(“Tchaikovsky was an artist, right? And he used cannons!”)

When the ideas in my head are various but each too brief to be a separate blog:

I’ve still got problems with some people’s perceptions of dressage as “art.” Why does the artistic flipside of our sport seem to require an extraordinary delicacy as though all its practitioners must drink their tea with their pinkie raised? Tchaikovsky was an artist, right? And he used cannons!

. . . And why are we to believe that the old masters were absolutely pure in motive and action? Remember Amadeus? Mozart was always in trouble, scrabbling for cash, and picking himself up from getting canned by some archbishop or count. I’m not thinking the plight of the Riding Master beholden to the whim of a rich guy would be that much different. Like in the English Football Premier League, cut less than the expected mustard and find yourself relegated to some minor league in the Dales. Do you suppose pressures like those might inflict some impurity into the art? As much or more than trying to win a feeble little ribbon does?

. . . On a mildly related subject—that of the noble horseperson submerging principle to keep her job—I am reminded of a tale told by one such employee of a destination resort’s prestigious riding center. An elegant facility with a glitzy PR machine behind it, nonetheless it once demanded its instructors to rouse themselves from bed after midnight, tack up the school horses, and gallop them up and down the covered arena. Why? Because several wealthy-beyond-measure Middle Eastern sheiks were staying at the hotel and they demanded “horse races” to bet on. I’m told $50,000 changed hands per race. No word on whether they left the girls a tip.
. . . A description of a horse I know: If he were a chess player, he’d be the kind who tries to advance a pawn whenever you’re not looking.
. . . To Joanne, the owner of another horse whose behavior and physical attributes made him less than a picnic to ride, my suggestion to cross-train by taking up logrolling. If you’re old enough to remember Wide World of Sports on late Saturday afternoon TV, you will already know of this competition. If not, I copy from Wikipedia: This is truly Information for Life.

“Logrolling (log birling or just birling), is a sport that originated in the lumberjack/log driver tradition of the northeastern US and Canada. After bringing their logs downriver to be milled, the lumberjacks would hold a friendly competition called a roleo. Two people would stand on a floating log and attempt to dislodge each other while spinning it. The winner was the last one standing.” For your information, in modern United States Log Rolling Association sanctioned events, all competition logs are 12-13 feet in length and vary in diameter (by class) from 16 inches down to 11 inches. Now the good part: (I swear I’m not making this up) “Over the years two main camps settled into the sphere of logrolling. These two distinct yet similar camps of thought developed into what is now commonly known as the “Flap Jack” and “Kinsey” rules. Flap Jack logrolling has a slower rhythmic pace, as each lumberjack stands on the log facing outwards with their feet spread so that their feet almost touch. One lumberjack, also known as the “Jack,” will get the match started by jumping and throwing his weight from side to side yelling “Flap Jack, Flap Jack” as each foot touches the log. As the game gets going, both lumberjacks will be shouting in unison until one less steady-footed fellow falls into the water. Those who found the “Flap Jack” rules morally repugnant created what has today become known as the “Kinsey Rules.” Under the Kinsey system each lumberjack will stand on opposite ends of the log facing each other. As both contestants look each other dead in the eye one lumberjack will start the match by running in place as fast as he possible can with his thighs raising to a 90 degree angle with his torso, and chanting “Kinsey, Kinsey, Kinsey” in a low monotone voice. Both lumberjacks continue this until one player falls into the water.” Wikipedia further notes that while both styles may seem to have the same end result, the Flap Jack style was created in the Cumberland Gap of Appalachia, while the Kinsey style was created in New Hampshire by Irish immigrants. Originally, I suggested logrolling because it mirrored the dexterity and balance needed to stay upright on this horse. Now I see that including the chanting as an integral part of his training is where we’d been going wrong.

. . . A couple of other thoughts: Does a half halt every stride lead to co-dependency?

. . . An example of a pitfall of anticipation: a friend recently revealed herself as a former competitive goat tyer. This is a timed girls’ rodeo “sport” wherein you gallop the length of the arena, make a running dismount, grab a tethered goat, heave it to the ground, and briskly tie three of its legs together with a short cord a la calf roping. The whole thing doesn’t exactly get rave reviews from the humane society people, but for the moment, we’ll put that aside. Kara reports that when she decided to get serious about her goat tying—presumably easier to do than to be serious about logrolling—she felt she should get extra practice. So she bought herself a goat. Ran the routine once—a success! Took her horse back to the far end of the ring and, with the clock ticking, ran through it again. She went to give it a third try. Then trouble. When the goat saw her galloping towards him, he immediately threw himself on the ground and accommodatingly thrust his legs in the air to be tied. A goat that helpful is really no help at all.

. . . And finally, I fell into conversation with a vet I know concerning a mutual pet peeve of our respective spouses, both of whom shriek and gasp and make fiercely critical comments when our driving lets our cars stray a bit from the pavement. I don’t understand their attitude. As I said to Bobby, I’ve been driving a lot of years, and I’ve been playing golf almost that long. When you tee off, you can hit the ball in the fairway or into the first cut or into the deep rough. In each case, it’s in play. As long as it doesn’t roll past the white out-of-bounds stakes, you just hit it from where it lies. No big deal. That’s exactly how I feel about the blacktop. That’s the fairway. The gravel, grass, or whatever on either side, as long as it doesn’t deflect your travel or leave a serious mark, is like the rough. It, too, is in play. Bobby agreed whole heartedly. Said he, “When you drive a truck, all you have to do is keep the wheels between the ditches.” Works for me.