Barnmaven

Touch me

I was thinking the other day, as I was feeling sort of lonely in a faraway hotel room, how in CODA recovery (and just about any other healthy self/relationship book or program you can find out there right now) there is consistent teaching that we don't have to cling to others, we can allow others to be here or not be here, we can let go, and that's the healthiest thing.  And I get that.  I honestly get it, really really I do. 

And there are many 12-step affirmations that remind us that there is a love that we have independent of and greater than the love from other people - it comes from our creator, our higher power, God, Christ, the Universe - whatever the spiritual path you are on.  That love is real, is always surrounding us, it is unconditional, endless, deep and wide.  I know its there, I feel it when I pray or when I sing or when I see the mountains and their blinding white snow-capped peaks in the distance on a sunny day or ride my horse through a mountain meadow.  I know God is there.  The affirmations remind me when I'm having a hard time remembering:

I am unconditionally loved in this moment.  I always have been and I always will be.

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience.  We are spiritual beings having a human experience.

But there's this other thing that I need to talk about.  It came up for me as I was alone, without my family, my love, my dogs, my cats, in a hotel room thousands of miles from home, and while having fun, yet still missing everyone.  It came up today as I was talking to my friend who is dying of cancer whose daughter just moved out and whose son is usually in his bedroom interacting with the rest of the world via a video game and a headset -- God's love might be all that we need, BUT...

...we were created to be consoled by touch. 

Born to be soothed by a mother's hand rubbing our back or by a beloved friend's arms holding us in a supportive hug, having our hand squeezed or our hair stroked by someone who knows us and cares deeply about us. 

And there are times when it is unbearable to have no one nearby who cares about you, who is near enough to touch you and comfort you with their loving touch.

I grew up in a family that dispensed hugs and kisses without a second thought.  We still do.  There was never an inhibition about giving or getting a hug or kiss from mom and dad or from aunts and uncles and cousins.  Its just how we are  I'm the same way with my kids and my animals and my friends and with my love.  I touch them instinctively, constantly, without a conscious thought of what I'm doing.  Every time I walk past my kids I touch their shoulder or kiss the top of their head or give them a hug.  S is within a foot of me?  The most natural thing in the world is to reach out and touch, hug, kiss. 

Those first months of being separated, the nights the kids were gone, it was my animals who gave me that touch.  My cat who crawled on my lap whenever I sat still, my dogs who gathered round me, leaning against me and offering face washes when my cheeks were wet with tears, who suffered endless desperate hugs.  And still, as much as those moments eased my pain, there is nothing that equals a human touch.  We were made to be in community with others.

Even when we consciously understand that we are relentlessly and unabashedly loved by the One who made us, we still need to be touched.

Here's my challenge to you:  Give someone you care about a hug today.   Know as you do so that your loving touch may be just what they need to remind them how very much they are valued and cared for.

 

Tuesday Mismash

My poor neglected blog.

I was AWOL last week, but for really fabulous reasons.  I attended a conference on supply chain put on by a company whose software I use at my job.  They do their conference every year and a half; the last time was in Atlanta, and my company won an award and I had a videotaped interview about the software and the improvements we experienced by using it.  This conference I had no responsibilities other than networking and pestering other folks in my line of work for solutions to some of the issues we currently face.  And the best part?  This conference was held at the Loew's Royal Pacific Resort hotel at Universal Studios Orlando.  Yes, I found a half hour every day to bake my butt at that fabulous pool.  And there really is a lagoon with that float plane in it.  

I stayed an extra day, most of which was spent shopping for things for the kids and lounging by the pool.  I also got to see my soon-to-be-former in-laws (which I suppose makes them outlaws?) for a dinner and a breakfast. 

It was a working vacation, in many ways.  Great conference, great experience.  Lots of people that I met there to email this week reminding them that I am pestering them for things.

S stayed at the house and took care of the zoo, bless his heart.  He's so nonchalant about the craziness of my Dr. Doolittle life.  My folks and my ex managed the kids, and I had fun and even though I missed everyone, I can't describe to you the incredible feeling of sunning yourself by a pool full of screaming kids when NONE OF THEM ARE YOURS.  Tuning out "Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!" by turning up my iPod because they're not talking to me! 

I also got to see Blue Man Group in Orlando, which was INCREDIBLE and FABULOUS and I am telling you that if you ever EVER get the chance to go see them live, DO IT.  DOOOOO ITTTTTT.  It was AMAZING and totally worth the cost of the ticket.

By the time I got home, though, I was ready to bury my face in my children's hair and give them six days' worth of hugs and kisses.

Here comes the sad part.

Two things happened while I was gone.  Bella got adopted.  Which I supposed is both happy AND sad.  Happy because she got this family that really really loves her (to the point that the husband has Bella as his wallpaper on his phone - not his kids or his wife) and yay, no more cleaning up puddles of Bella pee but sad in that no more Bella kisses and Bella Belly rubs and calling her Hellz Bellz and Stinkerbella and BellaBellaBella.  Lexie also got adopted, but at least I got home just in time to take her to meet her new family and kiss her goodbye through tears.  I didn't really get to say goodbye to Bella.

And I didn't get to say goodbye to Cin-Cin either.

The chickens have stayed out of the yard as a general rule.  Once Penny got in and I got to her in time to save her from being gummed to death by Hercules, but I had figured that for the most part the Chickens understood that the pasture was theirterritory and the yard belonged to the big furry barking things.  Until Saturday morning.  That's when Cin-Cin for God only knows whatreason decided to venture into the back yard.  And the dogs were there.  And Cin-Cin is no longer with us.

S saved her poor little body for me and I buried her last night after I got home from work.  I cried a whole bunch for that silly little hen.  She was the sweetest thing ever.  She would let you pick her up and cuddle her, when you talked to her she would cluck and chirrup back to you, she would eat food right out of your hand.  She laid the most beautiful small brown eggs, one every day.  

I buried her in the pasture next to Lady.

Now I can go sit out there and talk to both of them.

The kids were glad to have me back, and their dad said I can have them every night this week, even though its not "my" night every night.  (I'm sure he's glad for a break.)  He told them I would pick them up after school yesterday, and I think C misunderstood and when it came time for him to get on the bus to go to aftercare he had a complete meltdown.  To the point where the school called me and said someone had to come get him because they couldn't put him on his bus in that condition.  Thank God and all the angels for K, the director of his aftercare, who when I called her to explain drove straight over there to get him, soothed him and got him through the rest of the day.  I was just about undone when I picked him up and his voice was completely gone from how hard he had been crying.  Poor little man.  We spent a lot of time hugging and cuddling last night, and had fun playing with the toys I brought him from the Universal store.

I am home.  I am glad to be here.

Its just what I do

S asked me the other day why it is that I like having so many animals.

I had a really hard time answering that question.

They certainly complicate life, and fostering (especially fostering highly energetic puppies) makes even the standard daily routine a lot more difficult.  Its not as if I don't have enough on my plate to begin with.

 

I've always loved animals.  We had a dog growing up, a german shephard mix my folks adopted from the Humane Society.   Queenie was a big furry baby sitter to me.  When the big kids were playing too rough, she would pen me in the corner of the yard and not let me out, despite my rather vigorous protests.  If my mom's hands were full with groceries, she would herd me from the car to the porch to the slider door.  She tolerated my attempts to treat her like a horse without ever once losing her temper.  She was my father's dog, loving him the best of all, but she was my other mother.  She was always there, for 15 years, and I can still feel the tug on my heart when I think of how much I miss her. 

When we moved from the city to the country, my parents set the bar for me when it comes to farm life.  We went from being a one-dog city family to a one dog, three cat, five duck, one (and at times two) horse, ten chicken and occasionally a donkey and a steer or two country family.

Rescue and having a large contingent of animals was never something I planned to do, but for whatever reason they just kept showing up.  With one exception, all of the animals who found their way into my life were either strays, adopted from a shelter, or adopted through a rescue.  Its not that I need to have them all - its that I can, and that the need on their part is so great. Each and every one of them is an individual, with unique personality and traits.  Hercules wiggles, Roscoe can be counted on to tolerate the loving abuse of children with equanimity, Juliet rules the house like the little princess she is. 

 

T-Bone, his job is just to follow me and make sure I don't get lost.

I see no reason why people should be irresponsible with the lives of animals.  With dominion comes great responsibility, and it is my fixed opinion that a great number of people have been terribly lacking in their duty to properly care for our planet and the animals who inhabit it.  The best leaders are the people who understand that leadership is not power at all, but a terrible burden.  In the same way, being at the top of the food chain doesn't mean that we ought to be sitting on our front porch having target practice with the neighborhood squirrels or killing animals simply for a trophy set of horns.  We are stewards, and we ought to be mindful of that.  I'm not against hunting and I'm not against eating meat.  What I'm against is the irresponsible decimation of animals for no other reason than sport.  Killing for the sake of killing.

We have, over thousands of years, formed a partnership with dogs and with cats.  We have bred them to be loyal, loving members of our household.  All recognized breeds have a purpose for which they were created, and there are a number of breeds whose only job was to be human companions.

I've seen dogs treated horribly by people, abused, neglected, starved.   They come in to rescue with no reason whatsoever to retain any loyalty to the human race and still they trust us to care for them.  Back in New Jersey we'd get dogs surrendered by the puppy mills in Pennsylvania (there are Amish farmers in PA who use those great big barns as breeding facilities) who had never in their life been out of a crate.  They'd never been OUTSIDE.  Or seen a vet.  Or played with a toy.  Elderly dogs, sick, taken to shelters by owners who couldn't be bothered to care for them in the last days of their life.  Abandoned dogs, starving, barely alive.

I've never been able to see an animal or a child suffer abuse without feeling all the way into the center of my being that I should do something about it.  Now, my therapist has told me that is an emotion I should be on the watch for, as it apparently connotates something unhealthy.  Frankly, I beg to differ.

My mom said in passing a while back, "You know, you really need more acreage for all these animals."  Then she looked at me and laughed and said, "I take it back.  If you had more room you'd just have more animals."  She's right.  I'd run a horse rescue in a heartbeat if I had the acreage and resources.

While browsing one of my favorite horse blogs, I clicked on a link that led me to this story.  I'll warn you that if you click through, you'll see some graphic photos of a horse that was terribly abused and near death.  The person who responded to the craigs list ad for her realized how poor her condition was and convinced the owner to let him take her away for a decent burial.  She couldn't even stand up, and had to be loaded onto his trailer by being carried on a plywood board.

Miracle's story has a happy ending, she has made a remarkable recovery and just last week made the trip to her new adoptive home.  Sadly, for many animals who are abused or neglected, there IS no happy ending.  The people who volunteer for the rescues, who donate food and supplies, who foster, who give us air time and feature our adoptable animals on the news or who write articles about us in the paper, they are the ones standing in the gap. 

I stand with them.  I can't explain to you why - nor should I have to.  Its just something I do.

Everything fades

Pinprick holes in a colourless sky
Let insipid figures of light pass by.
The mighty light of ten thousand suns
Challenges infinity, and is soon gone

        ~From "Morning Glory" by the Moody Blues

Time is my friend and my enemy.  Time brings change, change brings pain, or healing, brings things we need and things we don't want.  I hold a moment in my hand and time wrests it, glimmering, from between my fingers.

I can't hold on to things.  I don't need to hold on to things, but I so badly want to. 

Step One.  We admitted were were powerless over people or things we thought we should be able to control, but really couldn't.

Part of my personal growth curve is accepting the fact that everything changes.  What's interesting to me is that I always assume change will be for the bad, and so I tend to cling to people and things.  The only change I've ever embraced in my life is the change that I initiated of my own accord - usually a side effect of impulsivity.  That was the kind of change that was exciting and empowering.  The change I fought against was the kind of change that came without my express invitation, the change that threatened to create a ripple effect in the world I created for myself.

On the meandering journey to recovery, I find myself frequently returning to the first step.  There are times when I think I really do understand it, and then something will occur that causes me to reconsider.  Maybe I only understand it in theory, or maybe I only understand it when I'm actively thinking about it.  A lot of things are like that, things that aren't habit but must be conjured in order to be considered.  So clearly Step One is not habitual, not yet anyway.  So I go back to Step One, and I think about what it means to me in this life of mine.

I catch myself clinging to things.  A lot.  I forget that clinging is just one of the many ways I attempt to impose control on something that I have no right or need to control.  At least I have come so far as to recognize it, if not right away at least, and begin the arduous process of prying my fingers out of whatever it is I'm hanging on to for dear life, one by one. 

I've clung to people.  I've clung to situations.  Jobs.  Animals.  Belongings. Places.  None of these are static; all of them are subject to universal laws requiring that they change over time.  Clinging to something that is inevitably going to change only intensifies the grief that I feel when that transition comes.  Letting go doesn't mean there is no grief; it only means that there is more peace in the grieving process because I understand and accept change.

Things can change for the better, they can change for the worse, but change they will. 

I am learning to accept that I control nothing and no one.

Remember when

Remember when your issues and your inability to cope seemed like the most enormous problems in our life?  Well, maybe you don't remember that.  I, however, do remember it.  Somehow, though, I don't remember it quite as vividly anymore. 

Remember when I used to tell people that at least your brother was an easy baby?  I did.  And he was. 

Remember when there wasn't a daycare in town that was equipped to handle your issues and we went through, like, four of them in order to find a place that you could cope with and that could cope with you?  Man, that sucked.

I downloaded a ton of pictures to a stick to put in the digital frame and I love how nearly every picture taken of you captures not the raging little girl so tormented by her issues, but a beautiful, smiling, curly-haired girl, sturdy and strong, loving her life.  The more time passes, the more that is the you I remember from those times.  I think that's a good thing, how time eases painful memories the more of it that goes by.  It helps us keep the past in the past and lets us love today. 

You take my breath away with how grown up you are becoming, the connections you are making about life, this world, your friends, our family. 

Its funny how life changes, how things that are true one day evolve and change and the truths of those truths dissipate and become something else.  My faith is buoyed by the constant affirmation that redemption is available for all of us.  I see it all the time, every day, in you, in me, in people I meet.  People whose lives today weren't what they were a year or a decade past.  In essence, still the same person, but doing thing differently, leading a changed life.

Maybe in a year, three years, ten, your problems will be larger, true.  But maybe they won't.  You're such an incredible joy to me -- and no matter what, whether we're struggling again or soaring, I will love you with all my heart.

  

 

 

 
 

 

 

We're all Irish today

May your glass be ever full.
May the roof over your head be always strong.
And may you be in heaven
half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.

 

My grandfather on my mom's side, LeRoi B. Smith, was as irish as they came. By all accounts, Grandpa loved a good time, a good story, and a good drink.  As sure as the day is long, he passed along a love of the Irish to my mother.  To this day, two songs are certain to fill her eyes with tears:  When Irish Eyes are Smiling and My Wild Irish Rose.

In honor of my semi-Irish mom, my irish-monikered offspring, my Irish-Italian ex and my own dubious Irish ancestry, Happy St. Patrick's Day to all of you.  Wherever you are, Irish or not, wear your green, else you might be pinched, and lift a green beer in honor of the Irish among you.

When I'm the one who needs a time out

It was a tough day for parenting yesterday.  C decided to replace the batteries in an old truck toy.   After he put the new batteries in and screwed the battery compartment shut, his expectations of working sounds and lights were unmet, and he started to escalate.  He'd forgotten that the truck hadn't worked right for quite a while after having been left outside in the rain for an extended time.   After an hour or so of screaming and throwing things, he finally accepted that the truck was Not Working Right, and so decided that his next step would be to take it apart and try to understand why.  Except that one of the screws on the bottom was stripped and neither he or I could get it out.  More escalation.  More screaming, throwing things, kicking things.  I'd been coping with this while trying to catch up on an enormous amount of housework and my patience was starting to wear dangerously thin.  I asked him for the truck.  Told him it needed to get put away for a while so it didn't frustrate him so much, and we needed to find something else for him to do.  "NO!!!!!!"  More screaming...and I just popped.  I grabbed the truck from his hands and I yelled and I threw the damn thing into the other room.  I never wanted to see it again, I wanted it to go away, wanted the screaming to just STOP. 

The truck landed on the floor and promptly separated into two complete halves.

Oops.

This is one of those times when walking away would have been the wiser choice.  Instead I showed my son how NOT to handle your stress.  I did exactly what he was doing and then some.

It does not in the least detract from the wrongness of my actions that within 10 minutes he was happily checking out the control board and the wiring and putting the top half back on and taking it back off and trying to see how the connections all worked. 

 

I work so hard to try and keep myself calm and listening when my kids are having a hard time.  I know that even if it takes a little while to ask questions calmly and listen carefully to what the need is, it takes a lot less time than it would if I simply added to the emotion and stress of the moment by trying to impose my will.  I have those days, I really do.  But then there are days that are so full of parental fail that all I can do is say "I'm sorry" and "I'll try better next time," and hope that I haven't scarred my son for life.

Yesterday was not a shining example of quality parenting by yours truly.  Today, however, is bound to be a big improvement.  They stay with their dad tonight.

Unhip in the Country

I used to love to watch Sex & the City.  My ex and I watched it almost every week for a couple of years.  We lived in New Jersey at the time, and everything New York felt close to us.  I loved Carrie's quirkiness, her inability to be pinned down to anything despite her desperation to be loved, I loved Miranda's inability to take a back seat to anyone, Charlotte's naivete about everything and everyone, Samantha's unabashed sexuality.  I loved that show.

The other night I put on my Netflix copy of Sex & the City 2, thinking I'd watch it while I folded laundry.  I haven't seen an episode of Sex & the City in such a long time, so I thought it would be enjoyable. 

I turned it off about halfway through and stuck it back in the Netflix envelope.

Its not that the movie was bad, per se, its that...I just couldn't relate.  I could not, for the life of me relate to these women. 

Do people actually wander around their houses in their time off with perfectly done hair and makeup, in highly stylish clothes and six inch high heels that probably cost $400?  Are there really women in New York City, or anywhere else, for that matter, who frost cupcakes for their kid's birthday party in white vintage dresses, white heels, full on makeup and pristine aprons?  And who dresses their kids in white dresses with pink waistbands every single day of their lives?  Even in a scene at Miranda's house, where Steve is slouched back comfortably in a white t-shirt and jeans, and Magda is baking and cleaning in her usual gray-everything, Miranda's wearing a beautiful, bright sheath.  Her hair is shining, perfect.  Her makeup is perfect. 

In the cupcake scene, one of Charlotte's daughters puts paint-covered hands on her white skirt, and Charlotte shrieks at her.  The toddler starts to have a royal screaming fit.  Charlotte hides in the pantry and cries, and then is grateful when the nanny comes and rescues her from her children.  I looked for any sense of humourous irony being conveyed, and if it was there, I couldn't see it.  Were we really supposed to see Charlotte as some tragic figure?  Feel sorry for her? 

I shut the movie off, and I looked at myself in my rumpled t-shirt, jeans that are a size too big, pink flip-flops, no makeup, and I wondered how I could have ever related to that show, those women.  Not once in my entire life have I lived that way.  Maybe for about 5 minutes when I first moved to New Jersey and didn't have a house in the suburbs and a new baby and an extra 75 pounds wrapped around my middle, but certainly for no longer than that.  Perhaps by not finishing the movie I missed some really poignant moment where all of the characters realized how fake and plastic their lives were and moved out to a farm in the country and tossed their children into a mud puddle?  Not bloody likely.

Sweet Jesus in heaven, if Charlotte or Carrier or any one of those characters got a look at the piles of dog hair I'm about three days behind in vacuuming or the puddles of puppy pee on my kitchen floor,  if they saw the toy box that masquerades as my living room, if they got a gander at messy, food-covered me when I'm deep in the middle of cooking or baking something, I swear they'd drop dead of horror.  There's no Irish nanny to rescue me from a tantrum, no housekeeper or cook to make my life easier.  My God, if they lived in my house they'd have to do EVERYTHING for themselves.  Imagine that!

Years ago I would have looked at this situation and felt that I somehow was not measuring up to this glamorous standard of fashion and female beauty.  Back when I wanted to be someone I wasn't, back when I didn't love my life.

Today, though, I look at the characters and their lives, and I don't envy them one little bit.  I'd take my life over theirs any day of the week, grimy jeans and all.  I couldn't imagine living my life in a pristine little box high up in the city, tapping my long fingernails and buying shoes that cost hundreds of dollars and handing my children off to the nanny when they misbehaved, not for one second could I imagine living like that.  I never have, I never will, but the best part is that I never want to.    I love my messy, noisy, chaotic and most decidedly un-hip life. 

 

I should be more reliable

THIS is what happens when you played hooky from choir practice last week because you were feeling dodgy and out of sorts, and then played hooky from church on Sunday because you wanted to ride your horse instead, and didn't look at the calendar in the church bulletin nor anything resembling world news today, and then show up for what you THINK is choir practice:

At the tender age of 45, so far as I can remember, this is the first time I've been to an Ash Wednesday Service, and one where ashes were imposed.  Apparently my church doesn't do Ash Wednesday in the morning like everyone else, we do it at night.  When its supposed to be choir practice.

It was actually kind of cool.

But then I remembered this means Lent has begun.   I'm supposed to give something up for Lent.

Sad panda.  I don't wanna.

What would I give up for Lent were I actually so inclined?  Can't it be something easy?  How about...I'll give up smoking for Lent?  Oh, yeah, I don't smoke.  Ummmm....I'll give up sacrificing kittens for Lent?  I'll give up...vacuuming under the couch?  Folding laundry? Swearing?   Oh, let's not go THERE.

Things to ponder.

A Horse Story

I rode three days in a row this weekend.  Three rousing "Huzzah"s for warming weather and ignoring housework in favor of feeding one's horse addiction.

Yesterday the kids and I spent the day up at Michelle and Mike's place, I rode Bugs in the arena and the kids pretty much ran all over the farm and wore themselves out.  Michelle dug out Bugs papers and made a copy for me.  I was reading through it and drooling a little bit over the foundation horses in his bloodline.  As Quarter Horses go, Bugs' is pretty well-credentialed.  His sire, Lenas Pretty Buck, a/k/a "Buck," is one of the stallions at Michelle's barn.  He's a handsome buckskin with a gorgeous head and a nice build.  Buck's daddy was Mr. Cool Hand Lena, a/k/a Mr. Cool.  Mr. Cool was a black stallion, built like a (pardon the french) brick shithouse.  He was a special horse, and he had an awesome personality.  They lost him this winter to colic, it was horribly sad. 

Bugs is bay in color, which for you non-horsey folks means that he is a rich dark brown color with a black mane and tail and long black stockings on his legs.  His winter coat ranges from almost black to a shockingly bright reddish brown in the spring. 

Bugs' bloodline on his daddy's side goes back a few generations to a historic breeding between two of the American Quarter Horse Association's Hall of Famers, Doc Bar and Poco Lena.

If you've never heard the sad story of the famous Poco Lena, grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and read on.  I shall regale you.  It's International Women's Day.  I'm writing about a horse, a mare that continues to wield great influence on her breed to this day.

 

Poco Lena was foaled in 1949 in Arlington Texas, a bay mare out of Poco Bueno and Sheilwin.  She was owned by Paul Waggoner, and began competing in halter and cutting as a two-year old. 

Now, to understand her value to the breed, you must understand the history of the American Quarter Horse.  These horses are really the Cowboy Horse of the American West, built for short bursts of speed and with a low center of gravity that makes them quick turners, ideal for herding cattle on a working ranch.  The name "Quarter Horse" comes from the breed's proclivity for sprint racing.  While Thoroughbreds were bred to go a mile and a quarter, the Quarter Horse is designed to knock the socks off the track for just a quarter mile.  When you look at pictures of the Quarter Horse, the breed standard is obvious -- barrel chested, big-hipped with superior musculature and strong legs.   Think of the thoroughbred, long and lanky, like the marathon runners you see.  The Quarter Horse is the Carl Lewis, the Ben Johnson of the horse world. 

Cutting competitions are big-time money for the top horses, and Poco Lena was winning from the get-go.  This video clip of Poco Lena shows you just how really good she was.  Not only was she athletic and "cowy," she was a physically superior norse, conforming in all ways to her breed standard.   She as been described as having "the head of a princess and the rump of a washer woman." Here's a list of her awards and accomplishments:

• AQHA Championship
• Performance Register of Merit (ROM)
• Superior Cutting Horse award
• Superior Halter Horse award
• AQHA High-Point Cutting Horse in 1959, 1960 and 1961
• National Cutting Horse Association (NCHA) Certificate of Ability
• NCHA Bronze Aware
• NCHA Silver Award
• NCHA Hall of Fame Inductee

In her cutting career she earned almost $100,000 in winnings. 

B.A. Skipper of Texas bought Poco Lena from Don Dodge in 1959, and between 1959 and 1961 she won the AQHA Honor Roll and was reserve in the NCHA's world standing all three years.  Its interesting to note that she managed to continue winning with Skipper aboard, as by all accounts he was not an accomplished horseman. It was reported that he rode with a seatbelt attached to his saddle.

In 1961, Poco Lena foundered badly, likely due to feed mismanagement.  Founder is what we call the resulting tissue damage and complications in the hoof of a horse who suffers from Laminitis, an extremely painful inflammation of the hoof.   (Founder is what claimed the life of Barbaro, the much-loved winner of the Kentucky Derby in 2006, who broke down in the Preakness.)  Laminitis is most often caused by overloading on grain, eating too much lush green grass, or drinking too much water when overheated.  Horses can recover from founder, but if the disease has progressed too far, the outcome is usually very sad. 

In Poco Lena's case, she recovered from the first founder incident and returned to the show ring, but in 1962 a series of events occurred that nearly took her life, and resulted in her eventual death.

Her owner was having her moved back to his Texas ranch after winning a big show in Arizona.  While Poco Lena and another horse were being hauled by a hired driver, B.A. Skipper flew his private plane home.  On October 1, his plane crashed and he was killed.  Four days later, the truck and trailer carrying Poco Lena and the other horse were found by the side of the road.  For some unknown reason, the driver had abandoned his truck and trailer after hearing of the owner's death. 

For four agonizing days the horses sat in the hot trailer with no food and no water.   When they were found, a veterinarian was called in to assess the horses' condition.  Lena was severely foundered, and this time she would not recover.  She was fifteen years old, had never been bred, and was hanging to life by a thread.  The other horse traveling with her was euthanized on the spot, but Poco Lena was taken to the Skipper Ranch and nursed back to some semblance of health.  She was put in the estate dispersal sale, and eventually ended up in the ownership of Dr. and Mrs. Stephen Jensen of Paicines, California. 

The Jensen's at that time owned a young stallion named Doc Bar, who was by that time a halter champion. 

 

Dude is HANDSOME.

The Jensen's hoped to rehabilitate Poco Lena in order to breed her to Doc Bar.  It is reported that when poor Lena hobbled off the trailer in Paicines the Jensens' were so horrified they were at first inclined to put her down.  Their veterinarian convinced them to give her a chance, and so began a three-year rehabilitiation. Her feet were so bad that the Jensen's kept her on their front lawn instead of out in the pasture with the other horses.  Hard ground of any kind was simply too painful for her to walk on. 

One of the things that owners of performance mares do is give them medication that prevents them from coming into estrus, and as a result of years of these drugs, Poco Lena's ovaries were shrunken to the size of peas.  Not only did her owners and veterinarians need to control her pain and rehabilitate her feet, they also had to bring her reproductive tract back to life.  It took three years, but they managed to finally get her well enough to have a successful breeding with Doc Bar, and on June 21, 1967, her first foal was Doc O'Lena.  Doc O'Lena was a small bay, with white on half of his left hind pastern.   Doc O'Lena grew up to be the only horse ever to make a clean sweep of the NCHA Futurity, and is only one of two horses int he AQHA Hall of Fame with both parents also inductees.  Doc O'Lena was a superior cutting horse, but his fame is probably more in his offspring, as he went on to produce some of the best cutting horses in the world. 

Doc O'Lena is Bugs' great-great grandsire.

But we were talking about Poco Lena, and her story is almost finished.

Poco Lena had only one more foal, another little colt christened Dry Doc, who is also an NCHA Hall of Famer.  Dry Doc was another bay, like Bugs, and he had a star on his forehead and a small white marking on his left hind coronet, just like Bugs.  That last pregnancy took a great toll on the big-hearted mare.  She had been on daily doses of pain medication from the time that she was pulled from that hot trailer in 1962, and two pregnancies and subsequent nursings were all she had to give.  The Jensens had her humanely euthanized in December of 1968.

Poco Lena left behind an incredible legacy.  Her sons sired many champion performers and the Poco Lena/Doc Bar line is considered one of the finest cutting horse pedigrees ever.

I wish Poco Lena's story had a happier ending.  She was an amazing performer, with brains and talent galore.  I'm thrilled to hold a little piece of her great legacy in Bugs.  I would have loved to see her in action. 

As the horse world judges such things, Bugs and I may never accomplish much, but we will have many happy hours together and that's worth more than any championship or title to me.