The Difficult Rides: Trump It

When I was fifteen years old, full of unpredictable moods and somewhat reckless, horses kept me relatively grounded. Jimmy, my horse trainer until I was sixteen, constantly tried to rein me in. At this time, I owned a 15' 3 hand, reddish-chestnut quarter horse named Rojo, or "Southern Accent," which was his show name. Rojo was a wonderful, experienced, talented three foot jumper, but he had been lame for a while, and he was on rest until we figured out what was wrong with him. So Jimmy told me to take another horse, Trump It, to our next show in Wilmington at Roberts Arena.

Let me back up...while Rojo was hurt, I rode a bunch of schoolhorses -- a 15'1 chestnut named Robin (skinniest, bumpiest horse I've ever ridden....like a washing machine), Lefty (sweet bay horse who would only canter on the left lead due to an old injury), Rosco (the schoolhorse-in-training who bucked everyone off), and many more. Always random. On a lucky day, I'd get to ride a horse from the "New Barn," which was where the nicer horses lived. Maybe the 17'1 hand, handsome gray, Lochan Bear. Yes, he was huge. Very rare if that happened, but it did. Or the bay, incredibly soft gelding named J.P., who was so comfortable to ride it was like sitting in a couch.

Jimmy always found something for me to ride, and I learned so much from riding so many different horses. Later on, this experience sure helped me when I rode and showed professionally. In a 60-horse barn, some horse always needed exercise and since I was small, I could ride anything -- from the huge monsters to the smallest ponies. I hated ponies, and Jimmy knew that, but he made me ride them anyhow. He always found something for me.

Anyway, Jimmy started letting me ride the big chestnut fellow called Trump It. A thoroughbred, Trump was a big boy, about 16'2, and he was finely boned, long-bodied, and striking -- he had a flashy, big, white blaze and four white socks. In the show ring, those markings always stood out as fancy. I loved riding him, so when Jimmy said I could take him to that Wilmington show, I was thrilled.

Well, Trump It was a beautiful horse, incredibly smooth to ride, and he was a flawless jumper. The judges absolutely loved his look; however, Trump It had one fatal flaw...when it was his turn to show, when he started cantering around alone in the ring, during the middle of the course, he would let out this earth shattering, lonely sound that vibrated the walls...he would yell so loud, his entire body shook, and a few times he almost shook me right out of the saddle.

So every time, even if we had a perfect, beautiful round, when he would let out those bellows (sometimes even over the top of the fence), of course the judges would take points off. So I always ended up with 3rd and 4th place ribbons, even if I should've been 1st, regardless of how I rode. Never #1 with him, because no matter what we did, we couldn't get him to shut up...hence the double meaning present in his "Trump It" name. Freaking TRUMPET.

For a while, I felt continually frustrated, and I became the literal laughing stock of the people from my barn. Whenever I went on course, they'd all crowd around to watch and laugh. Then people from other barns started to watch and laugh. At first, I was embarrassed, but then I started to laugh as well.

See, some days, someone else is supposed to win. Winning is fun, but winnings come and go. So it's best to keep a sense of humor about this mess we call life. Also, these adventures with Trump It and other difficult horses taught me how to deal with the frustrations of the sport and later, I was able to mentor my students and help them grin and bear the more difficult rides. In life and in riding, it taught me to keep on keeping on, let go, and focus on the next show.

Later, my horse Rojo got better, and we went on to win many Champion ribbons. And many, many years later, when I was working at a farm in Loveland, Rojo's new owner brought him out to the barn, and we used him for beginner lessons. He was so old then, but one day I hopped on his back, and we went for a canter around the field, just for old times sake. I could almost hear him say, Still goin' strong, mom.


Rojo, my sister, and me

When it comes down to it, riding horses is a lone journey -- in the show ring, it's just me and the horse. Writing is the same way. Just me and my typing hands. I have to be my own advocate, my own mentor, my own trainer, so to speak. So I may have had some difficult rides, but I've had some great successes as well.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Mansion

We broke in.
It was all
about the weather.
Seven times,
the scattered sky
spoke through
heat lightning,
and new clouds
coughed above us,
mostly hanging
in patchy rows.
Behind us, the stone
mansion. Someday,
I'll put up an offer.
We swam close
in the strange,
perfect pool;
we were the ice
on the dog day.
Let’s get dressed.
Rain’s comin’.
On the deck,
you checked
my muscle.

C.A. MacConnell

Dirty Turkey

Short Story, fiction

Dirty Turkey

Thanksgiving break. Evening in Jaytown, flocks of college kids browsed the stores and each other. Back home, each year, Rose became one smooth deal hunter. Her jeans were the black, skinny kind -- straight-legged and tight. Casually dressed to kill, she was window-shopping until some voice came at her from behind, the way she liked it.

“Hey!” he yelled.

She whipped around. "Hey yourself," she said to the man in the new T-bird. The car wore temporary tags.

She looked him over. Fresh meat, she thought, grinning. He was young, around her age, nineteen, and his build was hardly bigger than hers. He sank low in the leather seats of his crimson car. His hair was her brown shade. His wild brows weren't plucked, like hers. His shirt was red and fading, bleeding like hers.

Waiting for him, she leaned back against a storefront, restless. Maybe she’d buy a thumb ring later. Maybe skateboarders would soar and wreck, nursing breaks and bruises on Jaytown's streets. She never knew what characters would appear or vanish. She looked at her watch. Dad might ground her if she were out too late.

Hand at her chin, she studied him.

He parked crooked as hell. He was half-baked. He wasn’t careful.

She liked this.

When he climbed out of the car and reached for her, his shake was firm, like hers. “I'm Billy,” he said, raising a brow. “You look familiar." Billy touched her wrist, which cracked.

In his hand, her wrist became weak and fragile, like a wishbone. For a moment, she liked this too. "I'm Rose," she said, grinning. He seemed like a good egg. And when he touched her hair, she felt a shock, which was strange. She liked strange birds.

His eyes turned round and large, nearly buckeyes. "Come with me," Billy said, tugging her small wrist.

Meeting Billy was a good excuse to avoid home. Dad was usually out. Or making juice or eating tofu, watching Survivor, just checking out. Mom checked out too. Ten years back, on Thanksgiving, raspberries were on sale again. What a deal. Mom went to pick some up, planning for Dad’s special pies, but she never returned. Around twelve items or less, Mom disappeared. Dad let the turkey burn, burn, char in the oven. Dad still called her "missing;" he still put up signs. Rose couldn't picture Mom anymore. Rose only saw smoke.

Past the ghetto mart, past the people gliding through auto-doors like shopper hawks, Billy led her into Jaytown's famous ice cream shop. They shared a cone, berry sorbet.

Rose called it a date. Each year, back home, around the fourth Thursday in November, she had dates like this. She grinned, reminiscing. She checked the wall clock. She knew she had to either push this one in the oven or let it sit. She checked her watch, scratching her head. She would already be in trouble by then. Might as well stay out.

Backtracking, they paused in an underground parking garage until it became a deserted maze. Sex began with the slight tearing of shirts until both were bare, focused on skin grabbing. Billy let her suck on his finger. He let her suck.

Rose discovered that Billy was the sweaty kind – nearly cooking. And Rose discovered that someone had written Bush Sucks on the wall in black. Overhead on a fire escape, a couple fought until breakables began breaking.

Billy scooped his arms above her, making weird wings. Then he reached down, gripping her wrists, pinning her down on the ground.

It was hot, mad, wet, rough, and then her body became his giant skin pillow.

His chest, his body curves fit hers.

She wondered if she'd see him again. She fell asleep wondering.

--

Stiffly, she woke. It wasn’t that cold out, but Rose shivered. The world was hardly lit. She squinted to see. She was whale-hungry, chewing stale gum. She looked at her weak wrist. It was 9 a.m.

Billy slept spread-eagled on the blacktop. Then he came to, rubbing his buckeyes, moving his mouth like hers. Chewy.

Quickly, they dressed before crowds or cops appeared.

Her car had a fresh ticket. Using a rust crayon she found in the gutter, she scribbled her number on the back of the ticket, handing it to Billy, saying, "That's me." Rose sat in her car, wondering if Dad would ground her for staying out. That turkey.

Blocking traffic, Billy leaned at her window, hovering and shifting like a drug dealer. He said, “I’ll call,” and his buckeyes loomed at the surrounding traffic. All around, drivers’ faces burned red, trapped in various road rage stages. "I will," he said. Then he kissed her. Then he paused. Then he kissed her again. “I’ll call,” Billy said again. Then he shot away, heading for his T-bird, heading for the highway.

She didn't believe him. She never believed those turkeys. No matter how good they tasted, the seasoning was never quite right. Gripping the wheel so tight that her wrist, her wishbone, hurt, she noticed that her red shirt was too loose, too faded. It wasn't hers. It was Billy’s. She should give it back. She smiled. She followed him. She was close. Too close.

His lead foot was serious, like hers. Deep into the back roads, Billy flew easily until he couldn’t take the curves.

She tailed him. She was close. Too close. She watched him weave, trying to lose her, but she grinned at the game. She knew these moves, these streets; they were all a familiar recipe.

The T-bird screeched, wobbled, then flipped like a toy, landing upside down. The car was no more than shredded, splintered metal. A smoldering nest.

Pulling over, Rose's body simmered, shaking out a small earthquake. She listened for Billy’s life signs, blinking repeatedly. No movement, no life, no breath. So much smoke, so much black ash mascara. Her eyes smarted, taking the burn. Her eyes leaked, crying and drying. One thing was clear – another turkey was burning. It was too late for Rose to check out. Dad might ground her. Dad sent Mom out for raspberries. He had to have them. Twelve items or less. I’ll call. I will. That liar. All those liars. Express checkout, motherfucker. She shrugged, running her hands together – slap, slap, slap – then licking them clean. All she had to do was speed and wait and watch the time, and this dirty bird was done. She clapped, just once, feeling suddenly sleepy.

Rose's U-turn was hard. She scanned the road, studying the cars, the colors, the metal skins. She knew how to pick a bird. She followed another car. She could see the back window, then the plates, then the driver’s hair -- tangled with angry wings, beyond help with flyaways. She was close. Too close. Rose was one deal hunter. She smiled, red-faced and whale-hungry again, her teeth tearing through stale gum.

This was a rare one. The head was feathered messy, out of control, like hers. Rose looked at her watch.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Bradley Hall

Bradley Hall, Hollins University

Ah, Hollins. I love Hollins so much. My alma mater. :) Check out their link (above) if you get a chance. The place is magnificent. I would've stayed there forever, but they made me leave after grad school. Bradley was the original English department, but they had to build a new one due to too many ghosts. There were more ghosts in the music building, but they didn't build a new one, because I guess they liked it haunted.

Been working on other writings, some dry, some juicy (and photos) and sleeping while my young adult book is being looked at; it's in the hands of my very first reader, so I'm waiting on some feedback. Sweet. Does anyone use that word anymore? "Sweet?" What about "rad?" I love those words. I still say "right on" too. My mom loves "boatload," as in, "I need a boatload of groceries." Ha. I still cuss a lot too, I admit.

Bye bye, hope your evening is rad and sweet, and maybe you'll get a boatload done, sheeit. I'm just grateful to feel well today. Dayum, I still need to do my back exercises. They're not that hard, but I put those off every day. You got something you put off every day?

I miss kissing,
C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Cleveland, Lake Erie

 

 Cleveland, Lake Erie

These are on film. I think it really makes them "speak"...and it captures the light. Film can make the simplest things come alive.

Today's truth:  Reach out and capture the light. We all see the same super moon in the sky. <3

C.A. MacConnell

Thanksgiving, a Poem. And Snowman.

 

Horse trainer Jimmy Wood

Thanksgiving

Grandchildren --

Papers Came Sunday

With the Milk.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Jimmy was my first horse trainer. There's a lot of waiting when you're a horse trainer. Ha, Jimmy was so incredibly chill.

Speaking of horse trainers, recently I saw the movie, Harry and Snowman, which was a film about Harry De Leyer, a famous horse rider who went down in the history books when he won Madison Square Gardens' National Horse Show two years in a row aboard Snowman (among many, many other victories, including the showjumping Triple Crown). Check out this article...it's amazing.

What was incredible about Snowman was that Harry bought him for 80 bucks at an auction. Now, for those of you who don't know, "auction" usually means it's the horse's last stop. Unless the horse is sold, they're often sent to the killers. So more than likely, Harry saved this horse's life.

And Snowman seemed to realize this.

So here's what happened. Well, Harry soon sold Snowman to a friend who had a farm six miles away, but then Snowman jumped out of his new owner's field...not one...not two...but three times and made the six mile trek back to Harry's farm. So Harry bought him back, vowed to never sell him again, and Snowman ended up turning into a star show jumper. This horse soon became one of the most amazing jumpers in equine history.

Now, the reason I'm telling this story is because while I was watching the film, I was listening to Harry's voice, and I thought, Man, that sounds familiar. It wasn't his face that struck me. It was his voice. And then when I saw some shots of his farm in Charlottesville, I realized that back in 1993, I took a trip to his farm, and I took a lesson from him. So it makes sense that I recognized his voice, because while I rode that day, Harry called out instructions. My buddy rode at his farm, and she had invited me along.

At the time, not knowing who he was, I thought, Wow, this trainer's kinda wild. He set the jumps really high, and it was so much fun, but also kind of scary. I was glad Harry gave me a good horse -- a chestnut, if I recall.

So while I was sitting there watching the movie, all of this dawned on me, and I thought, My god, I had a lesson with a legend, and I didn't even know it. They used to call him the "galloping grandpa" because he competed so late in life (and successfully, I might add). In his eighties now, he still rides every day.

Never know who you might run into in this life. We all have such incredible histories and stories.

C.A. MacConnell

Hello Out There.

Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

The Worst Class Ever

Back when I was in college, my Senior year, I signed up for a discussion class on 18th Century British Novels, and for some weird reason, this particular class was held in a huge, spacious room in the Music building, an ambience that should have been airy, light, and creatively-inspiring, but it only proved to be a vacuous mood killer. That's putting it mildly. Also, all of the students who chose to take this class turned out to be an entire group of incredibly shy people. So there it was -- a spacious, sound-sucking, half-empty room + a group of introverts + the after-lunch, sleepy time.

Eighteenth Century British Novels was doomed from the start.

Each class, twice a week, no matter what the professor did, he couldn't get anyone to talk. And he was one of the most well-known, most well-liked profs on campus. But I swear, I bet that even if he went overboard and decided to show up naked, in this dull, dead class, no one would've said one...single...word.

Except one girl. Every class, without fail, she spoke for like fifteen minutes. Some days, she spoke twice, but still, there was no way she could fill up an hour and a half of torturous time.

Other than that, there was nothing but the dull sound of the wall clock ticking for minutes on end, and then the Professor would mutter a joke or something. I could tell that he felt this:  I can't wait for this semester to be over. I think that he even said that out loud once. Imagine being stuck as the leader during an hour and a half of stone cold faces and silence. That would be worse than intense arguing, I think. Like a failed stand-up comic trying his heart out at his first show in New York City. Constantly, he was face to face with no reaction, blank faces, nothing. No one even seemed to be taking notes. No movement, no facial expressions, nada. I suppose, even a negative reaction would've been welcoming, I dunno.

Now, I admit that I was a part of it. I was definitely guilty of contributing to the silence. I too was sitting there like a duck at dusk, hungry and quiet, simply waiting for time to pass. Normally, I was known to comment during class, but the whole room's mood affected me, and the novels were confusing, difficult, and nonlinear; I wasn't into any of the books, and there were a few I barely even read, because when the professor made the assignments, the reading amount was so large -- around 200 pages a night -- so I just got overwhelmed and said, Fuck it, I'll skim. Everyone was overwhelmed.

Every other class that I took from the same professor was lively and inspiring. But it was the mood of the whole, the quiet rumble of rebellion, that made 18th Century British Novels go down in the history books as his worst class ever, and he admitted it. One day, the professor even commented as such. "It's like pullin' teeth," he said out loud in front of everyone. Some people quietly chuckled, but of course, no one commented.

Why didn't one person speak up and say, You give us too much to read. It's impossible to read and digest that much in one night. Why? Because no one wanted to admit that it was too much, or they didn't want to admit that they hadn't read at all.

And so the stalemate continued all semester long. On one side -- the baffled professor "pullin' teeth." On the other side -- quiet students who hadn't read because the assignment was too large, too much, and rather ridiculous. And in between -- a deep, dark, quiet hole in the middle of the circle in which we sat.

And then the semester finally ended, and the class was over, and we all went on to other classes, and so did he, and the whole dynamic changed, and the "worst class" never happened again. Why? I have no idea, because he continued to make over-the-top assignments on extremely difficult texts, ones that probably only he, a genius, could understand and complete. But there was one key change...

His jokes got better.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: November Walk

 Falling

 Girl with Scooter

 

Four

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Drummers

 Drummers

 

C.A. MacConnell

Hollywood Morning

Today's truth:  we are all in this together. No matter the stage, we are all searching for love.

Here's a poem for you. Hope you like it. -- C.A.

Hollywood Morning

1
Around eleven a.m., she rises,
leaving the covers. Right on
schedule, she creeps away
to the kitchen. First time
making pancakes. Wrapped
up tight, he is still half-

2
awake, bedroom resting.
He hears the batter hit
the frying pan. He hears
her swear at the spill.
He hears the hot surface
spit and settle. He smells
the slight, accidental burn.

3
Soon, he stretches, facing
her buttered meal, her test,
her syrup, her small spoons
and dull forks, and under
the blinding table lights,
they echo-chew. Sometimes,

4
fights happen. Voices carry
over hardwood floors,
but after the silence, later,
someone or the world
gives in. Pulling his robe
close, he thinks hard-fast,
trying to focus, bringing back

5
details. Last night, she whitened
her teeth and slept like a baby.
Garbage night. Like always,
when she rested her head
on the pillow, he kissed her
first. He is the quiet type.

C.A. MacConnell

The Claw and the Owl

Noon. Grocery. Me, alone, with a full cart. One of those half-carts, not the biggun. On the way out.

So I'm standing in front of the STUFFED ANIMAL CLAW MACHINE, where I am the undisputed, ultimate champion, as you will see from my last CLAW entry if you click here, but I shake my head because that bastard Johnny "Two Fingers" Claw (guy who fills the machine) stuffed those animals in good and deep this time.

I try to win anyway, even though I know it won't happen, but there is this "nearly-winning-angle-lonely" monkey, and one poodle that's definitely "iffy;" so I think I might get lucky, but alas, today is not the day.

I know I should always follow my gut.

Today you win, Johnny, you dick.

No worries. I'll be back for more, and I'll wait 'til the timing is perfect. Defeated, I start to roll on outta there, but then I hear a quiet, high-pitched voice say, "I never see anyone win at that thing," which is a comment that always makes me smile.

I turn to check out the curious onlooker.

The voice is attached to one of those "sample" ladies, I call them...she's standing behind a table, selling phones or groceries or some garb, trying to get everyone's info, but she suddenly seems much more interested in THE CLAW and me than she is in her sales job.

I know the feeling, sample lady.

"I win all the time," I state, grinning. "I knew I wouldn't win today, but I did it anyway." I shrug. "There's a trick to it."

"Really?" she says, raising her brows. She walks over to the machine, standing next to me.

"Yeah, you see that monkey? If he was angled back a little, I could get him," I state.

She nods, listening intently.

"And you see that poodle? If she were tilted forward some, I could get her for sure."

"I see," she says.

"And those tigers and monsters. No one will ever get those. They're too flat and smooth. Might as well not even try," I comment.

"Ah, yes, so it has to have a clear-cut head," she says.

"Exactly." I point at the back of the machine. "See, no one's ever gonna get that owl. It's so cool, though; it has a mustache, so everyone's gonna try and get it, but they won't. He's too big and too smooth and too flat. Who's ever seen an owl with a mustache?"

"It is cool," she says, nodding.

"But no one will ever get it. It's too big and heavy for the claw," I explain.

She curls her bottom lip under. "Yeah," she agrees.

"Unless..." Both my eyebrows raise excitedly.

"Unless what?" The lady says, smiling brightly.

"Well, you could hook the claw on that owl's tag...just so...and it might work," I state. "But you'd have to hit it just right, hm. Might work."

"It might," she says, cheering me on.

Our CLAW study is so intense, it's as if we're discussing plays for the Super Bowl.

While we're planning strategies, at least ten people walk by her table, and she misses a bunch of possible sales.

My frozen meals are thawing, and I totally ignore the work that's waiting for me at home. At this point, I'm intrigued and obsessed with the unbelievable, elusive owl.

"How many have you won?" she asks me, looking at me as if I'm a celebrity she has waited twenty years to meet.

"Oh, tons. I give them to kids," I say. "Well, I kept two."

"Which ones?" she asks excitedly.

"A monkey and a lion."

"Good choice," she says, looking around. "If I don't get back to my sales, I'm totally gonna get fired."

I nod and say, "Oh yeah, me too. Got a ton of writing to do, but there's that owl to deal with. Can't let go of that owl just yet."

She nods, and then she finally returns to her sales table.

I look at the machine, studying the owl's position. I know I need to get home and get back to work, but I can't resist those big eyes -- the uncertainty, and the untapped potential, the dream of the owl, and I throw out my day's schedule for the thrill of the machine. I glance at the sample lady, then back at the CLAW. Pulling out two quarters, I slide them in and think, Now that someone else is in on it, I don't feel so alone. If I hit it right on the money, I think that owl just might be possible.

Bet you want to know if I got it. But the fun isn't in winning. It's in the mystery.
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Little Miami

Little Miami River

C.A. MacConnell