On Writing and Horse Bootcamp

Posted on August 28, 2019 by Becky Bean

This blog has been oddly silent.

I mean, I’ve never been the most dedicated poster, but lately I’ve been even quieter than usual.

This is because I’m writing.

I know. “Sorry I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been writing” is a weird excuse, but it’s the truth. In a perfect world I could manage to write and do regular blog posts at the same time, but the truth is I’m not very good at typing on phones anymore. I miss phones with real keyboards – I can’t write effortlessly on these new-fangled contraptions like I used to. It ends up being 90% typos, and fixing it is more trouble than it’s worth. I try voice to text, but it usually ends up gibberish…. so I find myself waiting to write until I’m sitting down by a real keyboard.

Of course, once I’m sitting in front of a real keyboard, I always ask myself: do I want to write a blog post, or do I want to write something that will eventually earn me money?

I know, I know. Some people want to publish because of lofty dreams and aspirations. That’s not me.

I’m not saying that I’m entirely mercenary. I write because the words bubble up inside me and explode out in unhealthy ways unless I let them spill out like lifeblood on paper.

That’s why I write.

Publishing, on the other hand, is a whole different ballgame. I want to publish because

I’m not dumb – I know I won’t make a ton of money. Still, it’d be nice if I could make enough to do little projects around the farm. Maybe I’ll name my books after my hopes and aspirations?

Anyways, I’m writing. And for once, I actually have a pretty good feeling that it’s going to be done sooner rather than later. This is all because of a Facebook ad that I stumbled across a couple of months ago. I can’t remember exactly which book it was trying to sell me, but even if I did I probably wouldn’t say… and that’s because I want to be honest about it without hurting anyone’s feelings. And here’s the honest truth:

Holy crap, the writing was AWFUL. It was some kind of dragon story, and the excerpt was so horrible I downloaded a sample. People would shout things wincingly (<– I’m not making that up. “…he shouted, wincingly” was honestly part of the book.) The plot was confusing and cliche, all at once. The grammar was all over the place, and the whole thing was just… just WOW. It was bad. It was really, really bad.

It also had 4 star reviews from several hundred people, which meant that it was selling pretty well.

If you’re curious how that is even possible, it’s because there’s a science behind independent publishing, and if you churn out a book every 30 days you can beat the Amazon algorithm, and then if you give some of your books away for free, people will respond favorably. Once you get the 50 review minimum Amazon will start recommending the book to people, and…..

And if you’re really interested in learning more, there are better blogs than mine to explain about it.

I sent a screenshot of the book (even the cover had problems!) over to Melinda over at Dr. Mel Newton. “Look at this! This is awful! We could write ten times the book, without even proofreading it once.”

We laughed, and then went on with our day.

The reason I shared it with her is that she’s kind of an awful human being.

I mean, she’s really the best kind of human being, but she’s just awful in that she actually follows through on stuff.

She’s like that kid in high school who does all their homework before they watch TV… only they’re not actually going to ever sit down and watch TV, because they’re off learning how to play classical piano, and eating only salads and lean grilled chicken. You kind of like them, because they’re the best people ever, but also you don’t’ want to hang out with them too much because you can’t relax on the sofa with three ice cream sandwiches and binge watch Grey’s Anatomy.

Although, now that I think about it, I never binge watched TV in high school. What did I do? I guess I binge read Dragonrider of Pern books? It’s getting to the point I don’t even remember what life was like without chasing after a pack of kids.

Anyways, in case you think I’m making this up, here’s proof:

Back in 2015 I went to a writing conference. I attended a couple of “how to write magazine articles and make money” classes and came away with some great notes. I’ve shared those notes with a couple of people. We all agreed it was really good advice.

I’m not sure any of us ever did anything with them, but seriously – it was super advice! It was just the best advice.

When I found out that Mel was looking to do more nonfiction writing, I shared the notes with her.

“Oh, that’s great!” she said. “Thank you!”

And then she did something really weird.

She actually went and DID all the stupid advice I sent her. Like, immediately.

Ick. Who does that?

As a result started getting picked up by Equus (a very big name horse magazine) and having people regularly buy her columns, and just… I bet she went out and ate a big bowl of salad and went for a run in celebration. Oh, that’s right, she probably did do that, because she regularly runs 100 mile ultras.

Sigh. She’s not even human, I swear.

Still, she’d enjoyed the advice so much I sent her some fiction tips. Once again, she expressed a ton of gratitude, and went off and PLOTTED AN ENTIRE BOOK.

Everyone who knows anything about writing knows that you’re just supposed to dabble, and endlessly revise the first 30%, and never actually finish anything. I mean, duh.

Anyways, one evening as I was having trouble falling asleep, I started thinking about this wish list, and how much I wished that I actually could do Tinder For Writers and find someone to collaborate with.

And then I remembered the crappy dragon book, and I got an idea.

The next morning I got up, and started writing an email to Mel. In the subject line I typed “A Really Good Bad Idea”. In the body of the email, I basically said “Do you remember that crappy dragon book? Dude. We could do that. And I’m not just saying it… I mean, we could literally do it.”

And she took me up on it.

And you know what? It’s kind of perfect. We’re both good at what the other person is not-so-good at. We made a list of ideas, and we chose to start off with…

Wait for it…..

Crappy Dragon Book.

Yes, that’s it’s current working title. No, that’s probably not the title we’ll eventually publish it under. There’s still a lot of behind the scenes work to do between now and a finished book, but it’s actually really, really working. I stay up in the evening and vomit a bunch of ideas and scene suggestions onto a document, and then she shows up in the early morning and basically turns into the annoyed robot from Wall-E and sweeps it all up into some kind of format and works on it… and then we go back and forth and back and forth.

And now we’ve got the thing, like, 80% plotted and have about 20k words in it. I kid you not, I’ll be very surprised if we don’t have a finished product by January.

So, yeah. I’ve been writing. I just haven’t been writing here.

Anyways, now that you know what I’ve been doing with all of my “free time”. As for what else I’ve been doing, I’ve been pretty busy. Last week Carrots had some laminitis, so I sat there and imagined the worst.

By Friday she was visibly limping, horribly uncomfortable while standing, refused to do more than nibble at her meds, and I steeled myself for the worst.

When the vet showed up on Saturday morning, she walked right up to the fence, no trace of a soreness, no heat in her legs, barely registerable digital pulse, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. She nickered happily.

I glared in relief, which I didn’t even know was possible to do until that moment.

That pony is just…. She’s kind of too perfect.

So she’s on a diet now and on an exercise regimen. Last night we moved the goats in with her, and it’s been very entertaining to watch. I figured she could use the company, because Reverie went off to boot camp yesterday.

Here’s the thing with Reverie – if she’s not the smartest horse I’ve ever worked with, she’s in close running. I don’t say that as a compliment – I kind of like dumb, happy-go-lucky horses.

Reverie is not lazy and dumb and happy-go-lucky. Reverie is sweet, and loving…..and eerily intelligent and easily bored.

She’s also alpha – very, very alpha. The good news is that she’s a nice alpha, not one of those bitchy mares that takes joy in ordering others around. She just stands her ground and doesn’t like to give in when another horse heckles her. She’s also sweet natured at heart. She’ll trot away from a giant pile of food to meet me at the gate to let me scratch on her (IT’S SO NICE HAVING A HORSE THAT ENJOYS BEING SCRATCHED ON!!!). She’s also happy to accept my leadership – I’m sure we’ll have battles in the future, but for the most part she doesn’t challenge me too much.

PHEW.

The bad news is that she’s alpha enough that she’s been ordering Carrots around for several months now. I think the passing of the baton happened some time right after her first birthday, and I just can’t help but think that it’s an absolutely horrible thing for a yearling to grow up thinking she runs the entire world, and that everyone 4-legged needs to get out of her way.

So, I contacted my farrier – Rose. Rose is amazing, and runs a happy, healthy herd. She has a bunch of Appaloosas she’s owned almost since birth, and a tiny herd of rescue minis that were all foundered and lame enough to put down, that she nursed back to health. She came with a trailer and I walked Reverie over and loaded her in.

By “loaded her in” I mean I made a complete hash of the job, and I’m too embarrassed to talk about it, but Reverie doesn’t phased at all by my ineptness (I swear, I used to know how to handle horses.) and I resolve to do much better in the future. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that for today.

Anyways, when we arrived at her place and unloaded Reveri, she looked around alertly, paused at the entrance, and hopped neatly down.

One of Rose’s appaloosas whinnied hello – a high, bright tenor.

Reverie raised her head and answered back in her deep, almost stallion-like baritone.

I walked her over and let her sniff through the fence – there was no squealing or striking – just a lot of intense interest.

Aside from a rare glimpse of a neighbor’s horse when I walk her in the lower pasture, she hasn’t seen another horse since January, when Caspian was put to sleep. (One of these days I’ll get around to owning a trailer.)

I was surprised that she didn’t seem as short as I thought she would – I guess she really is growing up. She was still literally less than half as wide as Rose’s foundation bred Appaloosas (who are all GORGEOUS), so she’s not that big yet.

Eventually, once the excitement had calmed down, we turned her loose. Ears pricked, she floated out in a graceful, delicate trot straight at the big horses, neck arched, eyes bright. She moves like poetry.

She made a beeline straight for the alpha mare, reached her neck out as if to sniff at her, then suddenly pinned her ears, planted her front hooves, and double barrelled the alpha mare straight in the chest.

C-RACK, went Reverie’s hooves, as they made impact with the much larger mare’s chest. I couldn’t believe my eyes. To be honest, I’m pretty sure the only reason it made contact was because Rose’s big mare couldn’t believe her eyes either. Did she just….. Did she really just…..?!?!?!?!

It was a little bit like taking your 11 year old scrawny pre-teen out for a nice dinner and as soon as you turn your back, your kid strides right up to some giant thug on the corner – the one with the tattoos and the hard eyes – and ineffectually shoves at their chest, telling them to “Get off my corner. This is my neighborhood now.”

Luckily, Rose’s mare and I were on the exact same page.

And thus began Reverie’s schooling.

The neat thing was, none of the horses were particularly mean about it. When I worked up at the ranch we had a large herd of 40-50, all divided up in different paddocks (or sometimes running altogether). Horses can be downright cruel sometimes. Rose’s herd could have been much, much meaner with their discipline. They didn’t corner her or kick unnecessarily. They just decided to push her all over the property, whether she wanted to go or not.

We’re trotting….

We’re trotting…..

We’re trotting in total unison….

Oh, crap! I didn’t see you there. My bad. I’ll just….I’ll just go around you.

Ack! With emphasis! I’ll go around you with emphasis! Sorry!

If she refused to move out in a submissive enough way, she got a double barrel kick in her direction.

Oh, are you over there? Well. I want to be over there now. SO MOVE, little snotty red horse.

I would feel sorry for her, but honestly, these were foundation appaloosas, and while powerful, they weren’t exactly moving at the speed of sound. Reverie only got kicked once, and that was because she tried to stand her ground and let it happen.

Even when she was trotting off, she didn’t look very repentant. In fact, she looked like she was enjoying the heck out of herself.

Okay, maybe she is looking at me for a little backup in this pic.

I mean, look up at that last pic. That is not a horse who is having a bad time, despite the fact that in that pic she has 8 horses trotting after her.

Despite the action shots, the whole thing was pretty low key, and by the time I left, everyone had settled down.

Reverie was exploring the place with an unbelievable enthusiasm. I did feel a bit guilty about that – I know she has been bored, but I didn’t realize she was that bored. The look on her face as she navigated the hills and explored the different terrain made me feel a bit sad for her.

We are in the process of fencing in the lower pasture – it will be done by next spring, and I will probably even have the upper part fenced off for light grazing by the middle of September. Still, up till now, Reverie has been 100% bored stiff. She’s in a dirt paddock with a stodgy old pony who has no sense of playing. I gave her things to play with, but she’s not mouthy and doesn’t really enjoy that. I did consider letting her play with the goats, but I am not entirely convinced playing with the goats would result in happy, not-hurt goats. The few times she’s been able to herd cats in the paddock, she’s enjoyed herself a little too intensely. I could see her happily herding goats to death, or trying to engage in a fun little kicking fight. Maybe when she’s older? We’ll see.

I was pretty impressed at how brave she was with terrain. At one point she was exploring a lower area that was blocked with a bunch of scrub brush. She walked up to it, and picked her head up high to see if she could see over.

She couldn’t, so she busted right through it.

CRASH CRACKLE SNAP, went all the brush as she disappeared.

Rose’s herd stared at her, horsey eyebrows raised.

“That’s mostly stinging nettle”, commented Rose.

CRASH CRACKLE SNAP, went all the brush, and Reverie came out the other side, tail flicking in annoyance at the welts rising on her skin…. and with a giant, tomboy grin on her face. Well, alrighty then. I guess she’ll be okay on trail?

Anyways, that’s where Reverie is right now – learning how to play nicely with the other horses, and take orders, and share her toys on the playground.

Scat, Reverie

Posted on August 21, 2019 by Becky Bean

Hey, Reverie. Yeah, I see you sweetie. You just need to back off for a bit, okay? You can’t share Carrots’ grain. I mean, even on a normal day I want you eating out of your own bucket, but right now hers definitely has too many medicines in it. I’m just going to stand guard till she finishes it.

Yes, you look pitiful. No, I’m not changing my mind. Scat.

Yeah, see, where I come from “vaguely turning your head to the side while giving me sideye” does not constitute a “scat”.

I’m sorry, did I use too many words? The basic underlying definition of “scat” means “get further away from me”, not “try to get as close as you can with a soft, sad expression.”

Why, yes. Yes, that is Finn. And no, I’m not buying your sudden intense interest in the 3-year-old. You and I both know that as soon as I move away, you’re going to dive headfirst into the grain pan that you’ve “forgotten” all about. Yes, I just waved my hands in the air with sarcastic quotes around the word “forgotten. It’s a human thing – you wouldn’t understand.

What you can understand, right now, is that scat means move. So, you know, move. Away.

Yeah, nope. “Move Away” does not mean “move to the other side of the pony and try for the grain again.” Nice try, though. Keep on moving, sister.

Oh heeeee-double-hockey-sticks-NO.
Uh uh.
No you did NOT.
You did not just subtly angle your butt towards me and give me that pissy body language. Uh-uh. Nope. I don’t think so, girlfriend.

I hope you like moving, because this was just going to be a 3 minute scat thing, but now it’s going to be a whole session.

That’s right, pissy pants. Move.
(And yes, Finn. I see you, “wunning with Wevewie.” That’s such a wewy, wewy, bad idea. I’m gonna have to ask you to stop when I notice it in a few laps.)

(Insert joke about chestnut mares)

Okay, but for real. Why are horses prettier when they’re being total snots? Did I just bond unnecessarily hard with some evil-eyed carousel horse at Disneyland or something? Why can’t I get that fluttery feeling looking at a placid-eyed horse in a stall? What is wrong with me?

That’s a vaguely better expression, but not good enough. Keep moving. In fact, why don’t you turn around and go to the right.

Yes, yes, I know you prefer to do everything in a half rear levade thingie. Impressive.
Now go left.

Nice, but your eyes still look..,.I dunno. Not kind? Keep going.

Holy moly, you’re beautiful. Like…. like seriously. Wow. You totally fill my eye. How are you only a yearling and already so gorgeous?! You are 13.2 hands of absolutely perfection. Someone who desperately wants their next show horse is gritting their teeth in frustration at my luck, while I’ve got you ungroomed and just hanging around in my backyard, jogging through poo piles. Ah, well. Such is life. I have to admit, you’re pretty enough that you kind of make me want to take you to shows, although I’d probably end up throwing dirt clods at anyone who points out your supposed faults.

Maybe it’s better if I don’t take you to shows. I don’t think I want to be known as Dirt Clod Becky in the Morgan showing world. Still – golly, you’re pretty.

Oh, are you trying to say you’re sorry? Are you all calm and submissive and wanting to “join up”? Are you lowering your head and asking to be my friend and… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA – Oh, man. Sorry. Sorry, I’m out of breath from laughing so hard. Reverie, I was not born yesterday, and I have lived with you for almost a year. You are such a dirty liar. Don’t you dare start slowing down.
**Insert kissy noise**
I said MOVE.

Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. What happened to that soft, sweet, totally apologetic filly from three strides ago? LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE, that’s what. Now, move.

Mmm hmmm. Don’t you wish you were over here, getting scratched and loved on, instead of moving out in endless boring circles? Well, maybe you should have thought twice about talking back to me with your butt earlier, hmm?

Keep going.

That’s a much better expression. Good girl. Please turn around.

That’s a good girl on the side, too. I love that look on you – listening, respectful, but still enjoying yourself. I believe that expression a lot better than your earlier pretend head skating.

Okay, I’m gonna get closer, just to make sure you can still be polite with a little bit of pressure. Turn around, please.

Very good girl. Now, turn around and see if the right side of you is still in a better mood, too. I need to make sure both RightReverie and LeftReverie are in agreement.

You are gorgeous when you gallop, but you don’t have to run if you don’t want to. We could do this at a walk if you wanted.

Excuse me. Yes, I know Carrots is over there, but I’m over here. Kindly pay attention to me.

Much better.

Gorgeous, inside and out.

There you go – good girl. See, now that’s a face I believe. Turn around again, please, one last time. Does your left side still remember how to be a nice, respectful filly?

Oh, good. Good, it has. It looks like you’re good, through and through. You may stop, whenever you want. All pressure is off.

(Literally every single time I set aside a weekend to clean the paddock this summer, it has poured and made everything wet and super heavy. Every. Single. Time….. which is why I now have photos like this. I shall title this one: Million Dollar Dream Horse Standing Proudly On Poopie Mountain.)

But seriously, very good girl. Stand there for a moment, so you don’t think you can run at me every time I take off pressure….. okay. Good. Would you like to come over for a scratch?

I’ll take that as a yes. I love you too, girl.

Draft Dump: 3 of Something

Posted on May 22, 2019 by Becky Bean

In case you can’t remember what this title means, I’m going through 10+ years of unfinished draft blog posts that have accumulated, and releasing them unfinished into the wild. It’s, like, spring cleaning for blogs.

NaNoWriMo
Last Modified: 11/3/11

I am attempting NaNoWriMo again.

The Squid has learned to crawl. Boo for mobility.

I’m doing pretty good on my wordcount.

The DragonMonkey poured an entire box of Rice Krispies down the bathroom sink right about the time I hit word 1500.

I made it to 1700 words last night.

The DragonMonkey learned how to eat the little paper pieces from his Elefun game. He just came to stand in front of me, standing eerily still and quiet.

“DM?”

Eyes wide, he gave one of those creepy, deep, weird gag of a burps that preceed vomiting. The papery piece flew into my lap, strangely dry. He picked it up, smiled broadly, and went back into the living room.

I made a little headway today. The book’s not taking the direction I had originally planned, but it seems to be going nonetheless.

In other news, the Squid has decided to go from two teeth to six, simultaneously. Sleep has not been abundance in in this household. And if he doesn’t learn how to OPEN HIS FRIGGIN MOUTH BEFORE HE DECIDES TO TWIST HIS HEAD AROUND TO LOOK AT SOMETHING IN THE MIDDLE OF A NURSING SESSION, I’m not going to have anything left to nurse him with.

Club Dirt:
Last Modified: 1/6/12

He was exceptionally calm in the arena.

Three years old, 15.3 hands, and probably 1150 pounds, Willie was anything but small. His name was “WillieBeACutter”, and the answer turned out to be a resounding “no”. Cutting horses need to be agile, quick, and graceful.

Willie was strong, sturdy, a little slow on his turns, and, well, kind of clumsy. Well, to be honest, it was less clumsy and more awkward. He was growing fast, and when you rode him it felt like riding piggyback on a junior high boy – he was strong enough, but he just wasn’t all that coordinated.

I hopped on him

I’ve Got Mom Butt
Last Modified: 2/14/12

The title says it all.

Squidgelet is now officially a year old. According to all the manuals, all the chub you have left on you when your baby hits a year is YOUR fat, not baby fat.

Well, crap.

I mean, there are some good things about being fat.

I never get cold any more.

When I go see a movie, I don’t have to worry about the seat cushion being too hard – I’ve brought my own squishy seat cushion with me.

When I’m out for a walk I don’t have to worry about anybody whistling at me like they used to.

I float great in water. Between that and the never getting cold, I imagine I could be a pretty serious competitor at long-distance cold water swimming.

I do know I’d kick some serious heiny at a game of “Who Can Survive the Longest Without Food on a Desert Island”. Anyone want to play with me? Winner gets to eat all the losers! Anyone? You there, in the back— is that a hand? No?

I never used to have to worry about what I ate, or working out. I’m active by nature, and horses gave me all the exercise I needed. Maybe I didn’t look like a supermodel, but I was healthy.

Surprisingly, sitting at a computer for 10 hours a day, followed by going home to do laundry isn’t quit as effective at keeping a person in fighting trim shape.

Up On My Soapbox
Last Modified: 7/14/2012

Seriously people… spay and neuter your pets. Also, and this may not make me a lot of friends, but here you go nonetheless:

There is nothing wrong with putting a pet to sleep if it’s not adoptable. Sick, old, too shy to cope…. there are a lot of healthy, happy, young pets dying in shelters right now. Don’t foist the job off on someone else.

Death, when done humanely, isn’t a bad thing. There are a lot worse ways to go than euthanasia, and those ways usually take a lot longer, and involve quite a bit of suffering. If you can’t afford a vet, an animal shelter will generally do it for a small donation (although you won’t be allowed in the room with your pet.) I’m not one of those ONE OWNER FOR LIFE!!!!! activists. I’m not saying we don’t have a responsibility to the pets we take on, but bad things happen to good people, and in this economy, you just never know. There is no shortage of pets in this world – there is a HUGE shortage of people doing the right thing.

Fat Cat was one day away from being dropped at the pound. Coyote was the kitten of a starving, stray pregnant cat that a kind hearted lady started feeding. Xerox you just read about. Even Comet (The Bean’s cat who finally got fed up and ran away after I brought home Coyote) was a stray – a starving, mangy, completely feral kitten that The Bean lured out of an engine block with the balogna from his sandwich.

I guess I’m just thinking about this because I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with Xerox. If I had the balls (ovaries?) I would wait for her to have her kittens, if she is pregnant, then take her in to get spayed and quietly euthanize them. It’s horrible to say out loud, but this town is crawling with stray cats, there are “free kittens!” signs everywhere, and I don’t have the funds to spay/neuter all the kittens before find them homes.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I know I don’t have it in me. Besides, when

No Title
Last Modified: 7/11/12

The DragonMonkey wanted to go to “Portwand”. The last time we went to Portland we met up with Jamethiel and her Squidgelet, and he had an awesome time in the park with them. He’s been begging to go back ever since.

When The Bean and I told him we were taking a trip, and then informed him it was not “Portwand”, much crying, and drama, and temper-tantrums immediately ensued.

He wanted to go to Portwand.

Portwand is where he wanted to go.

Why weren’t we going to Portwand?

“Portwand! Portwand! PORTWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!” he moaned at full-volume, writhing on the ground, flinging his hands about in desperation. All he needed was a loincloth and a volleyball floating away from him, and he could have been reenacting the “Wilsoooooon!” scene from CastAway.

I really needed to discipline him.

But it was only twenty minutes to his bedtime, and I was exhausted. Parenting is not for the faint of heart.

As I stood there, contemplating which corner I should send him to, the Squidgelet wandered up beside me. He stood there, looking down at his purple-faced brother quietly for a moment, then looked back at me with a strangely adult, amused look. If he knew how to roll his eyes, he would have. Instead, he settled for leaving the silliness behind him and wandered off to go play with a toy train.

Laid-back babies are really fun. Sometimes they have really good ideas, too.

Leaving the DragonMonkey to howl on his own, I followed Squidgelet over to the toy pile and started playing with him.

The DragonMonkey flopped about for a few moments, but it’s just not as fulfilling without an audience, so he dragged himself over to us, flopped down on the ground, and began his fit again.

“Pooooortwaaaaaaand….”

In desperation, I snapped out, “Well, fine. We’ll go to Portland, but then you won’t get to see the chickens.”

Nineteen more minutes to bedtime. Nineteen more minutes to bedtime. Nineteen more minutes…

He’d already been in time out several times that morning, and

I gotta admit, this draft dump has been a lot of fun. I can’t wait until the day I log in and the only drafts in my inbox are current drafts I’m actively working on.

Also, if we’re admitting things, while it’s nice to have the lights back on here on the blog, the timing of getting them turned off was kind of fortuitous.

I could say I spent the entire time fretting over all the blogs I never got to write….

But the truth is I spent the last month nursing my busy lifestyle and a broken arm.

On April 14th my stepdad and I were unloading a corral panel from a trailer, when I realized how slippery the trailer ramp was. Maybe it was a combo of the light misting rain, maybe it was the slippery soles of my tennis shoes, but whatever it was, I realized that the trailer ramp was slick as snot.

I turned around to tell him, “Be careful! Don’t slip!” when both my legs shot out from underneath me.

My arms reached back to brace myself, and I had just enough time to think, “That’s not how you fall, Becky, not if you want to avoid breaking bones. For heaven’s sakes, unlock your elbows,” before my locked arms caught all of my weight. I think I hit even harder than normal because my arms were higher up on the ramp than my lower half, so it was a very jarring, sudden shock.

At first they thought I’d broken my right wrist and my left elbow, but it turned outo just be a radial head comminuted fracture. PHEW.

I’ve gotta tell you, I am NOT a fan of slowly typing one letter at a time with one hand. I was almost I was almost glad the blog was down, because it provided me a respite from feeling like I had to type.

Having a broken arm, and a husband working till crazy late each night at work, and two horses, and four baby goats and a full time job and four human kids and and and….

And I probably would have had a nervous breakdown, but it was one of those moments in life where people just….. It was like they rose up from hiding places in the bushes, all around me, just to help me.

People who had never been to my house before were dropping off dinners. Good friends came over and straightened the house and did ALL OF MY FRIGGIN LAUNDRY. People helped with the goats, and helped with the kids, and just…

It was almost too much helping. I felt guilty accepting it, knowing I couldn’t pay everyone back. It was humbling, even though I needed it desperately. My mom is in Mexico at the moment with sick family members, and the Bean’s busy season has extended well beyond its normal time period, and we also had the stomach flu rip through here, and the goats got into poisonous stuff and tried to kill themselves… and, and, and, and…

Nothing was bad in and of itself, but when it all added up, I was definitely overwhelmed.

People are so good, for the most part. It’s just that the bad stories are so much juicier to tell.

I stay off of Facebook a lot, nowadays. It has become such a… shouty place. I have friends from all the way on the left side of the equation to all the way on the right…. and I even have them in that same spectrum from other countries.

One of my favorite FB “friends” I picked up is some dude from Russia who posts pictures of cool dogs and angry political rant memes that I don’t understand a word of. I also have someone from the middle east who posts a lot of political rants.

I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re political rants take, just because they look exactly like the kind of rants and memes that fill my FB feed, only in a different language. I could be wrong. Maybe they’re really impassioned cookie recipes?

Anyways, I like to see the political memes in English sandwiched between one in Russian and one in Arabic, because it helps keep me from taking anything too seriously. I still keep trying to use social media for the human connection, as I have for the past decade.

Unfortunately, lately every time I log in, I start to feel a little bit like this fence:

Of course, I don’t know why I’m complaining. There’s a very simple cure, and it works every time (although I always seem to come creeping back): I delete the app of my cell phone and just start interacting with people around me.

I gave a ride to some skinny kid toting a bunch of big ol’ bags the other day. I didn’t have any kids in the car, and I was driving the “flip” car (The Bean likes to fix vehicles up and flip them, one at a time), so I felt safe… or at the very least, safeish.

Intellectually I thought it was a horrible idea, but that still, small voice inside me told me to do it, so I did.

I can’t say why I did it, except that the three times I’ve picked someone up on the side of the road, it’s been because I was pretty sure God told me to, so I did.

The kid was thankful, not that I needed gratitude. It just felt… nice. It was nice to connect with a total stranger, to reach out and give an warm ride in the cold. He said it was nice on his end, too, just to be seen. So many cars drove past him without stopping to see if he was okay.

And that was it.

We chatted about recent rains, and a couple of other things, and then he was out of my car and I doubt I’ll ever see him again. We didn’t have any giant, Chicken Soup for the Soul moment. It wasn’t this grand gesture that changed his life – he had actually just gotten out of rehab, and while I hope he is able to successfully turn his life around, it’s not really any of my business. It was just a five minute car ride to make his day easier, because I could.

I find that the more I am off of shouty Facebook, and the more I have these small interactions with people all around me, the better I am on the inside. I feel hope, and that hope fills me up and allows me to pour out more into others.

The angrier I get, the more I find myself outraged by whatever travesty is going on nationally…. the more I get mired in the muck of obsessing about how I feel about things, the less I am able to do for humanity.

Maybe I am part of the problem, as so many people seem to say, by not standing beside them and shouting my anger into the wind and raising awareness.

Maybe I am complicit. Maybe I am the problem.

Maybe it’s the coward’s way out, beneath a cloak of privilege, but I just. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Angry. All. The. Time.

I don’t feel like I *can* be angry all the time, not and stay healthy, and there just doesn’t seem to be a space to take a calming breath between waves of fury on social media. Everything seems to flow from one inflammatory topic to the next, on all sides of the political spectrum, and, well,

So I work during the day, and play with my kids on the evenings and weekends.

Carrots was a rockstar at her first mock showmanship class.

I raise my goats, and cut the grass, stare in my backyard at the horses and feel grateful.

I read good books and bad books and berate myself for not getting up early enough to go jogging.

I fight with The Bean, and then we make up, and we lay beside each other on the couch after the kids go to bed, shoulders touching as I read my book and he watches videos about motorcycle engines.

It’s quiet, and good, and it gives me enough peace on the inside that I feel like I can at least help out others, in small ways.

I want to do more, but there are literally only so many hours in the day. So I give rides when I can, and I finally got my computer situation fixed so I can start back working on social media support for foster kids when I can, and I serve on the library board, and offer to babysit other people’s kids when my nerves aren’t too frayed from chasing after my own.

It’s not much, not in the grand scheme of things, but I think that’s okay. I think it’s okay not to be a world leader, or a political money and shaker, but just to help out in small ways where you can, when you can.

Man, this post ended up a lot more maudlin than I was intending, and I’m sure that if I looked at a calendar and added up days I would see why (would it even be a Becky post if there wasn’t a moment of TMI?), and honest-to-goodness this is not the tone I was hoping for in this blog post. I was hoping to pass along more of a “Hey, this is what has been making me feel better when I get depressed after going on social media- feel free to try it, if you’re feeling down by all the shouting, too.”

Anyways, to awkwardly change the subject from the soapboxy, slightly depressed writing hole I just dug myself into….

Can you believe Reverie is already a year old?!

I think I’ll end this post, and maybe start work on a new one that’s a belated happy birthday post to her.

Getting ready for Reverie

Posted on August 24, 2018 by Becky Bean

I introduced the twins to Reverie yesterday.

I figured it was time, since she’s going to be coming home in less than a month (GACK!). I didn’t want the first time she saw a pair of loud, hyper two-year-olds to take place during the stress of her move. There’s enough craziness at our place that every day is a lesson in desensitizing: kids on trampolines waving towels over their heads, flying kites over the paddock, wagons full of shrieking children being pulled all over by a hyper Labrador….

If I can take any steps ahead of time to make her transition to Bean Acres easier, I definitely want to.

In case you were curious, the answer to “How many people actually refer to it as Bean Acres?” is still “just Becky”. Even when I do use it, it’s usually only in my head. There’s something about naming your property and then saying it out loud that feels a teensy bit pretentious, like you’re talking about yourself in third person.

Well, I don’t care. I’m going to keep calling it Bean Acres, in hopes that one day it will catch on.

Of course if really wanted everyone to call it by a name, I could probably should have named our home FartFartPoopFart Acres.

And if you don’t understand why that is, then I congratulate you, because you aren’t living in a house filled with mostly males. Seriously. I will never understand why farts are so unbelievably funny.

Anyways, I had a few minutes in between getting off of work and showing up at the house to get started on dinner, so I decided to stop by and see if I could say hi to Reverie, and scratch on her a little bit.

There have been times when I’ve come to see her she was waaaaay out on the back side of 20 acres and all I could see was a tiny brownish speck next to a larger brownish speck, but lately Kathleen has been putting her in a shady paddock during the day, to protect her incredibly sensitive pink nose.

I foresee a lot of Destin/long-nosed fly masks in our future.

Luckily for me, Reverie and her mom (Sparkle) were hanging right by where I normally park, so it didn’t take very long to find them.

Reverie was very, VERY interested in the twins, almost to the point of spooking. It didn’t help that Finn was in a hyper mood and kept jumping rather than walking, and that Magpie had dragged along the singing puppy she takes with her everywhere.

His (apparently it’s a boy?) name is Doggie PurpleBow, and bless the makers that gave him an off switch that’s easy to switch off but hard for toddlers to find.

Seriously, thank you. There are only so many times you can hear “That’s my tummy!!! Tummy begins with ‘T’!!!! T…U…M…M…Y.. spells TUMMY!!!!” followed by semi-maniacal animatronic giggling before you get the urge to run away and join a cult. That off switch saves my sanity.

For being only 3 months old, I am really impressed at how laid back Reverie seems to be. I know a lot of adult horses that would not stand still with two screechy twins coming running full tilt at them, complete with creepy singing dolls in their arms.

I prepped the twins as we got near, to better direct them.

“This is Sparkle. Sparkle is a mommy horse. Sparkle is nice.”

And dude.

Sparkle is SO nice. Every horse should be a Sparkle.

Sparkle is just a gem of a mare in a very pretty package. You could tell she really liked the twins, because she just came alive when they drew near, swooping low to snuffle at them and standing patiently as they patted the sensitive tip of her nose with their inept little hands.

Magpie, who lives up to her namesake more every day with her penchant for shiny, sparkly things, was in awe of the name.

The horse was named Sparkle.

Not only was the horse named Sparkle, but she, Magpie, also had on a pair of sparkle shoes (light up Sketchers with sequins I found at a yard sale.)

She couldn’t get over it- it totally blew her little two-year-old mind.

“Yook, Spahkle. Hi, Spahkle. Spahkle shoes! My Spahkle shoes. You Spahkle. Dese my spahkle shoes!”

Sparkle is thinking, “You’ve literally been showing me your shoes five minutes straight, saying the same three sentences over and over. I get it. I see them.”

While the twins were VERY interested in Reverie, and she in them, I discouraged it as much as possible.

“That’s Sparkle, she’s a nice horse. And this is Reverie, Sparkle’s baby. Reverie is Mommy’s new horse. Reverie is a baby, and Reverie bites. Hard. It will hurt. No touching, or she might bite you. This horsie bites.”

Okay, maybe Reverie doesn’t actually bite…but hey man, two-year-olds and three-month-old horses don’t mix. Reverie would probably nip out of boredom given half a chance, and I’d rather terrify the twins a bit and have them keep a safe distance than try to explain the concept to them or give her a chance to learn bad manners.

After all, for all Reverie is amazingly sweet and calm, she’s still just a foal. I trust her as much as I would trust a hyper kitten near priceless lace curtains.

The twins were horrified at the concept that Reverie could bite, and proceeded to spend the rest of their time lecturing her.

“No biting. No bite. No. Ow. No biting,” they said, over and over…. and over and over…. and over and over, in a kind of squeaky tandem Gregorian chant.

It almost made me miss the whole “Dese my Spahkle shoes” litany. I wish I’d thought to take a video instead of a pic.

You can actually see Finn saying “no bite” here.

Anyways, it’s a little disconcerting that Reverie will be coming home in a few weeks. For the one thing, it means summer is almost over, and that makes me sad. With my full-time job, I feel like I barely spent any time outside.

In addition, although I’m not nearly so worried as I would have been if I hadn’t brought home Jupiter last year…. She’s only going to be four months old. Jupiter was the youngest horse I’ve ever owned, and he was already a yearling when I got him.

The idea of her actually being here, so young and impressionable, is totally terrifying. I know in my head that it’s actually not, but my heart disagrees and keeps insisting it really is terrifying. Reverie represents years (decades?) worth of dreaming come true.

The most disconcerting thing about her impending arrival is the fact that she’s, you know, going to actually be mine. I’m a perpetual daydreamer. I’m used to daydreams – they’re easy, and airy, and fun to live in…. but the Bean is a realist. When I daydream, he tends to take it literally.

It used to cause us issues in our marriage, because I would want to daydream with him (“Wouldn’t it be cool if we could get 30 chickens and make money selling eggs? Wouldn’t it be great if we had more property, and could raise our own beef? What if we packed it all up and headed to Montana? Look at this gorgeous chocolate Labrador, I wouldn’t mind owning a dog like this”, etc, etc.) and he would start to get stressed, trying to figure out all the complexities of turning my imaginary scenarios into a reality.

Even after ten years of marriage, it still weirds me out when the Bean manages to turn my daydreams into reality ,and I think that’s where I am at now. The sheer realness of Reverie makes me nervous.

In my head I am Alex Ramsey on a deserted island with my amazing Black Stallion who is bonded with only me. I am athletic and confident and young, galloping bareback over deserted stretches of sand, and I always know the right thing to do.

In reality…. I’m a 37-year-old mom of four who is out of shape and struggles with depression and has never really taken many riding lessons or had a foal this young, and what the heck am I doing with a horse this nice? What if I ruin her? What if I break her? I asked for water, but someone handed me the nice china, and can I please just use one of your plastic tumblers to get a drink out of so I don’t have to worry about dropping it?

Caspian is also an amazing horse, but he wasn’t necessarily my decision so I didn’t feel as responsible for him as I do for Reverie. That’s not to say he’s not magnificent – he’s athletic and amazing and calm and wonderful and talented and I’ve never met a horse as honest as he is. Still, I didn’t set out to buy him. A horse trader sold him to a horse trader, who sold him to my parents, who needed to find him a quick home after they had some unexpected hospital time.

I’m sure I’d feel just as panicky if I’d bred him from scratch.

Of all the things that are not on my control, there is one thing I can actually do something about, so I’ve channeled all this:

into slowly getting back into shape. I set an initial weight loss goal for myself back in May, and I’m almost there. Once I hit that goal I will then let myself join the local CrossFit. I know, I know, Crossfit is the devil/the best/the worst/your savior.

I’ve heard it from a lot of different people, trust me.

The thing is, I tried CrossFit before, and it suited me perfectly. The trainers were wonderful and modified all exercises for out of shape me….

But during the free trial week I found myself getting super competitive and I pushed myself too hard for where I was phsically. I didn’t injure myself – I just ended up having to go up and down stairs on my butt for three days because I didn’t trust my quads to hold my weight.

You haven’t really lived until you’ve tried to navigate stairs on your butt with a set of 7 month old twins in your arms.

I know you’re imagining that in your mind, and let me assure you, the reality of it was even more ridiculous.

Anyways, I figure I’m almost as the point where I can try again, and hopefully by the time Reverie is rideable I’ll be in a place where I can sit a three or four-year-old green broke horse (you better believe I’m sending her away for the first 90 days!) and not feel totally off-balance from lack of core strength.

Giving myself something to do helps. It gives me something to do while I think, and as I ponder, I’m also realizing that it’s okay. It’s okay to love something this much.

In those quiet moments where I’m honest with myself, I think that loving Reverie may be my biggest fear of all.

When I was in my early 20’s I had a flame point cat named Fuego. If you’ve never had a close connection with a pet, it will sound weird to say this, but he was my best friend. When he escaped from my house and got hit by a car, I was devastated. That’s not hyperbole either- after I received the phone call letting me know he’d died I started crying so hard I had to leave work, and for the rest of the week I barely managed to pull myself together enough to show up for my receptionist job.

Months later, still in the midst of my private mourning, I lay curled on my side under the covers as silent tears dripped down my cheeks. I still felt aching and raw, lonely for the way he used to crawl under the covers and sleep against me. And that’s when I had a total lightbulb moment, to the point I even muttered it out loud:

“Well, this is stupid.”

Fuego would have lived, what … Fifteen years at most? Seventeen? It just didn’t make sense to give away that big of a piece of my heart to a pet only to have it destroyed every decade or so. There wouldn’t be anything left of me when it was all said and done.

And that was that. That was the last time I let myself get really close to a pet. Oh, I still love my animals, but it’s an easy-going love, more like warm affection.

With Reverie I can sense it is going to be so much more, and it makes me nervous.

Of course, maybe I’ll get lucky? Maybe it’ll turn out that she has a nasty PMS cycle or that she likes to pee on my shoes whenever I get close to her, or barely tolerate me scratching on her neck. Maybe she’ll be a habitual stall kicker, or like to stomp chickens, or rub her mane out, or pin her ears a lot?

It’s a weird thing to secretly hope for, but then at least I’ll feel like I can relax, because then she wouldn’t be quite so perfect, so the idea of being responsible for such a perfect daydream of a horse won’t be quite so daunting.

And in the meantime…. if you’re looking for books on training young horses over at the St. Helens Public Library, you’re outta luck. I’ve already checked them all out. After all, when in doubt, go to the library.

Conversations About Carrots

Posted on July 12, 2018 by Becky Bean

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“If one of our horses pooped…. If one of our horses pooped….. if one of them….”

“Take a breath, think about what you want to say, and try again.”

(Deep breath in, then out) “If one of our horses pooped gold, we could probably keep all four of them, huh?”

“Son, if one of our horses pooped gold, your dad would love horses more than we do, and we’d be able to keep as many as we wanted. Also, when we mucked stalls the wheelbarrow would be very heavy.”

***********************

“So I found a vet to give Carrots an ultrasound on Satur—”

“I WANT TO COME! I WANT TO COME! I WANT TO COME!”

“Shhh, let me finish. Anyways, the vet will give her an ultrasound on Saturday, which will tell us for sure if Carrots is pregnant, and also let us maybe know how far along she is in the pregnancy, within a month or so.”

“I WANT TO COME!”

“Well, I would love to have you with me, but the thing is—”

“I WANT TO COME!”

“The thing is, it’s going to be a long car ride, and I’m going to spend it talking with Rose, so you’d have to sit in the back seat and not talk. Also, when we got to the vet’s, you would have to be so quiet it would be as if you aren’t there.”

“I can do that!”

“You would have to be still and quiet and just listen, because I want to focus all of my attention on the veterinarian, and Carrots.”

“I can do that!”

“Also, it’s not like the ultrasounds I used to get when I was pregnant with the twins.”

“What do you mean? They aren’t going to lay her down on a table?”

“No, they do it standing. They will give her a sedative to make her feel sleepy and relaxed, and then the vet—“

“I know, I know, I know. The vet puts lotion on her stomach and then puts the thing on it and slides it around and–”

“No, she doesn’t. Now, would you quit interrupting me and let me finish?”

“Okay. Sorry, Mom.”

“So, the vet does put lotion on, but what she does first is put on a reaaaalllly long rubber glove, probably all the way over her elbow, and then she puts lotion on top of the glove… and then she picks up Carrots’ tail and grabs the ultrasound wand and then she shoves that arm alllll the way up Carrot’s butthole, probably up to the elbow, and she’ll do the ultrasound that way.”

“WHAT?”

“Yup.”

“No. I’m good. No, no, no, never mind. I’m good. I don’t need to be a part of that. I think I’ll stay home. I don’t need to be a part of that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

Photo taken minutes apart – what a difference level ground, good angle, and better lighting can make! Also, the bad angle shows why I’m working so hard to get more calories into her. I invested in some Horse guard weight gain and alfalfa pellets that I will soak in addition to the rice bran. She seems to have less appetite – which would make sense if she really is pregnant. Let’s hear it for answers on Saturday! Also, this is a really long photo caption. I probably should make it its own paragraph, but I’m much too lazy for that.

Reverie

Posted on May 16, 2018 by Becky Bean

Ugh, I skipped doing errands at lunch to write my blog post. My plan was that when nighttime came I would only have to do a little editing on it before spending the majority of my pre-bed writing time working on my book….

And the computer ate it. It didn’t save.

So, I guess, I’ll try writing this blog post again.

I’m gonna do it with a grumpy mood though. So THERE.

*******

Second Update:

Literally three times I have been finished with this post, and then I try to add one last picture from my phone onto the WordPress app, and it adds it…. but then when I open it up on my computer (because I can type faster than on my phone), I find it has added the new picture as well as reverted to an older version of my blog post.

I’ve literally typed this dumb blog post four times. At this point the words don’t even seem like real words. Computers hate me today. I’m going to hit publish the second I’ve finished and stomp off to bed.

********

I have enough names to fill a whole barn of Morgan Horses.

I can’t believe how good some of you are at names – every time I thought I was done adding names to my shortlist, in would come another one. The response to the poll was amazing – a million thank you’s.

There were quite a few names that I loved that didn’t quite fit her. I loved the idea of naming her Chimera, because of its definition, and because of her two different colored eyes. I also liked Gargoyle (sorry, Aarene, I thought that was an awesome name) and Kelpie, and a bunch of the suggested names. I find I’m especially drawn to mythological names, and there are so many good ones out there.

There was only one problem:

Look at that. That’s a sweet, sweet face.

That’s a friendly face.

That’s the kind of face that likes you to go in the barn at night and hang out while you read a book so she can wuffle your sleeve.

All the names I really liked were just not her – they were too hard sounding, and she is not a hard horse.

I thought maybe it was because was so young, but Scandia Morgan Horse Farm had a second foal last Saturday – another chestnut colt. I guess it was just the year of the red foal for them?

Anyways, he’s an absolute beauty, and his mother is also drop dead gorgeous, but that’s to be expected at this barn. I went to go see him, and was amazed at how different their personalities already were. He wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination – he was just into everything with a friendly curiosity, and already had a devilish little sense of humor.

You could actually see him trying to decide. It was like watching the world’s tallest redheaded toddler. “Should I be good?……I should. I really shouldn’t nibble on her sleeve. She told me no. I shouldn’t……… yeah, no, I’m gonna try it. I just need to see what’ll happen.”

It made me doubly glad this little girl came out a filly. I always thought that colts didn’t start acting like colts until they were a little older, but apparently they’re colts right from the very start.

So, yeah. This little girl is flashy, but she’s also just really sweet, and for all that I kept trying to hang flashy names on her, they just weren’t fitting.

It’s a little disconcerting when a 5 day old horse is better at taking selfies than you are.

I thought about it for a while, about telling which were the other names that I almost picked for her, but I decided against it. There’s a reason for that. After I told the Squid what I was going to name the filly, he looked horrified. “No. No, that’s not right. That’s not a good name. We need to find another one.”

When I finally told him he didn’t have a choice, he looked disgusted, with all the deep-seated, honest judginess a 7-year-old can muster.

So far DragonMonkey seems to love horses the most out of all my kids.

I realized that if I started listing my second place, and third place, and fourth place names, then people might start commenting how I should have named her such-and-such instead, and I’m just still too sensitive to shrug it off.

I know, laugh all you want, but let’s see you get your dream after 30 years of daydreaming about it, and see if you aren’t overly protective those first few weeks.

She’d just spooked at the sound of the hose water hitting the bucket by her head – but even though she looks nervous, I feel like I can really see what she’s going to look like as an adult in this picture.

It’s really, really hard to take a selfie with her, because she’s already getting so friendly. Also, I’m beginning to realize the world is firmly divided into two camps: those that love blue eyes, and those that find them creepy.

Anyways, as you can tell from the title, I’m going to call her Reverie. Scandias Marvelous Reverie.

rev·er·ie

ˈrev(ə)rē/

noun

a state of being pleasantly lost in one’s thoughts; a daydream.

“a knock on the door broke her reverie”

synonyms: daydream, daydreaming, trance, musing;

MUSIC

an instrumental piece suggesting a dreamy or musing state.

archaic: a fanciful or impractical idea or theory.

And now I own one.

I know it seems like I’m obsessing a little bit, and I am. It’s just… I’m planning on owning Reverie until I’m in my mid to late 60s.

That’s a long time… and I’ve been waiting for a horse like this for decades. She’s not even a week old yet – the world can let me be infatuated for a little while longer. She’s only going to be this little and fresh once.

Day 346: The List

Posted on April 26, 2018 by Becky Bean

Baby horse needs to get here soon.

I mean, there’s a lot of reasons why Baby Horse needs to get here soon, but the reason I’m referring to is so I can know the gender and knock half the names off The List.

Yes, it has capitals now. It’s not a list. It’s The List. By the time I’m finished honing it down and obsessing over it, and choosing one single name from it, it might even be THE LIST.

About a month or two after Sparkles was confirmed pregnant, I began collecting names. I mean, this is a horse who could be around for 30+ years. I need to find a name I love. And so, I began a collection. If I heard a name I liked, I put it on The List.

If I read a name in a book and I liked the way the name sounded, I put it on The List.

If I remembered a character I adored, or a story that meant a lot to me, or a phrase that I thought encapsulated what this too-nice-for-boring-ol-me foal meant to me…it went on The List. I know there are some people out there who can look at an animal and just get a feel for what that animal’s name is…. But that’s not me. I’ve never been blessed by that ability. Hence: The List.

Eventually The List was 70 plus names long, and I began weeding. Of course, the problem was that for every name I took off, I found another I liked just as much and added it on. Lately, with the foal due ANY DAY NOW, I’ve started to get serious. I mean, out of 70+ names, there ought to be a few that I didn’t like as much, or that wouldn’t work as a horse’s name, even if it was perfect.

For example: Farandolae.

If I ever got a tattoo, it would be of a farandolae. (Well, either that or Calvin and Hobbes – you know, the scene where the two of them are lounging that tree? That’s a close second, if I were to ever get a tattoo.) Anyways, back on track. What’s a farandolae, you ask?

A farandolae is a made-up scientific term from A Wind in the Door, the third book in Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time series. In the book Charles Wallace is becoming sick, and nobody can figure out why. Eventually it becomes apparent that a great evil is convincing the farandolae in his mitochondria to not “deepen”. When they are young, farandolae are allowed to float around, moving here and there with nothing tying them down. It’s natural for them, but as they mature they are supposed to grow roots and attach themselves to one spot in the cell in order to do their work and keep the cell healthy.

But they don’t want to.

They listen to the voice of darkness which encourages them to avoid being tied down. “Fool. Once you deepen and put down roots you won’t be able to romp around as you do now… you’ll be stuck in one place forever… and you won’t be able to move ever again.”

In the climactic scene where good argues against evil, one of the older, rooted Farandolae says in return, “Now that I am rooted I am no longer limited by motion. Now I may move anywhere in the universe. I sing with the stars. I dance with the galaxies. I share in the joy and in the grief. We must have our part in the rhythm of our world, or we cannot be. If we cannot be, then we are not.”

I think this means a lot to me because I never really wanted to “grow up”. When I saw people with their full-time jobs, and their passel o’ kids, and their mortgages and their sensible lives, I shied away. Even as it was in the process of happening to me, I shied away. And no, I’m not saying that route is for everyone… but for me it was something life needed me to do, and I never wanted to. I could see it looming ahead, and I fought it, because I thought to throw down those roots was to lose my freedom, and to lose the beauty of my carefree life.

As I grow older, I realize how wrong I was, and how right that older, rooted Farandolae was. I am no longer limited by motion – now I can move anywhere, and be anything.

The concept is such a huge life lesson I’ve had to learn, and so beautiful to me…

…And just awkward as heck to say and harder to spell, and dude, do I really want to explain something so personal every time I introduce my horse?

And therein lies my dilemma – trying to balance my need for a name with meaning vs a name that’s actually spellable and that I want to say out loud on a day-to-day basis.

Garibaldi? Roheryn? They’re cool… But again, I’d have to repeat myself over and over when introducing the horse.

Paladin? It’s PERFECT….. oh, wait. Stupid Mugwump stole it first for her dog.

Pickles? Story? I LOVE THEM BOTH, and they’re on my list for personal reasons…. but they also belonged to a friend’s animals, and it seems almost disrespectful to keep them on the list.

Bramble? Pretorian? I like the way they feel when they roll off my tongue, but they don’t make me that excited, so I should probably strike them from The List.

Wanderlust? It’s perfect in meaning (rather than travelling the world with a backpack I am travelling Oregon with my amazing Morgan!), but horrible in reality. How do you even say it out loud? What was I thinking? Wander isn’t bad, but…. but Lust? Lusty? “Hey, Bean, dinner’s just done and there’s a few minutes before bed… can you watch the kids for a while? I want to go to the barn and groom my Lust for a while… she’s a dirty, hairy Lust.”

Yeah, that’s a definite scratch.

Precept? I think the only reason his made the list was because I was listening to Jim Butcher’s Codex Alera series on audiobook and I liked the way the narrator said that word.

StayGold? I really wish I could make Robert Frost’s poem into a name, because it’s been a staple in my life since I first read it when I was 12 (Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold….) …but it’s awkward, and again, a lot of responsibility to put on a young horse’s shoulders.

Name by name, oh-so-slowly I’ve been weaning down that giant list, and I finally have it down to just over fifty.

Fifty.

Fifty potential names…..for just one little horse.

I have had WAY too long to overthink this.

Promises (to Keep)
Miles to Go
Chantilly
Sonora Webster
Madmartigan
Elora Danan
Remington
Sangria
Haven
Amity
Epona
Thistle
Keeper
Icarus
Epiphany
Daydream
Paladin
California
Paksennarrion (Paks)
Cloud
Alleluia
Gilead
Zion
Banner
Zuriel
Hobbes
Kelpie
Scorpio
Gulliver
Pilgrim
Voyager
Bard
Peregrine
Pippin
Rohan
Gondor
Hodor
Troubadour
Siren
Trouble
Ronja
Ronin
Epiphany
Warrior
Centurion
Saffron
Apoya
Mariachi
Alegria
Elegir
Wander
Haven
Frontier
Pilgrim

And then, of course, right when I was patting myself on the back for making it even shorter, Aarene had to go and add another one to the list: Fairy Bramble. Bramble I’d already struck from the list, but Aarene pointed out that if Sparkle manages to hold on to her baby until she arrives this weekend, Fairy would be a perfect name, and Fairy Bramble an even better one. Aarene will be crashing at our place, since she’s the official storyteller at our city’s Fairy Festival…. hence Fairy Bramble for a name.

So, I guess, it looks like I’m still adding to That Danged List.

(I couldn’t find any applicable pictures for this post, and it seems boring without any pictures, so here. Here’s a couple of gratuitous pics of the boys riding Carrots.)

DragonMonkey on Carrots

Squid on Carrots

Choosing the Morgan Foal

Posted on April 17, 2018 by Becky Bean

Sparkle is still pregnant, so I am doing the waiting thing.

Sparkle

I hate the waiting thing.

The reason I dislike waiting isn’t so much that I’m impatient. It’s more that waiting gives me time to think, and when I start thinking about things, I start talking myself out of them.

It’s not so much that I’m having second thoughts about the Morgan baby, it’s just more that I’m having a bunch of thoughts about everything that could possibly go wrong.

It doesn’t help that everyone – and I do mean everyone has a story about how buying an in-utero baby has gone wrong for them. At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a standard social response that I am just learning about.

Person 1: “Hello, how are you?”
Standard Social Response: “I am fine. How are you?”

Person 1: “Ah-CHOO!”
Standard Social Response: “Bless you!”

Person 1: “I bought an in-utero foal.”
Standard Social Response: “My friend bought an in-utero foal. They were breeding for color and got solid – an ugly, mean-tempered, solid colored horse.”

or:

“My friend bought an in-utero foal. They were trying for a trail horse and it never matured over 12 hands.”

or:

“I bought an in-utero foal. We were breeding for calm disposition and good conformation. The foal came out spooky with crooked legs. And fangs. Also, it wasn’t a foal at all – it was a bicycle, with rabies, and it ate children instead of hay.”

I think if I hadn’t boarded at Scandia Morgan Horse barn for a couple of months, I might be more worried. One of the things that made this easier though was spending time with all the horses. There’s not one in the herd I wouldn’t be delighted to own – not one with a crabby attitude, or ugly conformation.

Do you know what was hardest part of this whole thing?

Choosing.

The choosing was really, really, really hard. It was actually just the choice part that was hard – the planning part was amazingly fun. Then again, I hate choosing pretty much anything. Whenever I make an absolutely choice it always feels less like I’m getting something than it does the death of possibilities.

I gotta tell you, that kind of outlook on life drives my Type A accountant husband nuts.

Anyways, the daydreaming and planning was pretty much the most fun I’ve ever had on any project, ever. It was kind of like playing real life Pinterest, only instead of photos of kitchen command centers or nursery decorations, I was playing with horses. I had little design boards with different mare/stallion matches, and what their previous foals looked like, etc, etc.

Kathleen was there to help me and answer questions, and ultimately I relied on her experience more than my own planning. I mean, their barn was inducted into the Morgan Horse Breeder’s Hall of Fame back in 2011, so it would have been dumb of me to ignore all her experience.

She’s a woman of fewer words, given to understatement rather than overstatement. It took me a bit to figure out the code. “That cross might not be for you” was code for “That’s the kind of cross which would do explosively in a show setting at Grand Nationals and sweep away all the competition but would be waaaay too fiery to be much fun as a backyard horse.”

“That foal might be too refined” was code for “Dude, it’s gonna be pretty as heck, but built like a twig compared to what you want.”

After a lot of hemming and hawing, I finally had it narrowed down. I was going to pick one of Kathleen’s mares and breed to Marvelous Intrigue.

If that picture looks familiar, it’s because I’ve posted his picture on this blog once. Or twice. Or maybe five times.

I just really like that stallion, and I’ve liked every one of his babies that I’ve seen.

Once I had the stallion figured out, all I had left was to choose the mare. Ultimately I narrowed it down to two mares – a mother or her daughter.

….Aaaand that’s where the process stalled for a while. just couldn’t make up my mind which mare I liked more.

Scandias Heartsong

Scandias Sonata

They were actually mother/daughter (Sonata is Heartsong’s daughter). Choosing between them was incredibly difficult. Heartsong was a little bit bigger, and had a reputation for being calmer on trail.

Plus, she’d alread been bred to Intrigue, and if you’ve known me for any length of time, I had the biggest crush on the resulting colt, Anthem:

I mean, look at him. Isn’t he perfection? He ended up huge for a Morgan – 16 hands, and is pure gorgeousness.

The thing was, I really, really, really liked the way Sonata was put together. I liked her conformation better , I loved her wide, dark eyes and pretty little head. I liked the way she pushed forward to lean into scratches whenever I visited her over the gate. I liked her hip. I liked everything.

The problem was that she was a little smaller than Heartsong, and Kathleen pointed out that first foals tend to be smaller than resulting foals. Plus, she was a bit spicier.

I mean, Caspian cured me of ever wanting another ridiculously tall horse, but I do have to take into account the fact that I am 5’8”, and even if I magically lose all the weight and end up the same weight I was in high school, that’s still about 150/160 pounds without tack. Egyptian Arabs are not in my riding future.

By the time I was making this decision I was no longer boarding at Kathleen’s, so I finally asked if I could go out and look at the mares in person and see if I could break the tie.
After that hour scratching on them and observing them in a field., my mind was made up:

I had absolutely no idea which one would be better, and I wasn’t likely to come to a decision anytime soon, no matter how many pictures I took or how many hours I spent with them.

So I decided to go with the proven cross. There was literally nothing I didn’t like about Anthem (aside from the price tag – he was for sale, but waaay out of my price range), so why try to change anything?

I wrote Kathleen and email, gave her a deposit, told her I’d like to cross Heartsong with Intrigue, and we set the wheels in motion.

And then it got sad. Marvelous Intrigue, who was nearing 30, passed away. He just didn’t have another breeding season left in him.

It was a very sad time for his owner, and for the Morgan World at large. I tried to remind myself about that every time I tended towards selfishness, because seriously. I was so bummed. I had gotten SO CLOSE to owning one of his foals… only to have the dream jerked away at the last minute.

Also, after so many hours spent researching, it was a bit frustrating to go back to square one…. Okay, maybe not totally square one. I still had quite a few crosses in my “Morgan Breeding” folder on my computer.

After a little hemming and hawing, I decided on what I thought was the next best thing… which is kind of an insulting way to describe the quality of foal that’s about to be born (“Well, I guess you’ll do…”), and not at all how I feel about it now. It’s just how I felt at the moment, in the wake of Intrigue’s passing.

I decided to cross Sparkle, who is actually Intrigue’s daughter, with Kathleen’s stallion Trademark.

Scandias Trademark

You can read more about Trademark HERE.

I liked this cross because I still had a chance to own a part of Intrigue – a grandson or daughter, if not an actual son or daughter. Plus, Trademark is a proven sire. On the Facebook group there’s a whole album of Trademark foals, doing pretty much every discipline under the sun, doing it well, and doing it gooooorgeously.

Even better, Kathleen had bred Sparkle to Trademark the year before ended up with a very pretty red stud colt named Marvelous Mark (M&M).

There’s not much to dislike there.

Anyways, Sparkle finally came into season and she and Trademark did the deed, with the final cover occurring on May 15^th, 2017. Six weeks later they did an ultrasound check, and I was the proud owner of some grainy footage of a little wiggly foal embryo.

It all still felt very surreal and far-off at that point. The foal wouldn’t be coming to my barn until at least September of 2018. There was plenty of time to think about it.

Life being what it is with four kids, the months slid by quickly, and now we are at the point where Sparkle is due any day. I’m actually having trouble wrapping my brain around it.

I made a trip out there on Sunday. Originally it was to bring the boys along, and let them meet Sparkle before she gave birth and generate excitement…. But when Sunday rolled around they were squirrelly and hyper and getting on my nerves, so I decided to leave them behind.

Mom of the Year award, I know, I know.

I’m not sure what the purpose of my visit was, really. I wanted a picture of myself with Sparkle before she gave birth. Maybe I also wanted to convince myself that it was real, and that this foal was happening, I think?

Heck, maybe I just wanted to reassure myself that the foal wasn’t going to be born a flesh-eating bicycle with crooked front spokes.

On the way to the foaling shed I passed by Marvelous Mark (MnM), the full sibling to my unborn foal. I was pleasantly surprised at how big he was – wide backed and solid, significantly taller than he had been back only a couple of months ago, with a pretty little head and a deep red coat. He glanced at me pleasantly, ears pricked forward.

I did not reach through the slats of his stall to pet him, as he is a two-year old stud. Maybe he would be a perfect gentleman. Maybe he would be bored and try to see what he could get away with.

I value my fingers, so it wasn’t worth the gamble.

Then again, since I’m missing a chunk of muscle in my left arm from where an angry stallion bit me and tried to drag me into his stall to trample me, I’m a bit warier around stallions than most.

I passed through two other barns, all wide open aisleways and picturesque brass nameplates on doors. When Caspian was there he made the stalls look ridiculously tiny. With the Morgans in them they looked sizeable.

Sparkle was in the last barn, in one of the foaling stalls (complete live feed video camera!) She was in wonderful shape, bedded down deep in straw. Well, I mean, she was in wonderful shape for a very pregnant mare. She wasn’t going to be completing any 100 mile endurance rides any time soon, but she could probably win some “wide back” awards, if there was such a thing. She was marvelously pregnant and looked as comfortable as one can be, with about 100 pounds of foal all wadded up inside.

To be honest, after going through a twin pregnancy I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look at a pregnant animal and feel anything but sympathy for them.

I scratched her neck, and her super wide, flat back, and her belly. I glanced at her bag – already full with milk, although not waxed (most mares will develop a kind of waxy beading of colostrum about 24 hours before they foal.)

She ignored me for the most part, and drove her face deeper into her pile of hay, munching with a steady determination. I sympathized. Pregnancy hunger. It’s real, yo.

Kathleen waited outside the stall and chatted with me. The mare across the aisle is due two weeks after Sparkle, and she’s also in foal to Trademark. Scandias Dancer is a beautiful mare, taller than Sparkle, but built with a little more refinement.

She’s the last filly by UVM Coming Attraction, out of….

Is anyone event paying attention to all the names anymore? I’m sorry. I am pretty much just blogging all of this for future Becky, so she can have a quick reference guide down the road.

Anyways, Dancer is absolutely GOOOOORGEEEEOOOUUUUSSS, but a little too much horse for the kind of backyard riding I tend to do, which is why she never factored into my “who shall I breed” planning.

She’s also a maiden mare, so even though there’s only 2 weeks between the mares due dates, it’ll probably be a little bit longer than that. It’s kind of a relief that I’ll have another foal to compare mine against. I have to admit, I’m not very good with foal conformations. They all look kind of…. Adorable? to me. I just can’t eyeball them the way I can an older horse and see what they’re going to turn out like.

Unless I can see a photo, and then compare it to the photo of ANOTHER foal, my concept of foal conformation boils down to, “Oooh, look at that one! It’s bigger. And that one’s running around – look!” which is anything but technical. With a foal of a similar age, who is also by the same stallion, it will be great to be able to compare the two to each other.

Per Kathleen my foal will be “sturdier”, which is good – I’m hoping that he or she will inherit some of Sparkle’s size and flat, broad back…. but I imagine I’ll be over the moon with whatever comes out.

I still feel like this is almost too much of an indulgence. Now that it’s almost here, I feel…. Guilty? Like I need to apologize, or over explain why I’m doing this?

I mean, let’s call this foal what it is: an extravagance. There is literally nothing I do that requires me to have a horse this nice. I don’t show, I don’t do endurance (with four young kids, I wonder if I ever will.) The biggest riding aspirations I have are that I would like to have a costume and ride around in some kind of SCA event, and I’d love to look into Working Equitation. I don’t have to go breed some fancypants foal to do any of that.

And yet… It’s hard to carve out space for yourself, as a mom. I am not anywhere as footloose and fancy-free as I was in my 20s. My days are filled with schedules, and packing school lunches, and helping kids with homework, and wiping snotty noses, and quick-grab-a-snack as we dash out the door, telling toddlers to get off the table or don’t pull the cat’s tail, he’s gonna scratch you. I have a full-time job, and a car payment, and a mortgage, and dentist appointments, and tire rotation appointments, and a plan to pay down all our debt.

These are all good things.

They’re just not terribly exciting things.

I have quite a few friends whose lives have taken a very different path than mine has – the kind of path I always imagined mine would take. I see photos of their travels, and I am filled with longing. I see them exploring the world – all the corners of the world, meeting all manner of humanity, tasting all sorts of new foods, plunging headfirst into new adventures. I see them… as I sit on my dented couch in my nice suburban living room, surrounded by cheerful, happy children who need and need and need until I sometimes feel sucked completely dry. I see them, and I remember how it felt to be so free.

I think that’s also what this foal is to me – not just a chance to start a horse from scratch the exact way I want, and not just a chance to own a horse that’s the exact breed I’ve wanted for years and years…

It’s a chance to do something zany and exciting, for no other reason than because I can.

If I were traveling the world with a backpack I wouldn’t have all those boring, necessary appointments…. But I also would never, ever be waiting for a made-from-scratch Morgan foal from a barn I once only dreamed of visiting.

And that is just a really, really cool thing to be doing.

First photo of me with the foal…. still in its wrapping. Sigh.

Four.

Posted on April 8, 2018 by Becky Bean

I’d be lonely, if I weren’t so busy.

I have at least three blog post drafts that start off with this line, which I feel is a really excellent way to sum up how the past few months of my life have gone.

The problem is that I start writing to catch everyone up on what I’ve been doing, and the next thing you know it has turned into a maudlin LiveJournal post, circa early 2000s. It’s not that I mind that type of writing. It’s more…. it’s not really how I wanted my post to be.

Besides, it’s not like anything complain-worthy as even happened to me. I think the only hard thing is that back in December the Bean and I took a look at our finances and how much his job was charging us for insurance for our family of 6 and realized that the time had finally come. I needed to get a full-time job.

I’m not gonna lie – it wasn’t an easy decision. The twins weren’t even two years old yet, and to be honest, I’ve really been enjoying parenting them. They’re so laid back and easy to get along with….either I’m getting more relaxed at this parenting gig. Maybe third and fourth time is the charm?

Also, in order to get a full-time job it meant I had to leave my dream job: the library. If you don’t know why that was so hard for me, then you haven’t been reading this blog very long. I’m pretty sure if you cut me open, fiction books and pictures of pretty horses is all that would fall out.

Suffice it to say, I just really, really, really liked working at the library.

Before you feel too sorry for me, let me jump ahead to the punchline: I got the exact job I wanted (pretty much the only one I wanted, aside from a job getting paid to read books while hanging out in a barn): Front desk person at City Hall. The hours are great, the benefits are wonderful, my coworkers are fantastic, and I’m still part of the library family, so to speak.

I mean, there’s just no way to feel properly sad about something like that.

Unfortunately, even if it went as smoothly as possible, it has still been difficult. I started my job right at the beginning of The Bean’s busy season, which means that while his paycheck is around, I only glimpse him occasionally (usually after most of the kids have gone to bed). It also didn’t help that this has been an absolutely rotten flu season. Trying to juggle a new job with four kids who seem determined to pass around the same illness, over and over, has been demanding.

Oh, what the heck am I saying?

Trying to juggle a full-time job with four kids, forget adding any of the rest of it, has been demanding. Sometimes it feels like every single hour has already ben scheduled. I’m turning into one of those people. I have a calendar now, and I schedule things on it.

I know. Gross.

Anyways, with this new schedule, although my weekends are free, I tend to spend those catching up with the kids. It really doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing, All the children’s meetups that people schedule are during the day. There’s no time to meet up during the week. Weekends seem to be about playing catch up.

I used to rely on social media to fill my friend gap, but lately….

I’m sorry, but there’s just only so much screaming I can take. More often than not, it feels like all Facebook can do is either scream about its opinions, or drag out whatever roadkill of a travesty has happened in the news the past week and obsess over it an unhealthy amount until a new piece of roadkill is found.

Rumor has it that there are happier, less angry social media places to be, but I can’t bring myself to look into it. I like Facebook. I’m comfortable there.

Besides, while I can be awkward with people…

…the idea of researching new social media apps just to have friends is kind of depressing in and of itself.

I still keep up with a few people, but for the most part I’ve been reading, caring for my giant brood of children and animals, and daydreaming about horses.

Speaking of horses:

Did you know I have three of them in my backyard?

I know, I know.

Caspian is doing well – fat, happy, and enjoying living the life of a horse who gets to hang out with horse friends and rarely be ridden.

Honestly, it looks relaxing. I’m kind of jealous.

Back in early summer of last year I picked up a friend for Caspian, who desperately needed one. He spent all day pacing, stall weaving-nervously in a 100×50 paddock, nervously scanning the horizon as he fretted.

He was one set of opposable thumbs and an axe from turning into Jack Nicholson.

via GIPHY

It was unhealthy for him and depressing for me to look out my window and see that, so I began visiting auctions and looking on Craigslist. I stumbled onto Jupiter, a scrawny, wormy, too-thin yearling with some of the worst hooves my farrier had ever seen. Watching her trim him that first time was so gratifying – old abscesses oozing out, curled up toes getting straightened as she trimmed him back.

To be honest, I was really concerned that it might leave some kind of lasting damage, they looked so bad. (SPOILER: he has the best hooves of all of my herd, and hasn’t been lame yet, KNOCK ON WOOD.)

He fit the slot perfectly – someone to keep Caspian from spiraling further into horsey insanity by himself on my property, young enough to give me a chance to work with a young horse and teach them ground manners, lunging, etc, and pretty enough that when the time came, I might not have too hard of a time finding him a new home.

Ten Month Before/After

All was doing well, until February, when I stumbled on a pony: Carrots. I found her on while doing my weekly Craigslist scrolling (surely I’m not the only one that drools over horses I never plan on buying?) Something about her face just called to me, even if she lived an hour away. I called up the owner and asked if I could go meet her, drawn to her on a strange impulse….

But, unfortunately, someone else got there first.

I shrugged, and decided it wasn’t meant to be, and went back to work the following Monday….

Where one of my new coworkers came up to me. As it turns out, she lives only a mile from me. had seen that I had posted on Facebook about Carrots, and was willing to sell her to me for the original price.

A week later I had the pony in my backyard.

One month Before/After (before on bottom)

She was thin and wormy, but so friendly, and a much prettier mover than I expected.

To be honest, three horses was always my goal, so impulse the buying wasn’t a problem in terms of that. I have the space for them, I have the funds to care for them right and by the end of next summer I will have finished fencing in most of the lower pasture.

Three horses is not the problem. It’s four horses that’s a problem.

Yeah. Four horses.

Rewind your clocks more than a year…. all the way back to February 2017. We had lived in the house less than a month. Caspian was still being boarded at a barn, the twins were just under a year old, the walls of the new house were lined with boxes, and DragonMonkey and Squid were watching TV in the living room.

I was washing dishes, staring out the window and daydreaming about how amazing it was going to be to finally have the paddock finished and Caspian out there, grazing, in my own backyard…….. when the Bean approached. .

He stood there staring at me, holding Finn on his hip, a silent, waiting presence.

I looked up.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then smiled jovially. “So…. so, before you get mad….”

I turned off the water, grabbing a dish towel to dry my hands and turned to give him my full attention. “Oh, Lord.”

“No, no, it’s not… it’s not a bad thing, per se. I just… I just wanted to let you know, ahead of time, because that way we could always communicate with each other effectively, and I –”

“Bean, just spit it out.”

“There’s a motorcycle.”

He stood there, almost vibrating with excitement, and I couldn’t figure out how to respond. He was obviously, so, so, so excited. If you’ve ever met the Bean, you know he doesn’t get to that point very often. He also doesn’t do things on a whim, like I do. His daydreams consist of researching. If he was standing there in front of me with excitement oozing off of him so palpably, that meant he’d not only found a motorcycle, but he’d done price-comparisons, and probably dealership visits, and test rides, and….

And he was a CPA. If he knew we could fold it into our budget, then we could probably make it happen. So I had two choices:

I could put the kabosh on the whole thing, and feel like I was ripping the wings off a butterfly…..

Or I could say yes.

It was just…. He already had a motorcycle that he rode to work, every day, and I found myself getting jealous on the inside. I knew whatever motorcycle he wanted to bring home was not a practical one – it was going to be loud, and fast, and the kind of thing that served no practical purpose other than making his heart happy.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to be happy, it was just that I was envious. I know. I know, that’s shallow of me, and not a good trait to have. Even though the twins were so much more amazing than I had imagined, I still felt like I had lost a piece of myself during their pregnancy and that first year of round-the-clock nursing. I didn’t have anything to look forward to – no goals, beyond maybe one day sleeping through the night again.

I looked the Bean in the eye, paused, opened my mouth, paused again, and then blurted out, “Fine. If you’re getting a motorcycle then I’m getting a baby Morgan horse. From that Scandia Morgan place.”

I don’t know how I expected him to respond. I was throwing it out there, almost like a giant, verbal litmus test. How much did he really want this motorcycle?

“Deal! Deal. Yes. No problem.” He nodded his head two, three times in a row, and shifted Finn higher on his hip. “That’s fair.” He nodded again, paused, and then said with a grin creeping across his face. “Want to hear about the motorcycle?”

And now you know why I’m sitting here, more than a year later, checking my Facebook messenger frequently for updates, waiting to see if Sparkle (real name: Marvelous by Design) has finally foaled yet.

The Morgan Horse: They’re like Ducati Hondas?

Posted on December 4, 2017 by Becky Bean

“So are they all brown?”

“Well, I mean, Morgans can be almost any color, although until recently the splash gene…. wait. Too much. Bay. That color right there in the video is bay, not brown.”

Scandias Mademoiselle

“They’re not the same?”

“Bay has the black stockings, and the black mane and tail.”

“But the base color is brown, so it’s the same, right?”

“I mean, I guess so. Chestnut is the reddish color.”

Scandias Marvelous Mark

“What do they do with them, though?”

“Morgans?”

“Yeah, what’s their thing?”

“The Morgan horse is very versatile – they can do anything.”

“Yeah, but what are they known for?”

“Ummm… well, they’re kind of known for being good at everything. They’re one of the oldest American breeds…. they’re very strong, with a lot of endurance and health and dependability, but they’re also fancy. So you get that flashiness, without having to deal with them being too hot and losing their brain.”

Scandias Trademark

“So… they’re like a Ducati made by a Honda?”

“….. Uh, sure. Yeah. That.”

“Okay.”

“They’re like…. a Kawasaki, but with a Goldwing comfort on a long trail…”

“WHAT?”

“I was coming up with a metaphor for you.”

“I already had one. Ducati made by a Honda. That makes sense to me.”

“I was trying to come up with a motorcycle analogy for you. You know, to bond with you.”

“That was a motorcycle analogy. What did you think a Ducati was?”

“I…. I forgot. I heard Honda and thought car.”

“You thought a Ducati was a car???”

“Yes…. I mean no. I mean, I was just focusing on Honda…. I mean, shut up. You thought bay was the same as brown.”

Becky Bean Writes

How Not to Live Your LIfe

Category Archives: Horses

On Writing and Horse Bootcamp

Scat, Reverie

Draft Dump: 3 of Something

Getting ready for Reverie

Conversations About Carrots

Reverie

Day 346: The List

Choosing the Morgan Foal

Four.

The Morgan Horse: They’re like Ducati Hondas?

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