ABUNDANCE
What started as a one-horse hobby by one of Josphine Loiselle’s four daughters grew into a 40 horse, 40-acre Morgan horse training, breeding, and showing tax shelter, a nine-mile, thirteen-minute car ride from my childhood home. The business owner, Jo, was known as “Mrs. L”, a very formidable perfectly quaffed blond-haired mother of six. She was 7 years younger than my mom, Ada, who was in fifty-two when I started horseback lessons at the age of twelve.
The trainer, of horses and people, was Mrs. L’s son, Pierre. Pierre was ten years older than me, only twenty-two, when I took my first lesson. Pierre had a very deliberate way of doing things. His tack room was perfectly ordered, with all the bridles lined up, each of the leather pieces neatly tucked into their keepers. The throat latch looped around the back, coming together in the front to form a perfect circle.
Beyond the tack room, the barn, grounds, wash rack, and observation room were also regularly cleaned and well-organized. The abundance of life lessons I experienced at JL’s extended beyond a strong work ethic, determination, and commitment to a shared vision; it included experiencing life and death decision-making, as well as making choices that challenged a teen-age girl’s ego and self-of-self.
My first riding lesson horse was a gentle, mature, short, black Morgan gelding named Greg. Nailed to the white aisle cabinet next to the crossties where I groomed and tacked Greg, George hung a black block lettered on white hard plastic sign: I am a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it. I must have read that thing 10,000 times over the five years JL’s was part of my life.
At various times during my JL’s chapter, the people working there bonded through little sleep or downtime, high stress, and winning horses. We also exhibited elements of a high-performance team, such as a shared language. Pierre’s nickname was George. Mine was “Chip” because when I smiled, George said I had chipmunk cheeks. Liz, one of my good friends, was nicknamed “Boober” for obvious reasons. Eventually, even my mom earned a moniker, she became “Spider” because of our last name Weber.
I learned generosity from JL’s in both small and large doses. I loved and appreciated the toasted tomato sandwiches Mrs. “L” made in her small camper, which we hungerly gobbled up in truck stop parking lots on long trips to Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Oklahoma. I still make these yummy snacks, preferably with garden fresh Michigan tomatoes on Spatz bread served with a generous smear of Miracle Whip on both sides.
The grooms, including I, rode illegally in the gooseneck part of the nine-horse trailer. We laid on top of tack, primarily blue canvas bags, tied with white cotton draw strings, holding leather bustles. Bustles are harnesses worn by horses in their stalls to help “set” their tails, a desirable atheistic in the show ring. It’s a testament to how tired we were that we could sleep on those lumpy, bumpy things made from hard leather with stainless steel or brass rings, snap clips, and buckles!
If we heard any trouble in the trailer where the horses were, one of us would sneak out of the gooseneck through a small door, to climb precariously on the brown pipe dividers which separated each horse. We had no way to notify the people driving in the trucks, as this was before cell phones and for some reason we didn’t use walkie talkies. If there was a horse that wouldn’t stop banging or was caught up in their hay net, our options were to help the horse or wait until the truck required gas or a driver stopped to pee. Thankfully none of us ever slipped, which could have pinned us between a horse and the divider or worse slide under a 1,200 lb. horse.
In all my time at JL’s I only had one incident that sent me to the hospital. We were at a rather large show, the Michigan Futurity at the Detroit Fair Grounds. The show was over, so we were packing up all our stall decorations. Standing on a tack box, I was using a staple remover to unhook the staples from the bright blue velvet drapes surrounding the owner’s lounge. I jumped down from the box, catching my underarm on a harness hook. A harness is hook is chrome-plated stainless steel, four-pronged “flesh-eating monster” (not really, well, sort of) for hanging equipment or apparel.
I screamed as it ripped through my clothes, tearing my skin. Arria, Pierre’s sister, came running to see what was wrong. She grabbed a dirty groom’s towel that was nearby, to apply pressure.
“You’re going to the emergency room”, She told me calmly.
The thing I remember most is how painful it was to have the nurse scrub the wound with iodine soap before the painkilling shots kicked in. Thankfully, I missed the muscle, so no permanent damage. Just two layers of stitches to hold the flesh together until it healed.
In Pennsylvania the show ring, warm-up ring, and painted white bleachers were down a long honeysuckle lined, steep gravel road. The barns, on the other hand, where the horses were was a football field away up that wicked hill. I credit this bloody incline for my practice of over packing, stashing essential items in a variety of locations, and scenario planning. I hated running up that hill if I forgot a hoof pick, a pair of chains, or some other “necessary” item that George wanted to use to “tune up” a horse prior to entering the show ring.
My whole time at JL’s, I had two favorite horses, outside of mine. Sennie and Icky. Sennie was Wittmorr Sensation. A kindhearted, beautiful gelding whom I adored. Icky was Bonnie Lee’s Exquisite, an amazing park mare who was stunning to watch. She seemed to love to show, exhibiting a confidence and posture that demanded attention.
We were at the Goldcup in Columbus, Ohio when Icky started showing signs of colic. The initial approach when a horse colics is to walk them, keep them moving so they cannot twist their gut. I can not count the number of hours I walked that horse, talking to her and praying that she would be okay. I remember the responsibility of keeping her moving, not letting her stop to nibble grass or roll, which could have meant death. In the cool June night air, a somewhat loose cotton lead rope in my hand, we went in circles around the pasture beside the barn, behind the barn, across the gravel road, around the trailers, through a gate and back again.
On one pass, Liz waived to me from the front of our row of stalls, which were decorated in branded blue curtains, tack trunks in between each stall door, matching directors’ chairs, surrounded by potted plastic ferns. She was signaling to me that the show vet finally arrived. I turned to my beloved Icky, scratched her long beautiful black neck and kissed her lightly. I whispered, “You got this girl and I’ll be right there with you”.
The show vet was able to fish the soft, lightly greased plastic hose down her nose. She then pumped the warm water from a steel metal bucket into the hose, sending it down to her stomach, helping to move whatever blockage she had, ending her painful stomachache. Horses can’t throw up, so when something bothers their digestive system, it has to work itself out the back of the horse. There is nothing that makes a horse person happier than when a colicking horse finally poops.
After the vet finished the procedure, Pierre, Liz and I took turns holding Icky, keeping her standing and upright. Thankfully, it wasn’t long after the vet left that Icky lifted her long black tail, to send a cascade of horse manure from her butt to a mushy, watery pile on the ground. George, Boober and I smiled, high fiving each other, breathing sighs of relief. Our beautiful girl would live to show another day! We were overflowing with joy and delight.
Working for JL’s was not all work; we worked hard and played hard. One of my favorite memories is of the bleachers in Pennsylvania. Yes, the same show that taught me to remember to plan ahead, as mentioned above. The show ring was a white boarded fence surrounded by sections where individual farm owners could reserve seats for horse owners to watch their investment in the ring. For each area there was a sign with the name of the farm indicating this was their space, while wooden folding chairs lined up facing the arena.
Liz and I got the clever idea that we would tape over the “T” on the Thorny Hills Farm sign. Horses fed and watered, humans also fed sitting in canvas bag chairs outside their decorated barn, we’d sneak back down the hill to the bleachers tape in hand. We covered the “T” nightly, then excited wait to overhear people talk, trying to figure out who the pranksters were as the show days continued. We never got caught or “busted”, a small claim to fame!
I felt, and still feel, the most alive in a field or a barn filled with horses. There is nothing quite like the sound of several horses breathing, snorting, munching on hay or listening to their soft lips brush the feed bucket seeking that last morsel of grain. For me it is, still, one of the most calming sounds on earth. We’ve learned from science that a horse's heart generates a powerful electromagnetic field, roughly five times larger than a human's, extending in a 30-foot radius. Thank you, science, for proving my feelings of contentment were more than just my imagination!
Share a time you have experienced abundance. Abundance of what?
Have you sought to replicate the feeling of abundance in other aspects of your life and/or work? How?
If you could magically produce a large quantity of anything, what would it be and why?