C.A. MacConnell
11/30/2015
11/27/2015
Nature's Schoolteacher
Cappy
Nature's Schoolteacher
I believe that with some horses, or maybe all horses, when you approach them for the first time, there exists an extraordinary moment and in that first moment, when you draw near to the animal and perhaps look into the penetrating eye, breathe close to or inside the nose, stand beside the chest, or ride him for the first time, in that remarkable instant, I believe that the horse has the ability to see and feel some or all of your past experiences through flashes of images, scents, and dream-like visions, and if the horse wishes to open up completely, he can sense your entire history as it stands up until the present, and it strikes him with a force; he is suddenly aware of your (and any human's) entire nature -- even the biggest joys and deepest pains -- and the horse knows, right away, on a level man cannot comprehend, what it is that makes you who you are, and drawing from what he knows, the horse reacts accordingly, responding to these senses and visions, whether it be in a positive or negative light, and the crucial, initial moment of connection determines the course of the relationship forever, meaning the dynamic of the bond, and the entire relationship remains the same unless horse or rider (or both), suddenly and strangely shift, opening up to the idea of humility and overall, when both surrender, learn, and let go, there is a partnership of true understanding that is difficult to duplicate.
Each creature is nature's schoolteacher for humankind.
And when it comes to true understanding -- herein enters the idea of the soul mate.
C.A. MacConnell
11/16/2015
11/15/2015
White T-Shirt with Black Writing
Paris, France apartment, 2015
I don't know what I'm going to do with
It.
This
Shirt.
See it on the bed.
It's covered
With blood.
Whose blood is it? It's monstrous
What a bullet can
Do. I think I'll put
It away.
It's covered. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
They were shooting, and they wouldn't
Stop.
All I remember is that
Man,
The man in red, and those hands,
His hands.
With all of his strength, with the greatest reach alive,
He grabbed my arms and lifted me up and
Out. But
This shirt.
It's
Covered.
I don't know what I'm going to do
With it.
I think I'll put it
Away.
C.A. MacConnell
I don't know what I'm going to do with
It.
This
Shirt.
See it on the bed.
It's covered
With blood.
Whose blood is it? It's monstrous
What a bullet can
Do. I think I'll put
It away.
It's covered. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
They were shooting, and they wouldn't
Stop.
All I remember is that
Man,
The man in red, and those hands,
His hands.
With all of his strength, with the greatest reach alive,
He grabbed my arms and lifted me up and
Out. But
This shirt.
It's
Covered.
I don't know what I'm going to do
With it.
I think I'll put it
Away.
C.A. MacConnell
11/10/2015
Photo: Long Stretch
Long Stretch
I know it's just a simple tree shot, but I find it fascinating and beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
11/04/2015
11/02/2015
10/31/2015
Photos: Haunted Slide Show
Beware! Here is my haunted slide show for the day. Enter at your own risk. Love, C.A.
Happy Halloween!
C.A. MacConnell
10/13/2015
The Body: It Carries Us Whole
I admit that I like to perform – to speak or read in front of crowds. I find that these types of experiences energize me but ironically, I also have a strong internal critic that's a real bear. Every day, I fight it, and I’m sure everyone experiences this negative dialogue to an extent -- some worse than others. When it gets bad, I call people, walk, move, move, move. Riding horses used to help me a great deal. Baths, meditating, being with animals, being with nature, helping others, enjoying art, sex, laughter, acting like a goofball -- all of these things provide temporary relief.
Or I write to you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
Or I write to you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
10/09/2015
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
flash comedy
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
In Vietnam, "Ciao" means "Hello."
Bruce does my sister's nails. He plays an acoustic/electric guitar. "You play?" he asks me.
"I mess around on guitar and piano," I answer.
"You don't look like your sister. Her hair is blond, and yours is black," he says.
"Well, mine's supposed to be lighter, and hers is supposed to be darker," I answer.
All around, all the guys mutter, "Oh."
Bruce nods. Bruce is married, but he plays a guitar, and he's hot. Always confusing.
I am not married, and I play guitar and piano. Even more confusing to Ken, who is also married, the one who usually does my nails (when I go once a year), but he isn't there. Ken has a 90-year-old client who has a crush on him, so she gave him a plastic toy -- a white rabbit with sunglasses, a creepy rabbit driving a blue sports car. It rolls. Neither Ken nor I could ever figure out the meaning of the thing. I guess Ken got fired or left though, because when I mention his name, the guys act like they have no idea who he is, but the rabbit is still there. Baffling.
The guy who does my nails won't tell me his name, and he claims he's sixteen, but Bruce whispers to me that he's really twenty-six. I ask my guy if he is in the mob.
He responds, "Do I look like I'm in the mob?"
I say, "No, but I bet you're a ladies man. You married?"
He says, "No, look at this," and he rubs the small roll on his belly.
I laugh and ask, "I like it. What did you eat?"
He cracks up and says, "Pizza, pork skin fried, so good. I like to sit at the T.V. and eat and eat." He makes a gesture with his hand as if it's a spoon, and he's scooping up the world. Then he asks, "You work today? What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I say.
Bruce yells over. "Make sure you write about me. Make sure you tell them I play guitar."
I mull it over and answer, "You're married. I'm writing about the pork skin, and the white rabbit."
-- C.A. MacConnell
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
In Vietnam, "Ciao" means "Hello."
Bruce does my sister's nails. He plays an acoustic/electric guitar. "You play?" he asks me.
"I mess around on guitar and piano," I answer.
"You don't look like your sister. Her hair is blond, and yours is black," he says.
"Well, mine's supposed to be lighter, and hers is supposed to be darker," I answer.
All around, all the guys mutter, "Oh."
Bruce nods. Bruce is married, but he plays a guitar, and he's hot. Always confusing.
I am not married, and I play guitar and piano. Even more confusing to Ken, who is also married, the one who usually does my nails (when I go once a year), but he isn't there. Ken has a 90-year-old client who has a crush on him, so she gave him a plastic toy -- a white rabbit with sunglasses, a creepy rabbit driving a blue sports car. It rolls. Neither Ken nor I could ever figure out the meaning of the thing. I guess Ken got fired or left though, because when I mention his name, the guys act like they have no idea who he is, but the rabbit is still there. Baffling.
The guy who does my nails won't tell me his name, and he claims he's sixteen, but Bruce whispers to me that he's really twenty-six. I ask my guy if he is in the mob.
He responds, "Do I look like I'm in the mob?"
I say, "No, but I bet you're a ladies man. You married?"
He says, "No, look at this," and he rubs the small roll on his belly.
I laugh and ask, "I like it. What did you eat?"
He cracks up and says, "Pizza, pork skin fried, so good. I like to sit at the T.V. and eat and eat." He makes a gesture with his hand as if it's a spoon, and he's scooping up the world. Then he asks, "You work today? What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I say.
Bruce yells over. "Make sure you write about me. Make sure you tell them I play guitar."
I mull it over and answer, "You're married. I'm writing about the pork skin, and the white rabbit."
-- C.A. MacConnell
10/07/2015
A 'Tit'illating Morning
Man, this would make the funniest SNL skit.
A 'Tit'illating Morning
A while back, I was at the doctor's office, chilling in the waiting room, reading a Science magazine about the deep, dark workings of the brain. The writing was dry as hell and man, it was quiet in there. The room was packed, and I was deep into reading my article (skimming and popping my gum), when I heard a loud voice announce this: "Hello everyone! I'm here!"
Startled, I looked up.
The voluptuous, loud woman fiercely smiled. Red-faced and perky, she held her tiny newborn baby in a body sling. Swinging her body from one side of the room to the other, she searched for a place to sit.
Well I assumed that's what she was doing. Not the case.
People moved to get up, but the woman shook her head, turning them down on the "here, lady with baby, take my seat" gesture. She waved her arms, swinging that baby around, nearly bowling people over.
I was confused, but oh so intrigued.
Then, without warning, the woman whipped out what appeared to be a 100-pound breast, showing the saucer-sized nipple and all to the world. She stuck the gargantuan nipple in her baby's mouth, and then she proceeded to walk around, talking to people, swinging her large body, the Planet of Boob, and the tiny, sling-bound baby all over the room. She nearly smashed the watermelon-sized milk sack into my face. This was not a case of some woman nursing her baby in a quiet corner, oh no. This woman was standing in the center of the waiting room with a completely visible mammoth-sized tit, and she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about it.
I looked around. Dude with the People Magazine kept his face buried in his reading. His face was as red as a baboon's ass. Others just looked up and smiled.
Nearly shouting, tit lady walked over to chat it up with the nurses, while that disc of a nipple popped in and out of the baby's mouth. Greeting everyone in the room, the woman then bantered with the nurses about her appointment and all the while, she moved, swung, catapulted, and fired that boob around. It was as if that knocker had a life of its own. For a moment, I wondered if that tit had eyes and a mouth. When the nipple fell out of the baby's mouth, the mother laughed, stuck that amazing teat, her nipple planet, back in its place and then, led by her chest, she moved to chat it up with another waiter.
I thought the poor baby might choke, but he/she seemed as happy as hell. Who wouldn't be thrilled with that never-ending supply of nutrition? Suck, suck, gurgle, gurgle. The sucking sound echoed throughout the waiting room. I was mesmerized by Baby Momma, but it was time for me to see the doc, so I rose up, taking one last look at the size Z boob, wondering if the woman would squirt milk all over the room in some kind of Wild Kingdom protest, but all she did was swing around and chat, swing around and chat.
Cantaloupes, honeydews. I got to thinking, how do women find bras for that kind of thing? I certainly had no idea. I'm all for breast feeding in public, oh yeah, but this bold woman could have easily fed a small nation with one squirt of her magnificent juice.
Mother Earth, in the flesh,
C.A. MacConnell
A 'Tit'illating Morning
A while back, I was at the doctor's office, chilling in the waiting room, reading a Science magazine about the deep, dark workings of the brain. The writing was dry as hell and man, it was quiet in there. The room was packed, and I was deep into reading my article (skimming and popping my gum), when I heard a loud voice announce this: "Hello everyone! I'm here!"
Startled, I looked up.
The voluptuous, loud woman fiercely smiled. Red-faced and perky, she held her tiny newborn baby in a body sling. Swinging her body from one side of the room to the other, she searched for a place to sit.
Well I assumed that's what she was doing. Not the case.
People moved to get up, but the woman shook her head, turning them down on the "here, lady with baby, take my seat" gesture. She waved her arms, swinging that baby around, nearly bowling people over.
I was confused, but oh so intrigued.
Then, without warning, the woman whipped out what appeared to be a 100-pound breast, showing the saucer-sized nipple and all to the world. She stuck the gargantuan nipple in her baby's mouth, and then she proceeded to walk around, talking to people, swinging her large body, the Planet of Boob, and the tiny, sling-bound baby all over the room. She nearly smashed the watermelon-sized milk sack into my face. This was not a case of some woman nursing her baby in a quiet corner, oh no. This woman was standing in the center of the waiting room with a completely visible mammoth-sized tit, and she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about it.
I looked around. Dude with the People Magazine kept his face buried in his reading. His face was as red as a baboon's ass. Others just looked up and smiled.
Nearly shouting, tit lady walked over to chat it up with the nurses, while that disc of a nipple popped in and out of the baby's mouth. Greeting everyone in the room, the woman then bantered with the nurses about her appointment and all the while, she moved, swung, catapulted, and fired that boob around. It was as if that knocker had a life of its own. For a moment, I wondered if that tit had eyes and a mouth. When the nipple fell out of the baby's mouth, the mother laughed, stuck that amazing teat, her nipple planet, back in its place and then, led by her chest, she moved to chat it up with another waiter.
I thought the poor baby might choke, but he/she seemed as happy as hell. Who wouldn't be thrilled with that never-ending supply of nutrition? Suck, suck, gurgle, gurgle. The sucking sound echoed throughout the waiting room. I was mesmerized by Baby Momma, but it was time for me to see the doc, so I rose up, taking one last look at the size Z boob, wondering if the woman would squirt milk all over the room in some kind of Wild Kingdom protest, but all she did was swing around and chat, swing around and chat.
Cantaloupes, honeydews. I got to thinking, how do women find bras for that kind of thing? I certainly had no idea. I'm all for breast feeding in public, oh yeah, but this bold woman could have easily fed a small nation with one squirt of her magnificent juice.
Mother Earth, in the flesh,
C.A. MacConnell
10/05/2015
The Perfect Round
As a preteen, one day, I was at the Kentucky Horse Park, and I was nervous because it was my first big show with my horse Rojo (Southern Accent). He was an experienced, 15'3 chestnut gelding, and Rojo was quite a
"packer," as we called them, meaning, he knew his job, and he always
seemed content with his mission, whether at home or at the shows. Ro was
kind, loving, upbeat, dependable, and always positive; he never held a
grudge.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
P.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
Me years later, as a Prof. Trainer
C.A. MacConnellP.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
10/02/2015
9/29/2015
The Fox Hunt
When I was very little, I started riding hunter/jumpers at a barn called Red Fox Stables, and I mainly jumped and showed in the rings, but I happened to make friends with some people who liked to fox hunt, so I agreed to go along with them one Saturday. I thought it was no big deal. Just bored and going along for the ride. I could take a little ride through the woods, I thought. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
No worries -- we didn't kill any foxes. Actually, fox hunts mainly involved a lot of drinking, howling hounds, dangerous, fast-paced, drunken stunts on horseback, fancy clothing, and running through crazy trails while following the lead of the even crazier hunt master. We never even saw a fox that day. Picture a massive herd of random riders equipped with flasks, a group of twenty-five or so hounds, no safety measures, and a bunch of huge obstacles in the way. At the horse shows, jumps were made of poles and other materials that would give and fall if a horse/rider team hit them, which was safer. At a fox hunt, the jumps were solid as hell, which meant that if a horse didn't make it over, both horse and rider were pretty much toast.
Despite the danger, everyone looked spiffy and polished -- makeup, top hats, well-pressed coats, shiny boots and all -- but it was a strange scene. Reminded me of old paintings, and I felt as if I were suddenly stuck inside of one, but in those paintings, the huntsmen always looked so calm and distinguished. In a real fox hunt, the sound of the people and hounds was earsplitting and the whole group moved so fast, I barely had a chance to breathe. Trees, mainly low-hanging branches, became the enemy. I knew that a sturdy branch could clothesline me. Dodge, duck, hang on. That was the way it went.
Most of the hunt riders didn't come from hunter/jumper farms, and they didn't show much, and they really didn't take a lot of lessons, if at all. Rather, they just saddled up every now and then for these events to dress up, be social, and have a random dangerous ride with friends. So to reiterate, there was the following scene: inexperienced riders with flasks of liquor, wild hounds, breakneck speed, huge obstacles, groups madly running through rough trails, and no real map or directions. Also, there were no cell phones at that time, so if anyone got hurt, too bad. The hunt must go on.
Four hours, this fox hunt lasted. I was riding a monster-sized draft horse named Shuttlebus, and although he was a kind teddy bear, and he really took care of me, old Shuttlebus was as wide as he was tall, and I was only about four feet tall, so you can imagine the back, leg, and hip pain I experienced after four hours of riding that massive creature. Picture a baby straddling a Cadillac. His tan face was so enormous, he looked like a large, stuffed dinosaur. I didn't take my horse, because he was unaccustomed to the noise, and I didn't want him to get hurt. Shuttlebus the machine was as mellow as they came, and he had been hunting before; he had no problem with the madness. My giant pillow for the day.
I came out of it alive, and I had fun because I had a great horse, but I never did it again. But it makes me think back to those days and how much has changed in the horse world. Now I watch people use splint boots, wraps, bell boots, blankets, and all sorts of things to "protect" their horses. Sure, I do it too, just for the look. But back then, we let them grow their coats, we never used blankets, and we never used any protective gear for them or ourselves. Hell, half the time, we never even wore helmets. We turned them out in huge groups every single night, whether rain, snow, sleet, or hail. We only kept them in if there were severe lightning storms. And over the span of thirty years, I've seen many, many horses get hurt at the track, in the barns, in stalls, in the show ring, or in training, but I've only seen two become seriously hurt in a field. One was a mare still fresh off the track, and she recovered. The other one was my horse. After we sold him to a girl on a Kentucky farm, he got hurt in a field, and he died.
But even though it was my horse, and even though I lost a wonderful friend (such a divine creature), even though I mourned a great loss, I have always felt the same way about their care. I still say let them be horses. In life, there is always risk, so let them be naked. Let them run free. And the way I see it is this: he died too young, but he died a free horse. I suppose things happen as they should.
C.A. MacConnell
No worries -- we didn't kill any foxes. Actually, fox hunts mainly involved a lot of drinking, howling hounds, dangerous, fast-paced, drunken stunts on horseback, fancy clothing, and running through crazy trails while following the lead of the even crazier hunt master. We never even saw a fox that day. Picture a massive herd of random riders equipped with flasks, a group of twenty-five or so hounds, no safety measures, and a bunch of huge obstacles in the way. At the horse shows, jumps were made of poles and other materials that would give and fall if a horse/rider team hit them, which was safer. At a fox hunt, the jumps were solid as hell, which meant that if a horse didn't make it over, both horse and rider were pretty much toast.
Despite the danger, everyone looked spiffy and polished -- makeup, top hats, well-pressed coats, shiny boots and all -- but it was a strange scene. Reminded me of old paintings, and I felt as if I were suddenly stuck inside of one, but in those paintings, the huntsmen always looked so calm and distinguished. In a real fox hunt, the sound of the people and hounds was earsplitting and the whole group moved so fast, I barely had a chance to breathe. Trees, mainly low-hanging branches, became the enemy. I knew that a sturdy branch could clothesline me. Dodge, duck, hang on. That was the way it went.
Most of the hunt riders didn't come from hunter/jumper farms, and they didn't show much, and they really didn't take a lot of lessons, if at all. Rather, they just saddled up every now and then for these events to dress up, be social, and have a random dangerous ride with friends. So to reiterate, there was the following scene: inexperienced riders with flasks of liquor, wild hounds, breakneck speed, huge obstacles, groups madly running through rough trails, and no real map or directions. Also, there were no cell phones at that time, so if anyone got hurt, too bad. The hunt must go on.
Four hours, this fox hunt lasted. I was riding a monster-sized draft horse named Shuttlebus, and although he was a kind teddy bear, and he really took care of me, old Shuttlebus was as wide as he was tall, and I was only about four feet tall, so you can imagine the back, leg, and hip pain I experienced after four hours of riding that massive creature. Picture a baby straddling a Cadillac. His tan face was so enormous, he looked like a large, stuffed dinosaur. I didn't take my horse, because he was unaccustomed to the noise, and I didn't want him to get hurt. Shuttlebus the machine was as mellow as they came, and he had been hunting before; he had no problem with the madness. My giant pillow for the day.
I came out of it alive, and I had fun because I had a great horse, but I never did it again. But it makes me think back to those days and how much has changed in the horse world. Now I watch people use splint boots, wraps, bell boots, blankets, and all sorts of things to "protect" their horses. Sure, I do it too, just for the look. But back then, we let them grow their coats, we never used blankets, and we never used any protective gear for them or ourselves. Hell, half the time, we never even wore helmets. We turned them out in huge groups every single night, whether rain, snow, sleet, or hail. We only kept them in if there were severe lightning storms. And over the span of thirty years, I've seen many, many horses get hurt at the track, in the barns, in stalls, in the show ring, or in training, but I've only seen two become seriously hurt in a field. One was a mare still fresh off the track, and she recovered. The other one was my horse. After we sold him to a girl on a Kentucky farm, he got hurt in a field, and he died.
But even though it was my horse, and even though I lost a wonderful friend (such a divine creature), even though I mourned a great loss, I have always felt the same way about their care. I still say let them be horses. In life, there is always risk, so let them be naked. Let them run free. And the way I see it is this: he died too young, but he died a free horse. I suppose things happen as they should.
C.A. MacConnell
9/28/2015
9/26/2015
9/25/2015
Photo: You'll Feel
You'll Feel
They were singing The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses." :)
C.A. MacConnell
