Fireflies

Tonight I sat amongst chaotic paperwork, almost one year after I left for the last time -- trying to find what I agreed to pay after the divorce because it's time to start paying, and I realized ... wow. It's over. Is there any way to prepare yourself for this moment? Or the moments that follow? Where are the instructions for this? How does someone sum up 17 years together when all that's left is attorney notes, court papers, and several versions of asset and expense reports? And why the hell can't I find the settlement agreement? 

And yet, I've been calm. I'm good. Better, even. Fulfilled and joyfully employed and energized and somehow grounded by riding in the Virginia woods. Free. Oddly untortured. Certain of my faith in God and my (unknown) future. But tonight it hit me. My life with her is now a memory. We don't talk. I don't feel the need to. Where are the instructions? How do I make sense of this on a random Thursday night buried in a paperwork mess at the Saratoga Square Apartment complex in Springfield Virginia? 


And where the hell is the settlement agreement? 


There are fireflies in Virginia. I'm a California girl. I saw fireflies only once before I lived here, years ago when I visited my friend Jody in Nebraska. I see them everywhere these days. Little bits of light where you least expect them. Signs. 
Somebody came by my office yesterday -- another gathering place for a chaotic mess of paper, notes to myself, a collection of projects and to do's captured on a whiteboard -- and she thanked me. What she didn't know was that whatever she was thanking me for saved me. I'm learning not to underestimate the value of service and hard work -- work that, ironically, isn't hard at all. She thanked me and all I wanted to do was rush in and thank her. Instead, I practiced gracious acceptance. Another firefly in my day. 


Too hip to be square
My mom came to visit. She visited Quincy's cranio/sacral, myofacial release therapist. The medical people say she has to have her other hip replaced. She's a stoic gal, but she's been in pain for some time. Lots of daily Naproxin. The doctors tell her she needs surgery. But, after two sessions with Linda (two weeks ago), she said, two days ago, "She's a miracle worker." Her pain, by her estimation, has been reduced by 75%. She'll still need surgery eventually, but still. We found her another myofacial release therapist in Seattle. Western medicine is necessary but not sufficient. 


Quincy's taking swimming lessons
Lisa and Chris are introducing me to new trails every day. I'm reaching a new understanding with my horse. All the arena work, the horsemanship, the understanding that I've been seeking for the last two years ... it all comes down to our ability to maneuver trees, hills, logs, holes, creeks, deep mud, and other trail adventures together. We both have jobs, and we're getting better at them all the time. We're building trust. The other day, we waded into the Potomac river. He splashed in the water with his buddy, a fabulous horse named Justin. I marveled at Quincy's courage, his willingness, and his playful joy once he figured out that water is fun. I'm lucky to have him. 


What's in a title?
I have a new title: Consulting Director, Strategic Management and Communication. Sarah also has a title: Consulting Assistant Director of Strategic Communication. I've been asked to make change in this huge organization, and I've been encouraged to push boundaries. Look out, boundaries. Between me and Sarah, status quo doesn't stand a chance. Work is a joy, even when it's tough. Sarah and I take turns building each other up. It's a good system. 


Look out, Jerry Springer
Doug Brook and I are finishing our book. Pray that I can do my job and finish it. Books are like a big weight around your shoulders. They're not nearly as big a burden as they pretend to be. Doug, thankfully, understands that better than I do. I know that someone reading this might be asking, "What book? What's it about?" It's a book on personnel management reform in the federal government. Now, before you let your eyes roll back in your head, know this: There is political intrigue, confidential scoop directly from GW Bush high-level insiders, and juicy conflict between the Bush administration and federal employee unions. Don't dismiss the Jerry Springer trashiness of the story, albeit told with the utmost respect and diplomacy. Seriously, people, we'd like someone to buy this thing besides the few public policy professors that make up our fan club (yes, the "club" characterization is a stretch, "fan" perhaps even more so). We'll sign it free of charge. Our gift to you along with the ginsu knives. 


Maybe we can market it as the hot beach read of 2013. Get your orders in before the rush. 

Just remember who actually won the race

So I've been here a little over a month. I haven't written, I haven't called. Transitions: who remembered how taxing they were? Quincy has done better than I have, though. Surfer boy is so thrilled with pasture turnout he's earned the new moniker "Grass man" by Chris and Lisa, his new landlords. The rest of the time, he acts and is treated like royalty, so his second nickname is "Princy." Either way, he doesn't concern himself the past or the future ... he's got now, and now has grass 12 hours a day, a herd to hang out with, and trails that keep his mind and body active. In the moment. There's a lesson there.

Speaking of lessons ... ChiaTrailer

Yes, the trip is over. But there is one last lesson to share from it. If your water tank leaks and you spill your horse's chia seeds, you will get a ChiaTrailer. I didn't discover my science experiment until I unpacked the trailer, a good week after I got here. You gotta laugh. And that is one tough little organism. I won the battle for the carpet's life, but ChiaTrailer put up a helluva fight.

The job
I must say, I am loving this job. There is something deeply satisfying about being able to use all your skills and education to help solve problems in an organization that has a worthy mission. Add to that the gift of Sarah, the best assistant ever (i.e., the other half of my brain),  along with the fact that people seem to truly appreciate our help, and you've got an explanation for why I look forward to going in every day.

The riding

Virginia trails are unbelievable. According to Chris and Lisa, I have only scratched the surface of what's available for a day trip. They're serious trail riders. Trail blazers, really. Off the manicured trails, this country is not for wimps. We weave between and under branches, jump over fallen trees (the true cavalettis), cross streams, cruise up and down hills. Quickly. Quincy is getting in really good shape, both mentally and physically. I am putting all those riding and horsemanship skills to good use (thanks Gina and Peter). I have also learned that my well-loved baseball caps are a hazard. I duck under a branch; I make it, the cap doesn't. By the third time, I learned my lesson. What's with me and lessons, anyway? 

The ticks

Yes, the ticks get their own heading. They are like some alien lifeform here ... insidious, tenacious, and very difficult to kill. I am becoming much more adept at removing them from Quincy, and I'm learning all their favorite hiding spots. I get lots of practice -- I'm removing several ticks before we ride, and a bunch more after we're done. This task adds 30 minutes to my barn time. And the live ones don't begin to account for all the bites he's got, not only from ticks, but all manner of flying, buzzing, crawling creatures. We don't know bugs like this in California. When it comes to bugs, California is to Virginia what Air Force basic training is to Marine boot camp. But then, last Tuesday, we went to a whole new level for me. The alien invaded my neck. I was talking to Sarah, getting ready to go into a big meeting for us, and I felt a bump on my neck. I lifted up my chin and said, "Is this a tick?" She got a very odd look on her face and said, "We need to find some tweezers. Now." We went to the front office and, with the help of some very helpful secretaries, found a pair of tweezers. I pulled that damn thing out, alive with his head intact, in the bathroom at DCAA headquarters. Five minutes later we went into our meeting. I let it go. But, Ew. Shudder. Right?

The Future

I don't know. Ask Quincy. All he sees is more grass, and he's good with it. I'm not sure what my grass is yet, but I'll just ride along and see what happens. And kill as many ticks as possible. I'm not barbaric, they're just bloodsucking menaces. And they irritate Princy. So.

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.

VA bound

Denton, North Carolina - 6:00 a.m. EST
I have an hour or so of chores, then I load the Prince for the last time on this trip. With luck, we'll be in VA by 1:00 p.m.

Quincy and I are tired. We're ready to land. God speed, please.

No grit, no glory

One of the best compliments I've ever received was when Peter Campbell said I had "grit." I'm not certain now if his comment followed Quincy breaking my toes from a full rear or some other stupid thing I did at the ranch clinic, but I remember the sentiment. The truth is that I didn't feel that worthy of it. But Peter doesn't bullshit people, so I accepted it.

Surviving the first half of this trip took grit. I'll own it. Again, the grit was necessary to keep going in spite of stupidity (lack of knowledge, experience, common sense …), but still. I haven’t blogged because I haven’t had time to do anything but make the next stop and try and sleep for a few hours. What follows is the highlights and lowlights of the first half. 

Day one: Blast off
It started well. Quincy loaded in trailer, Pam was following me in my car, and I only had to get to San Diego. How tough could that be?

·       The Grapevine on I-5 is nuts. With a horse in a trailer, it’s downright harrowing. Anyone who has any doubts as to my need for a 1-ton truck to haul my rig should have been in the passenger seat on this leg. Trust me, I needed everything Bridget had to get me over it. It wouldn’t be the last time I was grateful for her. 

·       I-5, through LA, rush hour. Bad idea. Stop. Go. Stop. Stop. Inch forward. Two hours. Change lanes? You would have thought I was asking for the first born of the driver next to me. I literally had to lean my head out the window and make eye contact to gain access into their precious lane. On the upside, there was a hotel in East LA named “Destiny Inn,” with a balcony that looked over the freeway, advertising a honeymoon suite for a mere $54.99. You need not pay me for this hot tip if you’re looking for post wedding bliss. 

·       Full, 20 gallon water tank tipped over in the tack room of my trailer. It didn’t spill, although it leaked. But there was no way I could lift it back up. I decided to postpone that problem until later, ala Scarlet O’hara. 

·       Driving into Little T ranch in San Diego in the dark. Another bad idea. Huge ruts, big puddles, dark and cavernous drive down into it. (My Air Force buddy Cynthia and her husband Barry rescued me here – He righted my water tank, they brought me dinner, and they remained cheerful and supportive as my anxiety spilled all over the place). The first two stalls the gal showed me were mud puddles. I wasn’t happy, nor was I buying off on the two options. We found our way to a stall on higher ground. OK, a victory.  

·       Driving off Little T ranch the next morning through obstacles too numerous to mention. It was a “circle” (i.e., advertised as an “easy pull through.”) The gate I had to drive through didn’t look wide enough to begin with. Add a very ominous piece of rebar that cut into my already tight clearance, and I was on my way to agitation. The boyfriend of the gal who owned the place offered to direct me out. He didn’t speak much English, but he was very enthusiastic. The hill I was on to get out was steep, rutted, and muddy. I had to drive through the first gate (with the rebar) and turn sharply to the right to get out to the street. He was gesturing wildly and shouting. Then, the gal came out. She started offering her advice on the project. They didn’t agree. They both believed they knew better. I was on the hill, Quincy was probably close to falling over, and I am now panicked. I got out, yelled “stop!” muttered a few obscenities, and said, “One person. That’s it.” I pointed at the boyfriend. I was swayed by his enthusiasm. We escaped.

Day two, Tucson

·       Drove to the mailing address rather than the physical address of Doubletake Equestrian in Tucson. This was after 40 minutes in downtown Tucson traffic. I came to the address, in a residential neighborhood, and I knew there was something wrong.  The owner came out and directed me to the ranch with “easy” directions. I set off. 30 minutes later, I arrived in the area where I’m supposed to be. Unfortunately, the name of the country road I was supposed to turn on was apparently a popular choice for the street-namers. There were three (count them, THREE) streets with the EXACT SAME NAME. They were conveniently located next to one another. So, of course, I went down the first two, which were the wrong choices. This wouldn’t be such a big deal, but for this rather large rig I have with a limited turn radius. The country roads weren’t wide. So, I had to find places to turn around. I did, but again with the panic. I set out on this trip determined to save myself from turns and backing up. So much for determination. 

·       A beautiful barn, lovely people. Good. Nice dinner with friends. Sleep (sort of). Up at 4:00, determined to get to Fort Stockton, Tx, that day (a ridiculous goal, as it turned out). Decide that loading Quincy in the dark would be fine. (Note: my mentor and trainer Gina has said to me, on several occasions, “Cindy, when you find yourself saying ‘it’ll be fine,’ stop. Reconsider.” I didn’t heed her advice.) We started at 5:00 a.m. I finally got him loaded at 10:36. Yes, the math and the situation were ugly. I was exhausted. I had pulled, threatened, cajoled, used a flag, tried a long-line approach, gotten “help,” cried (a lot), called Gina every hour, and considered relocating to Tucson. When I finally got him in, it was due to drugs, his exhaustion, and God’s mercy. I was a wreck. I got him off the ranch, stopped on the dirt road a half mile later, and sobbed for 20 minutes. Then, I drove. I never made it to Fort Stockton.

Day 3: Sierra Blanco, Texas 

·       9:00 p.m. – It’s dark, I’m tired, and I can’t drive anymore. I pull off on a one exit town that boasts only one gas station, a mini mart, and a suspicious-looking hotel named “Americana Inn.” But it had a relatively big parking lot. I believed Quincy and I could be OK there for the night. There was no way I was unloading him before getting to Houston anyway (my trailer is big enough for him to lay down), so what did I care what the hotel was like? I pulled in. 

·       Abu, the hotel proprietor, didn’t look happy about my rig or where I wanted to park. We negotiated. I moved to a different part of the parking lot. Abu grumbled, but consented. I got a room ($50). I saw the room. I determined that there was no way I’d sleep in the bed there, but I made use of the electricity to charge my devices and the bathtub for cleaning Quincy’s buckets. I also watched an episode of “30 rock,” which was oddly satisfying. While I was scared of the place when I first drove in, I felt more comfortable after doing all my barn chores. I’d made a home for me and my horse in a two-bit parking lot. Bring it on, cheap motel people. Granted, I locked both Quincy’s doors and my own, but still. I felt a little badass by the time I went to bed in my luxurious camper, Betsy.

Day 4: Sugar Land, Texas (i.e., Houston). Pre-heaven (i.e., Kendal and Gretchen’s house). 

·       Long, long drive. 13 hours. Too long. Traffic, LA style, through San Antonio and through Houston. Quincy was antsy to get out when we got to Sugar Land stables. I wanted to turn him out immediately. The barn manager, Janet, was begrudging but willing to let him out in the pasture at the front of the property. The fence was electric. I was a little hesitant, but he was so antsy and needed to stretch his legs. So, I turned him out. He promptly hit the fence, got a wild look, took off, snorted, and was generally agitated. Poor guy. 13 hours in a damn trailer (albeit with a few nap stops in between) and then shocked. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. We had left Abu’s hotel at 6 a.m. We arrived at Sugar Land stables at 7 p.m. After settling Quincy in (which included removing, unsuccessfully, a very fat tick from his neck), unhooking the trailer, dealing with the spilled chia seeds in the tack room that were soggy from the leaking water tank … I arrived in heaven (aka, Kendal and Gretchen’s house) at 10 p.m. A stiff drink, a dip in the hot tub, the good company of my hosts and one of my favorite people on the planet, Darren, and the first half of the trip seemed over.

Day 5: Sugar Land, Texas. Shea Stewart, my saving grace

·       I called Genae, Gina’s daughter, and was ready to pay for her time plus a $1,000 plane ticket for her to come out and finish the trip with me. There was no way I could go through another trailer loading debacle. I was terrified of that possibility. Bless her, she was willing to come. 

·       Shea Stewart, Quincy’s body-worker and generally amazing horseman, happens to live in Fort Worth, Texas. Because of my need to see her, she pulled together a few other clients that weekend in the Houston area, and came out to give Quincy cranio-sacral work and give me a trailer-loading lesson. I’d already gotten great counsel from Genae at Morning Sun Ranch, but apparently I’m one of the remedial students.  I needed help. Shea applied some no-nonsense principles with me, and with her help I had Quincy loading with no trouble.  I was so confident at the end of that session that I spared Genae from a crazy trip. You’d think this would be the happy ending, right? Well, it is. Except that Quincy is a five-year-old, which is the equivalent of a two-year-old child. 

·       Sunday night, Quincy pulled a four-foot board out from the front of his stall and onto his back. He grabbed the blanket bar with his teeth, which happened to be connected to the board, and worked it up until he could flip it up. When the barn worker came running to the stall (after seeing the board fly through the air), he was standing on the board and VERY upset. Idiot. He didn’t seem too worse for wear the next day, but it’s hard to know yet. When we left today, he seemed to be moving fine. God willing, he will be.

Grit. Yes. I kept going. The second half will be better. My session with Shea and my weekend in heaven has fortified me. Stay tuned.

Pre-roadie madness

Crazy couple of days. Weird weather, crazy horse, endless details, numerous small trials (which seemed much bigger in the moment they happened). Beyond the details of the trials, what I'd rather note are some of the people who saved me from them.

Pam. My best friend since I was 11 years old. She is a single mom of two teenaged boys with a gigantic job -- her own law practice -- and she picked up and left for four days. For me. She was doing multimillion dollar deals from my camper one minute, and helping me pack my truck in the next. And she froze in my camper, cheerfully. I tried to help. I piled every coat and towel I had on top of her. She didn't get warm until much later, but the cheer remained.

Mike. The father of Morning Sun Ranch. He helped me strategize my various conundrums. How to jack up my camper. How to get my camper stand on top of said camper, without harming myself or others (it involved his tractor. I am coming to appreciate the right tool for the job). Dry humor, even when I felt like crying my eyes out. He made me feel more competent than I am. And he made me laugh in the process.

Austyn. Mike and Gina's son, who just kept being competent while asking, politely with laughter, "you need some help?" Most of the time I tried to say "no." But he'd amble over anyway, and then I'd say, "well, yeah ... kinda." Today, when I went to hook up my super duper hitch that extended beyond my camper, I couldn't lift it. (Truly, it's heavy.) I've gotten better about just asking Austyn for help rather than put myself through the agony of trying to do it (the really guy-type stuff) on my own. He smiled and came over, and I jabbered on about how heavy it was, how we'd have to do it together, blah, blah, blah. Before I could barely get the jabber out, he'd already gotten it done. Cheerful, good-natured competence. He laughed at me, and I joined him.


Doug. Helped me back my truck into the razor thin margin under my camper. Then, later, reminded me to buy a jack and a lugnut wheel. Good call. I wouldn't have remembered. And that's one of those things that you don't think about until you need it.

Judith. She traveled with me on my maiden voyage to the Peter Campbell clinic in Washington state with Luna (my horse trailer) AND the super duper extended hitch. By the time she got there today, I was near tears because I couldn't remember how to hook the damn thing up. There's lots of chains and bars and hooks and clips. Really, way more than normal trailers. She showed up, reminded me of how it worked, and basically saved me from a complete meltdown.

Genae. The weather was nuts this past weekend. My horse was also nuts. I took him out for a hand walk, and he was rearing and tearing around like a madman. At one point, I yelled, "Hey, I could use some help here!" because Genae was nearby the scene of the crime. He fell at one point. Freaked me out. She came over and, being the good horseperson she is, stopped about 15 feet away from the madness rather than rushing into it.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"No. I need you to take him."

Which she did ... while I tried not to cry from the fear that came up when his front feet came within inches of my head. She talked to me. Led him on a short lead. Talked to me some more. He tried to rear. She shut it down. And talked to me. Once we got him to his stall, I left to cry in my camper for 30 minutes. But after that, I was OK. Genae has skill, talent, and a way of talking to me about what is going on with my horse. I woke up the next day ready to take it on. Quincy, partly because of Jack, has been a gentleman ever since.

Doug's horse, Jack. Jack gave Quincy someone else to push around. Jack pushes back. I turned them out together for the last few days, and watched them jab and dodge and rear and kick. It's what horses are meant to do. After time with Jack, Quincy was not only a little tired, but back to mellow. Surfer boy needs his friends.

Gina. Quiet, patient, steady. It almost doesn't matter what I talked to her about in the last couple days. I don't remember, anyway. All I know is that I feel calmer when I leave the conversation than when I started it.

These are only a few of the amazing people that surround me here.

Today's the day. Time to get up and get out and get on the road. Stay tuned.

Blast off.

From Morning Sun Ranch, with lots of love

Going away party. Do you people have any idea how much I'll miss you????