CHAPTER 1
JOSHUA
Today, I called for a backhoe to bury my daughter's horse Joshua. It is beyond shattering to feel Tristan experience this blindsiding heartache. The pain is extraordinary when you unexpectedly loose your first horse to death. Joshua had been a present for Tristan from the family on her tenth birthday. Tristan loved Joshua passionately, fully and deeply. Joshua was a phenomenal, black twelve-year-old Quarter Horse gelding. Joshua effortlessly showed Tristan the incomparable reservoir and depth of pure love.
Joshua gently showed Tristan everything about the innocent pleasures in life. Things you can only experience with a horse you are wholly united with. Joshua generously imprinted the best of memories in her young heart. I too, loved Joshua intensely. Without question, he was more than a valued member of our family. He was simply irreplaceable. Joshua was a beautiful and unique link to my past. Effortlessly he managed to fuse my youth to our present. Best of all he showed my family a reflection of what was always the very best in all of us.
Joshua came into our lives in the summer of 1982. We are a family of riders. Horses have always been an everyday blessing in our lives. I taught Tristan to ride before she reached five years of age. When she was just ten years old Tristan followed in my footsteps off to summer camp at Paddington Station in Potter Valley, California. Tristan met Joshua at Paddington Station during her first year of summer camp and they quickly became best friends. After the inseparable pair enjoyed five memorable summers together, we found out from the camp director that Joshua was going to be sold. Was it destiny? To avoid a crushing break in this amazing relationship I decided to buy him for Tristan. This was a major family decision I have never regretted.
The entire family celebrated Joshua's arrival to our quaint horse barn near Fort Bragg. After Joshua's arrival, Tristan slept the entire first week in the barn outside his stall door. We took hundreds of photos and joyful home videos of Tristan and Joshua. They have enjoyed three blessed years together on our farm. Together, the two attended many horse shows, countless family trail rides and assorted training clinics. Joshua taught Tristan things I could not. Joshua taught her work ethic that is derived from love. He taught her to understand sacrifice pays dividends. Good grades in school equaled a nice saddle or a new pair of custom made riding boots.
Joshua taught her to love the great outdoors over sitting in front of a computer. Joshua taught her laying down on your horse's back, as he eats grass in the sun equals bliss. He taught her how to care for another living soul through the good times and endure some bad. The times Joshua had been sick or injured, Tristan slept in the barn with him until he returned to good health. Joshua taught her how it feels to be greeted with massive amounts of unconditional love every day you are together. Joshua was Tristan's best friend. I have always been in awe of this very special bond between my young daughter and her beloved horse.
Cruelly, Tristan's blissful love affair with Joshua ended abruptly today. Fate intervenes when you least expect it. Joshua accidentally ingested several toxic blister beetles. The lifeless creatures are deadly stowaways. Hidden without mercy in his morning feeding of alfalfa hay. When Tristan discovered Joshua covered in a white foamy sweat, rolling uncomfortably around his stall it was too late. The only humane option at that tragic point of colic with a ruptured intestine, is euthanasia. The odds of this tragedy occurring to a horse in a barn where the alfalfa hay was closely monitored are incredibly small. Due to a drought, we had bought the hay from out of state. I blame myself for not inspecting it better before feeding it to poor Joshua.
Unfortunately, what I have learned about unexpected death is that it does not care about odds. When the Grim Reaper arrives all bets are off. Nothing makes sense. Perhaps you will never fully comprehend the devastation that is left in the aftermath. When our vet arrived with the lethal shot of euthanasia, fortunately Joshua had already gone into a coma. Painfully, I watched my daughter's heart break when we both felt Joshuas heart stop beating. There is no measurable comparison to this horrible experience. In that instant you learn what permanent really means. In that painful space, death shoots a wicked, disturbing internal sensation throughout your entire body. You instantly awaken to what being alive really means. No heart beat, no life. Trying to console Tristan was like trying to stop a bolt of lightning with your bare hands, simply impossible.
Death came marching into our happy barn and stole their precious love without warning. In its place now an empty, ugly, black void. That space can only be filled with the promise of more love. The healing miracle connection that only can be found between two open hearts. You will never find two souls more receptive to pure love than that of a girl and her horse. This type of experience cannot be compared. It is absolutely true. Love trumps death every time.
There is no room for sadness in the presence of this kind of love. A girl loves a horse with her entire soul. The horse gives her everything she dreams about. This is the pure love where time has no meaning. This is the honest love where hard work becomes a dream made with bliss. This is the powerful love a girl will try to recreate with a human being, only to come to know it is not possible. This is the joy filled love where the sun always shines and constant happiness resides. This is the incredible love that changes the world two hearts at a time.
Fifty years later, I can still remember loving my first horse like it was yesterday. These powerful feelings live on inside of us forever. Sadness or happiness alike, they invoke images that reside in our mental storage like the permanency of black tattoo ink on pale white skin. The family barn we have always known as a happy place, now without Joshua is undoubtedly different. Joshua's empty stall, sadly feels like a blue sky without the sun, a night sky without stars, an early spring without flowers. All absolutely imperfect.
Tristan quietly sits on her tack box. The one with her name engraved on it. She is clenching onto Joshua's seasoned leather halter, beautifully adorned with his brass name tag. I know the tortuous thoughts already haunting her innocent mind about what to do with the halter. She silently wonders what to do with his favorite winter blanket, his well worn summer cooler, his dirty saddle pad, his blue leg wraps, his custom made bridle, his silver snaffle bit. Who would take his water bucket away and where would it go?
There are no words I can find that will ease poor Tristan's heart. Sadly, I know from experience she has to sit alone with her pain. Her heart is quickly shutting down from any more feeling. What an amazing design, perfectly constructed to shield us from excessively torturous pain. In time, she will be completely numb and wish not to feel anything ever again. She will need a great deal of space and solitude. Grief passes through us all quite differently. Tristan will eventually have to allow her heart to reopen for any possible healing to begin. Throughout the barn, I notice the other horses are unusually quiet. They already know this day is like no other.
Walking away from the barn with tears streaming down my dirty face, my thoughts strangely return to my own childhood. Awkwardly, I somehow managed a slight smile as I recalled the powerful love I had for my first horse. The relationship I had with my horse was quite different from that of Tristan and Joshua's. Magically, now they were exactly the same, just a memory to recall. I like knowing that all the artistic paintings of our intertwined lives with horses, are quite purposely designed with a divine paintbrush. Horses are a precious gift from God. In my heart I know Joshua has now returned home.
CHAPTER 2
Pure Love of Horses
There is a universal truth about horses that transcends all space and time. It is the same for a daughter, a mother, an American girl, a European girl, a rich girl, a poor girl, a black girl, a white girl, a gifted girl, a spoiled girl, or even a lazy girl. This compelling fact is that no girl will ever forget her first horse. She will definitely want to forget her first boyfriend, or even her first husband. Trust me, she will always vividly remember every last detail about that horse. I was only six years old when I got mine. Carousel was a stubborn, 13-year-old Bay thoroughbred mare. She had four white stocking feet and a perfect white star on her forehead.
Carousel was a birthday gift from my parent's. Carousel was also previously my sister, Catherine's, first horse. I thought she was the most beautiful horse in the entire world. I lived and breathed just to take care of Carousel. There is nothing I would not do for her. I only agreed to go to school so that I could return home in the afternoon and spend every available second with Carousel. My schoolwork always included a variety of drawings in the margins, all of Carousel.
My daily after school routine included not only riding Carousel, but also brushing her nasty, stained teeth and picking out her smelly hooves. I bathed her as often as possible, and was always braiding her main and tail with pretty blue ribbons. The color was quite symbolic to me. A connection to the elusive blue ribbon, I had yet to win while showing her. Undaunted, I cleaned her stall everyday. Hauling out all the manure by wheelbarrow and filling it back in with fresh sawdust. Carousel's bucket of water always fresh. Hand carried from the rusty water faucet out front of the barn.
Truth be told, Carousel was a total handful, and by the way, so is Catherine. I naively thought Carousel was the most perfect horse in the entire world. I loved Carousel unconditionally. My total devotion never waivered, regardless of her occasional nasty temperament. My belief in Carousel elevated her status in the world, for in her I only saw perfection. I also love Catherine deeply, despite her obvious pleasure in tormenting me, as all big sisters do. It is baffling what you will endure for love. Secretly, I have always imagined my heart must be extra large, kind of like the enormous heart doctors found in the greatest racehorse ever, Secretariat. Currently, I have no proof of this but still proudly stand by my assertion.
My parents named me Angel after my great grandmother, Angelina, on my father's side of the family. Everyone loved my grandmother. I have always quietly assumed I got my large heart from my grandmother. I like believing this is true. My sister, Catherine, is the self-proclaimed favorite child in the family. Consequently, I am not now, and never have been the favorite child. Actually, Catherine had me falsely believing early on that I was adopted. She told me the police had found me in a dirty horse stall at Fort Bragg when I was only four. Out of the goodness of their hearts, she further embellished, my parents had reluctantly taken me in and unselfishly accepted me as their own child.
For this preposterous adoption reason, I always believed my role in life was to be Catherine's handmaiden. Actually, I loved helping her as I watched everything she did and learned. Like all big sisters, she enjoyed telling me what to do all the time at the barn. The stable was our own unique world, free from problems. It was precious and bonding for us both. To her credit, Catherine was the force that taught me how to be a better rider. She also taught me to enjoy competing, which ultimately helped me reach my riding dreams. I could have never become the rider I am today without Catherine. We enjoyed being dirty together with our horses. And we laughed a lot. I am absolutely beyond grateful to have Catherine. She was and still is, the best sister ever.
Horse barns are really fun and sometimes quite messy. Grooms muck out dirty stalls, clean mud stained tack, set up jumps for other riders, and wash large, moody, temperamental horses. Real grooms get paid for their hard work. Silly little girls, who act as grooms for their older sisters, do not. I was dirty a lot as a little girl. I never earned any money at the stable either. Horses are really big and I was really small. The horses always won in their favorite game, push comes to shove. Carousel did a lot of pushing and shoving, I think you could probably refer to her as a professional.
Her favorite show of seniority was to stand on my foot while I lovingly groomed her coat, mane and tail. I am still to this day certain, she did this on purpose. Always quite slyly, when no one was looking. Her strategy was to place her large, heavy hoof on my small, breakable foot and then push her shoulder into me. In my futile attempts to free myself, all 65 pounds of my body weight was no match for her impressive 1100 pounds. We would push against each other until someone would walk up. Casually, Carousel would slide her hoof off my bruised foot and stand there looking totally innocent!
No one believed me when I mentioned that Carousel was doing this hoof and foot business on purpose, especially not Catherine. My toes stayed black and blue a lot. When Carousel belonged to Catherine, she had bruises on her toes too. She tried to hide them but I knew they were there. Honestly, I saw my bruises as a badge of honor, and wore a lot of Band-Aids. My toes are still crooked today. I love my toes anyway. They have a lot of character and after all, they are the only ones I will ever have.
CHAPTER 3
Horses and Family
Catherine and I were army brats. We grew up in Northern California at Fort Bragg. I love Northern California. My father, Captain Daniel Stockton was stationed there early in his career. It was there he also met my mother, Alexandra Marshall. They met at the riding stables, where Mom was in charge of the horse barn. Evidentially, according to them, it was love at first sight. I do not believe in such a corny idea. Since I was not there, however, I reluctantly accept this as their truth. My parents have a great marriage and are wonderful people. That is not to say I always liked what they had to say or did. All in all, life with them was pretty darn good.
Mom is an absolute handful, a real independent type. She is undeniably an excellent horsewoman. She is also pure bohemian, an absolute flower child. Dad is definitely not a flower child. I am not sure if he even likes flowers. I am not even convinced he likes horses. Dad is pretty pushy too, I guess that comes from all his time in the military. As a Captain, he had to yell a lot at younger soldiers. Naturally, Dad has an impressively loud voice. At times, Mom and Dad could knock heads but they always made up the next day. Even if I still thought I was adopted, I would always claim them as my parents. I have sure seen friends whose parents were much worse. Presently both over seventy years old, I am certain my Mom and Dad are still completely in love with each other. When I am not mad at them, I love them both unconditionally.
The Mendocino Coast is truly a beautiful and magical area to live. Horses were always a part of our family for as long as I can remember. Whenever possible, on the weekends we all rode together. We got to take our horse's trail riding on the expansive ocean coast and through the immense Redwood Forest. We could ride across expansive working cattle ranches and along pristine beaches. Sometimes, we went to the local gymkhanas and small horse shows with Mom. Dad never showed up for any of our competitions. Not bitter anymore about that, but Mom say's I am, and usually results in my changing the subject. Always one to excel at avoiding uncomfortable conversations, they never seemed very productive. Besides, I could never win the stupid debate over imagined facts.
Sometimes Mom loaded the horses up and we would go camping at the Samoa Dunes near Eureka and the Humboldt Bay area. We would ride in the sand dunes and sleep in tents on the beach. The horses loved it, except the part about sleeping in the horse trailer. I do not think they liked that very much because Carousel would kick the door of the trailer all night. Did I mention she was stubborn? All night long, I mean she never stopped. We all figured her horse shoes would be off in the morning from all the kicking. Never happened, next morning all four horse shoes would still attached to her feet. I still find this amazing.
When I turned seven, I attended summer horse riding camp at Paddington Station in Potter Valley California. This idea had come as a surprise to everyone, when I simply announced one night at dinner I wanted to go. A friend of mine had told me about it and I was instantly intrigued. Mom and Dad were surprised but really supportive. I suggested Catherine go too. That idea went nowhere. Catherine would not dream of attending camp and leave the comfort of home, not a chance. She absolutely insisted to anyone who would listen that I was totally nuts for going. Actually, Catherine had started preferring to sleep in late on the weekends and then go to the beach to get tan with her boring, loser friends. She never understood what I saw in roughing it at camp. This all only further confirmed her ridiculous story about my being adopted
