The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

Note: one of the best pieces of advice I've ever encountered about writing was from a noted author who said above all "write about what you know." Hence the narrator is - you guessed it - a vet. Not exactly a stretch there.



Chapter 3

Two pairs of alarmed eyes were looking at me, and I hated being the center of attention.

“All right,” I said briskly, “no police.” Given the degree of incompetence exhibited by the local law brigade in dealing with even the slightest of misdemeanors, coupled with the general knowledge that if you ever wanted to dispose of a body, Middle Township just outside Polled Neck was the place to do it and get away with it, I figured that since no one was dead despite Patsy’s earliest assumption, , we could simply go into her kitchen, sit down over a cup of coffee, and figure things out. Edna was dozing in the sun, one hip cocked, ears and lower lip drooping, and the dogs were sprawled nearby and snoring. They would be fine, and I could see them from the kitchen window anyway. They were frequent visitors to Patsy’s garden and long ago I had made it clear that dreadful punishments awaited any dogs who decided to entertain themselves by uprooting Patsy’s botanical children. I gestured to the man who was now on his feet, though swaying slightly, and we managed the dozen or so steps to her kitchen door without incident.

Patsy’s cottage was as much a showplace as her garden. The kitchen was a comfortable den of knotty pine paneling that had taken on a warm reddish glow with years of care and elbow grease; a vintage table and chair set that she had rescued from the basement of the Thunder Mug, Polled Neck’s ancient downtown bar, sat in retro splendor next to the picture window that overlooked the garden, and the cottage’s original, shockingly turquoise appliances still chugged obligingly along year after year, having outlasted several generations of repairmen. They had gone well beyond retro into the realm of miraculously cool. When asked by drooling collectors when she planned on replacing them, Patsy inevitably said with a wave of her manicured hand, “when they stop working.” So far, so good.

It was to this homey setting that we helped Patsy’s uninvited guest. He sat down heavily in one of the metallic cushioned chairs and sighed. “Thank you,” he said in a cultured accent that, now that I took the time to listen, was quite clearly Italian. “I am in your debt. “

“You might not be in just a minute,” I said, “let’s get those wounds cleaned up.” I turned to Patsy, who said “I’ll get the first aid kit” and disappeared through the door that led down the hall to the cottage’s tiny bedrooms and bathroom.

“If you don’t want the police, then presumably you don’t want to go to the emergency room either,” I addressed the man who, after clearly trying to decide whether he ought to nod yes or shake no, opted instead for words and said “that is correct.”

“Well, you know we’re going to want to know why. But in the meantime let ‘s get you cleaned up. I’m not a doctor – but I am a veterinarian – so I think I can get you taken care of, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Entirely comfortable, molti grazie” he said, so I wetted a couple of paper towels at the sink, squirted a small amount of antibacterial hand soap on them, and applied them to the cut on his forehead. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and then relaxed. “If you think this one’s tough,”I remarked , “wait till we get to that arm. We’re going to have to talk about that.” Among other things, I added silently to myself. He nodded, grimacing slightly. “Just so. When your friend gets back---“

At that moment several things happened simultaneously. Patsy was coming back down the hall and had almost reached the kitchen when the front door rattled under someone’s determined knock. Still clearly on edge, she yelped and dropped the first aid kit, which the man gracefully retrieved for her. “Come in,” I called, recognizing that a knock with that degree of authority could only come from our friend Darla Roberson. The dogs out back didn’t care where the knock originated and launched into a flurry of loud barking. In the corner of my vision I saw Edna’s head jerk up when the dogs’ noise disturbed her sleep. Then the door burst open.

“What was that guy doing in your birdba – oh!” Darla stopped in surprise midway through the living room as she saw the stranger reseating himself at the table. “I came as soon as I saw you were bringing him into the house – what the hell were you thinking? A total stranger!!” Privately I wondered the same thing, but I had to admit there was something to this man’s mannerisms that spoke of class – and more importantly of kindness, or maybe innocence. I suppose Patsy and I both felt he merited a chance to explain himself.

“Bon giorno,” the man nodded at Darla, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his left ear. Darla nodded curtly in his direction and thrust out her hand, shaking his in a firm grip designed to intimidate any potential stalker. She was a short, solid woman who would have needed to crane her neck up considerably had the man been standing. As it was, they were nearly eye to eye and she took off her “Neighborhood Watch” ball cap in order to more accurately fix him with a stern blue gaze from behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Who are you?” she demanded bluntly.

“We were just getting to that, Dar,” I said, “but I need to do a little first aid here.” The wound on his temple was clean and had stopped bleeding, so I applied a couple of small bandages, butterfly-fashion, after drying the skin which, I noticed, was disconcertingly warm, smooth and tan. I blinked a couple of times and moved on to his left arm. I held my breath as I peeled away the remains of the shirt sleeve that had stuck to the raw flesh. He gave a visceral grunt but made no other sound.

“Look, this really needs a graft or something, “ I said, “It’s going to leave a nasty scar otherwise.”

He looked alarmed and shook his head again. “Please, no doctors. You do what you have to do. I am healthy – it will heal.”

“Ok,” I said. “What the heck did you do, anyway, catch your arm in something? Did a boat propeller do this to you?”

“No,” he replied, “I was…how do you say it? I was skinned.”

The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

Note: You may want to read the Prologue and Chapter One first! Scroll down!

Chapter 2


I stood shoulder to shoulder with Patsy, surveying the damage.

Patsy’s garden was her pride and joy, her source of solace and strength, the fertile breeding ground for her botanical works of art and, now that I think of it, probably HER place for epiphanies - not to mention daylilies and hydrangeas. After she and her husband Edgar parted company following the rather explosive revelation that not only had he been married before – twice – but he had never exactly bothered to become UNmarried from wife #2 before marrying Patsy, she plunged all her frustrations and energy into her property, transforming a rather humdrum collection of geraniums, boxwood and yew bushes into one of Polled Neck’s landscape showplaces. At this time of year, a profusion of purple and white lilacs spilled over the stone fence next to an antique hitching post where I had tied Edna, but even the fragrant perfume of thousands of tiny flowers, coupled with the smell of the steaming manure pile the pony had obligingly, neatly deposited next to Patsy’s compost heap , failed to mask the pervasive sour odor of alcohol-laced vomit produced by the victim who lay sprawled half in-half out of the birdbath.

This birdbath – and I use the term loosely, because that was how Patsy always referred to it – was in fact a water feature of surprising proportions given the small garden space which it occupied, but the simple fact was, the structure had been there years before the area had been split into tiny lots by some opportunistic vulture of a developer who saw a chance to make a fast buck offering “beachfront” property at exhorbitant rates back in the post World War II economic boom. The once formidable Singer mansion at the intersection of New Jersey Avenue and Morgan Street had been falling to bits for some time until a quorum of Polled Neck residents declared it to be an eyesore of epic proportions; it had subsequently been torn down and the estate divided and subdivided and sprinkled liberally with miniscule cottages that just – barely – met with the existant zoning regulations (no surprise that said regulations were shortly thereafter substantially rewritten until they were tighter than a bikini bottom worn by a middle-aged matron on the first day of beach season, deluded into believing that she still had a girlish figure). Nonetheless the cottages persisted and, as these things inevitably do, came to be viewed as “retro” and soon found themselves in demand again. Patsy was fortunate to have inherited the bungalow her father had purchased soon after being mustered out of the War following a head injury sustained while fighting in the European theater . In any case, the Brelsford family’s miniature estate happened to be the one bit of property which had a piece of architecture remaining from the old Singer buildings – Patsy’s birdbath.

In reality, the “Birdbath” was actually a sort of grotto-esque water feature, complete with several unnecessarily pudgy putti fastened to the back wall so that they gazed down into the pool below them with what I always thought was an expression of rather supercilious fascination.

At the moment they were gazing at the victim.

‘A quick touch on his neck assured me that he still had a pulse, and in fact his color was quite good – tanned skin, flushed cheeks. His breathing was deep and regular. He was rather the worse for wear, however. His dark green uniform shirt was torn at the left shoulder, the right sleeve was missing entirely, and the shirttail was half out of his pants and gaping from the missing bottom button. His khakis were stained and torn at both knees and his hands, though the fingers were long and graceful, were filhy, with broken nails and numerous abrasions. He had fairly long brown hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, dusted at the temples with a few strands of grey. Indentations along the bridge of his nose indicated that he wore glasses most of the time though none were evident at the moment.

“He’s not dead, Pats,” I said, “he’s sleeping it off.”

“But what’s THAT?” she fluttered, pointing a pink-enameled index finger at the ground just in front of the stone rim of the pool. I bent over and touched the grass. My finger came back with a brownish red stain.

“Oh. Well, yeah, that’s blood.” Patsy uttered a tiny shriek. I stooped down, shoving aside the dogs who had finally finished their investigation of the garden’s borders and Edna’s manure pile and had come closer to check on what the humans were up to. I discovered a sizeable gash on the side of his head, on the temple closest to the grass, but the blood had clotted and the wound appeared to be fairly superficial. I was pretty sure it would be sore when he came to, however, and also fairly certain that the wound had not been the result of an accident. How the heck would he have met with accident in Patsy’s backyard, after all?

Just then, with my face was only a few inches from his, he groaned. I took a pace back, stepping on Jasper’s toes in the process and eliciting from the startled dog a high, short yap which caused the man to open his eyes. Jasper retreated with his pinched toes and injured feelings to a safer position beneath a bush near Edna, with Coal trailing solicitously after him. Patsy and I retreated also and with good reason, for the man suddenly rolled over, pulling the lower half of his body out of the pool with a splash , and retched painfully into the grass. It was then that I noticed an injury I hadn’t seen before; the movement had caused his torn left sleeve to flap back from his upper arm, revealing another smear of blood and something more: a jagged square of exposed muscle measuring roughly four by four inches. In short, he had been skinned.

“Patsy,” I said, “go call the police.”

“NO!” she yelped and, to my surprise the man simultaneously bellowed the same response.

I turned to stare at her as if she were out of her mind, then came to a decision. “All right,” I agreed, “then go call the club.”

The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

Please note: The prologue is located BELOW this post on the blog and probably should be read first...or not. But it is intended to be read first. Hence the name "prologue." Well, that makes sense. However due to technical difficulties it's... down there. Sorry 'bout that...

Chapter One

The beach is where I have my epiphanies.

Mind you, I can’t count on one every day, and I can’t even predict when they are about to happen, which in any case would run counter to the nature to epiphanies anyway; all I know is, call them what you will, the beach is where I have them.

It could be simply because I’m there most mornings. The truth is, I find it hard to keep away. I was born and raised in Southwest Ohio. The closest we ever came to things nautical were subdivisions in the middle of cornfields centered around muddy ponds and given implausible, or possibly optimistic, monikers such as “Spinnaker’s Row.” Boat sales lots occasionally sprouted near tiny creekbeds which could be counted on to be bone dry for several months at a stretch. Care to take ‘er for a test run, buddy? We’ll ask that old feller with the long beard and lots of breeding pairs of livestock over there and see when the next rain’s coming. I grew up and grew used to feeding animals and growing vegetables, and hoping for downpours at appropriate intervals and toting buckets when they didn’t come, so the ocean – with its infinite and ever-changing quantities of water, continues to hold a lovely fascination for me even though I have lived in this small New Jersey town for going on 5 years now.

Forget the churches filled with congregations dressed in their Sunday best – well, not necessarily “Sunday best” in my case, since I attend Mass on Saturday evenings where the pews are full of people who slide in on their way to or from somewhere else, dressed the part: team members on their way to games, praying for victory, seniors dressed to the nines on their way to celebrate someone’s fiftieth anniversary, families still in shorts back from an afternoon’s picnic. No message for me from the Almighty there, not with the Twitchy Thompson family shuffling their stacks of Holy Cards like angels ready to ante up in a game of celestial Texas Hold’Em, not while PTA matrons whisper during the collection about the way the mayor looks at the girls who carry up the offertory gifts, not with overweight teacher-coaches sitting in massive self-righteousness while assault charges are pending over an incident involving fists at the last Little League game - and that was just with the team members’ mothers.

Nope, for me it’s definitely the beach, so it’s no surprise that my story, the story of the village of Old Neck and its Fishing and Gardening Club, should begin, precisely, on the beach.

Old Neck. Our town really isn’t named Old Neck. Officially it’s Polled Neck, founded in the late 1600’s, a vacation town in its glory days back in the last century but sliding decidedly downhill in the past fifty years or so, losing most of the younger, prosperous vacationers to glitzier “down the shore” localities such as Atlantic City, and funkier joints like Seaside. In its heyday Polled Neck had entertained Cabinet members, provided movie stars with quiet spots for weekend trysts, even - rumor had it – served as a hideaway for pirates and privateers ducking into its back bay to take on fresh water at Reed Pond before heading out again to the open ocean. It has a long history, does our little town, but as the more youthful, progressive members of the populace left to find greener pastures, so to speak, the balance of the demographic shifted decidedly in the direction of the over-fifty crowd, and some smart ass shortened its hallowed name to OLD Neck.

Old, Polled. It doesn’t matter. It has a lovely beach, and if our town is a little quieter than it used to be, we are all right with that. The seaside establishments have been busy enough to keep us more or less solvent during the summer and allow us to put a little money by for the slow season, and life goes on. As our friend Joe says, “it’s all good.” And it pretty much is, although with the recent economic downturn we are definitely living a little closer to the edge of the poverty line.

So , as always, back to the beach. This particular late spring morning found me ambling toward the rising sun with two of our dogs, Jasper the chocolate Labrador retriever and Coal the almost-lab, loudly wrestling each other to the sand, and Edna strolling along behind me at the end of her lead. I was zigzagging back and forth between searching the detritus at the high tide mark for beach glass, a rare commodity in these recycle-conscious days, and trying to find that “sweet spot” along the edge of the water where the sand is most comfortable for walking. Edna was following a line of her own, sniffing hopefully at beach vegetation and wilted seaweed in search of something edible, occasionally blowing at some strange piece of driftwood or horseshoe crab carcass that bobbled in the surf. Tiny shore birds skittered ahead of us. The beach was quiet that morning and the ocean was calm, the waves rolling smoothly over onto the sand like sated lovers.

I was savoring the smell of bacon drifting beachward from some occupied vacation cottage, and grinned to myself. Why does a seashore vacation make ordinarily health-conscious individuals want to consume pounds of bacon – perhaps it is the sight of bathers slathered in oil sizzling on the beach?

There you go. A little epiphany, but an epiphany nonetheless. Was it too small to keep – should I throw it back? I was idly trying to decide when in the distance I spotted a woman hurrying in my direction, shirt and pantlegs flapping in the offshore breeze. Jasper and Coal had recognized her and were racing in her direction, spurts of sand flying from beneath their paws. I recognized my friend Patsy. She appeared to be in some state of agitation: her usually neat, short brown hair was flapping over a hurriedly donned visor and her brown eyes, I could see as she drew closer, were huge. I tugged Edna’s head from a particularly appealing patch of beach grass and adjusted our trajectory to meet her. She grabbed me by the wrist, panting. Her carefully manicured nails dug into my skin. As she stopped to catch her breath I said, “Hey, girl - did you find a body on the beach, or what?” Sometimes despite my best efforts my Ohio roots break through; the midwesterner’s alternative to nearly everything is “erwhut.”
“No Teddy,” she gasps, “it’s worse than that!”
I couldn’t magine anything worse than finding a “floater” and I was just about to tell her so when she added, “He’s in my birdbath!”

The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

PROLOGUE


A Midwestern horse show grounds on a hot, dusty July day. Riders walking, trotting, galloping their mounts in every direction, warming up, cooling down. An announcer’s cultured voice floating out over the crowd describes completed rounds, refusals and occasionally “an unfortunate parting of the ways,” the dreadfully polite and politely dreadful expression she uses to report a fall.

In the start box, a woman sits quietly on a small bay mare. The starter counts down beginning at “thirty seconds…twenty seconds…ten, nine, eight…three, two,one, go, have a safe ride!” “Thank you,” the woman calls over her shoulder after touching her heels to the pony’s sides. The pair canters easily, rhythmically to the first jump, a table, and sails over, the black tail of the pony teasing the air in her passing. They have done this before, many times, often winning. Somewhere in the area of the start box the announcer notes to the crowd that “number 126, Hilltop Edna Brown, and owner/ rider Theodora Lewis, are on course and have successfully cleared the first obstacle.”

Seconds pass, and the only sound the rider hears is the rhythmic pounding of the pony’s hooves across the dusty grass. The pony clears a fence of stacked timbers, then wheels around a pond toward a red painted coop. At that instant the unpredictable, the unplanned, happens. A tiny, excited Jack Russell Terrier escapes from his owner’s grasp and runs toward the approaching pair, barking furiously. The pony, no stranger to dogs, sidesteps to the right at the last minute to avoid crushing the diminutive canine but the rider’s momentum carries her forward, off the pony’s left shoulder, onto and then over the coop, her boots thudding against the hollow structure as her head and shoulders plow into the turf. She has time to register that she is still holding the reins, and then the darkness comes.

What We Did In July - Horses!

Several months ago, Somebody Around Here (who shall remain unnamed) said, “hey, why don’t we take these ponies and show somewhere different – like Upperville or Warrenton? Not that we’d necessarily win, but it would be fun.” Thus an idea was born – or more appropriately, another hare-brained scheme was hatched - in the dark windy days of February.

Schedules being what they are, it turned out that the famed Upperville Colt and Horse Show, as well as the vaunted Warrenton Pony Show, will have to wait another year. But upon perusing travel plans, I noted that the Region 3 Connemara Show just happened to be the weekend we were due to drive back from our annual New Jersey coast vacation. “Hey” – Someone said again, “why don’t we meet you in Middleburg and do the Region III show?” This to Martha Slamer, my partner in “Team Connemara” (yes, we even have a Facebook page!) – along about mid-April.

If “time flies when you’re having fun,” then it’s no wonder I can’t keep track of exactly what happened next, but at some time during that interval we duly sent our entries to Virginia in a flurry of horsey paperwork (most of which was going to Kentucky Horse Park for the World Equestrian Games this fall).

We managed to squeeze in a couple of small local shows and a lot of schooling time, which not infrequently required hauling out of bed and throwing myself into a vertical position some time before daylight. I also managed to ride Lily (Hillside Lily Brown) in her first competitive trail ride, just a week after she unceremoniously unloaded me up against a jump in front of the best looking male judge I have ever seen. May as well go down in style! (we did ride the course successfully the second time around, I might add….). Lily took to CTR’s like a duck to water, and came in 6th on a 15 mile trail ride in pastern-deep mud. Apart from deductions for a high heart rate (59 BPM, but hey, it’s exciting when a total stranger walks up to you and slaps a heart monitor in your armpit…or legpit…whatever!), she finished sound and springy as ever and I was very proud of her. Riding with us was Celeste Phares, who is leasing Kilfenora Brighanna Day from Brenda Kiniyalocts; Bri also finished bright and happy. We hope to take these two girls out again on a local CTR at the end of August.

So…vacation at Cape May as usual, except that at the end of the week I would see my Paddy at Glenwood Horse Park just outside of Middleburg Virginia. After a harrowing drive along the Death Star Trench that the local DC’ers casually call “the beltway” around the capitol (an imposing religious ediface - the Morman temple - sits above it on a hill for a reason, as we Midwesterners were praying like crazy while hurtling along the highway with an overloaded camper strapped to the pickup), we headed west into Virginia and made Middleburg just before dusk. Wow…talk about the epicenter of horse country! Every mile or so there is some equine facility – steeplechase courses, horse show grounds, training barns, tack shops – and interspersed with those are historical markers denoting Civil and Revolutionary War battlefields – it’s a wonder we didn’t suffer significant neck strain. The land is lovely, rolling, absolutely inviting – yeah, I could live there!

So…. we all came to Middleburg – Martha Slamer and Journey, my beloved Paddy, Pat Reichle along for support, my OTHER beloved (the two-legged one) Keith, and our friend Joe Herbert. We pitched camp on a hillside after greeting Martha, Pat and the horses, welcomed the evening cool, and relaxed till the next morning.

Well…sorta. I was nervously trying to assure myself that I wouldn’t have a brain f---, er, senior moment in the middle of a dressage test, worrying about over fences courses, and wondering whatever else might go wrong – but we had a great day and amazingly, everything went right. Martha and Journey put in a good training level combined test , and Paddy and I managed to do the same at Beginner Novice level, so several ribbons down and time to cool off. After cleaning up we hitched a ride into Middleburg with another show attendee since 5 of us couldn’t fit in Martha’s truck cab (at least, not in the sweaty condition we presented at that moment), had sandwiches at The Red Horse Tavern, ice cream from a shop up the street, and then…well, we did all manage to get back to Glenwood in the pickup , although I have to say I never expected to see the raingutters of Middleburg from the position lying flat on my back wedged snugly between Keith and Joe in the bed of the pickup – hoping no one would notice we were breaking the law!

Sunday’s performance classes didn’t start off quite as well – I think I was just too hot and tired to really focus – but our rounds were clear and I stayed on course – yay! For fun I had entered the “Open Pleasure Under Saddle” as did a group of other riders, though none of us could figure out what was wanted other than “ride on the buckle” – so I did. And in the line up I sat there in the sun thinking “I’m four states away from home, riding an Irish pony, listening to ragtime music - how did THAT get in there? - on the speaker system, and showing in a class in which I have no idea what I’m doing.” To add to the absurdity – we won the class. Ok, that was fun! And to top off the day, we also won the “Bareback Dollar” class – so look out Cathy Blackmon! I told one of the teenagers riding, “look, you’ve beaten me all day, let me enjoy this one!” First place trophies were lovely handmade stoneware plates by Alicia Daily depicting ponies in various poses so I was very happy to get one that looks like Paddy. At the end of the day our contingent also netted the award for having traveled the farthest.

The show was wonderful, well run and FULL of quality ponies and friendly people, particularly Dawn Weniger and her family who helped us get settled and told us where everything was located. The facility was venerable and beautiful! Lots of old trees, stone walls, red earth (plenty of which the ponies brought home….), green grass – amazing. The stalls were sturdy and clean, and our full muck buckets were emptied as needed. We travelers particularly appreciated the opportunity to turn the boys (the four-legged ones, that is) out into a spacious paddock for hours at a time, which I am sure did them a world of good. We also were grateful for the many “watering stations” for people – whew! It was HOT! (Pat Reichle’s trick of the wet washcloth buried in ice in the cooler was also a lifesaver ). Anne Moe and her team in the secretary’s booth were always cordial and patient. In short – which this is NOT – we had a wonderful time and look forward to coming out again, hopefully when it’s a bit cooler! And I have to say that when we passed the Upperville show grounds on the way home I waved and said “see you sooner or later!”

That herculean effort should have been enough for the summer…but the following weekend (July 24-25) was Gemwood Horse Trials north of here in Fairborn, Ohio. My first ever horse trail. Holy cow, what the heck was I thinking? Ok, just “Beginner Novice, Novice Rider.” Some of you old-hand eventers may not even remember your first event so you will laugh at this – but WHAT A BLAST!

Oh sure, I can say that now, but I spent all last week worrying whether or not I was going to embarrass myself (and Paddy) in dressage, completely flub stadium jumping, or simply meet my death on the cross country course. All these things went round and round in my head as the temperature and humidity got higher and higher. Saturday morning found me hurriedly braiding Paddy’s mane and tail, and wishing I was doing something else – like a trail ride. Nerves, I guess. Off we went. Had a little warm-up, did what I thought was a singularly lackluster dressage test – but didn’t forget any of it – and went to look at my placing. The posting said “2T” after Paddy’s name. What the heck was that –short for “too terrible”? ? No, wait – I discovered I was in a tie for second place out of 13 riders..Holy cow, again! Stadium jumping went fine; we were definitely having an “on” day and had a clear round with no time faults despite some slightly slippery footing . So, end of day one, still in a tie for second. But the horrible scary cross country beast still lay ahead.

I went to Mass Sunday morning and made my peace with my Maker. I admitted to Keith that I was scared, but had realized in a moment of clarity somewhere after the Gospel (when I was supposed to be listening to the sermon but instead was thinking “and #4 is the ditch…”) that all I had to do – and it sounded so simple - was RIDE PADDY RIGHT. He’d done this before for Martha, after all. And we’d had some good schooling sessions earlier in the month. Nothing to worry about, right? Except jump 3, a sort bench, #4 (that spooky ditch), and #11, a HUGE log. The new water hazard was an “option” since there had been no opportunity for open schooling, the other choice being to go around the pond, jump a log, then double back onto the course. I figured I would go for the sure thing and school the water later. Resignedly I loaded Paddy and headed to Twin Towers after bidding my mom and my husband and all the pets farewell (gloomy, wasn’t I? But I had a pretty hard fall at Twin Towers last year, and was still uncertain of my ability to ride Paddy “right” at the right time). Nonetheless, sitting in second place and with $185 dollars in fees already spent, I wasn’t going to let it go to waste without a good fight.

The clouds cleared and the day had cooled off. Martha and Journey sailed off on their training level ride and came back with Martha grinning as usual and telling me “you will have SOOO much fun!” “He’ll be fine.” “He can do this!” (OK, if you say so!) We watched Martha’s daughter Sarah take Gamin over her first official cross country course ever – very stylish and elegant despite some hesitation at that #3 bench, black and lurking in the shade. Then it was my turn - “#126, you’re up!”– gulp! And magically…here’s what happened next (in medical terms, I think adrenaline kicked in):

The first two jumps were a small coop and a negligible table, kind of warm-up “freebies”. Paddy sailed across #1 then began the long curve to #2 and I found I was humming the theme to the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Well, that seemed wierdly appropriate. I knew I had to keep calm coming up to #3 – that scary bench – and somehow I did and he was up and over - letter perfect! “Ok,” I said to him, “the next one’s that ditch, and I know you don’t like ditches, but you’ve done this one bef---“ and he was over before I could finish the sentence (I’ll bet the jump judge, Martha’s friend Mary Lou, was laughing at my stream of conversation!). I took a deep breath at that point and resettled myself as Paddy cantered along. “Ok, now we can reorganize,” I said, because jump 5 was an easy log, 6 was several logs – no problem. By the time we had scooted around the pond and doubled back after the log option at #7, Paddy had conveyed to me by his pricked ears and gentle tugs at the bit, “Don’t worry, Ma, I got this!” (or maybe a better translation was “who’s your Paddy NOW?!!”)– and on we went. #8 was a fun table we’d schooled over, #9 was more stacked logs and #10 was an Aiken log – heck, 2 days before I’d never even HEARD of an Aiken log! – but Paddy didn’t care. We galloped on. I knew that somewhere the announcer’s voice was floating over the course, saying something like “and #126 is clear over the Aiken log” or noting “an unfortunate parting of the ways, “ for some unlucky team (her dreadfully polite and politely dreadful term for a fall), but in my memory it was silent except for the rhythmic beating of Paddy’s hooves. It was all good! Even the big fat log #11 (what was that tree, about 400 years old??) posed no problems and by then I knew we had it made because the rest were jumps we’d schooled over. But as we went over log #13, my watch timer went off – oh, crap! Time faults! Well, no matter, we were both still alive. The last jumps - #14-16 - were familiar, and in a straight gallop – red coop, black coop, log/stone jump – and we were done! It was wonderful, amazing – WHAT A RUSH!!! Paddy was sweaty but barely breathing hard. I patted him, praised him profusely, and (best of all, as far as he was concerned) fed him some carrots I had shoved into my pocket at the last minute for just that purpose.

Yeah, yeah – I know, it was just beginner novice, and although the time penalties dropped us to 4th place overall, I’m still just glowing over what we accomplished. What a great pony!

He had yesterday off, and today I took him out bareback for a little trail loop, relaxed and easy through our woods. We stayed out till the horseflies threatened to carry us off, then I came back to chores and the rest of the week’s responsibilities including laundry. Funnily enough, I ran across a great quote, printed on the pocket lining of my breeches, of all things:

“Courage is trusting your horse to get you there.”

Ain’t it the truth.

The Demise of Big Butter Jesus

Although I have done my best to resist the temptation to write mindless drivel about silly daily occurrences, I have been swept away on the tide of current events, or more precisely, event, this morning, and find I must say something about last night's demise of our local landmark of dubious distinction, made even more famous by comedian Heywood Banks' song of the same name, Big Butter Jesus.

As you know if you live anywhere within 5000 miles of southwest Ohio, "Big Butter Jesus" is....WAS....the monumental sculpture of Christ rising out of a farm-pond sized body of water (Oh. My husband informs me that this pond is properly known as a "reflectionary pool." Sorry...)in front of the Solid Rock Church just off I-75 south of Monroe, bearing a cross that I presume to be symbolic, since in the scheme of things it is way out of proportion - much too small to have hung a human figure of that size from...from which to have hung a human figure of that size, that is. Pardon my dangling participles but I'm still in shock.

After a severe thunderstorm last night, and a tragic or fortuitous (depending on your point of view) lightening strike, all that currently remains of the work is the metal framework still straining skyward.

I kind of like it that way. "King of Kings" might now be left as is and renamed "Technology Triumphs" (although in reality it was Mother Nature who had the last laugh last night). It looks like some extra from the Pixar film Wall*E.

Please don't flame me. I mean no disrespect to the spirit in which the sculpture was erected, and by no means to the faithful of that particular church. I'm Catholic and attended Catholic grade school so I was spoon-fed more religious images and icons before lunch every week day than films in which Charlton Heston played biblical figures; I'm no stranger to all sorts of depictions of Our Lord. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the image of Christ dying horribly on a cross displayed in each and every Catholic grade school classroom I ever did time in as a kid (there I go again. "In which I ever did time..."etc) is in large part responsible for that phenomenon known as "Catholic Guilt" since the good sisters holding court in those establishments wasted no time in bashing our impressionable young minds with the knowledge that "Christ died for YOUR sins." Eeeshh. But I digress....

Pyromaniac that I am, I was quite disheartened to learn that I had missed a fire of such epic (and symbolic?) proportions, but fortunately...dare I say it? - technology triumphs, and here it is already this morning on You Tube. Wow. Can you imagine standing at your window looking out at the lightening storm from your home in the area and seeing lightening hit that thing? Can you imagine being the pastor of the Solid Rock Church and watching it happen? Holy....well, far better humorists than I are probably already attempting to re-create THAT scenario. Have at it, guys.

As has already been pointed out - but I can't resist mentioning - the nearby Hustler store as well as a number of other religious edifices in the area were spared. What, we must ask ourselves, does this all mean?

The local paper reported this morning that plans were underway anyway to "refurbish" the statue this year. What (I also must ask myself) does this mean in light of THAT news? What message was God sending? "Here, lemme help you with the trash disposal on that project." *FOOM!!!!* "Now just sweep up the ash and carry on..."

Or maybe something else. But I'm going to refrain from commenting on the quality of the work (except to say that I use that term loosely...).

I am reminded of the concept that negative publicity is STILL publicity. I predict fortune will rise like a phoenix out of these ashes. Donations are probably already pouring in from all corners of the globe (is that a contradiction in terms?) to help rebuild. Donations which, I might add, might be better put to use helping needy residents in the area. I'm just sayin'...

Let's see. This is June 15th. I have to confess, I'm really curious to see what the whole thing looks like in about...three days, if you know what I mean. Stay tuned.

Taking the Activia Challenge, or What Would Jane Do?

(Including the author's editorial comments, in boldface)


Mr. Fred Burk of Strawberry Hill Farm was a person held in high esteem by all who knew him. His outgoing, amiable disposition, his willingness to respond immediately and without question if summoned to the aid of those less fortunate, and his ready wit, were happily attested to by family and friends alike. The source of such goodness was discussed, often and thoroughly, by his colleagues, and it was generally assumed, though not to say openly spoken of , that Mr. Burk’s consistent good health contributed in some measure to his equally steady, benevolent temperament.

It was indeed a certainty that, until the illness which claimed his life, Mr. Burk was , in fact, one of those fortunate individuals whose constitution, apart from the occasional sniffling sinus affliction, afforded him no cause for alarm, bestowed upon him some sense of pride, and provided no little occasion for laughter. His family members, used to his habits, knew well enough that he would dependably have need of that particular chamber in the Burk domicile, set aside for ablutions, at a certain hour each morning, and could attest well enough that if their own activities in that room, of which the residence laid claim to only one, required a longer interval than usual, Mr. Burk could soon enough be counted on to make his presence known at the other side of the door, tapping regularly and with increasing urgency, and exclaiming “Geez, could ya hurry up already? I’ve got a pain out here!” When one of the family hounds, lying sprawled upon the hearth as was their habit upon most evenings, would, due to some earlier dietary indiscretion , have recourse to a particularly noxious episode of flatulence, Mr. Burk had often been known to retaliate in kind, giggling evilly all the while.

To his only child, a daughter, Mr. Burk bequeathed , it was noted, not only his property, taxable at the current exchange rate at several thousand pounds per anum, but also his good health, his shock of thick hair, the gap between his front teeth, and his sense of humor, which with its mix of the outrageous and, at times, mildly scatological, was known as “ornery.”

One recent spring day, when in the throes of the urge to participate in that annual project of purging known as spring cleaning, this daughter of the family, known thoughout the township by that time as Doc Steph, realized with resignation that, as usual, simple projects often tended to explode into renovations of a more major scope, such fiascos generally being preceeded by either the phrase “this won’t take long” or the rhetorical query, “how hard could it be?” The thorough scrubbing of carpets throughout the house had led her down the inevitable path toward a similarly thorough scrubbing of the soot from those walls which came under the direct influence of the much loved yet equally maligned woodburning stove; windows of course then had of necessity been enthusiastically squeegeed, and at some point she found herself gazing with no little consternation at the woodwork, whose original shade of “Dover White” had, over the years, been deepend by the accumulation of smoke and ash into something closer to “Recently Deceased Gray.” This, she decided, would not do, and so after a jaunt into town to the nearest purveyor of a satisfactory paint – a jaunt, one might add, that was not in itself without humor – she settled in with her poor beleaguered husband of two years, who was learning rapidly not to ask “so, whadda ya wanna do this weekend?” to finish the herculean projects she casually and offhandedly lumped into the term “tidying up.”

Painting commenced and eventually, as it is wont to do, conversation dried up and the decision was made, with no objection on either side, to turn on the television. After scraping the proverbial bottom of the entertainment barrel, for this was a Saturday afternoon, the hardworking couple finally settled upon a tolerably interesting movie, The Jane Austen Book Club (Ohhhhhhhhh….so NOW you see the connection!). At any rate, Doc Steph thought it might be tolerably interesting, while husband Keith deemed it wiser to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately the movie choice was presented by a network which appeared to adhere to the policy that the longer the movie continued, the longer the commercial breaks should correspondingly become, and in this case there seemed to be an inordinate number of appearances by the famed cinema actress Jamie Lee Curtis, obviously bent on extending her already not insubstantial range of talents, and presumably her bank account, hawking a product known as Activia, by attempting to act as though she actually gave a rat’s posterior about some total stranger’s “occasional bouts of irregularity.”

The afternoon passed, and after this same commercial had been run at least 20 times, Doc Steph began, as advertising agents would obviously desire, to ponder the miracles of this highly touted substance. The script of the commercial, which she was by this time able to recite by heart, included the following phrase: “ Eat Activia every day for two weeks – if you don't feel the difference, we'll refund your money.” She was indeed blessed , as luck would have it, with her father’s healthy constitution, yet that she was of an inquiring, cynical turn of mind, she could not deny. “All right,” she announced to her husband and the dogs, “that does it. I’m curious – so I’m taking the Activia challenge” and for the next fourteen days she embarked on an experiment of daily ingestion of the substance and the ensuing scientific observation, taking diligent note of the results. Not content with this endeavor alone, she added the corollary, no small obstacle itself, that she would attempt to write about the results in such a manner as to prove inoffensive , even to the vaunted Miss Austen herself. Or, as the said vaunted Miss Austen herself would put it, “without committing the crime of erring against every commonplace notion of decorum.” In short, she would refrain from cheapening herself and her research by, however humorous the result might be, scrupulously avoiding any slang words directly related to intestinal function including, but not limited to…the word “poo.”

Day one passed without incident, and Doc Steph went on about her business, wondering how exactly the yogurt snack she had ingested planned on manifesting itself. Analytically she took an inventory of her physical well being, between vaccinating patients that included poodles, shih tzus and the usual variety of mongrels and feline patients. Nothing different than what was normal and expected occurred upon that particular day.

Shortly after the dawning of the second day, on schedule as usual, Doc Steph retired to the chamber of the house that was now fondly referred to as “the library” because of the number of books stored there, as well as the pleasant seat, expecting essentially the same as the previous day’s results. It was, she surmised, rather early in the study to expect any changes in the outcome of the ongoing experiment. However, she was forced to admit that there was in that day a different feeling in the air, so, dedicated researcher that she was, she felt it was imperative in the name of science to observe the experiment’s results thus far. In short, like most human beings, she looked.

Upon reflection, it is human nature to gaze at what one produces. Artists survey their paintings, writers re-read their words, mothers gaze fondly at their children, persons afflicted with colds and catarrh and various seepages from the sinuses survey the contents of the Kleenex after a vigorous blowing as though looking for brain tissue, the secrets of the universe , or perhaps lost socks.

So, Dr. Steph looked. And was alarmed and amazed at the results. Had someone been there before her? she pondered. Had someone – her husband, a troop of boy scouts, the eight-horse hitch of Budweiser Clydesdales – forgotten to flush? She sincerely hoped it was so. It was a disconcerting moment indeed and she seriously considered abandoning the research project, though whether it was for concern over the state of her internal workings or the desire for the continued well-being of the residence's tempermental septic tank she could not at that point say.

As it happened, within the very week a stranger with the olive complexion of a person from foreign parts presented himself at the home’s front door and announced that he was an agent of the county, here for the required annual inspection of the farm’s septic “aerobic system.” Without further ado he disappeared in the direction of the apparatus and returned a short while later, a faint pallor lightening his Middle Eastern visage. “This system is due for maintenance later in the summer, “ he announced nervously, “but it is low on chlorine already. I suggest you have it serviced a little earlier than its scheduled date.” “I am not at all surprised,” Doc Steph replied drily.

Nonetheless she pressed on, and within a few days her normal biological rhythms prevailed with the exception of, as one might delicately put it, significant volume expansion. This continued until the afternoon of day nine when, after a hurriedly imbibed meal at a local fast food establishment, she became aware that the various legions of villi that made up the whole of her digestive tract were considering, and indeed loudly discussing , instigating a revolt. Fortunately it proved to be but a minor rebellion , but one which made her wonder, what part did the Activia play in quelling what might have been a major episode of crapulence (yes, it is a word! (krap' yoo lens) n. sickness caused by excess in drinking or eating. )? Several extra jaunts to the “library” took care of the problem before she left on her way to retrieve her mother from a visit to the hairdresser’s, but, she wondered, had the Activia saved her from the need to streak across town in search of an alternative chamber, or kept her from finding herself stuck in traffic at an inopportune moment, thus resulting in the unhappy discovery that she was essentially up the alimentary canal without a paddle? Doc Steph was ready to sing the praises of the substance to friends and family alike.

It was then she discovered the fine print on the Activia website , wherein lurks the following statement: “Scientifically shown to help with slow intestinal transit when eaten every day for two weeks as part of a balanced diet and healthy lifestyle.”

“With?” she cried, “what is this ‘WITH slow’? I thought it said ‘TO slow’!” She shook her head in dismay and mentally begged forgiveness for what she had regarded as insurgence on the part of her digestive tract but what may have been, in reality, its attempt to save her from the predations of that bacteria known as Bifidus regularis which the manufacturers of Activia claim populates its product.

As the two weeks of the experiment drew to a close, Doc Steph pondered what she might try next. An ad on the back of a national magazine that often finds its way to the “library” touted a fiber-containing supplement with the admonition “DO MORE than one thing and do them WELL,” but she reckoned that doing one thing a day was completely sufficient for her, and felt that Miss Austen would probably agree.


Author’s note: Doc Steph admits that while she likes Jane Austen’s stories, she finds Jane’s writing style a bit too loquacious for her own taste, if you can believe that. However she enjoys the adaptations to film, particularly Sense and Sensibility due in large part to the presence of the delicious Alan Rickman; in her humble opinion a close second is the Masterpiece Series version of Pride and Prejudice. Colin Firth – what’s not to like??)