Saratoga, VA.

Admittedly, I landed over a week ago. But somehow there has been more day than time, and I have only just begun to catch my breath. My second half wasn't as trying as the first, but there were a few adventures.

Sugarland: My vacation

Samantha, my friend Dan's daughter, was in love with Quincy. I think he was a little smitten himself.

Dan, the goofball, his daughter Samantha and his son Zach. 

 

 

 

 

 

Two of my favorite people: Kevin (who taught me to eat crawfish) and Gretchen (the amazing Honey Badger).

 

 

 Me and another of my favorite people, Darren. Let's be glad the odd shadow on my face wasn't an impulsive tattoo.














Pass Christian, Mississippi
A lovely drive and a lovely barn. No mishaps. just pleasantness. Plus a great dog named Wiggles. Dangerous? Hardly. Pitbulls get a bad rap because of stupid people.

The road to Jefferson, Georgia, part 1: 
OK, I had a few mishaps on this leg. First of all, I was worried about Quincy's water intake, which wasn't as good as I wanted it to be. I didn't have enough electrolytes for him, nor did I have Molasses to sweeten the road water. So, before I left Mississippi, I had looked up some feed stores not too far off the highway. The best bets were in Montgomery, Alabama. After an hour and a half, I made my way to number 3 (the first two weren't feed stores. Damn you, Google). With a planned 8-hour travel day, that kind of delay sucks. Nonetheless, feed store number 3 had electrolytes. Sadly, they only had a five gallon jug of Molasses. I asked for directions to a grocery store. The directions were bad. Grocery stores are few and far between in that part of Montgomery. But I found one, anyway. Not the one I was "directed" to. A Winn Dixie, if anyone is interested. I was happy. Found the Molasses, got back to Quincy, made up a good soup of feed, water, and molasses. He wasn't interested. If he was going to (still) be a butthead about drinking my soup, then I wanted to ditch the plan and get back on the road. In my haste, I left the jar of open Molasses on the trailer. It occurred to me five minutes after I left Winn Dixie. I pulled over to this:

 Sure, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but I still felt like crying. I took the picture and laughed instead. I salvaged all the Molasses I could, and rinsed it off with the liquid in Quincy's soup that he didn't drink (and yes, some clean water). It was still sticky, but better. I set off again.

The road to Jefferson, Georgia, part 2: 
In some very small town close to the Alabama/Georgia border, I stopped for gas. I was only an hour and a half from my destination and, if I made my next stop, my 8 hour travel day had only swelled to close to 11 hours. Needless to say, I was anxious to end this particular day. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that one of the safety chains that attaches my trailer to my truck was, well, broken.

Here's what had happened. In Mississippi, prior to meeting Wiggles, I had thought I might drive into town for dinner. But horse time, combined with Wiggles, changed my plans. Nonetheless, I had unlatched (but not completely unhooked) my trailer from my truck. This unlatching included my safety chains. Which, as it happens, are slightly too long. However, if I thread them over my stabilizing bars, and twist them several times, they're fine. Unfortunately, when I left Mississippi, I neglected to put them over the the stabilizing bars (don't blame Wiggles). So, for some period of time, I dragged the chain. One of the links rubbed clean through. Hence, the broken chain. One wonders if any of my fellow drivers saw the sparks?

Anyway, once I discovered the break, I was disheveled. Unhinged, really. I was tired, the day had been long and trying, and I wasn't at my best. There was no way I was getting back on the road without a safety chain, and I was envisioning another night in a parking lot. I didn't like the vision. I blew into the Minimart of the gas station and stammered out to the gal behind the counter, "I ... I've got a problem ... I need an auto mechanic... this chain... Do you know where one is?"

With a much clearer head than I had, she said, "what's the problem?"

I told her, she thought for a minute, and said, "You know, there's a tire place about a half mile down the road. I think they could help with this."

Of course. That would be much better than a mechanic. Gratitude overtook the unhinged-ness. She told me where to go. I went.

I drove into the tire place (a chain tire place, not an independent. This matters to the rest of the story). Everyone looked at me as I drove in. There were probably 8 guys in the shop. It was 10 minutes to 5:00 p.m., which was quitting time. I hadn't gotten much clarity or articulation in the half mile I'd driven to get there. Two 50-something, Alabama gentlemen approached me. I stammered, again.

"I have kind of an emergency here," I began. "See, this chain broke, and I have a horse, and we have to get to a barn tonight, and I can't get on the road without it fixed, and ... well, can you fix it?"

They looked at me, listening thoughtfully. The first guy knelt down to check out the situation. He didn't say much. He got up and said, "I'll be back in a minute."  The other guy looked at me sympathetically. I wasn't hopeful. I wondered what parking lot we'd find to stay in. I didn't even know the name of this town. I wanted to cry.

The first guy came back with a U-shaped piece of steel, the same width as the chain link, with a bar that could be bent down to create a new link. He was smiling. "I found this, and I think it might work."

Indeed. For the next ten minutes, he made it work. He fixed it. He consulted with the second guy at a couple points, but he made a new link. Again, with the flood of gratitude.

When they were done, I asked, "What do I owe you?"

He looked puzzled, and then he smiled.

"You don't owe me nothin'. I found that piece in an old toolbox in the back, and it didn't take me but five minutes to fix it."

Me, being the LA raised California girl, tried to tip them anyway. I pulled out two $20 bills, and said, "Can't I pay you something?"

He grinned, like maybe only a 50-something Alabama man can grin, and said, "Ma'am, I'm just happy to help."

I wanted to cry, again. But this time it wasn't about frustration.

Kindness. Why did it shock me so much?

We drove off, waving and smiling, and made it to Georgia before dark. Quincy had a pasture where he could eat grass and a cushy barn to sleep in. I had Betsy to sleep in. Nice people at the Georgia barn. But the kindness of that minimart gal and the tire guys would stick with me.

Farmer, North Carolina: 
We made it to North Carolina with no mishaps. Another lovely drive. I actually stayed in a bed and breakfast on the property where Quincy's barn was. It was gorgeous. Quincy's stall was cleaner than the motel that we had in no-town Texas. But it was weird.

I didn't like being so far up the hill from him, and he was all by himself down there. No other horses. It was like some grand dollhouse from an episode of Twilight Zone. By the next morning, I was ready to be done with the road.

Lorton, VA
We drove into our new barn at about 3 p.m. on Friday, March 30. We had made it. Quincy had his very own Mr. Ed barn, which he wouldn't spend much time in. More importantly, he had two mares and several big pens/pastures where he'd spend his time. We got him introduced to his new herd within an hour. They were buddies from the beginning.

 
Hello, Virginia. Wow, we're glad to be here.

Mission accomplished.