This is my 100th post on this blog! I can’t complain about the dentist on this post. That would be bad karma. (especially because I am having oral surgery tomorrow. yay me.) No, no. This post must be positive! Let’s call this post: bountiful!

My front yard is a sea of red tulips! I got a little carried away in the bargain bulb bin at the greenhouse and then they multiplied.

And multiplied:

A few rogue yellow tulips:

And we got the garden in:

And picked some of this:

And turned it into this!

The first fruits from the garden this spring. It’s like a flavor EXPLOSION! Oh how I have missed our garden bounty over the winter. The twins and I made two rhubarb pies. Using this recipe for the crust (substituting butter for shortening — and another secret, roll out the crust between two sheets of parchment so it won’t stick) And this recipe for the pie part. Perfect!

The only ones around there who aren’t happy are the chickens. Locked up to protect the new garden.

So about 6 years ago I am at the dentist. I hate the dentist, but I went because it had been a long time since I had been. Plus I need to model good oral hygiene for my kids. Sure I brush and floss several times a day, but if kids go to the dentist, moms need to go to. So it went like this:

Tooth Nazi Hygenist (TNH): You have beautiful teeth. You don’t want to lose them do you? DO YOU??? I didn’t think so. You need to get a crown on that back tooth RIGHT NOW OR IT WILL FALL OUT!

Me: What? What is wrong with the tooth?

TNH: Nothing right this MINUTE. But it is on the verge of becoming a problem. You need to crown it NOW before it becomes a problem. You don’t want to end up with a root canal and more dental work and LOSING THE TOOTH because you didn’t get a crown DO YOU???? It starts with one tooth and pretty soon all your teeth are falling out all because you didn’t crown that ONE TOOTH when I told you to! You don’t want all your teeth to fall out. DO YOU???? DO YOU????

Me (shrinking in chair): NO! No of course I don’t!! Okay, crown the tooth! Crown it!! Whatever you say!!!

TNH: First sign this form that you agree to pay $1200 for the crown. Sign it RIGHT NOW OR YOU WILL LOSE THAT TOOTH!!!

Me: Okay! Okay I’ll sign! Just fix my tooth that I didn’t know anything was wrong with! Hurry before it falls out!!!

Then, in walks Tooth Nazi Dentist (TND)

to be continued . . .

It didn’t help that Fix was back to square one. Even at 15 years old, when I got on her she was like an untrained colt. Jumpy, shying at everything. I got brave enough to take her out one day for what I hoped would be a pleasant ride. She saw a concrete well cover on the ground and came unglued. Jumped a mile sideways, wrenching my back in half, and snorted and sweated the whole way home. I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my seat. My hands were like ice. This was something I could have handled a few years ago. But now I knew I was done. I untacked her, went out behind the barn and cried. I was that shook up. It was a full-blown panic attack. What a wimp.

I knew I had to make a decision. I couldn’t keep a horse around that I would never ride. I loved her. She was beautiful. But I knew I would never get on her again. I was wrecked. I put her up for sale and it broke my heart. Luckily (I thought) nobody in these parts wanted a high-strung Ay-rab mare. She languished in the pasture again. I couldn’t even bear to go look at her.

A few years earlier Mark and I had been at the county fair and had seen some horses that really caught our attention. They had big, calm eyes. Pleasant faces. Unique color, and what really struck me was their temperaments. Nothing seemed to faze them. Not a bunch of people, loud crowds, four-wheelers zipping around, ice cream trucks, cows, chickens and bleating goats. They seemed to like the attention. They liked to be petted and scratched. I was curious — what were these strange looking horses? Their manes stood straight up — uniquely colored with flaxen on the outside and a dark stripe that ran down the mane to a dorsal on the spine to the tail. I did some research — Norwegian Fjord horses! Wow! This really had me interested considering my Scandinavian heritage.

Mark made me a deal — I find a good home for Fix and he would let me get a Fjord of my own. He knew I wanted one. I knew their calm nature would be just what I needed. OK, I said, I’ll do it. I called a good friend and breeder of Arabian horses. Did she know of someone who might want Fix? It turns out she did, herself. She always had. And Fix and her filly went to the best home I could have hoped for. They are pampered and shown and Fix has a new baby every year — her favorite thing is being a mommy.

Then I was on a quest. To find the perfect Fjord. I searched and searched. I finally came across a mare on a website with a gleam in her eye and a pretty head. I emailed the breeder. Her name was Fancy. Perfect! Fancy was the horse for me.

We drove for two days to Northern Montana to get her. Once there I started to feel a little trepidatious. Fancy was a little more high-strung than I had expected. She almost ran me over coming out of the stall. But I had my heart set. We had come all this way. I was going to get her. At the last minute Mark suggested we buy Fancy’s full sister — a yearling named Fiona. Fiona to me looked like a dog. She was in that awkward yearling stage. OK I said, if you like her she can be your horse. We left the farm with two Fjords in the trailer.

We got home and on my first ride my fears were confirmed. Fancy was waaay too much horse for me. Mark took her in hand. The two of them matched perfectly. Fancy loved to bull-doze her way into everything. Mark has a heavy hand, heavy enough to keep her in check. Perfect match.

So what about me? Well, I was left with the doggie-looking horse Fiona. Yuck. I was used to Fix with all her glamour, her stop- and stare look-at-me attitude. Fancy had that too. Fiona most definitely did not.

But something happened. Little by little I gained a rapport with this ugly duckling of a filly. She began to look for me over the fence. She would nicker when I would walk outside. I would climb on her back for a few moments to get her used a little weight and she would just stand there and reach around to smell my feet. She would follow me. I taught her tricks — how to do a full-on bow. She would stay in the bow for a long time, waiting for me to hand her treats. She would lay down in the pasture, napping, and not care if I came out and sat with her to braid her forelock — she would just stretch out broadside, grunting. She turned two and then three. It was time to ride her.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared. I rode her around the paddock. Then I made a very wise, important decision. I decided not to try and start her on my own, but to send her to a trusted trainer, the one who had started my kid’s ponies. Fiona came back with a stellar report card — the sweetest horse they had ever worked with! Never a wrong step! Always pleasant!

Now it was my turn to ride. And guess what? I did it. I didn’t shake. I didn’t sweat. I did work through a battle of nerves, but Fiona just walked on her merry little way. We trotted, we cantered, we jumped! She even crow-hopped a few times, not out of meanness, but out of exuberance, and I didn’t get scared. I knew deep down that this horse wanted to give me a pleasant ride. That she knew she belonged to me and didn’t want to mess that up.

And something else happened. Fiona’s body caught up to itself. Her face developed refinement. Her nose has a little dish and her forelock is long and thick over big, brown liquid eyes. She turned into a beautiful little mare. Perfect for me. And every morning when I walk outside she hangs her head over the fence and nickers for me. Just like a horse should. A horse that is a perfect match for its person.

Thanks, Fiona! Thanks for giving back to me something I would have sorely missed if it was taken away forever.

** quick aside– Melinda, my friend who now owns Fix, just called to tell me that Fix (at 20 years old) had a beautiful bay colt this morning, and that her last filly that I had with her is going to show dressage at Scottsdale! That’s some accomplishment!**

Since we are on the horse topic, I’ll elaborate a little on how I got where I am with the horse thing. As you know, when I was a little girl all I ever wanted was a pony. I talked ponies, slept ponies, was a pony. I got riding lessons for my birthday when I was 7. It was bliss. A whole hour with a real, live horse! I loved it — the feeling of being on the horse’s back, the brushing, the picking of the hooves. The smells, the sounds, the soft breath of horse on the back of my neck. I loved my riding breeches, my boots, the leathery smell of the saddle.

When I was 9 the miracle of all miracles happened to me.

My dad had come into some good fortune in his job and we moved to a huge Shaker home in an upscale neighborhood in Harvard, Massachusetts. This house came with 10 acres of pasture, 40 acres of wooded, groomed bridle paths and a stable — a STABLE — a stable with 6 immaculate stalls, a genuine hayloft and a huge tack room. I was in heaven. Then the heavens opened up and a miracle was delivered to me in a polished horse van. I got a pony.

She came flying down the ramp, all snort and blow. 500 lbs of devil wrapped up in a pony package. She was black with half a bald face and blue eyes. Blue eyes — very uncommon for a horse — and it gave her the look of a hellion. With good reason. She was a hellion.

Her name was Peanut and it was deceiving. This was no sweet little Peanut pony. She kicked me. She bit me. She bucked. She reared. She threw me into stone walls and stepped on me. Once she bit me so hard she took a chunk out of my stomach and I had to have stitches. I didn’t care. At all. I loved her. She was my dream come true.

I had that pony until I turned 13. Then we moved far, far away. To the land of South Dakota. South Dakota from Harvard, Massachusetts is a long, long way. Too long to bring a pony. So she was sold. I was promised a new horse once we got settled in the new house. The new house that didn’t come with any land or horse facilities.

My new horse was an older Arabian gelding. Sweet and solid as they come. Bred from old Kellogg Cal-Poly stock, he was the real sleep-in-your-tent kind of Arabian. He would look for me over the fence at the stable where he was boarded. Sure he had his quirks — many a time I went flying over his head when he would stop dead before a water puddle. He hated water. I would land in the road in front of him and he would patiently sigh and look at me like “what?”. I would climb back on, unperturbed.

My mom made me sell him. In a fit of classic teenage cut off my nose to spite my face I told my mom I didn’t care. Go ahead sell him. And she did. Just like that.  I was sixteen.

When I was 28 I married Mark. I told him how someday I wanted a horse again. He said to me — what’s stopping you from getting one now? Whaat? What was stopping me? Here I was newly married, living in a hotel waiting to close on our tiny new house and my husband was telling me to go ahead and get a horse if that was my heart’s desire. Again — whaaat?? We looked at a few together, a big buckskin quarter horse mare (I really didn’t want a quarter horse), an adorable Paso Fino weanling (I wanted something I could ride now). I read the classifieds and an ad caught my eye — Beautiful bay Arabian mare with a long flowing mane and tail. She was 4 and in Fort Collins, an hour south of us.

Was she broke? I asked the girl
Kind of, she said.
Kind of? That was good enough for me.

I drove down by myself to a big old white barn across from the Budweiser plant right on the freeway. Four gray Arabs were in the paddock and as I walked over a beautiful bay face popped up. It was her. I was in love again.

I bought her on the spot and arranged to have her brought to the boarding stable in Cheyenne that weekend. On the drive home I cried and cried. All the old feelings came back in a rush. I had a horse again. I remember coming back to our hotel room, still crying. Mark was there with his brother.
“I bought a horse!” I wailed!
He laughed –”Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know!” I wailed again.

So began my new horse experience as an adult. My mare, Fix, was typical Egyptian Arabian. Beautiful. Smart. But nervous, silly and scary to ride. Everything to her was a horse monster. She had a habit of leaping to the side when she saw something she didn’t like. Surprisingly, she never unseated me, but man my back hurt much of the time. I loved her. Loved her like I loved the others. Fiercely.

I was able to gain a rapport with her. We rode in a performing drill team. We did parades including the Daddy of ‘em All — Cheyenne Frontier Days, several times. Carrying flags even! She gave me three foals: two fillies and a colt. And then I had my own kids and things changed.

I didn’t ride for a year. I wasn’t allowed to and I was taking no chances with my pregnancy. After I had the twins I was too busy and too tired and too incontinent! I would pee my pants at the trot. Riding in wet pants is no fun. But the main reason I didn’t ride so much was because I was afraid.

I was afraid to ride.