Welcome to Winter!

It's only mid-November, and already we're getting snow and frigid temperatures. Looks like it could be a long winter here in Philly.




Photo 1: Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell Pavillion, November 21, 2008
Photo 2: Tom is wondering where the 72 degree weather from a week ago went

Return Day in the First State

Down in Delaware, they have this fantastic tradition called "Return Day" on the Thursday following the Tuesday election in Georgetown, the county seat of Sussex County. With its origins dating back to 1791, and including such rituals as the ceremonial "burying of the hatchet" by the county chairpeople of the Democratic and Republican parties (the hatchet arrives via horse-drawn hearse) and the horse-drawn parade of winning and losing candidates, Return Day is quite the civic festivity. You can get your fill of Return Day at its official website: www.returnday.org.

Lest anyone forget that Joe Biden was not only elected Vice President of the United States but also reelected to the United States Senate, we have this photographic evidence:



I cannot tell you how ***happy*** this photo makes my die-hard-Democratic, equine-loving, top-hat-wearing, carriage driver self. And look, the VP is going green already! Tee hee!

Photo 1 from returnday.org. Photo 2 from flickr by Wilmington University.

A poem for this election

Walt Whitman (who hails from just across the river in Camden):

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
'Twould not be you, Niagara - nor you, ye limitless prairies - nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite - nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyserloops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon's white cones - nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes - nor Mississippi's stream:
This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name - the still small voice vibrating - America's choosing day...

(Editorial cartoon by Bob Gorrell)

What's black and white and red all over?

This photo of BB at his morning toilette, that's what! Even the tourists dressed to match his spiffy red lead rope.

Because I haven't posted in a long, long time...

Tomahawk from about a month or so ago, modeling his big boy haircut.

Tiger Stadium demolition begins on an Orwellian note..

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH...

DEMOLITION MEANS PROGRESS???

From espn.com:

Outfield walls cleared by baseball legend Mickey Mantle as well as Detroit Tiger sluggers Norm Cash and Cecil Fielder began to come down as contractors intensified their efforts to bring down the venerable park.

Backhoes and excavators, sometimes hard to see through dust and spraying water, whizzed around the site, picking up debris and dumping it in oversized bins. During one flurry Wednesday morning, an excavator smashed through the exterior wall beyond left field, throwing support girders to the side.

The scene was tough to take for longtime Tigers fan Chas Matreal and his 23-year-old son, Ryan.

"All beautiful memories," Chas Matreal said. "It is something beautiful that we're destroying, and it's history."

The 49-year-old bricklayer from Milford said he attended 400 to 500 games at Tiger Stadium, many with his own father, starting in 1966.

"Demolition means progress," declared signs on a construction vehicle at the site. But Matreal disagreed, saying priceless memories are being lost.

"It's a natural museum of a hundred years that they're destroying," he said.

At least they are preserving the field, foul poles and flagpole.

You're invited to Ben and Betsy's wedding

Yes, it's true: Betsy Ross is moving on to husband #4, none other than Ben Franklin.


Photo from nbc10.com

Ralph Archbold, who IS Ben Franklin in Philadelphia, is marrying Linda Wilde, who portrays Betsy Ross. Ben and Betsy are getting married July 3rd in front of Independence Hall in a public ceremony at 8 PM. You can read more here, here and here.

Mayor Michael Nutter will be officiating.

Peter Nero and the Philadelphia Pops will be providing the wedding music.

And 76 Carriage Company will be providing the horse-drawn carriage for transportation from the Omni hotel to the ceremony and then afterwards to the reception at the City Tavern.

I was telling my guests during a carriage ride recently about how "Ben" and "Betsy" were getting married. A cabbie with his window down must have only caught the "blah blab Ben Franklin [...] marrying Betsy Ross blah blah" part, because he stuck his whole upper body out of the window and practically shrieked in disbelief:

"Wait--Ben Franklin and Betsy Ross were MARRIED?!?!?!?!"

"No, they're GETTING married." I reassured him that his history was correct.

Only in Philadelphia, eh?

----------

This is not the first time, however, that 76 Carriage Company will have carted around Ben. Noodle and I took Ben Franklin, aka Ralph, on a ride to his 302nd birthday celebration back on January 17.

Photo from ushistory.org. It makes me cold just looking at it. (A good way to forget about the 90 degree weather.)

On a roll...

Pete's end of the day ritual. (It kinda negates the bath, but, hey, if it makes him feel good, I can groom a little more in the morning.)

Now THERE's a bourgeois tour!

Here's a fortuitous follow up to my recent post regarding whether or not horse and carriage tours were "bourgeois."

The answer is no.

This is the vehicle to take a bourgeois tour:




Photo 1: Chip is not bourgeois. The bus is.
Photo 2: Carriage 17 frames up the strange Canadian tour bus. Their tour bus name tops previous "silly tour bus name contenders" such as "Wombles," "Lamers" and "Kewl Tours."

The next great American Spotted Draft

Spot has a protegé. His name is Speck Tomahawk.

Up past Merlin's bedtime

Bubba the Round

"Is it OK to work a horse when it's pregnant?"

"Well, up to a point, but HE's not pregnant."

"When's she due?"

"HE's not. HE is just really, really fat."

Bubba barely fits in the shafts. He's one half of the hypothetical good ol' boy team of Bubba and Jimbo. Bubba and Jim are about the same height. But they are NOT the same width.

You wanted a Proletarian carriage tour?

(Pete is not advocating Marxist revolution.)

Recently, a mother and her two young children came up to me downtown wanting to pet my carriage horse, the amazingly cute and handsome Pete.

She said that they would love to take a carriage ride, but, unfortunately, her husband had vetoed that idea, claiming that carriage rides were "too bourgeois."

I shrugged, but I wanted to add that if anything we were "too aristocratic." After all, the vis-a-vis is the carriage of royalty.



Carriage rides might also be construed as rural or agrarian or even "developing world."



But "bourgeois"? Really? BOURGEOIS?

A tour by minivan is "bourgeois."

Pete thinks these are "bourgeois":



--------
Photo 1: (by thedrafthorse) Pete on the Street.
Photo 2: The Queen's Royal Carriage (Though I guess it's technically a Landau...but the passengers sit face-to-face: Vis-a-vis!)
Photo 3: This lovely horse in Georgia by Henning(i) is courtesy of flickr's Creative Commons.
Photo 4: (by thedrafthorse) Pete surveys the quack attack.

A Percheron a day, while Peter's away

Per the request of the Italian Stallion, my beloved husband, Peter, and much in the spirit of Percheron-International, I am providing him with pictures of our equine friends while he is away in France.

There are no Percherons in today's pictures, but if you take half of Belle and half of Bo, you get a whole Percheron (the leftovers make a Quarab). Unfortunately, I also did not get pictures of Belle and Bo chasing Kaylee, the miniature horse filly, around the pasture.


Janni, Bo, and Belle in New Jersey.





Janyck enjoys a good roll.

That's what we've been tryin' to tell ya

This isn't "news" to those who know, but it's a newsflash to everyone who stops by my carriage looking for Pat's and Geno's in search of an "authentic" Philly cheesesteak.

From today's philly.com:

CHEEZ WHIZ IS OVERRATED FOR CHEESESTEAKS

A recent Philly.com poll asked, "What cheese belongs on a cheesesteak?" and Whiz finished third. American edged out provolone after more than 5,700 votes were cast.

Even Geno's owner Joey Vento, 68, downplays Whiz. "To be honest with you, I've never eaten Cheez Whiz, and I'm the owner," he said. " . . . We always recommend the provolone. . . . That's the real cheese."

A representative from the Greater Philadelphia Tourism Marketing Corporation came to address our company at our annual meeting. She encouraged us, in our talking up our fine city, to encourage people to eat their cheesesteaks "the right way": "Whiz wit". This ridiculous suggestion was met with a chorus of boos from lifelong Philadelphians.

The cheesesteak was invented in 1932. Guess what? There was no Cheez Whiz. Not until the 1950s. Cheez Whiz cannot be historically correct on a cheesesteak, and truth be told, runs last among cheese preferences, except at those two famous institutions at 9th and Passyunk: Pat's and Geno's.

Originally, the Philly steak sandwich, invented by his Uncle Pat in the early 1930s, he said, had no cheese.

By and by, cheese was introduced. "Customers got tired of eating with or without onions, just like my Uncle Pat got tired of eating hot dogs," Frank Jr. said.

American or sharp provolone? was the original debate, he said.

In the mid 1950s - not long after Chttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifheez Whiz hit the market - his father, Frank Sr., began keeping some by the grill, and telling customers to try it.

"It worked well, it tasted good. . . . It caught on," Frank Jr. said.

Other places started "impostoring us," he said.

How's that for some history? (There's more in the full article.) And the fine folks at the GPTMC want tour guides to be licensed because supposedly WE don't know Philadelphia history.

So, to reiterate what I've been telling tourists who ask for a while. Don't let anyone bully you into ordering a cheesesteak "Whiz wit." Unless you like neon goo. Get your provolone or American if you prefer.

He's holding on to the horse, at least!

He's holding on to the horse, at least!
Originally uploaded by amboo who?

I think the photographer's title says it all.

Carrot 2008 Campaign

Take the Bush-McCain challenge, sponsored by MoveOn. Then continue to the McCain-Carrot challenge.

The carrot compares favorably on all issues except for "which candidate for president would best be able to protect us from Percherons?"

Hotel des Invalides, The Fifth of May, 2000

HÔTEL DES INVALIDES, THE FIFTH OF MAY

Beneath the domed cage the Italian boy flutters
Crashing into me as he impatiently flaps
Trying to fly from this cold mausoleum

The man with the medals
From some lost colony
Looms overhead and commands the unwilling subordinate,
Young man, take off your hat,

Don’t you know you’re in a
Place where there is
Still a Napoleon?

And the Family flocks around
Beneath our feet
Laying wreaths at his feet
The man who would be minister is even there
High priest at the altar of bees and violets

His wife would like to leave
(She’s an agnostic, after all.)
But his gesture to bade her stay echoes,

Don’t you know
You’re in a place where
There is still a Napoleon?

And the trumpets echo their eternal refrain
And the drum rolls out its knell
And the echoes of the echoes
Repeat that War is Hell

For they know as they have known
As the centuries have passed
And funeral marches of tourists circling from their chariots
Cannot fathom the heroic mystery

Don’t they know they’re
In a place where there is still a
Napoleon?

And I smile through the Beethoven inside me
I am translating Shelley into French
Singing Mon nom est Ozymandias,

Roi des rois

Surveillez mes oeuvres, vous les puissants
Et désesperez-vous...

And the tourist-herd despairs me--
They do not know that this is also still a place
Where there is a Ferdinand Foch
Who, after the August guns had fallen silent
Four score ago, so trenchantly
Told him who loved War to

Rest
In
Peace

In
Æternum

For the world could do without that place
Where there has always been a Napoleon
Before which the Führer bowed
And still the leaders follow the Pied Piper’s fife and drum.

Outside
They wait in wheelchairs
For the Princess Napoleon
To annoint them with baubles legion

He would shake her hand
If he had one

In the last days of what was supposed to be the last war
He pulled the pin
But the innocents stayed his hand
And his humanity has mutilated him
He is far from the last in a long bleeding line
He is a coup de canon
That flattens me
And silences them all

Don’t you know
We’re in a world
Where there is still a Napoleon?

Maybe it was the big fancy truck...

Teddy in his sleek gooseneck trailer.


What makes us so blind that we cannot see what is right in front of us? Why do we let our prejudices and our past color that which stands before us, bright as day, bright as a white horse whose ancestors carried knights and kings?

I know that I spend an awful lot of time on this blog complaining about stupid things people say about me and the carriage horses, but sometimes they're just so unbelievably, entertainingly stupid they deserve to be retold here.

A couple of weekends ago, 76 Carriage horse Mike, fellow driver Kelly, Uncle Bill and I had a wedding to do in extreme South Philly. The job was too far for Mike to walk with the carriage, so he walked downtown to work, did a nice half hour tour for a lovely woman from Australia, and then was loaded on the gooseneck trailer for a short ride down to Oregon Avenue. Anyone who has ever been to South Philly knows that finding a place to park is no easy task, and it is even more difficult with a 30-foot horse trailer. So, we finally found a place near 10th and Bigler, right near Citizen's Bank Park (the Phillies were in town that afternoon).

We had the rear doors and tailgate down once the carriage had been unloaded and were re-harnessing Mike inside.

A couple of guys from the neighborhood pull up in a pick-up truck and strike up a conversation with Uncle Bill.

"That's a beautiful horse," they say, pausing to appropriately admire Mike's 2000 pounds of Percheron perfection. "So beautiful. Gorgeous. Very well taken care of."

Uncle Bill agrees. "Oh, very well taken care of."

They continue. "Yeah, not like those carriage horses you see downtown."

Oh, the look on their faces when they were told that Mike, the consumate carriage horse, had just come from work at 5th and Chestnut. Disbelief. Shock. And then, embarrassment. Humility.

And then they hit the accelerator.

By the Arc de Triomphe

by the arc de triomphe
Originally uploaded by span

Yet another carriage sighting in Paris by way of flickr. This time, we find ourselves in the middle of the Mother of All Traffic Circles--the Place d'Etoile. (One of the pluses of climbing to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, in a addition to the view, is watching the motorists below navigate the 8-lane, 12-street intersection below.)

Going around even the outside of Logan Circle with a single horse at a walk makes my lines a little clammy. I can only imagine taking the Place d'Etoile at the trot with a pair.

The photo raises a question, though. It shows the carriage and newlyweds on the innermost lane of the traffic circle. How many times did they have to go 'round before they got out? Did they end up braving the Champs Elysees?

Those beautiful black horses with their long team pole seem to be saying, "Attention, Monsieur SmartCar! Nous sommes les heritiers des palefreniers du Moyen Age. Nous vous percerons d'un coup de lance!" ("Look out, Mr. SmartCar! We are the descendants of medieval warhorses. We'll run you through with our lance!")

Happy circling!

Gentrification, then... Aristocratization?

Our carriage company sits in an increasingly-dense forest of half-million dollar townhouses and condominiums. They're springing up like dandelions this spring. Already, we've been in a battle with the construction guys across the street over where they park their backhoe (Answer: NOT in my boss's parking space next to the yard the horses use for R&R).

Daily movements to and from work are a maze of blocked streets, cement mixers, backhoes, and a particularly aggressive construction-cantina-on-wheels driver. Getting hay in and manure out is a headache.

So, it was with great amusement that I read this article in that great fake news source, The Onion:

Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened By Aristocratization

WASHINGTON—According to a report released Tuesday by the Brookings Institution, a Washington-based think tank, the recent influx of exceedingly affluent powder-wigged aristocrats into the nation's gentrified urban areas is pushing out young white professionals, some of whom have lived in these neighborhoods for as many as seven years.

[...]

"A three-block section of [Chicago neighborhood] Wicker Park that once accommodated eight families, two vintage clothing stores, a French cleaners, and a gourmet bakery has been completely razed to make way for a private livery stable and carriage house," Kennedy said. "The space is now entirely unusable for affordable upper-income condominium housing. No one can live there except for the odd stable boy or footman who gets permission to sleep in the hayloft."

Be sure and read the whole article.

Maybe aristocratization would help the horse and carriage business, after all.

This has been your bit of random sillyness for the day, brought to you by thedrafthorse.com.

The photo of Scott and Rex on Fourth Street is brought to you by b a r t on flickr.com.

Looking back at the Taco Liberty Bell

Twelve years ago, Taco Bell ran the following full-page ad in The Philadelphia Inquirer, New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Dallas Morning News, and USA Today:

Taco Bell Buys The Liberty Bell
In an effort to help the national debt, Taco Bell is pleased to announce that we have agreed to purchase the Liberty Bell, one of our country’s most historic treasures. It will now be called the ”Taco Liberty Bell” and will still be accessible to the American public for viewing. While some may find this controversial, we hope our move will prompt other corporations to take similar action to do their part to reduce the country’s debt.

The sad thing is (or rather, sad things are):

1. Some people believed this.
2. Some of the people who did not believe this didn't find the humor in it and were gravely offended (even though Taco Bell gave $50,000 to the Park Service for the upkeep of the bell).

But, I guess that's what makes this the #4 all-time April Fool's Joke on the Museum of the Hoax's top 100 list.

You can read more about the Taco Liberty Bell April Fool's Day Joke here.

(By the way: 1.) You can't buy the Liberty Bell to pay off the national debt because the federal government does not own the bell or Independence hall... Philadelphia does. 2.) The city of Philadelphia tried to sell the Libery Bell already, in 1828, for scrap metal, but gave up--for good, it would seem--when they got no takers.)

Re-mark your calendars...

OK, so according to the New Amsterdam fan site, apparently they switched around their episodes on us (or didn't include the pilot in their episode numbering, or added another episode). So, Teddy and Noodle and Trump will not be in tonight's episode (103), but rather in next week's episode (104) on Monday, March 17th.

Ah, well--the horses will all get their day in the spotlight... On Saint Patrick's Day!

A BRUTAL MURDER IS REMINISCENT OF
ONE FROM THE PAST ON "NEW AMSTERDAM"
MONDAY, MARCH 17, ON FOX

The brutal rape and murder of a nun and similar attack on a photographer’s assistant who escapes death leads Amsterdam (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) to remember similar crimes he witnessed in the 1800s when he was a coachman for a wealthy landowner. Meanwhile, Amsterdam and Sara get better acquainted on the “Honor” episode of NEW AMSTERDAM airing Monday, March 17 (9:00-10:00 PM ET/PT) on FOX. (NAM-104) (TV-14 D, L, S, V)

Happy 33rd, John Henry

When Louis XIV died in 1715, most of the people he ruled over had known no other sovereign. He had been King of France for 72 years. His great-grandson inherited his throne and the magnificent palace the Sun King had built at Versailles.



When the great John Henry retired from racing at the age of 9, he'd acquired 39 wins, 15 places and 9 shows in 83 starts, with an earnings total of over $6.5 million. He was (and is) the oldest horse to win Horse of the Year--and assuredly it must have felt like John had been racing forever and would always be back for another campaign. Those who raced against him may well have had offspring who were racing when John still covered the turf with that mighty 18 ft. stride.

Then, John retired to the Horse Park in 1985. The Kentucky Horse Park had only opened in 1978, and was still struggling to find its identity. John Henry quickly became its heart.

I first went to the Horse Park when we moved to Lexington in 1986. It was a strange thing to go to the park in January of 2008 without being able to see the ol' Steel Drivin' Man. Just as there were those who had never knew a king other than Louis XIV, there were those of us who had never known a Hall of Champions without John Henry. It seemed like he would live forever. But John passed peacefully on October 8, 2007.

The Kentucky Horse Park will welcome the world's equestrian royalty when it hosts the FEI World Equestrian Games in September 2010. This will be the first time the games have been held outsides of Europe. The World Equestrian Games will be the largest equine event ever held in North America, and the largest sporting event ever held in the state of Kentucky.

Louis XIV converted a hunting lodge into Versailles.

The Kentucky Horse Park, the finest equestrian venue in the world and the only park exclusively dedicated the the horse, is the house that John built.

Happy Birthday, John Henry. Have a chocolate covered Krispy Kreme in horse heaven on us.

JOHN HENRY (Ol' Bob Bowers - Once Double by Double Jay): March 9, 1975 - October 8, 2007

Mark your calendars...

Teddy and Noodle are going to be on TV. On FOX primetime, no less.

Yes, that's right. At long last, Teddy and Noodle (and Trump the Movie Star, of course) are going to make their debut in episode 103 of New Amsterdam on Monday night (March 10) at 9 PM. Keep an eye out for them, along with our restored Brougham carriage, carriage #8, and its stunt double, carriage #17.

I watched the pilot episode last night (101). The show's really not that bad. In fact, it's at least half good. It may even be very good. So maybe New Amsterdam will get renewed and Trump can have his hoped-for on-going appearances as a New York City carriage horse.

You can catch episode 102 on Thursday night at 9, too.

And, no, you don't need to write Fox and tell them that the scene with Teddy and Noodle is historically inaccurate, because it's set in 1816 or thereabouts, and Percherons weren't imported into this country until 1839. We did our best! Teddy and Noodle were the only ones for the job. (Buzz did not appreciate his understudy role to Trump in Manhattan.)

Is that a Clydesdale?

Tom is not a Clydesdale.

I get asked a lot if the horse I'm driving is a Clydesdale. This usually happens when I'm out on the breaking cart with a big horse like Tom, and the size of the carriage and height of the belgian-block sidewalk doesn't distort the size of the horse and make him look smaller. I cheerfully reply that no, Tom is not a Clydesdale, he's a Belgian, or that Rex is not a Clydesdale, he's a Percheron.

I'm then met with, "So, he's not big enough to be a Clydesdale, eh?"

Not big enough?

Tom is pushing 19 hands tall. (That's nearly 6'4" at the withers.) And while he's all legs, and we haven't had him on a scale recently, I'd be willing to bet he weighs close to 2000 lbs. He wears a size 8 shoe.

Rex, one of our Percherons, is somewhere around 18.2hh or 18.3hh, and probably weighs in the neighborhood of 2200 lbs. Rex wears a 9.

I was driving Tom one day a couple of weeks ago, and a tourist walked past the carriage stand. Tom was pretty much the only horse there, and the tourist remarked, "You all don't use very big horses, do you?" This was not a sarcastic or tongue-in-cheek remark; it was made with all seriousness. I laughed and told the gentleman that Tom was "The Tallest Horse in Town" and gave him his measurements. The tourist mulled this over for a minute, then commented. "But he's not as big as a Clydesdale, right? The Clydesdales are much bigger."

Well, ladies and gentlemen, let's set the record straight: Clydesdales, like Belgians and Percherons are a breed, not type or color or size, of horse. They come in a wide range of sizes (just like people). But, since most people, when they say "Clydesdale" are refering to the Budweiser Clydesdales, let's talk about what it takes to be a (Budweiser) Clydesdale:

The Clydesdales must be geldings, 4 years of age or older, and be 18 hh (6 feet at the withers) and between 1800 and 2300 lbs. They must be bay with white stockings and a full white blaze. They must also be, uh, Clydesdales. (Sorry Donkey...)



Anyway, you can read more "Frequently Asked Questions" and see lots of "simply marvelous" photos of the Budweiser Clydesdales, over at Simply Marvelous - The Wonderful World of Horses.

It's also worth noting that while there are the Budweiser Clydesdales, there are also the Coors Belgians and the Pabst Blue Ribbon Percherons.

And I shall go to work, driving my draft horses that aren't Clydesdales, but are just as powerful and beautiful superstars in my book. Even if they haven't been in any commercials.

Yet.

Mmmmmm... Snow Day

(Bill got a taste of the snow this morning.)

Philadelphia received about 3 inches of snow this morning, so naturally, the horses didn't go out to work--it was a snow day! I did go out to the barn this morning, and captured a few of the horses (Bill, Ben, Tom and Buzz) enjoying the snow. Actually, Tom was enjoying the snow so much, he repeatedly let Ben out of his stall to come join him (which is why Ben and Tom are in the small yard together).

Enjoy!


(Tom let Ben out of his stall to join in the snowy fun.)


(Trotting twosome.)


(Bill was eating when he got "scared" by a guy on skis out in the neighborhood.)


Bill and Ben visit across the fence.


(Buzz was disappointed he couldn't get Tom to run in circles with him, once Ben was back securely in his stall.)

There you have it, folks...

IMG_1328
Originally uploaded by inaki_goni

A horse and carriage giving tours in Paris.

But wait, flickr reveals more...

IMG_3207
Originally uploaded by oxfraudm

Here's another image of the horse and carriage on the Champs du Mars... Looks like a Shire... and it DOES like look they're giving tours.

My sympathies are with the driver dealing with the bleak midwinter. She's just got to make it a few months, and then it will be April in Paris. Mmmmmmm...

Just too cool.

Mais, OUI!

Horse and carriage
Originally uploaded by FL370

I was surfing through pictures on flickr.com, and I did a double take just like the lady on the bench, here, but that carriage is absolutely. right. where. it. belongs.

I don't know who the people driving the carriage are, or what they're doing on the Champs de Mars, or whether this is one-time or regular thing, but I do hope it's a regular thing. It would be so nice to welcome more horses back into Paris. (And, it would be a positive thing to welcome carriages into the enlightened City of Light just as the PETA nuts are trying to ban them in NYC...)

I rather fondly remember studying abroad in Paris in 2000, and on the early mornings in the spring that I rode the 89 bus across town, getting stuck behind the ponies in the bus lane on the rue Vaugirard, on their way to work in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Eh, bon...

Un tour en caleche autour du tour Eiffel?

Come walk with me, fellow traveler

Pete and Christina in the yard, August 2007


Henry Beston writes:

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mythical concept of animals... We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they moved finished and complete, gifted with the extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.

Happy President's Day!

From youtube:




(History is admittedly more fun with a sense of humor...)

Urban Cowboys

Tyheed and Abdul (13 and 11) riding well-kept urban quarter horses provided by Al Lynch. They are wearing anti-gun violence T-shirts Photo by Sarah Nassauer of the Wall Street Journal.


I don't know if you've ever seen Google maps' street view feature, but check out this view captured of West Cambria St. and N. 17th.

The urban cowboys of Philadelphia are a long-standing, but increasingly threatened, tradition, here. You can read an interesting article about them that was published in the Wall Street Journal. The slide show is particularly interesting (I've borrowed the above image from it)--such lovely horses! One can only hope that the new mayoral adminstration will be friendly to the equines and their owners (and maybe even bring back the mounted police).

Horseback-riding and equine husbandry programs have long been used to remedy the plight of urban youth (one notable example is the Kentucky Horse Park's Mustang Troop), and therapeutic riding programs have demonstrated the healing and healthful effects of human-horse contact. So, why be in such a hurry to drive out these wonderful equine Philadelphians?

The road to the future is not a superhighway, or a cul-de-sac lined with tract mansions, or a new block of condominiums--it most likely is a bridle path.

All that surrounds us...

View from the back of our barn in Northern Liberties, April 2007.

A couple of quotes today from everyone's favorite French emperor (that would be Napoleon):

The extent of your consciousness is limited only by your ability to love and to embrace with your love the space around you, and all it contains.

We live and die in the midst of marvels.

It's a horse world, after all

Yet another fantastic organization from our friends in France:

Equiterra

For those who don't read French (and the English-language version is done by Babelfish, and thus is largely unintelligible), suffice it to say that their gorgeous logo pretty much sums it up.

I'll have to translate their beautiful mission statement later. Or maybe I'll just have to email them and offer to translate their site for them.



A lovely photo of Bill the horse in Philadelphia traffic from katie.brothers on flickr.com.

Experience

(thedrafthorse with Spot on Sixth Street, photo by trees are the answer on flickr.com.)


I try not to be too whiny about the ill-informed public that continuously comes up to my horse downtown and puts their hands all in his face (whether or not my horse likes it, and whether or not they ask permission or say anything at all to me), but I have to admit I've grown rather weary of total strangers approaching me and telling me how my horse feels, or what I should do for my horse, or whatever.

When I assure them that my horse is bored, not sad, or that his winter coat is sufficient for 40 degree weather, or that all horses have chestnuts on the insides of their legs, these strangers have the gall to tell me that I'm wrong, because they know horses.

And by "know horses" they usually mean that they have a friend who has horses, or they went to summer riding camp, or read Black Beauty.

Now, I will be the first to admit that by all counts, I'm still a relative neophyte to the world of horses: I grew up in Lexington, KY ("Horse Capital of the World"), I took three semesters of English riding in graduate school, and have worked full time as a carriage driver in Philadelphia for a year and a half. I'm a not an expert, compared to my coworkers who have spent their whole lives, or at least their entire adult lives, making a living from horses.

That being said, I did the math.

I've been a carriage driver for a year and a half. That's 75 weeks (accounting for a few weeks I was on vacation).

In a given week, let's say I work 40 hours with horses. (That's really a gross underestimate most of the time, but for the sake of argument and averages, let's leave it at that.) That means I've spent 3000 hours on the job with horses, doing all sorts of things with them, such asgrooming, tacking, driving, hanging out with, feeding treats, playing in the yard, bathing, loading on to trucks, cleaning harness, administering needles to, braiding tails, etc., etc., etc.

Now, let's suppose that random stranger takes weekly riding lessons. Most lessons are an hour a week for a group lesson. If they are conscientious riding students, let's say they show up half an hour early and stay half an hour late to groom and tack their horse. So, that's 2 hours a week. In order for said random stranger to spend as much time with horses as I have in my job at the carriage company, they would have to take weekly riding lessons for 30 years.

So, can we please agree on who knows best what my beloved coworker is feeling or needs? (For those who can't follow the mathematical argument, the answer would be me, the horse's driver.)

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But this bit of a rant about experience allows me to post one of my favorite excerpts from one of my favorite books. Below is an account by James Herriot, from All Creatures Great and Small:

I tried to think back over my life. Was there any time when I had felt this supreme faith in my own knowledge? And then I remembered.

I was back in Scotland, I was seventeen and I was walking under the arch of the Veterinary College into Montrose Street. I had been a student for three days but not until this afternoon had I felt the thrill of fulfilment. Messing about with botany and zoology was all right but this afternoon had been the real thing; I had had my first lecture in animal husbandry.

The subject had been the points of the horse. Professor Grant had hung up a life size picture of a horse and gone over it from nose to tail, indicating the withers, the stifle, the hock, the poll and all those other rich, equine terms. And the professor had been wise; to make his lecture more interesting he kept throwing in little practical points like "This is where we find curb," or "here is the site for windgalls." He talked of thoroughoins and sidebones, splints and quittor; things the students wouldn't learn about for another four years, but it brought it all to life.

The words were still spinning in my head as I walked slowly down the sloping street. This was what I had come for. I felt as though I had undergone an initiation and become a member of an exclusive club. I really knew about horses. And I was wearing a brand new riding mac with all sorts of extra straps and buckles which slapped against my legs as I turned the corner of the hill into busy Newton Road.

I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the horse. It was standing outside the library below Queen's Cross like something left over from another age. It drooped dispiritedly between the shafts of a coal cart which stood like an island in an eddying stream of cars and buses. Pedestrians hurried by, uncaring, but I had the feeling that fortune was smiling on me.

A horse. Not just a picture but a real, genuine horse. Stray wods from the lecture floated up into my mind; the pastern, cannon bone, coronet and all those markings--snip, blaze, white sock near hind. I stood on the pavement and examined the animal critically.

I thought it must be obvious to every passer-by that here was a true expert. Not just an inquisitive onlooker but a man who knew and understood all. I felt clothed in a visible aura of horsiness.

I took a few steps up and down, hands deep in the pockets of the new riding mac, eyes probing for possible shoeing faults or curbs or bog spavins. SO thorough was my inspection that I worked round to the off side of the horse and stood perilously among the racing traffic.

I glanced around at the people hurrying past. Nobody seemed to care, not even the horse. He was a large one, at least seventeen hands, and he gazed apathetically down the street, easing his hind legs alternately in a bored manner. I hated to leave him but I had completed my examination and it was time I was on my way. But I felt that I ought to make a gesture before I left; something to communicate to the horse that I understood his problems and that we belonged to the same brotherhood. I stepped briskly forward and patted him on the neck.

Quick as a striking snake, the horse whipped downwards and seized my shoulder in his great strong teeth. He laid back his ears, rolled his eyes wickedly and hoisted me up, almost off my feet. I hung there helplessly, suspended like a lopsided puppet. I wriggled and kicked but the teeth were clamped immovably in the material of my coat.

There was no doubt about the interest of the passers-by now. The grotesque sight of a man hanging from a horse's mouth brought them to a sudden halt and a crowd formed with people looking over each other's shoulders and others fighting at the back to see what was going on.

A horrified old lady was crying: "Oh, poor boy! Help him, somebody!" Some of the braver characters tried pulling at me but the horse whickered ominously and hung on tighter. Conflicting advice was shouted from all sides. With deep shame I saw two attractive girls in the fron row giggling helplessly.

Appalled at the absurdity of my position, I began to thrash about wildly; my shirt collar tightened round my throat; a stream of the horse's saliva trickled down the front of my mac. I could feel myself choking and was giving up hope when a man pushed his way through the crowd.

He was very small. Angry eyes glared froma face blackened by coal dust. two empty sacks were draped over an arm.

"Whit the hell's this?" he shouted. A dozen replies babbled in the air.

"Can ye no leave the bloody hoarse alone?" he yelled into my face. I made no reply, being pop-eyed, half throttled and in no mood for conversation.

The coal man turned his fury on the horse. "Drop him, ya big bastard! Go on , let go, drop him!"

Getting no response he dug the animal visciously in the belly with his thumb. The horse took the point at once and released me like an obedient dog dropping a bone. I fell on my knees and ruminated in the gutter for a while till I could breathe more easily. As from a great distance I could still hear the little man shouting at me.

After some time I stood up. The coalman was still shouting and the crowd was listening appreciatively. "Whit d'ye think you're playing at--keep yer hands off ma bloody hoarse--get the poliss tae ye."

I looked down at my new mac. The shoulder was chewed to a sodden mass. I felt I must escape and began to edge my way through the crowd. Some of the faces were concerned but most were grinning. Once clear I started to walk away rapidly and as I turned the corner the last faint cry from the coalman reached me.

"Dinna meddle wi'things ye ken {know} nuthin' aboot!"

From James Herriot, All Creatures Great and Small (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1972), 109-111.

And yet, there is always more to say...

(Belgian draft horse at the Kentucky Horse Park, January 2008, photo by Christina Hansen)

A couple of quotes for today:

"This curious world which we inhabit is more wonderful than it is convenient, more beautiful than it is useful; it is more to be admired and enjoyed than used."
(Henry David Thoreau, commencement address, Harvard University, 1837)

"American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful and more terrible than anything anyone has ever said about it." (James A. Baldwin)


(Spanish Norman at the Kentucky Horse Park, August 2004, photo by Christina Hansen)