A gentle and quiet spirit - equine style

Earlier this week, it was time for our 127 brood mares to have their semi-annual "beauty treatment."

They get their hooves trimmed, a dose of dewormer, and what every female enjoys, a pregnancy test, which in the equine world, consists of a long-armed palpitation and an ultrasound.

It's noisy and chaotic, but there's a rhythm to the process, as the mares are gathered in, sent along an S-alley to a "squeeze" chute so they can be held steady while the vet does his part, and then each mare is hoisted onto a "tip table." The farrier restrains her with soft ropes and trims her feet while his assistant administers a squirt of dewormer.

It takes only a few moments to do each mare, but these girls aren't handled much, so they don't all appreciate the equine version of a "spa day."

Some charge into the chute like true drama queens, whites of their eyes flashing. Kicking, head-tossing, pawing. Doing all they can to throw their almost-one-ton-of-weight each through the steel chute and hopefully escape their fates. I fought the impulse to give each one a comforting pat, for I'd be missing fingers, I'm sure.

They don't understand, in their horsy heads, that what we are doing is for their good. They'll feel better. They'll be healthier. And we'll know whether or not to expect a little bundle of joy come spring.

Sometimes we humans find ourselves in turmoil and tight situations, too, and we respond much the same way as the panicked mares. Kicking. Fighting. Our puny minds can't comprehend that Someone is doing an important work, albeit unpleasant and confusing, that will ultimately be for our benefit.

"The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials." - Chinese Proverb

There were a few mares that came into the chute and squeeze like ladies to the manor born. Although trembling, they cast their gentle eyes on us in trust and faith. They were no more comfortable than the distraught mares, but they accepted their situation quietly and serenely. They were through the farrier's hands and back to the pasture in no time.

May we always be as calmly accepting of the Lord's "beauty treatments" which always serve to conform us to the image of His Son. His care often requires a little painful chiseling and whittling to rid us of our nasty bits, but those same Hands always bring goodness.

He makes everything beautiful in His time. Ecclesiastes 3:11

The Last Roundup

Last Sunday, we had the privilege of helping a rancher neighbour move his cattle from summer pastures to the home ranch for the winter.


I didn't ride along, but drove our truck and trailer behind the herd for 23 kilometers, following the rancher's wife and her truck full of grandchildren, who took turns riding behind the herd, doing their share.

Everyone gets a chance to help.

A spirit of bygone days, of camaraderie, and the day was topped off with a hearty ranch-style supper in thanksgiving to all the cowboys and friends and neighbours who came to help. And not to mention, gratitude that the herd was brought home safely, with no wrecks.



And there's that other Last Roundup to look forward to, when we'll put aside our hats and boots for the last time and the Big Boss will gather us in to the Home Ranch. Here, in the voice of a faithful horse and written almost 100 years ago . . . "The Last Roundup."

"I've been on my last big roundup,
I've finished the long day's work,
For the many men who have rode me,
And who know that I did not shirk.

This spring I'm not in the remuda,
For now I am useless to stride,
I've given the best that was in me
In many a long day's ride.

I once was the pride of the roundup,
Proud and polished and sleek;
Have served my time and I'm tired
And blemished and old and weak.

. . . And I'll be in another roundup,
That will lack the dust and the din,
And I'll go on with the trail herd,
When the Big Boss gathers me in."

Curley Fletcher, Rhymes of the Roundup, 1917.

Up the long hill.

I said I'd never do it . . .

This morning we woke up to dense fog, and the air had a decidedly frosty chill. My flowers haven't been frozen yet, but they are definitely looking weary with small and shrivelled blooms. One more day of wind and the leaves will be gone from the trees.

Aside from the fact I needed to make something to take to quilting group tomorrow for our coffee break, it was just the kind of morning that inspires me to fill the house with homey fragrances. Light a fire. Wear a sweater. (Sometimes, I have to say, our quilting day is one HUGE break, and we just drink coffee, eat, and gossip. I mean, we share our concerns with each other.)

I made Oatmeal Shortbread, recipe courtesy of Ginny, one of my quilting friends.

A little autumn,
   a little Thanksgiving,
       a little Christmas.

      A lot delicious.




3/4 cup all purpose flour
2/3 cup quick oats
1/2 cup corn starch
1/2 cup icing sugar (or confectioners sugar, to some of you)
3/4 cup softened butter

Combine the dry ingredients, then blend in the butter. (Or use your KitchenAid mixer.) Work until you have a nice soft dough. Shape into a ball. Refrigerate if necessary, to make it easier to handle. Roll to 1/4 inch and cut in shapes. Place on ungreased baking sheets. Bake at 300º until edges are lightly browned.

Or you can do this instead. Add 1/3 cup chopped dried cranberries. (Or chopped raisins or dried apricots or currants or nuts.) Pat or roll into two 5.5 inch rounds 1/2 inch thick. Mark eight wedges on each round. Prick with fork. Bake 30-40 minutes. Enjoy.

What did I say I'd never do? Post recipes on my blog. I didn't want people to think I'm one of those stereotypical farm women who spend all day making fried chicken and apple pie and quilts.

But I do. And I love it.

"Come said the wind to the leaves one day, Come o're the meadows and we will play. Put on your dresses scarlet and gold, For summer is gone and the days grow cold."

A Children's Song of the 1880's