Anna Blake - Stable Relation: A Memoir of One Womans Spirited Journey Home, by Way of the Barn.

Stable Relation

A memoir by Anna Blake

Stable Relations copyright 2015 Anna Blake

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the email address below.

Author photo by Sheri Kerley
Cover photo by Anna Blake
Cover design and formatting by JD Smith

Published by Prairie Moon Press

All enquiries to

First published 2015

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9964912-1-1

For my Grandfather Horse

and all the horses who brought us girls home.

Contents

: Full Moon Over Broken Glass

: Being Jane Goodall

: Stable Relation

Part One:

Full Moon Over Broken Glass

Midlife Crisis on the Freeway

Cruising on the freeway at ten a.m. on a Friday morning had the tangy taste of playing hooky. I hoped someone I knew would see me. It felt like I was finally on the right road and making up time. The oldies station was on a roll; sometimes a radio magically speaks the infinite truth of the universe song by song. The music catapulted me toward a blissful enlightenment, as long as I didnt listen to the lyrics too closely. I was driving with the windows rolled down, car dancing with the steering wheel, and howling along like a hound dog on trash day. I knew every single word.

Baby, Its You. (Sing it highSha-la-la-la-lah!)

The I-25 freeway, south from Denver, traced the front range of the Rockies, all mountains on the right side, and scrub oak hills and prairie on the left. There was a great view from this height, bobbing along on the bench seat of a big white pick-up trucka conservative vehicle, American-made, and I naturally named it after my recently deceased father. The mechanical Lloyd was so much easier to get along with. Without a harsh word, Lloyd towed a past-prime horse trailer, filled with tack and buckets and feed, and best of all, a leopard Appaloosa named Spirit. I was on my way to the state fairgrounds in Pueblo for a horse show and a dream as old as me. My father never approved of my love of horses, but now Lloyd took me to horse shows and patiently parked for hours, finally bringing us safely back home. So much about a relationship can be improved post-death.

You Dont Own Me. (A matching head and index finger shake while cruising at 65 mph.)

There was a fleeting, but troublesome thought concerning my future. Id spent a few years carelessly killing brain cells in early adulthood, and I wondered how many of the ones remaining were taken up with less than crucial information, like the words to these old songs. I needed my wits for the important work of balancing my checkbook and finding my car keys. What if the world came undone and the only help I could offer was the words to Duke of Earl?

The cooler was on the front floor board, packed with road-trip food. I put a root beer in the plastic cup-holder hooked on the window and opened the vegetarian pork rindssome people call them Cheetos. It had taken me a while to get to this enviable position behind the wheel.

Little Deuce Coupe. (Doing The Pony on the bench seat, just with my sit-bones.)

Id been magnetized to horses from my first pony, sold away by my parents, to my last childhood horse, a sweet mare who needed a new home before I graduated from high school. I knew when I left that I wouldnt be back. Then there were a few lonely years after leaving home before I could support a horse on my own. The longing never let me rest. Some of us are born with a piece missing. Mine is a horse-shaped piece and I searched for it like a missing twin. Now I was a grown-up, and when my horse homecoming day finally arrived, there were squeals and moans, the same breathless elation as when I got my first pony. But this time the decisions were all mine and I could put my time and money where my heart had always been. I was a dangerous woman because I had all the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old girl, but more vocabulary, hormones, and my own bank account.

Love Me Tender. (Elvis croons as deep and soft as the nicker of a mare.)

Now I had the horse, but I was living in a city with no barn in my backyard, so I found a boarding stable and started a different kind of horse life. I commuted out every day but Spirit had staff and I didnt muck or fix fence. We rode and grazed. I bought tack, riding lessons, show gear, more lessons, better tack, and even more lessons. I was having the time of my life, riding my passion at a hand-gallop and learning everything I could. Spirit and I made great progress. And I could have renovated a hundred-year-old house with less money.

I traded my vintage Cadillac for a truck and the next year, I got my first horse trailer. There were even more opportunities now that I could take him off property. Riding a horse always had an elevated feeling of freedom but now we could venture away to trail rides and horse shows, returning home Sunday nights, dusty and tired. It was like another layer of freedom.

Save the Last Dance for Me. (A shoulder-shimmy sort of slow dance.)

So, of course, I sang loud enough to drown out traffic sounds and scatter antelope along the way. It was a standout moment in time; I worked hard and I deserved it. Traffic was picking up and there was less space. I watched my mirrors and maintained brake distance, but every time I slowed up to increase the distance to the car in front of me, another car pulled in between us, and I had to back off again. It created the feeling that I was almost traveling backwards on the freeway and it still didnt dampen my mood. I even loved traffic.

Why must I be a teenager in love? (A pinkie finger dance on the wheel.)

A car pulled up in the fast lane, a Corvette with a T-top. It was clich red. The man driving it had a bald spot on the back of his headhis comb-over flapped in the wind. This guy was such a living stereotype; midlife crisis couldve been his vanity plate. He looked my way, lifted his gas foot and smiled, with all the confidence in the world. His belly rested against the steering wheel and I could tell by his head bob, he was singing along to the same song as me! Why wasnt he embarrassed? Listening to oldies was a charmingly eclectic habit for me, I was a baby in the fifties. He was old enough to date when he first listened to this music. Was he actually flirting with me?

I couldnt pull my eyes away, he sang louder and then brought a hand up to his brow and gave me a salute the same instant he dropped his foot to the gas pedal and roared ahead like a jet. Did that silly car really need four mufflers? It was laughable. He couldnt possibly think he was having the same sort of Friday that I was. So arrogantI almost felt sorry for him.