned me out of the barn after throwing everyone
their breakfast hay, to lean against the paddock gate and absorb the
perfection of the undisturbed mantle of white over the dramatic hills of the
larger pasture.

The 14 year old, unseen yet keenly felt, dared me to retrieve the 'Flexible
Flier" leaning against the wall in the garden shed and I answered her smirk
with one of my own and, in a matter of moments, found myself sitting upon my
old, wooden, friend, red steel runners poised and ready for the descent that
is second only to the Saluda Grade and punctuated with massive oaks and
poplars. The snow, frozen and hard, would offer no help at slowing us should
I panic and I chose to sit instead of lying flat, steering with my feet and
holding the baling-twine rope between my gloved hands.

The posture of choice for most humans, when frightened, is a forward,
cowering, collapse that becomes fetal and I heard myself bark out loud as I
would to a riding student: "Sit up straight! Chest first!" and shoved myself
forward with hands on either side of the sled.

In a flash I was over the crest and hurtling down the hill behind the barn
with breathtaking speed. The stillness of the morning was pierced by a sharp
intake of breath as I barely negotiated the path around the heavy limb of an
oak and flying over an empty creek bed at the bottom of the hill, softer
snow was flung upwards, stinging my eyes. Mounting the hill on the other
side, the sled slowed, came to a stop and began sliding backwards. Gulping
for air and dissolving into laughter, I followed its journey, letting go of
the rope and lying down, sliding back down the incline coming to a final
halt in a few feet. The moon, now tangled in the branches of the poplar
above me, seemed to grin in approval and I remained flat on my back,
grinning back and in no particular hurry to rise to my feet and begin the
day in earnest. A 'V' of geese flew overhead and in the barn, impatient
hooves began to hammer against stall doors, anxious for grain and an
explanation of why they were considered too fragile for such larking about
in icy conditions.

"I'll see you sometime," I said to the 14 year old but she was gone. Pulling
the 'Flier' behind me as I trudged up the hill to the barn, I glanced once
over my shoulder and thought I caught a glimpse but wasn't sure. It would be
criminal to let too much time pass before calling her back again.

January 11,2010

If you asked most women what their favorite type of window-shopping is, I presume they might mention Ralph Lauren's entire spring collection or, perhaps, jewelry.

For me, it's trucks.

I have been known to nearly drive off the road craning my head around to make a mental note of a burgundy Ford F-250 Crew Cab Lariat 4X4 Power-stroke Diesel (told ya I took a mental note). It makes my eyes water. It makes my heart beat as if Buddy Rich had reared from the grave. However, like the disappointed husband to whom a wife has just shot down the dream of a Corvette, I have to be realistic: my new truck (by new, I mean having been manufactured during the same decade in which I am living), despite my best efforts, will be beat to hell within a matter of months: it must reliably haul a horse trailer, move gravel, manure, and anything that needs to go to the dump. It will not be a show piece, resting comfortably in a climate controlled garage when not in use~ it will be plugged into the barn when temperatures dip below freezing and it will wear a layer of grime or splattered mud until I'm too embarrassed to be seen in public with it and only then will it be taken to the self-serve car wash (having broken the last automatic carwash I drove a dually through).

So I trawl 'Autotrader' on-line and pry my quivering fingers away from clicking the mouse over glistening, loaded, new models with immaculate interiors...because, really, how long does your commitment not to wear muddy boots in your new truck last? Best to look at a truck that's had a past: a truck with the confidence of a retired drill sergeant, a truck that doesn't mind a sticky puddle of coffee sloshing inside the cup holder, the kind of truck that'll pat you on the knee when you climb in and says with a voice eerily reminiscent of Sam Elliott, "You just sit tight, missy~ we'll get through this thunderstorm."

And when this new-ish truck has, over the years, given his all (I can't fathom calling a truck "her") in selfless duty to farmwork, like the others that have gone before him, I will bite my lip, pat his hood and say, "It's not you, you've been great. It's me. I just want to see other trucks."

Women can be so cruel.

January 9,2010

As I write, our Christmas tree, denuded of ornaments save two strands of white lights, still stands in pride of place by the staircase.

I'm someone who has always felt terribly sorry for trees tossed unceremoniously to the curb, still with a bit of tinsel or flocking on the branches. For me, Christmas does not end until Twelfth Night, occurring on January 6th, and so our tree, looking simple yet elegant wreathed only in lights, is fully appreciated long after the general hub-bub of Christmas Day is over.

It does not, however, come without costs. We are all very accustomed to finding spent needles on the floor beneath the tree and, occasionally, under the nearby coffee table. But what I could not figure out was how on earth I was finding pine needles on the couch, in the bath tub and atop the kitchen counter.

"It makes no sense." I said, exasperated, to Paul. "I mean, I understand that when I try and vacuum them up a few might spit back out behind but not land down the hall and hang a left into the bathroom and into the tub!"

"Maybe we're tracking them around the house with our feet?" He suggested, looking at the bottom of his leather shod foot. His loafer showed no evidence of being an accessory and frowning, we went on with our day and promptly forgot about it.

The following morning, with the weather outside prohibiting riding, I reluctantly set about a cleaning task I had put off since, well, Rumsfeld's departure~ cleaning the actual top of the kitchen cabinets, where dusty teapots and plants stand on display behind the railing. Teetering nervously on top of the kitchen counter and beginning to damp wipe away layers of grime, I was astonished to find two or three pine needles directly above the refrigerator. "This cannot be possible!" I muttered to no one in particular.

Only yesterday the mystery was solved. Savoring a hot mug of tea while waiting for the arena footing outside to thaw, I watched in merriment as our youngest cat, a long-haired black and white female named Tippy, luxuriated beneath the tree where sunlight was pooling through a beam from the window. Rolling over and over on the crimson tree-skirt, the static electricity of winter trapped within her fur, she was absolutely covered in needles, looking like a diminutive float in the Rose Bowl parade.

She stood, stretched, and, as cats often do, scampered away full speed down the hall for no discernable reason and flew into the bathroom, plunging into the empty tub only to leap back out and tear into the kitchen, leaping upon the counter, leaving her own version of bread crumbs marking every step.

"The culprit!" I said with triumph, holding Tippy aloft as Paul entered, carrying firewood.

"Wipe her with a sheet of 'Bounce' and that should stop them from sticking." he replied.

I started to the laundry room but thought better of it. "No," I said, plunking Tippy in all her festivity upon the couch, "If the tree can stay up til Twelfth Night, so can she. Besides, she even gave me an epiphany!"

And thus ends the lesson.