Blue Star Equiculture

Once again, I must post and comment on how I haven't posted in a long while. Alas...

Fortunately, my reasons for not posting are most excellent.

They're named Bud, Mike, Jesse, Peggy, Huey, TLa, Dakota, Petey, Madison, Mooch and Cupcake. They live in Palmer, Massachusetts, and are residents under the care of Blue Star Equiculture.

What, you may ask, is Blue Star Equiculture?

Well, BSE is a non-profit draft horse sanctuary and organic farm founded in January by Pamela Rickenbach and Christina Hansen (that would be me).

You can check out our (still underconstruction) website here and our blog here.

We're drafting a better future for horses, humans and Mother Earth!

If you like what you see over at Equiculture, please sign up for our newsletter to stay in the loop about our goings on.

(Next post, I'll return to carriage driving in Philadelphia, though Blue Star Equiculture is now the retirement home for two 76 Carriage Company carriage horses.)

Excuse me?

I was working on Sunday, and a group of three women walked past. My coworker asked them if they wanted a ride. They said, "No, thanks."

I chimed in as they passed me, "Well, if you change your mind, tours start at $30 for all three of you."

That actually got them to stop. I continued to explain all the aspects of the carriage rides. Two of the women were like, "OK, we'll see... We're going to go in the visitor's center." Which is fine. We're all being polite here.

Then the third woman--the youngest--screws up her face and asks, "Are these horses well-taken care of? I mean, do they get all the proper care and food and stuff?"

I'm so tired of that. It's not like she said, "You can tell this horse is well-taken care of," or "What kind of care does this horse get that he looks so good?" Her question was laced with the whole carriage-horses-AREN'T-taken-care-of-properly smugness of an outsider who has only read the anti-carriage propaganda.

So I straightened myself up, looked her right in the eye and asked her, "What kind of person do you think I am? Do you honestly think I would do this job if the horses weren't being taken care of?"

"I don't know," she stammered, "I don't know you. I don't know what kind of person you are."

"Well, look at Tomahawk," I continued, "Does he look like he's well-fed?"

She nodded.

"Does he look like he's well-groomed?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, what about him would make you ask me if he was well taken care of?"

She struggled for an answer. "Um... He's wearing harness."

"So?"

She didn't have an answer for that.

Since when is wearing a harness a bad thing? It's no different from a saddle or a bridle or a bareback pad or a surcingle or an Indian wedding costume...

Blue Star Equiculture

In January, signed up for nanowrimo's "Year of Doing Big, Fun, Scary Things Together" but I had no idea things were going to be this Big, Fun (and Scary)!

My friend, Pam Rickenbach, who runs Stardust Organics and used to drive a carriage with me in Philadelphia (where she was Tom's Mom), recently met a wonderful benefactor named Sandy. Sandy is interested in organic gardening, which is how she met Pam's partner, Glenn. Glenn told her about Pam's work with draft horses (Pam also has the great and awesome Bud in his retirement).

Before we knew it, we had a plan for a draft horse rescue / sanctuary and organic farm on 150 acres in Palmer, Massachusetts.

I'm very thankful to Pam for including me in this.

Here's our mission statement:

Our Mission is to provide homeless working horses a sanctuary and the opportunity to be useful and positively improve their lives, while bringing education, equine awareness, skills and healing to the community.

Blue Star Equiculture is a vision born out of the hearts of like-minded individuals who feel the need to respond to the current, increasingly dire situation facing homeless horses, especially working draft horses.

To be honest, the Jethro Tull song, "Heavy Horses," posted below, is really the mission statement.

HUMAN HISTORY IS WRITTEN IN HOOFPRINTS.

Check back for more.

Our website (still under construction) is www.equiculture.org

Heavy Horses -- Jethro Tull

In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
As the heavy horses thunder by
To wake the dying city
With the living horseman's cry

At once the old hands quicken ---
Bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.

I'm posting this song today for two reasons.

1.) My friend Pam of Stardust Organics is pursuing a project to promote draft horses and carriage horses as both living history and our living future.

2.) Up in New York, my carriage driving brethren have a hearing tomorrow on two bills in NYC City Council. One proposes to ban all horse carriages in NYC. The other would give the carriage horses and drivers a fare raise. You can read more about it at these blogs: centralparkcarriagehorses and thewhiffletreenyc



Heavy horses
By jethro tull

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
On October's day, towards evening
Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest, seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
With the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
To bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
To keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the woods
Behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
Youre eighteen hands at the shoulder

And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
And the nights are seen to draw colder
Theyll beg for your strength, your gentle power
Your noble grace and your bearing
And youll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
Across these acres glistening
Like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
As the heavy horses thunder by
To wake the dying city
With the living horseman's cry

At once the old hands quicken ---
Bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
On October's day, towards evening
Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest, seasoning
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Heavy horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.

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

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.

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.)

Up past Merlin's bedtime

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.

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.

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)

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.)

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.)

----------

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.

An update, on many fronts...

It's been a while since I last updated my blog or my website (before Christmas! Egad!). In the interim, we were very busy at work with the holiday, then Peter and I headed home to Kentucky for a couple of weeks of R & R (and visiting our other equine friends at the Horsiest Place on Earth). Then, my laptop's hard-drive became terminally ill. So... Now I'm back (I still have to reload Dreamweaver on my computer...The hard-drive transplant wiped ALL of my programs and saved only my data).

Several months ago, I wrote about a fantastic blog by Jean-Leo Dugast, percheron-international.blogspot.com. More recently, I linked to an article about the use of urban horses in France. Percheron-International has a new post about Lasso-du-Jardin, a Breton cob gelding who collects recycling in Trouville-sur-Mer. You really must go to Percheron-International to see Jean-Leo's marvelous photos of Lasso in action.

For those who don't read French, here's a translation of the text from Percheron-International.

This title of "accrocheur" does not refer to Lasso-du-Jardin's age. At only nine years old and with two years of professional experience, one could say that Lasso is nothing but a neophyte.

If he "takes up the bottle," it is those bottles of the restaurants and cafes from the city of Trouville-sur-Mer in the Calvados. Seven years ago, the municipality put into place an empty-bottle collection service - Wednesdays for local residents and Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays for commercial establishments.

Lasso-du-Jardin is gradually replacing Festival-de-Mai (May Day), a 15-year-old Percheron gelding who inaugurated the service. Three people, Christelle, Pascal and Sebastien, supervise the four-legged municipal employees, and take turns on the recycling routes.

Trouville, like nearby Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives, is one of the cities spearheading the effort to use draft horses in an urban setting. Today, there are 70 cities in France that use horses for maintaining green spaces, collecting garbage and providing surveillance. This number is growing rapidly.

After only having year after year of hopes without concrete realization, the urban horse is finally taking off. Urban drafts, forestry drafts, agricultural drafts--draft horses give us a message of hope: hope of a world where one can "work differently to live better."

Jean-Leo Dugast, percheron-international.blogspot.com

If only they could have taken the horse to the PMA steps...

This was by far the best Super Bowl commercial:

I didn't get to see the game because I was at the barn here in Philly taking care of a sick horse (appropriately named Bud). Bud's got a work ethic like few other horses, and I hope the good folks out at New Bolton can figure out what's wrong with the grand old man.

4-hoof drive is better than 4-wheel drive

One of the many wonderful things on YouTube (from poster ccalhoun1):



Brings literal meaning to the question (oft heard on SportsCenter, or refering to automobiles) "Do they have the horses?"