F'n Rad Painter.

Back in the 90s, I used to get completely shitfaced on whatever, and then I'd pull out my art supplies and paint all kinds of crazy-ass, horrific pictures. I used spray paint, acrylics, oils, whatever the fuck I grabbed. I thought I was Picasso or some art god, and I worried I might have to take off an ear or a toe to prove it.

Well, around that time, near Christmas, on one of my manic, booze-induced art sprees, I painted gruesome pictures for everyone in the family, as well as for some others who I barely knew. At the time, I was so fucked up that to me, they appeared to be absolute genius. I even framed and wrapped the monsters, and when I handed them over to my lucky recipients, my face was a proud, beaming beacon of light (mixed with downers and uppers).

One particular drawing was supposed to be an utterly unique portrayal of a certain musician; however, I drew his mouth so close to the microphone, it looked like he was blowing....you get the drift. Deep, let me tell you.

A few months back, Mom whipped out one of my old paintings (yes, she had it in the basement). It was supposed to be a painting of her, but it sort of resembled a dead Gidget doll (the Sally Field version), and it was about at the five year old level, but it was much creepier than any kid could do.

In the family, I am now a supreme legend as the worst painter/drawer they have ever seen. I even tried taking classes, and after a while the teachers just shook their heads and left me alone. I heard things such as this:

"Lighten up, MacConnell."

and

"Hm, why don't you just go with that. I'll be back."

And he never came back.

Here is my one actual masterpiece:


Yes, that's right. This one is the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. If anyone wants his/her portait done, I'm open for biz. I know one person that might jump at that chance. He's seen some of my award-winning, genius work.

C.A. MacConnell

Under the Covers

Near Short Vine, me and Susan chill and smoke up
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.

C.A. MacConnell

We Were Going Up

A while back, I was in the elevator at a clinic, and there was this dark-haired kid who soon joined me. He was in a wheel chair, and his mom was pushing him, tucking him into the last empty space in the back. She seemed nervous about brushing against people. Well, everyone was edgy as hell. Isn't that always true about elevators? There's some kind of unspoken "Don't touch me or I'll kill you" rule.

So the elevator was packed, which always makes me nervous, because I, for one, hate the idea of brushing up against someone. Man. It's not really the actual touch that's bad -- it's the anticipation of the possible touch that's bad. The terrible wait for the inevitable accidental shirt sleeve hitting my coat. Shiver.

Anyway, we were going up. Well, we were supposed to be. See, right after we were all set, and all of our correct buttons had been pressed by Suit Man, and we were packed in there like candy in a dish, this blond lady squished her body inside and yelled, "Can you press 'floor one' for me?"

Suit Man growled and pressed the button for her.

With that, the kid in the wheel chair shrugged, looked at Blond Lady right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then he started cracking up.

I laughed too. Shit, we all wanted to say it. He was just the only one brave enough to bust out with the choice words. We were jam packed, someone smelled like ass, the weather had been horrible, and for sure, no one was visiting the clinic for any reason that was remotely enjoyable, and here was this woman squeezing her ass on our ride, looking to go down, when we were going up. So yeah, we all wanted to say it.

The kid looked at her and said it again. "Fuck you." Then he really started howling.

I did too. My nose started running. I looked around. A few others had some muffled chuckles going on, but the kid and I were really letting loose.

Then the kid's mom said to him, "Stop it. That's not nice."

From his wheelchair, the kid shrugged again and stared up at me, beaming.

I held up my thumb at him, beaming back at my partner in crime.

When we finally made it to our floor, number four, the kid and I slid on into the waiting room at the same time.

Then I saw the back of his head. A thin scar, a bald patch, stretched from the crown of his head all the way to his neck. Either brain surgery or trauma, I wasn't sure. But what struck me was that there we were, seeing docs for whatever random issues (and obviously he had some serious issues going on), but in that moment in the elevator, none of the physical bullshit really mattered. Our separate lives didn't matter. Our separate problems didn't matter. What mattered was one brave jokester (ironically, the most physically impaired one there), and one shared laugh. Perhaps our laugh was at Blond Lady's expense but hell, sister, we were going up.

When I feel my gut, my heart, my soul tell me what's right, regardless of the crowd, I gotta leave a few behind, join people like this kid, and head for the laughter and the light. See, I want to live my life fully, love, and focus on my dreams, not stay stuck in my head. Change is all around me. Onward and upward,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Argo the Dog

Argo the Dog

C.A. MacConnell

Griffin Farm on Sale, Paperback and Ebook

Hi there, world. My first novel, GRIFFIN FARM, is on sale, just for you and you and you. :) Tell your friends, your family, the guy down at Speedway, your dog, your snake, whoever! You get the drift.

The paperback is only $12.45 new, and it's a lovely creation if I do say so myself. The Kindle version will be a mere $5.95 later tomorrow...still processing at the moment. I wrote, edited, and designed the whole sucker myself, so I'm very proud of this novel. 100% little old me. Many years in the making, that's for sure.

Go here for more details on ordering. There's a full preview, including a few sample pages, so you can check it out (and get hooked! you will, I promise). Also included are reader reviews of the work.

Thanks to anyone who has read it, and if you did, I'd be extremely grateful if you would write a review for me on the site. So far, in person and on the net, the feedback has been magnificent.

Grateful for supporters of my art. Always.
Love, C.A.

Horror Show: SPEECH 1

For the past ten years or so, I've done a lot of advocacy work, and I've given many talks in front of groups, both large and small. These days, I love being in front of people, speaking, and doing this work; it's probably my favorite thing to do. But what's strange is that all growing up, I was painfully shy, incredibly introverted, and I was absolutely terrified of public speaking. Terrified. I wanted nothing to do with it.

Unfortunately, in high school, I was horrified when I accidentally signed up for a public speaking class called, SPEECH 1. When I was choosing electives, I marked the box for SPEECH 1, but I meant to pick POTTERY 1. Everyone wanted to take POTTERY for obvious reasons -- it was in a different building, so we could walk slow and goof off on our way there, the teacher often had red eyes and said she had "something stuck in her eye," and we could make things like a penis vase without the nuns realizing it. Anyway, by the time I went to change my schedule, of course the hippieland of POTTERY was full, and all of the other electives were full, so there I was, stuck for an entire quarter in the horror show also known as SPEECH 1.

When it came time for our first speech, while madly preparing, my stomach had been in knots for weeks and for some reason, the teacher reminded me of a crazed parrot, which didn't help matters. The first assignment was similar to an acting class; we had to create a three-minute character sketch. Three whole minutes. That night, I guess I saw Jerry Springer on T.V., I dunno, but I picked him as my character. At the time, I think he had a mustache, or maybe I just felt his "inner mustache." So when it came time for the speech, I wore a big, thick, fake mustache.

I hobbled on up to the podium, literally shaking as I went. It started off all right, although I was sort of stuttering. Suddenly, about one minute into the speech, the mustache slid down and got half-stuck in my mouth. I reached up to fix it, but by then, a bunch of hairs were stuck in my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just did what was natural. I stopped the speech, and I started spitting and picking hairs off of my tongue. This lasted for about one entire minute.

The whole class was rolling. Everyone thought I was doing it on purpose, so I kept spitting out hairs and really owning the character. By the time I was done with my three minutes, they thought I was a genius.

Well, I made it through SPEECH 1, and I recall my final speech, a "persuasion" speech, was a fifteen minute rant on the anti-fur movement. The last line was this:  "Fur isn't cool. It's cruel." We weren't allowed to dress up for that one, but I totally wanted to wear a bear suit.

Anyway, I made it out of SPEECH 1 alive, but I still didn't like speaking until I was at Hollins University for college. Poetry and fiction readings were weekly performances really, even if they didn't seem like it, and for sure, these events involved a lot of whiskey. After attending a slew of them, I realized that authors often used this weird tone that rose at the end of lines for emphasis, stuff like that. So I'd show up half-wasted, wearing all black (and black Chucks of course), and I'd really use my voice to hammer home "deep lines." I totally embraced that high brow madness. I ate it up.

Weird, the last time I gave a talk, which was two weeks ago, it came out damn raw and afterwards, I felt quite exposed. It's not always like that, but for some reason, I was in a mood. Speaking of moods, here's a picture of the cool, Vertigo-ish stairs in the Moody Student Center at Hollins University:



Pretty rad. Hey, I'm giving a talk tonight actually. Wish me luck. Don't think I'll wear a fake mustache this time. I learned my lesson. A mustache is damn hard to pull off; however, just to be creative and embrace the memories, I may slip in some anti-fur propaganda.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Man, I should totally be an script editor on TV or a movie or some crap. I could iron that shit out, just sayin.

Photo: Boa

Boa

I love snakes. Misunderstood I believe.

C.A. MacConnell

One Year Anniversary: GRIFFIN FARM

Hi there, we're celebrating the one year anniversary of my debut novel, GRIFFIN FARM. Actually, it's been a little over a year, but it still calls for a celebration! If you haven't checked it out yet, you can find it HERE ON AMAZON, paperback or Ebook. I've been getting amazing feedback, and I'm very grateful for everyone's support. Thank you readers! Thanks so much for taking a chance on my art. Love to you this beautiful day, C.A. MacConnell

Lexington

Raw

Singer, you gave me
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.

C.A. MacConnell

Only a Few More Run-Throughs on THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! Sexy.

Dear everyone:

Here's a silly little video for you about my writing process, ha. In reality, I am thrilled to say that I am very close to finishing THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my second book. Let's see...currently, I am on p. 37 of 405, revision nine. Only a few more run-throughs to go. And then comes the process of seeking the right agent and publisher. Sweet. Whatever happens with this, here's the way I see it:  setting an unbelievable, lofty goal, plugging away at it, and finishing book #2 is no small deal! Also, this thing is chock full of rich brilliance. The story is so crafty, so layered, definitely hard to resist, and fast-paced. The characters are absolutely colorful and engaging. And sexy.

I am so pleased with how this monster of a novel turned out! To me, it is like entering another world. So keep your fingers and toes crossed for me as I go forward from here. I'm sure gonna need some energy, luck, you name it! Dayum, I put in the time, endless work, many years of focusing on the craft, the schooling, the living, and on and on. So in my heart I know I've done (and am doing) my part.

And that feels rad.

Hope you are happy. Hope you feel a lot of love in your heart. I do.

C.A. MacConnell

Book Release #2. GRIFFIN FARM NOW ON KINDLE.

Hi there. Well, got it all set to go for you eBook lovers. Now you can purchase my book, GRIFFIN FARM, in electronic form at the link here. Damn, this publishing experience has taught me so much! Now I see how important it was for me to get this work out there, and I also feel that it was necessary for me to wade through the whole time-consuming process all by my lonesome. Sometimes I learn best by diving into the madness. And now it all feels pretty slick. In case you haven't noticed, "slick" is one of my favorite words. There's even a horse in the book named "Slick." And I once rode a real horse named Slick, and man, he was gorgeous -- a handsome, wild, black thoroughbred. At the time, I had no idea what I was doing. I just hung on, feeling the wind. Sometimes life is like that, eh?

Hang on, feel the wind.

Well, I hope some people relate to and/or learn from this book. I wholly believe that the story is engaging and so far, the most consistent comments are the following:

I can't put it down.
It's intense. I'm hooked.
Man, that chapter was a surprise.

There are a lot of levels buried in this sucker if you take a closer look, just sayin'. That's all I'll say. Enough of that. Anyway, if you haven't read the work yet, give it a try online now if you like...it's all ready to go.

Now, time to move on to my next project. I am so excited!  Onward and upward! Have a beautiful day! Hope you get a chance to check out my book!

Slick, slick, slick,
C.A. MacConnell

Griffin Farm Now Available.

Click here to purchase Griffin Farm. Now available in paperback, special holiday preview edition. Will be available online in the weeks to come. Look for info on book signing events and other interesting adventures in near future. Thanks so much. Hope you enjoy the book. Merry Christmas to you...from me and Kylin the cat.

Love,

C.A. MacConnell

All for Show: Full Circle

They say some things live in the blood, you know. Just the other day, I was taking a walk, and I randomly ran into one of my first riding instructors. It was a quick encounter that immediately sent me back in time. Reminiscing about horse people and barns, I thought about my first horse show, which was a true disaster, and the memory of it made me start cracking up in my car...

I was little, in the four foot tall range, and I was supposed to ride this small, chestnut gelding, a schoolhorse named Blazen Two Socks, who was a pretty good fit for my stubby legs. Usually, he wasn't too difficult to maneuver. The horse was appropriately named, since he had a pronounced white blaze and two white socks. He wasn't complicated, but the little guy definitely wasn't my favorite, and I think he sensed that. Late Night, a calm, sweet, dark bay gelding, and Honda, a little, wild, neurotic, white gelding, were my favorites, but neither of those guys did jumping lessons for some reason (probably for good reason).

Now, schoolhorses at Red Fox Stables were usually extremely reliable; the staff was ultra-experienced and utterly careful, but when dealing with horses, of course there was always the unknown factor. Seems that old Blazen had a few secret tricks stored up in his compact body.

We had been practicing for weeks, and I had the course down, so I thought. The day before the show, we had a "schooling session," otherwise known as practice. Waiting behind the indoor ring, the students sat on their horses, checking stirrup length, tightening girths, and trying to stay still. No one wanted his/her horse to shift too close to someone else's. No one wanted a horse fight. Still, horses pinned back their ears here and there, flattening them, looking tough. And yeah, some creatures let out half-hearted kicks and squeals. The people didn't talk much. I was mute, and as was my custom, I was way too intense.

Usually, the instructors didn't open the enormous indoor ring back door, but that day, with great effort, the staff slid it wide open so we could practice coming in the back one at a time. In the real show, we'd have to enter this way. It was my turn to practice, so I trotted right into the indoor ring, then picked up a canter, and Blazen and I practiced the jumping course like superstars. Well, at first. After the last jump, old Blazen was pretty bored and/or excited about his performance, so instead of calmly stopping and walking outside to join the rest of the riders and horses, Blazen went momentarily insane, madly galloping out the back door, running smack into several horses, shaking everybody up. That's right, everyone was yelling at me, pissed as hell. 

I held on until Blazen jumped over a huge ditch, and my little body went flying right into the ditch. Like a cartoon character, I sat there shaking my head, confused and embarrassed. I checked my arms and legs, moving everything. My body seemed to be working all right, so I sat there, chilling in the ditch, covered with mud. Like a wild mustang stallion, Blazen ran off to freedomland. No worries. Someone tracked him down before he got flattened by a semi truck barreling down Route 50.

The instructors mulled it over, and I guess they felt sorry for me, so they decided to give me a new horse for the show day. Old Blazen went back to his stall where he belonged, but that guy had a shit-eating grin on his muzzle, I swear. Now the new plan was for me to ride Redford -- not because he was awesome, but because no one wanted to ride him. On the ground, Redford was known for being mean as hell. Like Blazen, Redford was also appropriately named; he was a strange pinkish, godawful red color. Part draft horse and part dinosaur, Redford was damn ugly and huge. Well, his head was huge, and it was definitely out of proportion to his body. To me, since I was so vertically challenged, he looked like a red monster. I'd heard that Redford bit people when they tried to tack him up, but I knew that once I got up on his back, there shouldn't be too many problems other than that he was super slow. Usually, a rider had to start up a jet plane under Redford's ass just to get him to trot. Usually. 

Now, since my adventures with Blazen took a lot of time, I wasn't able to practice on Redford the day before. So the plan was that I would just show him cold turkey the next day. Well, the next morning, the morning of the big show, since Redford was so damn slow, the instructors handed me a crop, told me to canter him around fast, and then they sent me off to the side ring to gear up Redford for the ride. Get his attention, were the last instructions I heard. Well, I suppose I did a good job getting his attention because when the time came for me to ride Redford in the show ring, that horse was freaking flying. I remember hanging on to his mane, feeling the wind in my face even though we were in an indoor ring. Basically, throughout the course, I didn't do anything at all. I didn't move. I didn't steer. I was frozen, hanging on to that mane. Really, he did the course all on his own. Good thing he knew where to go. How, I have no idea.

At a hunter horse show, a course is usually comprised of eight jumps; that usually means four "lines." A "line" means one jump followed by another, and there are a certain number of canter strides that you must do in between the jumps in the line. Well, where we were supposed to do five strides, we did four (or a little less) each time, which means that we were going so fast, Redford took up some amazing ground. I finished the jumps, and we exited the ring like champs, but I was still clutching his mane. My fingers were bluish.

When I went out the back door, the instructors all looked at me in shock; their mouths all turned into big "O's." I heard things such as this:

"Wow, that was fast! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."

"I've never seen Redford go that fast, ever."
"You looked like a speedy peanut up there!"
"Whoa."
"Oh my god."

"Whoa."

"Oh my god."

"Whoa."
"For the love of god, what was that?"

And then there were all of the grins, chuckles, and out-right cackles.

No one had ever seen Redford go that fast, and I don't think anyone had ever seen any of the schoolhorses go that fast either. One of the barn workers held Redford while I joined my parents in the barn lounge; they were cheering like crazy. See, they thought the whole point was to be the fastest, and they assumed that I was a child prodigy at riding. But with hunters, the whole point is not to go fast at all. The point is to canter in a nice, smooth rhythm, jump the lines correctly at a sane speed, and get the right striding. To put it bluntly -- I totally screwed it up and none of us had any idea. Basically, it was so bad, it was as if I scored a basket for the other basketball team, and my parents and I were clueless.

Now, later in life I learned about showing and striding and all that, but what I remember most about that first horse show was the speed, the fun, and how ridiculously excited we all were about the horrible ride. That's right, we were oblivious to the reality that my performance was absolutely hilarious. That day, it didn't really matter. Since I didn't know any better, I was just beaming at my ride, my light speed course. In some ways, not knowing was a gift.

Weirdly, I ended up getting third place; this was because the people in 4th, 5th, and 6th place had some major issues that were way worse than mine...like they probably knocked jumps over or trotted by accident. And I believe someone's helmet went flying off and landed in the ring dirt. But I was still pretty proud of my yellow ribbon. When I returned to Redford and showed him our winnings, Redford had a pained, angry look, and I knew he just wanted to go back to his stall and eat. Alas, I didn't feel like the horse whisperer, but I had my damn yellow ribbon, so I gave him a pat on the neck and thanked the jerk.

When I returned to the barn lounge, the older kids were cracking up, all whispering about my terrible, speed demon ride. Hearing them, I started coming to, realizing my ride was all wrong, but in my heart, I also knew that it was still the beginning of something, so I shrugged and clutched my yellow ribbon, checking out the snacks, feeling stubborn. And I thought to myself, I'll show you.

However awkward it was, it was definitely a beginning. Sucking at my first show made me work all the harder. And because I had to work hard at it, I didn't even realize it, but I was slowly learning how to pass on the wisdom of many trials and errors. I was learning how to become a good teacher. At fifteen, at the very same farm, I started teaching kids and adults. Years later, I was an assistant trainer there, and I got to watch my students practice for their first horse shows. Full circle. Hey now, wouldn't that be a good name for a horse? Has a nice ring to it...Full Circle. Hm...

Redford wasn't such a bad guy. Simply, he was making his way in the world like the rest of us, and I have a soft spot for him now. Thinking back, something has occurred to me -- Redford took care of me that day, and he did exactly what he was told to do. I took him to the side ring to wake him up, and he responded. Despite his rough looks, and although all throughout the barn he was known for his resentful attitude, wild eyes, and rumored biting and kicking, I think it was all for show. He never tried to hurt me. Not once.

C.A. MacConnell

Moving Forward with My Debut Novel

Well, here it is, fresh off of the presses (my shitty printer). Of course it took me all day to get the damn thing working, and then I ran out of ink, but now it's all good. At the moment, it's 349 pages. I will go through it once more, and then wrestle with the self-publication process. Actually, this whole deal has taken me years -- living, writing, revising, contacting people, putting it down, writing more, revising, talking with writers, getting feedback, revising, and on and on. Many years of work. But I suppose it's all been worth it because now I feel like the time is right. Now I'm ready.

C.A. MacConnell

Griffin Farm Update

Currently, I have reached page 294 of revisions for Griffin Farm, which will be my debut novel. Still have a little ways to go, but the revisions are going well; changes are mostly small. After I finish this revision, I'll go over it once or twice more, reading it out loud as a hard copy version. Then I will put it out there for sale in book form (which I still prefer since I am a dinosaur when it comes to technology). Of course, for you people who are living in this century, it will also be available electronically.

Once I get all this ridiculous shit ironed out, if anyone has any suggestions for promotion, I'd be all ears. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, but I'm always looking for suggestions in this area. Send 'em my way -- any information would be helpful. Eventually, I'll also be looking for a venue for a reading to release it officially. If you have ideas on this, I'd love to know that as well.

Just reaching out, taking it one step at a time.

Rockin, I'm fucking stoked,

C.A. MacConnell

Flakey's Baby

One of my favorite horses at the Loveland farm where I worked was called Flakey. We were pretty tight. I really loved the guy, now that I think about it. He was obsessive and nervous at times, but he tried so hard every single day, and I could relate, so I had an enormous soft spot for him. Now, Flakey was a lesson horse, but he'd travel to some smaller shows here and there, so every now and then he had his turn in the spotlight. Not sure that he cared about that or even liked it, but the look on his face told me he enjoyed showing off here and there.

All the kids thought he was just a rather cute white horse, not spectacular, but endearing. He got his fair share of apples and carrots. But when I washed him, I could see that underneath his white fur, his skin was multi-colored, which meant that technically, he was a Paint horse, and he had a free-spirited side to match his Paint lines.

Flakey worked his heart out for the kids; he was a superb lesson horse, but he also had his quirks, as all the horses did. So as the teacher, there were a few things about Flakey I had to remember (or else):

1. When presented with a new, strange jump, like a green rolltop or especially a jump with flowers, Flakey would freak out and jump straight up about four feet in the air to make sure he cleared it. The horse was terrified of flowers. So I never used these kinds of jumps with the kids, unless it was a whiney kid. Joking.

2. Flakey was kind of neurotic about change. Stick him in a lesson where everything just rolled along as usual, and he was awesome. Add a random raccoon or thunderstorm, and you might have a problem. So if I noticed some kind of weird happening, I made sure to have the kid dismount so as not to get flattened by a spooky horse. But I usually knew when he was going to spook. He'd do this little dance and give a warning, so it was all good. Flakey liked a lot of reassurance. It was this little game he played with me.

3. Flakey was incredibly protective of other horses.

I found out #3 by chance one day when I was teaching a lesson to three kids in the outdoor ring. It was a sunny, peaceful Saturday afternoon, and it was one of my last lessons for the day. The horses were all tired, and I was worn out too. Well, suddenly Flakey started to jump around a little. He was doing that "something's not normal" dance, and the kid on top of him was starting to get scared.

I looked around. Didn't see anything. There was no storm coming, no rabid dog in the ring, no crazy possum, nothing like that. I was baffled, but just to be safe, I told the kid to jump down from Flakey, because I knew something was a little off.

So she jumped down, but unfortunately, she also let go of the reins. The other horses, Buddy and Cliff, just stood there basking in the sun while Flakey suddenly turned into some kind of wild stallion, running across the ring, standing at the edge of the fence, raising his nose into the air, whinnying fiercely.

At that moment, a crazed filly came tearing across one of our fields, whinnying back. Now, this was strange as hell, because we didn't have any young horses at the farm, so it wasn't ours. Anyway, the little lady was running at full speed and Flakey jumped right on out of the ring, stopping her. Then he trotted circles around her, nuzzling her here and there, letting her know he was in charge.

The kid that had been riding Flakey shouted, "It's Flakey's baby!"

I started laughing, saying, "Yes, he found his baby." I didn't have the heart to tell her that Flakey was a boy, and he was a gelding, so there was no possible way it could be his baby, but I just let all the kids think that he had found his long lost baby.

I watched Flakey dance around, protecting that filly, and it was clear to me that his "Paint" side was coming out that day. He thought he was a wild west Paint stallion, protecting his young, and it reminded me that no amount of lessons for humans could take away his fierce wild soul.

It was beautiful to watch.

Anyway, eventually we figured out that the filly had gotten loose from a farm down the road, and we returned her to her owners. And of course, Flakey went back to work and finished the kid's lesson. But I could see a new spark in his eye as he cantered around the ring. It was as if he was saying, Hey, I am doing these lessons for you, but it's just because I like you all right, and the truth is, I could be free anytime I want to be. I am a Paint, and I am still free. Free.

Indeed. Free. I suppose we all are free if we want to be. I miss you, pal.

C.A. MacConnell