I Have a Boot Thing...

The Vernal Equinox and the first day of Spring.... what a long journey it's been since the last time the daylight and night time hours stood in delicate balance. 

Spring means shedding, which horses do prodigiously - that's a lot of square footage of winter fur that has to go! Every year I forget and wear something warm and fleece-y to the barn, and every year I swear I won't make the same stupid mistake again. Fleece is never the same once horse hair has insinuated itself into that welcoming fuzzy surface. When it comes to all the mud and muck, I fare a bit better. Tall rubber boots are standard issue for March and April. I've always been good with boots. 

In fact, I sort of have a boot thing. 

It started when I was a kid. I was the only girl, and also the only one of three kids in our family who wanted to go "up north" to a family friend's cabin on summer weekends with my sweet 'Papa'. The same wonderful ritual preceded each "up north" season - a trip to the Holiday sporting goods department for boots. Back then there weren't a lot of boots to choose from, and nothing for girls. Which was fine by me. From the time I was allowed to dress myself, I fancied a uniform inspired by the Beats, even though Hippies were the next big thing. I wore black boys jeans (I was tall and rail-thin, and boy's pants were the only pants that fit me) and plain black long-sleeved turtleneck shirts. Johnny Cash had nothin' on me. Every year I would pick out the same black engineer boots, in a size bigger. I was smitten with their classic style, sturdy construction with the cool strap across the front and the even cooler silver buckles on the sides. I'd clomp across neighbor's yards and over their split-rail fences, pretending I was a horse. 

(Draft breed I'm thinking, in those big ol' boots...)

My elegant mom, a high heels, gloves and hat kind of dame, just didn't get it. Me being the only daughter, she had such high girly hopes for me. Her sister had been Mrs. Minnesota and ran a charm school. And then there was me with my boots. She refused to let me wear the beloved boots to school. As far as she was concerned, their only merit was that I could tuck my pants into the tops of them and outwit the wood ticks. 

Mom sent me to the local department store's annual 'Glamorama' teen fashion training camp when I was in sixth grade, in a vain attempt to glamor the tomboy right out of me. All that happened was that I still, to this day, merrily sport black engineer boots. The pair I've worn for the last twelve-plus years happens to be from Harley Davidson. I swear they will last forever. They are the most comfortable footwear I have ever worn, hands down. Or, feets down, I guess. I don't ride motorcycles anymore since my husband traded in the Electra Glide for a Hayabusa. I said "NOT A CHANCE IN HELL AM I GETTING ON THAT!" regarding this Japanese monster that can do 200 mph. 

But I do ride my horse, real easy like, in these great boots.

Meanwhile. engineer boots have actually come to be an acceptable footwear choice, worn by just about everyone, and without a tsk-tsk or a second glance from most mavens. And when the mud dries up at the barn, and I put away the rubber boots till next spring, the black engineer boots will be my first choice for footwear. Unless I'm in the mood for one of my many pairs of old cowboy boots. Or my english style field boots. Or...

Like I said, I have sort of a boot thing.

In the spirit of Saint Patrick's Day

and all things Irish, I'd like to say something about LUCK.

As an artisan creating equine-inspired jewelry, horse shoes often appear in my work. Folks consider them lucky - at least when they are "pointing up". But they never fail to tell me they are "bad luck" if they are pointing down.

Now, my understanding is that the luck conferred by horse shoes has to do with the fact that traditionally they are made of iron, and according to folklore in many cultures, iron is protective against ill-intentioned magical powers.

So - let me offer a less dramatic, but much more balanced and holistic view of this charming ancient symbol:

I say that horse shoes are good luck pointing up OR down. Because when they point up, they represent a vessel catching any good fortune that might rain down upon us. When they point down, they again represent a vessel, this time overturned to share any good fortune within.

So you see, it can be seen as a flow of positive energy, from receiving to giving, in a never-ending cycle.

Spending time in the field with the horses is what I did today, an intoxicatingly warm sunny early spring day. I also brought TigerLily, my equine partner, into the barn for a good brushing and to visit with a friend's gelding.

Spring is definitely here in the north - within minutes they were nuzzling and nipping each other over the gate with heavy-lidded eyes, ear-splitting squeals and a few kicks for show.

Horse-love is tender and terrible, and mercifully short-lived. And, if TigerLily is representative of all Equines in these matters, horse-love is also cured by treats...

And so it begins.

Actually, it began before I can consciously remember. All I know is that as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a horse.

As a child, this seemed a reasonable request. Perhaps, as some people grow up to be astronauts or movie stars, I would simply grow up to be a horse? The closest I could figure, as a kid, was that I would bide my time as an artist until then. It goes without saying that I'm still an artist. It's not, after all, such a bad second choice.

Now it must be said that there is a fundamental difference between 'wanting a horse' and 'wanting to be a horse'. The former is a common phenomena, particularly with girls of all ages. The latter is, if publicly announced, likely to land a girl in the looney bin. And yet the latter sentiment may go a long way in explaining why I struggle with riding: it doesn't quite make sense to me. I am, however, perfectly content to while away an entire afternoon, out in the field in the company of horses...