The Notebook

                              

My husband has a notebook which contains some of his favorite quotes.  Well, it’s probably important that I define this a tad bit more.  This notebook is filled with original quotes.  Yes, thirty years of inspirational sayings all in one place, for easy reference. Some people buy joke books, but in our family we have this little gem instead. You see, I am known for blurting out some spectacular words of wisdom.  They are always very clear to me when said, and delivered with a tremendous amount of sincerity.  This is always followed by blank stares from my family, then uncontrollable laughter.  

This stellar list of quotes includes, “Men are terrible with time.” “There’s nothing wrong with a forest if you live with a bunch of  children.” “You should have been here before you left.” And the ole family favorite, “The old horses are doing theirs.” When my husband walks off to go grab a pencil I know it’s another nugget destined for the quote book.

All this family bonding aside, there is actually one quote that seems to have withstood the test of time.  There’s nothing confusing about it.  It just means what it is and is what it means: “There’s nothing like a herd of wild horses!” Decades later it has been whittled down to a mere, ‘Nothin’ like it!” Truth be told, it simply sums up a most reverent reality for me:  Being around horses renders me speechless.  I am in awe of their beauty, intelligence, power and grace. They speak to my heart in profound ways.  If reincarnation is true, then so is Cowboy Darrell.  Being a part of the American Frontier and living on a horse ranch during the Wild West often seems imprinted and, frankly, nothing short of oddly familiar to me. 

As a child growing up outside Boston, this love for horses was a wee bit of a problem.  You could see the city buildings from our home on a hill, and the houses next door were so close you could hear the neighbors sneeze.  Yet there was no amount of logic to counter my determination that a horse could easily live in this back yard. Our yard was the size of a postage stamp.  In 1962 this consisted of a newly built, cement terrace which was bordered by a steep drop to the neighbor’s backyard.  This horse deathtrap didn’t deter me one bit and I pleaded my case often to my parents.  To counter this obsession, every birthday and sick day for years were filled with gifts from my family about horses - books, jewelry, magazines, toys, stuffed animals and a notebook for my sketches of horses.  Every week the TV was faithfully tuned into Mr. Ed, Flicker, The Rifleman, High Chaparrel, Gunsmoke, and the beloved Bonanza where it seemed horses were important to these TV families.  They were integral to everyone and respected by all. They landed someplace between being a loved member of the family and reliable transportation out back. Little Joe and Hoss Cartwright on the Ponderosa were my fantasy brothers and we all took care of the horses.  It made sense that perhaps Paw could use a daughter on his Testosterone Ranch.  “Maybe someday,” my parents regularly chanted to anesthetize my dream of turning our yard into a Wyoming prairie despite its pesky driveway, swing set and manicured flower gardens.  Eventually I resorted to buying horse statues instead. 

Aunt Nettie regularly took me into the city on the subway to go shopping and while she knew nothing about horses she knew everything about making little girl’s dreams come true.  Saturday mornings were meant for sauntering up and down the creaky, old wooden aisles of Woolworth’s Five and Dime. There were trinkets, troll dolls, rubber balls, rings, key chains, handkerchiefs and doll clothes as far as young eyes could see.  Nettie loved the art of browsing and keenly taught me its finer techniques.  She was always dressed to the nines, complete with heavy makeup, a wig, long coat with a fox collar, big jewelry, high heels, gloves and a stylish hat.  Aunt Nettie looked more suited for the Kentucky Derby than Kid’s Day.  We took command over every aisle and picked up every item.  Touching things seemed essential to professional browsers.  The morning was set aside for buying important things like doll clothes and pencil holders, but after lunch in the afternoon, well, the afternoons were all about the horses.  The most perfect horse statue had to join the others back home on the bedroom shelf and be given a most perfect name by dinner. This new horse had to be the right color, size, and breed not to mention cast in the right pose.  I would dutifully spend weeks later trying to draw them correctly into my sketch notebook, and look up their breed for distinctions.  She made me the horse statue shopping expert and gave me free reign.  Yeah, she was that cool.  My Aunt Nettie was a niece’s dream come true. 

In time my horse collection grew considerably but the backyard stable dream faded completely.  My mother was now driving me to stranger’s stables on Saturdays instead so we could stop along farm roads to feed the horses over the fence.  While other people had typical things like maps and tissues in the glove compartment of their cars, we always had a box of sugar cubes.  On these Saturday stable excursions my mom would park the car road side, overlooking the pasture, and I would run, run, run over to sit on the fence.  Trusting and waiting were key.  It was in that patient moment, when everything became clear. In the quiet and stillness eventually the horses saw me, and one or two would always saunter on over. Looking back it now seems reckless as this was a gigantic, strange animal being fed and petted by a small, naïve child.  But back then, it just was.  Paw, Little Joe and Hoss had taught me well.  It seemed it was all about communicating together in the respected silence and understanding an animal with your intuition and heart.  And a whole heck of a lot of trust.  I took mindful notes that lasted me a lifetime.

Finally, a day came when my mother suggested that perhaps riding lessons were now in order.  She drove us to a tack shop located someplace way outside the city for my first and only pair of riding chaps.  The inside of this shop smelled like leather and rough sawn cedar, and all things were shades of brown, tan and black.  There was a bell on the door that rang when you entered, horse shoes placed above the doorways, saddles everywhere and bridles hanging high above.  It felt like home back in the Ponderosa, minus the huge fir trees and plus the distraction of honking traffic outside.  Soon thereafter I seemed stylishly ready and we drove one weekend to a stable for my first riding lesson.   Once inside, everything changed dramatically. 

I was petrified.  I knew nothing, no one or any actual important thing about riding a horse.  The view was completely different, on every level.  Sitting on top of a horse can be life changing, and certainly requires knowledge. No amount of appropriate apparel or hobby hoarding helps. In addition, these horses and their leads all seemed old, stubborn and slow.  It was shocking and nothing like on TV. No one looked happy and there was very little teaching going on. I was told what to do when with little regard for why or how.  Parallel to this passionless teaching, it seemed these horses landed someplace between passive slavery and unreliable machines.  No one was communicating, even when grooming and saddling in the stalls and every living thing was always looking down.  It seemed like drudgery teetering on the threshold of Disney’s Dumbo, horse style.  They all were just going round and round and round and round tethered to a lead, slowly and in circles for hours without speaking and without purpose.  I was disillusioned, disappointed and done.  “The old horses are doing theirs.” Yes, apparently as a money making business in cheap stables across the country for young, suburban children.  I robot-rode like that for a few years, but eventually I dismounted that childhood dream forever. 

Until one day, many years later, I met a horse whisperer.

“A lot of times, rather than helping people with horse problems, I’m helping horses with people problems.” “A lot of this is just about being scared…If you are always demanding – negative, negative, negative - and giving nothing in return then you will have only a contrary relationship.”

Amen, amen, amen to that, I thought.  I may have even said it out loud but I wasn’t entirely sure.  I was sitting in a cold, aluminum bleacher seat in a Kentucky horse arena outside on a very windy, fall day.  I was listening to the horse training wisdom of Buck Brannaman and completely enthralled by every minute in which he spoke.  Buck is a practitioner of “natural horsemanship” and a full-fledged Horse Whisperer to some. He had become an idol to me.  It was my 56^th birthday.  I had grabbed my camera and driven five hours from my home with the intention of giving myself a solo vacation centered solely on two of my passions, horses and photography. 

A few weeks earlier, my husband and I were in a movie theatre watching a documentary called “Buck” about which we knew nothing much before seeing.  After a mere ten minutes the wide screen was filled with horses running full speed in the lush valleys of Wyoming and my husband leaned in to say, “Nothin’ like it” and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  I was in horse heaven all over again. 

Buck’s compassion for these magnificent creatures and love for understanding their way is nothing short of being utterly inspirational.  His personal story is poignant and powerful. As a child he survived severe child abuse and foster care, but went on to become a thriving adult who helps horses who have been misunderstood or hurt by people. Buck was trained in this art of intuitive communication and mentored by Ray Hunt, who is known to be the quintessential Horse Whisperer and whose biography I had read over and over.  Buck teaches the biology, psychology, and social framework of each horse and their environment as well as the dynamics between each and their owner.  In essence, Buck Brannaman is a social worker and educator, for horses.  In reality, I am a social worker and educator, for humans. 

By the time we left the movie and were in the parking lot, my husband and I both were speechless.  Finally he broke the silence and said, “Ok, I’ll say it first:  I can’t believe how much that movie had your name on it.  Seriously!  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a movie where every single minute is so you.”  He was right, and I was reeling from the realization as well. The next day began with me doing research and taking copious notes.

I learned that Buck has been called, “the Zen master of the horse world.”  He lives in Wyoming as a horse trainer but travels the country educating owners who have ornery and “problem” horses on their hands. He was the actual inspiration and trainer for the Robert Redford movie “The Horse Whisperer” which further fueled my fire as I have seen that movie more times than I care to admit. Within days I had a long list of ranches where Buck would be teaching that fall, with the intention of calling them one by one for more information, and yet no idea why I was doing this, how I might afford it or if I would be able to attend.

The phone rang so many times I was about to hang up but just then a man picked up and gruffly blurted, “Hullo.” 

“Um, Hello…Yes…Well…is this the horse farm?”  Really, Darrell?  'The' horse farm?  I was struck with how ridiculous I already sounded.  You’re calling Kentucky, not Times Square, I thought …it’s a state filled with horse farms…not to mention horse farms don’t talk, Darrell.  How grammatically incorrect, my left brain reacted.   I wonder who he is, my right brain countered.  Move on, they both urged, this man is waiting and he doesn’t sound patient.

“Hi, well, I want some information regarding the Buck Brannaman arena show that will be at your stable on October 14th.” 

“Yup.” Silence.

“….Ok.  Well… Um…Can you help me learn what time it will begin, and how long it’ll last?

“It’s a two hour show.  I’m thinkin’ we’ll start about 10.” 

“How much is it?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“That’s it?  Twenty-five dollars, for Buck Brannaman?!”

“Yup.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope.”  I was now stuck on wondering if he was being sarcastic or serious, but plowed onward...

“Can I make a reservation?”

“Do you have a horse?” Long pause.

“No.”  Longer pause.

“You don’t have a horse?  But you want to come to this horse trainer workshop?”

Ridiculously long pause.  “I like horses, does that count?”

“I guess I really don’t care, Mam. Either way we don’t take reservations.”  I was not sure who was leading whom and feeling like this was a riding lesson of a different kind.

I took the lead, “What if it’s sold out, how will I still get a seat without a reservation?” 

“Well, I look at it this way, Mam:  We’ll sit half of you in the front at the beginning and then half way through I’ll just ask for everyone to switch.”

“Switch?”

“Yup.  All those sittin’ in the back and standin’ will come down front then all those down front sittin’ will move or stand in the back.”  My mind wandered to think how ridiculous this would be if we all did that for a football game in a stadium. This man was very logical and making me work hard at being smart.

“That’s very smart of you.  You know… Buck Brannaman is like a horse whisperer and he just put out a documentary. There may be a lot of people attending.”

“Yes, mam.  I know Buck well.” 

“Oh. Of course.”  Oh, my.  Darrell, you really have to get off the phone soon before you say something spectacularly stupid.  “Well….What about lodging?  Is there some kind of hotel nearby or a place I can stay?” 

“Yup.  I have a list of places right here on a piece of paper.  I can mail it to ya’.”

“A piece of paper.  Um, well, can you e-mail me that list instead?”

“Mam, I’m a cowboy.  I don’t do e-mail.”  Right.  

What was I thinking? What was I thinking, indeed.  This adventure was wrought with childish dreams and very short on sensibility.  But, my cowboy friend was true to his word and mailed me the information. That next weekend I was traveling by myself back to the future, with a camera and a notebook in hand.

Once in Kentucky, everything changed dramatically.  It was transformative.  There were horses everywhere and the vista was breathtaking.  “Nothin’ like it.”  Beautiful horse farms, rolling pastures, barns, stables and white horse fences as far as your eyes could see for miles and miles.  Horses were freely running, grazing, sauntering and still all while underneath the clear, blue sky that day.  It was magical and my childhood dream come true.  My senses were now fully guiding my way through memory and fantasy all at the same time.  

As it turned out, there were plenty of seats and Buck’s training began in the center of an arena just feet away from where most of us sat.  It was exhilarating to be so close.  He was funny, charming and a gifted teacher in every way. In front of us for hours he worked with strangers and their challenging horses with calm and grace.  Their behavior changed immediately and he preached the value of practice, practice, practice.  He gently caressed horses to calm them, and strongly gave them direction when he needed. He never stopped relating to them.  It seemed clear we were in the presence of something important and the words of wisdom he spoke made sound sense. These inspirational gems flowed out from him sweetly like honey.  He was a lot like Pa on Bonanza.  He steadily taught us by example, guiding us back to being our best possible selves as we experience this world together, appreciating our challenges and differences.  It brought me back to when I had been a social worker with victims of violent crimes and witnessed how hope and time can heal all living things.  “Horses need to know that you’re saying ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe and won’t let you get into trouble” “You just gotta get them in balance.” “Abused horses are like abused children. They trust no one and expect the worst. But patience, leadership, compassion and firmness can help them overcome their pasts." “All horses need a job.  Any job, but they need a job.”  When the training ended my notebook and heart were full.

The next day was Saturday.  I drove up the road to browse stranger’s stables all afternoon and be with  horses by the fence.  Stable hands would greet me kindly, and let me roam freely, from stall to stall.  Some of these men chatted a lot with me, while others nodded and quietly let me be in solitude.  I wandered for hours and met horse after horse that day. By late afternoon, one ranch hand came over and asked me if I owned a horse.  “No” I said, “But, I always wish I had.”  He smiled knowingly and offered a kind reply.  “You know, each horse has a story, would you like me to share one with you?”  I nodded yes as he brought me over to a most beautiful mare standing near the fence. She had cozied on up closer to us the longer we spoke, and I was aware that he had noticed her eavesdropping.  “We go back together a long, long time,” he reflected while patting her gently.  “She knows all about me in ways no one else ever will.  She had quite a harsh history before she came here to this ranch, but I think she’s pretty content now.  Right, Old Girl? What a sweet Old Girl you are… sweet, sweet, sweet…” he said as he gracefully stroked her neck with comfort and love.  “Oh, and by the way, she’s camera shy so don’t be upset if she turns her head when you take that picture.”  Right then I clicked the shutter but she turned her head away on cue.  She repeated this action-reaction three times in a row before I got smart and put my camera away. 

This man, this horse and I stood by the fence in blissful quiet for a very, very, very long time together.  It was peacefully still and perfectly present.  The wind blew gently and a small bird flittered and then landed on the fence with us.  The Old Girl snuggled on up closer and nudged to be petted.  I heard Buck whispering his words of wisdom: “Nothing happens out of the blue for horses.” "Horses are incredibly forgiving. They fill in places we're not capable of filling ourselves. They've given people a new hope, a new lease on life. A horse really wants to please you, to get along."

“You possess what every horse wants:  Peace and Comfort.”  Cowgirl Darrell was finally home.