It's Hard to Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious: While You're Unconscious

By Joyce Davis

For someone like Joyce, who was getting back into horses after a 40 year absence, finding the new, which is really reinventing the old, information on horse gentling was like making that discovery as a 6 year old that pollywogs turn into frogs. Now trainers speak of gentling the horse, not breaking it. We as people are becoming caring individuals who honor animals as the Native American’s did, as little sister and little brother. We are also finding that animals, in turn assist our growth and keep us in balance. The main theme of It's Hard to Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious is the journey of mother and daughter into acquiring horses, and their resultant experiences.

In It's Hard to Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious we are traveling into a wild land, for in life we rarely know what lies beyond that next turning of the canyon walls. If we follow the Chapter Headings, though, we will have some guidelines, “Watch for Lions, Dodge Wildfires, Get a Horse, Stampede with a Mustang.”

The trailblazing aspect of It's Hard to Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious lies in it appendices. When Joyce noted that a horse needs trained on both sides, or a foal, when imprinted, needs to be massaged all over, she hypothesized that it had something to do with the Corpus callosum, which is the bridge between the two brain hemispheres. When studying the brain, she discovered it is first necessary to understand how a horse sees. Thus, following the narrative is a bit of science, an Appendix on The Eye, and one on The Brain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 5, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465321763

Joyce Davis

Joyce lives on forested land in Oregon with her husband, daughter, and the various animals that grace the pages of this book.

Book preview

It’s Hard to Stay on a Horse

While You’re Unconscious

Joyce Davis

Copyright © 2008 by Joyce Davis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

Looking Back before Looking Ahead

CHAPTER 2

Wish upon a Star

CHAPTER 3

Study the Terrain

CHAPTER 4

Get a Horse

CHAPTER 5

Call the Cavalry

CHAPTER 6

Watch for Lions

CHAPTER 7

Seek Wizards

CHAPTER 8

Scratch in the Sand

Chapter 9

Learn the Language of the Natives (Horse Whispering)

CHAPTER 10

Study Subtleties

CHAPTER 11

Walk in Awe

CHAPTER 12

Back Track

CHAPTER 13

Appreciate Babies

CHAPTER 14

Celebrate Wild Horses

CHAPTER 15

Stampede with a Mustang

CHAPTER 16

Gentle a Wild Filly

CHAPTER 17

Listen for the Call

CHAPTER 18

Circle Around

CHAPTER 19

Dream

CHAPTER 20

Dodge Wildfires

CHAPTER 21

Prepare your Heart

CHAPTER 22

Say Goodbye When Necessary

CHAPTER 23

Watch Out for Low-Hanging Branches

CHAPTER 24

Look Out for Bears

CHAPTER 25

Decide to Be Happy

CHAPTER 26

Hit the Potholes Gently

CHAPTER 27

See the Purposeful Good

CHAPTER 28

The Territory Ahead

APPENDIX I

The Horse’s Eye

APPENDIX II

The Horse’s Brain

Dedication

For my lovely daughter Nina, who at thirty years of age

came to me with a temptation. Mom, she said,

don’t you want a horse again?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Thanks to my family. Neil, who faithfully attended horse-training demos, mustang viewings, and who even braved a green horse by placing himself on the saddle a couple of times. To Nina, my motivator, partner, and traveling companion, who with her positive attitude believes that anything is possible. To Lisa, my firstborn who has stood steady in her belief that time and practice would make a writer out of me.

Thanks to my friends and support group, that is Theda, the writer; Sue, the medicine woman; and Carole, that bundle of energy who first asked me to read my words to our little group. You are all wonderful to not only listen to my words, but to encourage me to read them, and then to pretend not to notice my quivering voice and trembling hands.

Thanks to Bill Fisher, who, as though he didn’t have enough work already with his own writing, ran the course with me by graciously volunteering to proofread this manuscript.

All the arts we practice are apprenticeship. The big art is our life.

M. C. Richards

CHAPTER 1 

Looking Back before Looking Ahead

The truth dazzles gradually,

or else the world would be blind.

—Emily Dickenson

It all started in a motion picture theater after the lights were out.

From offstage came a groan, a grinding of motors, and the curtains, once an asbestos barrier between the audience and the players, were pierced with a bolt of light from the projector. Those same curtains, transformed by the flick of a light switch, flowed docile, elegant as chiffon, into wings.

The sound of thundering hoofbeats pierced the air. A horse appeared. The audience gasped. In those days the human heroes were secondary to the horse heroes. Remember how Trigger, Roy Rogers’s golden palomino, would rear as a signature salute? Or remember how Toronado, a mighty horse, black as tires slathered with Armor All, carried an equally black-clad Zorro? There was the Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver, made snow-white for the screen with talcum powder so I heard, and Gene Autry’s fabulous Champion, more brilliant even than Gene Autry. All came to a whistle, and all would sidle up under a rooftop so their riders could escape some dire circumstance by dropping onto their backs where they would then tear off at a speed usually reserved for a racecar into unknown territory.

By the time I was nine years old, I wanted a horse more than anything.

Fast-forward forty years: One day my thirty-year-old daughter, Nina, asked me, Mom, don’t you want a horse again?

That old desire was back. A desire to run my fingers through a horse’s velvet coat, to bury my nose in a horse’s silken mane and inhale deeply, to climb aboard and feel what the ancients called winged.

I considered, though, maybe I ought to know more than jump aboard and take off for tall timber. So I began to study, and to write. Others might benefit from this experience, especially if they are considering getting a horse, if they like horses, or think as Alice Walker does that every scene is prettier with a horse in it. More importantly, they might be like me and need a few thumps on the side of the head.

For the past eight years, I have been occupied with horses, either studying in preparation of getting one, or with hands-on experience.

Long ago I sold my beloved childhood horse, Boots, and on that day I considered the horse part of my life to be over. And then eight years ago, Nina left the corporate world of California, bought acreage in Oregon, and decided she wanted a horse. There she was, tempting me to do the same.

After I was out of high school, working as a dental assistant, and about to be married, my dad said if I didn’t sell Boots, he would. So I sold Boots to a cowboy who said, Marry people, not horses. I thought there was some truth to that statement, so I sold my horse to him, married my honey, graduated from college, had my daughters, and grieved for Boots for forty years. And then, another horse came into my life, and then another, and another. What follows is their story, and it is mine.

CHAPTER 2 

Wish upon a Star

When your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme,

when you wish upon a star as dreamers do.

—Jiminy Cricket

When I was nine years old, divine providence nudged in beside me and changed my life for the better. My parents moved to the country.

That country was simply one acre on the outskirts of town. That one acre gave my mother a chance to rekindle her childhood memories of a farm in Kansas where cats found their kittens, and that one acre gave my mother an opportunity to turn her nurturing needs to something besides her only child. That something was a garden and chickens.

I gravitated to where the action was—the neighbors.

The neighbors were the Oaks family. They had many acres, cows, pigs, chickens, pigeons, rabbits, dogs, cats, two grown sons, two daughters, and two horses.

The oldest daughter, Lois, was my mentor. She was a high school student, so grown up to a nine-year old. Lois was a unique individual who appeared to come to earth knowing what others search for. She never offered words of advice, never spoke of philosophy or God, never tried to influence a young girl to grown up ways. She just lived in her quiet way, never annoyed, always gentle with the animals as well as the neighbor’s kid tagging at her heels. She taught me practical things I still remember, things like how to tell if an egg contains a live chick. Hold the egg to your ear, and tap on the shell. If there is a chick inside, it will peck back.

My mother thought she had lost a daughter during this period, which was basically true, for I practically lived at the Oaks’ house. Whenever horseback riding time came, I was there. Lois would pull me up behind her on King’s bare back, I would wrap my arms around her waist, and we would take off.

We called King chestnut colored because he had dapples we called chestnuts on his rump, but his color was more the color of a winter deer. King was half saddlebred, half draft horse with a back as wide as a table and as flat as one. To ride him we learned balance, hung on, or fell off. There was no competition about riding skills. If you stayed on, you were successful. Donna, the other daughter, always rode the old razor-backed mare, King’s mother.

There is something about farm mentality; perhaps it is hospitality, or an acceptance. Maybe the Oaks family was unique, I don’t know. I do know that anyone who came into the Oaks house—stranger, friend, whoever—all were expected to stay for dinner. If a stray dog showed up, it too was fed.

Mrs. Oaks prepared the meals, and the girls had dishwashing duty, so I did too. When hay season came, the kids were expected to participate, so I did too. After the mower cut the hay, and the rake pulled it into windrows, we would stack it into small piles for the truck to pick up. Then the fun would begin. We would race the horses around the haystacks. Either we pretended to barrel race, or tried to get the horses to jump the hay piles, which they almost never did. More often than not, the horses plowed into the piles, scattering them out again.

After about a year, by what means I don’t know, Lois acquired a new horse named Lydia. Since the other daughter always rode King’s mother, luck came galloping in for the little neighbor girl, me, in the form of that big horse with dapples on his rump. When Lois rode Lydia, I could ride King all by myself.

Within a month of acquiring Lydia, Lois took a paper route. Her plan was to deliver the papers from two saddlebags draped over Lydia’s shoulders, but Lydia was not the friendliest horse and was prone to bucking. One day Lois narrowly escaped being thrown.

The next day Mrs. Oaks took matters into her own hands. This farm woman was a Ma Kettle sort, with bosoms that could hide a dozen baby chicks. She was old enough to have a grown son, and probably had not ridden a horse for twenty years; but on the first day of Lois’s paper route, she saddled King—the first time I had seen a saddle on him. The saddle was a huge Western one, but perched on King’s back, it looked like a Chihuahua on a truck. Mrs. Oaks planted herself in the saddle with the intention of first protecting her daughter and second, to teach that new horse a lesson.

At the sight of Mrs. Oaks on King, the filly’s brain saved her rear end. Lydia became compliant, finally deciding, I suppose, that the farm with those people was a pretty fine place to be after all.

Time, places, people change. There came a day, about a year later, that my parents and I moved away from the Oaks family, and from King.

I would come back every so often and ride with my friends. I was happy to see them, of course, but it was never the same as living there.

Life Happens

Events that are not our choosing sometimes rush us, but that can work in our favor. By the time I was twelve years old, we had moved onto a real farm of thirty-two acres. That farm was not large enough to provide a living, but it augmented income by providing marketable cherries, peaches, and apricots. While fruit was abundant in the valley, the surrounding hills were brown most of the year, and the predominant native tree was scrub oak. The predominant ground cover was basalt.

Once in awhile I visited my friend Lois, and on those occasions I rode King. One Saturday while riding King, with Lois on Lydia, and Donna on King’s mother, we three kids came within sight of the auction yard. The yard was located across the pasture from the Oaks farm, across the road, and next door to a drive-in theater. There in the auction yard parking lot sat my parent’s car. Could it be? I had hoped, wished, longed, and prayed for a horse for so long that I would hardly let the idea into my mind that they might be there to buy a horse for me. Stars do grant their wishes sometimes. Birthday candles know their job, prayers work, every first star of the evening adds its power, and fathers who know horses pick a good one.

When my mother drove up the driveway, alone, smiling (she never could keep a secret), I knew my dream was following not far behind. Shortly thereafter, we saw a single figure walking up the road, leading a beautiful golden horse.

This is Boots, said my Dad, etching the words indelibly into my brain. Make friends with him.

My dazed brain forced my numb hand to pull a handful of green grass. I walked to Boots. Boots, my horse. He whisked the greenery from my hand, and it was more than friendship that happened that day.

Lois and Donna accompanied Boots and his new owner for about half of the five miles to our house. When they were confident that Boots was trustable, they left us on our own. It was just a new horse and his twelve-year-old rider, climbing that long hill winding through the cherry orchards, the girl trying to grasp the immensity of the situation, the horse anxious to get home. There is a feeling about going home, even if it is for the first time; animals know it, people know it.

That was a long time ago.

CHAPTER 3 

Study the Terrain

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you,

don’t go back to sleep.

—Rumi

As this narrative unfolds I will try, but probably not achieve, some semblance of order. Think about it. Life has more twists and turns than the tracks of a horny toad. Here we are, ambling along in life, minding our own business when something happens, like yesterday. I walked into a dress shop, Black and White to be exact, and the saleslady greeted me with, "When I saw you come through the door, with your skin and hair, you reminded me of my