Back To School

Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash

Hi everyone. I’m going to go back east to visit folks next week so there will be a quest writer in my place. Yes, I’m concerned but I’ve been assured she won’t be mean to me.

We have had almost an inch of rain this week which is fantastic for the gardens, beds and trees. The grass is really happy and probably needs to be cut twice a week until the heat of summer. There is so much to do I probably shouldn’t be away from home but it does give Kerry something to do besides eating bonbons and reading magazines.

Hit those buttons to make me famous and thanks for taking a few minutes to read my silly stories.

People have called me a multitude of names over the years. J, JJ, Okie, Jack and Dumbass are the most popular, but not one name ever stuck like a nickname will. Most folks call me John, which is vanilla as far as monikers go but it does save me from any nicknames that describe embarrassing attributes like my carpenter friend, Stumpy.

When I was editing last week’s story about my friend Tom and the dude ranch we shod at, I remembered that there is something just as permanent as a nickname and potentially more embarrassing at a high school reunion. A photograph.

At the end of the season, Tom asked me to go with him to the dude ranch. He was looking for help with supervising and teaching the rookies from his beginner horseshoeing class how to pull and trim horses. This is a fantastic opportunity for young folks, because the best learning experience on how to shoe a horse is to get under lots of them. Whenever a customer comments on how I make it look easy I always say, half in jest, that after the first thousand feet you get good at it.

The kids had spent weeks studying anatomy and worked on the school’s horses with direct supervision, but now would have the opportunity to spread their wings in a less controlled environment. They would pair up and be given a horse that they would work on, taking turns on the fronts and hinds. When they were finished, Tom or I would give the horse the once over and help them fix anything they hadn’t gotten right.

The weather was perfect, cool with no wind, so the horses and young farriers were relaxed and comfortable in the pale sunshine. The morning session was abuzz with laughter, nickering horses, and clacking tools. Tom and I wandered from group to group and agreed we had an interesting class. By and large they were doing a great job. There was a pair of young ladies, the only women in the class, who stood out from the rest. Their hand movements were controlled and measured, and they knew how to make the horses comfortable while being trimmed, which is important in order to do a good job. When we all broke for lunch, Tom and I ate with the girls and talked horses and forging shoes. I discovered they were smart, funny and quick on the draw when it came to making fun of us, making them wonderful companions.

The afternoon session went even better than the morning and we were nearing the end of the string by three o’clock. Tom had gone into the office to talk to the head wrangler and when he came out, he had a big grin on his face.

“Well, just talked with the boss and there is one horse they want shod. It’s new to the string and will be used as pack animal mostly but they want to work him for a while. Why don’t we give the ladies a shot at shoeing him?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to do,” I replied cautiously. Tom was up to something; I could just tell. “Which horse is it?”

“Here he comes now.” Tom laughed, pointing at the barn. It was a Fjord.

“Ladies!” Tom hollered, “Have I got a deal for you!”

He walked the girls up to the rail where the draft horse was now tied, and told them what their task was. They looked a little unsure of themselves, which was made worse by each team finishing their horse and gathering round to watch the show.

Fjords are a small draft horse originating from Norway that are popular for working small farms or cramped logging operations where their small stature works nicely. Many people use them to pull carts or carriages. I have worked on several Fjords in Connecticut and always found them friendly and cooperative, like most draft animals, but they are a bit short and thick in stature, which can be uncomfortable for the farrier.

Photo by Kristin O Karlsen on Unsplash A classic Fjord Horse

The ladies dove right in trimming using their foot stands to good advantage keeping the horse’s foot low to the ground without having to hold up all its weight. Upon putting the last foot down, they looked at Tom.

“Not bad ladies.” He murmured after picking up and sighting down each foot. “Go get your shoes and check them for size.”

I was impressed. They hadn’t been doing this very long at all and were getting the job done. They checked for size and fired up Toms gas forge to heat the shoes and begin shaping. With the roar of the forge and clang of the anvil I kept a watchful eye on our horse. He didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the commotion, which was exactly what we wanted. Besides his calm demeanor, the Fjord had good solid feet that would make for simpler fit and nailing. I poured another cup of coffee from my thermos while Tom supervised the first fitting.

BOOM!

Our perfect horse lost its mind. He flew backwards, tightening the rope on the hitching rail. He grunted and snorted, pulling with all his might, finally ending up with his rear on the ground, his neck and head stretched out. I thought his halter would give way but then there was a loud crack as the brass clasp holding rope to halter snapped. The gathered group scattered to get out of the way. The Fjord took two steps backwards and realized he was free. He stood there and shook himself as if to say, “My, that was a close one.”

The poor young lady who had been fitting the shoe stood stock still in shock, the fitting tongs and shoe in her right hand.

“I didn’t even do anything!” She explained with eyes as big as hen’s eggs.

“You, OK?” Tom asked. She nodded. “Good. OK, let’s get a rope halter with no snaps and try again with your partner holding the horse while you do a foot and then you switch.”

This was one of those situations that is a nightmare for instructors. You don’t want any of your students to get hurt but at the same time the best way to learn how to deal with a fractious horse is to work with them. The ladies were struggling with a very strong, uncooperative horse and we needed to help them through it.

While the ladies were finishing shaping shoes and fitting, I held the Fjord and gave him some extra love. I think he appreciated it but there was a stubbornness in his eye I didn’t like. As Kerry, The Head Horse Trainer, would say, he wasn’t done yet. Tom walked up to me and saw that eye too. He let out a sigh.

“I don’t know man. I’m not sure I should let them nail or clinch. They’re still beginners after all, and slow at it. This horse will have no patience with them.”

“Why don’t we check the fit cold, congratulate them and just tell them we will take it from here?” I said, “I bet they won’t argue much. They can hand us tools and nails while one of us handles the horse. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone, including the horse, to get in a giant fight.”

Tom called for everyone’s attention and explained he didn’t want anyone to get hurt so he and I, his lovely assistant, would demonstrate how to shoe a fractious horse. The two ladies looked relieved.

It turned out to be a wonderful learning experience. The Fjord’s heart wasn’t in it to be mean. He just didn’t want to cooperate. The old nail holes in his feet told us he knew about shoeing, but the question was, how was he done in the past? Horses have a strict code of fairness and respect. Mules, even more so. Treat them unfairly and they will hold it against you and possibly all mankind from then on. Maybe a farrier wasn’t nice to him in the past or maybe no one took the time to train him and just shod him in stocks. He was also a draft animal, and they can have a cold, sullen manner about them. They know they are the biggest and the strongest so you can’t make them do something against their will. You have to use subtlety and convince them to cooperate.

Tom and I took turns and foot by foot got the horse shod while the class gathered round to watch the rodeo, pick up pointers, and ask questions. We demonstrated several distraction techniques that kept the horse focused on the handler and off the shoer. There were a couple minor blowups but, by and large, our Fjord let us work. He sure was heavy for a small horse. Some horses have a gift at making themselves so heavy your feet fall asleep, leg muscles and joints start to scream in pain and if you give just a tiny bit and lose control, that foot will come crashing down right on your foot. Steel toe boots will do you no good, believe me.

At last, Tom nailed on the last shoe and I started to clinch and finish. The Fjord had run out of patience by now and he decided to put on a show. He struck my foot stand with his foot and then pawed at it, sending the green molded plastic and aluminum stand across the corral. Then we began the dance of his people. He did everything possible to not set his foot on my stand. I had no control at all. He waved his hoof around with me holding on to his feathers attempting to grab his toe in vain. It had to look funny with me being tossed around with ease and a couple kids laughed but I couldn’t blame them. All at once the foot stopped midair and I managed to grab it wedging it between my knees on the stand. Tom had made a twitch of sorts with his hands and had grabbed the horse’s top lip. The man has a strong grip, and he got the Fjords attention, but he was careful. If he caused pain, he would never hold that horse. But the pressure from his hands makes the horse think about things in a whole new way. When the horse relaxes, the pressure goes away. Act up and it comes back again. The horse learns he is in control of the pressure, not the human. I love to see that moment in the horse’s eyes when he understands.

At the moment, something else was getting my attention as I frantically tried to clinch and rasp. My pants were falling down.

I once told a lady customer that my mother had bought me some extra-long tailed tee shirts for work so the customer wouldn’t have to see my butt anymore. I have a serious case of “Plumbers Crack” that is legend among my female customers.

“When are you going to start wearing them?” she quipped. Oh, what a funny lady.

But this was serious, my pants would literally go down around my ankles in the next few seconds in front of a whole group of college kids including two girls, but I couldn’t stop clinching to pull them up. I might not be able to finish the darn horse. What to do?

“Tom,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Pull up my pants.” Tom had been explaining some of the finer points involved in fractious horse shoeing but stopped in mid-sentence and looked down at me.

“What?”

“You heard me. Pull up my pants.”

“I don’t want to,” he whined.

“Do it, please!”

By now everyone in attendance knew what the problem was and found the situation hysterically funny. Tom reached down and grabbed my pants and underwear with one hand while holding the horse’s nose with the other. I told you he had strong hands.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, and gave me a yank up and the wedgy of all wedgies. My feet even left the ground for an instant.

Click, click, click. The sounds of a camera’s shutter came from the crowd. Click, click, click.

Peals of laughter rang out from the young ladies.

“I got it!” A triumphant cry came from one of them while the crowd cheered.

“Done!” I said and put the horse’s foot on the ground while throwing my hands up in the air like a calf roper who just tied up his calf in record time.

“I need to go wash my hand.” Tom said.

Photo by Daniel Lloyd Blunk-Fernández on Unsplash

Now I don’t know if this is true, but from what I understand, a framed copy of the photo depicting Tom pulling up my pants hung at the Horseshoeing School for years. I tried to wheedle the truth out of Tom when we were fishing a spring creek together. The guides, a husband and wife team, were setting out lunch when I began my interrogation. Both stopped dishing out potato salad and baked beans mid scoop.

“A picture of what?” Exclaimed the wonderful lady guide. Her face was a combination of disgust, horror, and fascination which is a common enough occurrence when my butt is involved.

“I think its best if we never speak of the atrocity again,” Tom said. “But yes. It was there but no names were attached and faces of the innocent were blacked out.”

“Where is it now?”

“No one knows. It disappeared.” He said, taking a bite of potato salad. “It’s a mystery.”

“The Atrocity” is what Tom called it. That is the kind of nickname that could stick with a fella, especially with a framed photo to go with it.

Try and explain that at a high school reunion.