Haflinger Horses

 

Haflinger (chestnut) and a possible Percheron/pony cross, Draft Horse Field Day, Adams County, Ohio.

A team of Haflingers, a six-year-old mare on the left; a sixteen-year old whispering in her ear.

Their proud owner. I was struck by the harmony (not to mention the similarity) between this gentleman and his horses. They're the two who settled out of many that he decided to keep. He said the six-year-old wasn't working out too well but then she turned a corner and is terrific. I think he's terrific, for keeping, training, and caring for them, keeping a tradition and an art alive.  Of course he also made me think of my dad, whose particular passion was antique gasoline engines. They were like living things to him. He took skids of them to engine meets in the fall; wore a straw cowboy hat and overalls, too, but his overalls were not nearly this clean.

He and an engine buddy went into a McDonald's for breakfast on the way to a meet. As they took their seats, a little girl with wide eyes whispered to her mother, "Cowboys!"

I wonder if they're making guys like him any more.

Another Haflinger harnessed up, so sturdy and kind. What a nice breed this is.

Its teammate had a blaze that reminded me of a little Dr. Seuss character. Its owner told me they called it the Upper Peninsula.

I love watching people and their animals, especially when the animals are well-loved, like this sibling pair of Goldendoodles. Designer breed, perhaps...but it combines many of the best traits of the golden retriever and standard poodle. A retriever that won't shed? That's got to be a pleasant change.

Tricia is just as animal crazy as I am, but she *has* a menagerie of hoofed stock. So I guess that qualifies her as crazier, in a nice way. It was great to see them through her eyes. I think I saw the moment she fell in love with Haflingers. It was mutual. It's a lucky horse who lives on Tricia's farm.

There were many well-loved animals at the event, some a little too well-loved. A few too many bikkits and dishes of ice cream for this little Schnauzer--we also saw a miniature pinscher that was packing a serious paunch. That's why Chet Baker runs with me!

Miniature horse, his little girl skipping in muck boots, her shirt printed with running horses, yes yes yes.

Draft Horse Field Day

Stumbling on things is what autumn rambles are all about.  Rolling through Adams County, Ohio, Tricia and I stumbled on the 9th Annual Old Fashion (their spelling) Draft Horse, Mule and Pony Field Days six miles south of Peebles, Ohio. It was October 2, so figure it's held each year around then. For information, you can call Dale Grooms 937-544-3123 or 937-587-3293.

On this magical Saturday, already overloading on fancy pumpkins and searing blue skies, the addition of muscular draft animals and antique harness and machinery was almost too much for us.

I would imagine that if you did one of those word profiles of this blog, the word "love" would come up an awful lot. I wish there were other good words. I adore draft animals, their shapes and heads and bottoms; their hooves and noses. So stumbling on this event was like rolling in catnip for me.

There were sweet little girls and their miniature pony and donkey. The brunette reminded me of Ramona the Pest, in a good way. She climbed fearlessly atop a gentle Percheron.

 

His mane was shaved, so she had nothing at all to hang onto, but I knew she wouldn't be dumped by this sweet giant.

 

Off they went, much to the consternation of their other horse friends.

Obviously, the other member of the black Percheron team had to go along or he'd be very unhappy. That's one of the things that charms me about horses. We can make them in any shape we want, but they're still herd animals at heart, and are happiest in a crowd.

Left behind, two draft ponies from the same farm (the black perhaps a cross between a pony and a Percheron)  set up a nickering, then full-blown whinnying from the chestnut. I believe it's a Haflinger, judging from its conformation and coloring.

You can see the Arab blood in its beautiful head. The Haflinger is an Austrian mountain breed, developed in 1874 by crossing the stocky native Tyrol pony with a half-Arab stallion. This gave a taller, finer look to the offspring, and the lovely head with the inward-pointing eartips and slightly dished face speaks of its hot Arab blood. Sorry, sweetie, you'll just have to wait until your friends come back. You'll be OK.

No, I won't!

Caraway Farm!

While driving in The Nature Conservancy caravan, Tricia and I passed Caraway Farm in Stout, Ohio, in Adams county's Blue Creek Valley, a tobacco and specialty pumpkin operation buried deep in the gorgeous southern Ohio hills. The photo-op chimp in me began to pant-hoot and I howled as we rolled past, wanting only to sink my lens into those tableaux.

So when we got separated from the group, it was only natural that we'd head back to the punkin farm for a little shopping and scenery. All who wander are not lost. Some of them are just joyriding, shopping, digging the scenery, taking photos, or doing a little of all that.

Smart shoppers among you may note the prices on the signs, which are oh, about one-fifth what you'd pay in my town at least. $1.50 for a striped Cushaw squash (a big winter squash, Cucurbita mixta)? Not in Marietta!

 

 These glowing behemoths were $10 each, even the white ones. You can see why I went a little crazy. Apparently, I'm not the only one. We heard the cautionary tale of a woman from Cincinnati who arrived with a panel van last year and loaded it up with what turned out to be a couple of tons of pumpkins. Of course, she had plans to resell them at Urban Prices (something I hadn't thought of, wouldn't think of, but that's why I'm a starving artist).  The farm proprietors, well aware of what she was up to, happy to sell a lotta pumpkins, but worried for her, warned her that she might break an axle, and to drive extra slowly and carefully.

Weighed down by enormous moment of a couple of tons of pumpkins, she was unable to stop her vehicle at a light and rear-ended somebody on her way into Cinci. Whoops. Sounds like a cautionary Aesop's fable, doesn't it? The Lady, The Van, and The Pumpkins.  I only hope the pumpkins that weren't busted in the accident helped pay for the repairs. I can tell you that a Subaru handles a little differently with a back seat full of pumpkins--I can only imagine how that van must have careened.

I decided to stick with the smaller pumpkins. These glorious gray-blue creations called Jarrahdales caught my eye. Yeah, $2.50 each. I wanted to buy ten! They have a fabulous, fine brilliant orange flesh and make a terrific pie. Too bad I'm not a piemaker. Cobblers are more my thing. But it's nice to know you can eat them as well as swoon over how they look. I may yet make a pumpkin bread from them, if I can bear to cut into them.

photo by Tricia West

As fun as pumpkin shopping is, it's way more fun with a friend. Tricia West and I had such a ball pointing out especially cool gourds and pumpkins to each other, and trying to figure out how to get all our prizes in the Subaru, which was already (typically) full of my stuff. Here she is with part of our haul. We couldn't resist the gooseneck gourds.

The dew was still on the pie pumpkins. Each one with such a pretty stem, so carefully grown and cut. You don't see that in town, either. All hail Caraway Farm! (Click the link for directions!) And you can now follow them on Facebook. They'll be open through October 31, 11 AM to dark, and they're still picking pumpkins--they were glowing in the fields all around. Sigh. What a beautiful place.

Dig these crazy gourds--I loved the apple gourd that looks like a mutant Delicious, only green. And way too big. And probably not very tasty. Hard on the teeth.

The brilliant red flattened pumpkin is a Cinderella (Rouge Vif d'Etampes), a French heirloom pumpkin that's been grown in the States since 1883. Here's  a wonderful blog post from Chiot's Run about cooking with Cinderellas.

Happy shopper. Photo by Tricia West.

It caused me real pain to be without my kids at the Caraway Farm Fall Festival. We'd just stumbled upon it. I knew Liam would be over the moon in that pumpkin patch, just like his mama. He loves all things autumnal; he even had a countdown going on the dry-erase board in our house, counting down to the first official day of Fall. He counts Halloween decorations on our way into town, adding them up in some mysterious way each time we drive in. He's up to 63.

So I decided to bring that sweet boy a huge, perfect white pumpkin that would make his eyes pop out. Never spent a better tenspot. He literally whooped and sang with delight, and spent the next hour arranging and rearranging his treasures on the porch. Yes, there's hope for the plugged-in youth of America, and it's in his sweet head and heart and his passion for beauty of color and form.

 

Of course he had to have a Calvin moment, rolling his eyes back in a ghostly way to match his favorite pumpkin, Steve.

Adams County Morning

 I traveled over to Adams County, in the heart of Amish Country, to give a talk to the board of the Ohio Nature Conservancy on October 1. TNC is planning an ambitious project to build a land bridge between the Edge of Appalachia preserve and Shawnee State Forest. This is the heart of cerulean warbler country. There could not be a better time to acquire and preserve mature mesic deciduous forest in the stronghold of the cerulean warbler's range. I'm so excited about this acquisition project, which is proceeding without delay. Just look at these hills, cloaked in oaks and hickories, at the mist rolling up from the hayfields.

 I spoke to the board about all the threats facing cerulean warblers and other Neotropical migrant songbirds: mountaintop removal mining primary among them. And it was a balm, the next morning, to drive out and through the best remaining cerulean warbler habitat going. Ceruleans sing so persistently and abundantly in Shawnee State Forest that when I was there three springs ago we were laughing and calling them "trash birds," these endangered little scraps of blue.

 We were making a long caravan, snaking through the Blue Creek valley south of Peebles, Ohio, when I saw a deliquescing tobacco barn that begged to be photographed. I stopped, and the caravan went on without me.

 But I had an ace in the hole: my old Facebook friend and brand new flesh and blood (I like to say corporeal) friend, Tricia West. Tricia grew up on a tobacco farm near here. That's why we decided to have our photo made in front of skeins of drying tobacco.




We decided to turn this unfortunate event (being separated from the TNC field trip) into an expotition. And we did. We wound through the valleys and found Sunshine Ridge Road, for which TNC's "Sunshine Corridor" project is named, and we marveled at the fabulous habitat all around us.  It was so exciting to know it would be preserved forever.

 Tricia pointed out the tobacco barns, airy structures made for drying wet tobacco that's hung from the rafters. The long dark line on the left of this barn is tobacco, drying under black plastic in the field. It's then taken and hung up in the barn. Tricia said each plant gets handled a lot between planting and the final stripping of the leaves from the stem.

 

You can just see the warm brown tobacco between the cracks in the siding. I love knowing these seemingly decaying barns are active, working structures. I also love thinking there might be barn owls in some of them. Tricia said she grew up with white owls screaming in the rafters of her barn, and didn't think anything of it. Well, she said sometimes they scared the bejabbers out of her, but...Now that she's a birder, she knows how incredible that is. You can count the remaining pairs of barn owls in Ohio on one hand. And it's all because barns like these are falling down and being replaced by metal pole barns, tight as a drum, with no way for any ghost owls to make their way inside.

 This grand old house belongs to some of Tricia's relatives. I was seared with the feeling that, but for chance, this could have been my family's house, too. I wondered how it felt to drive by, recognizing a house like this from your childhood. I yearned to have memories here, too, but mine were only made today.

 The house is in beautiful repair, not a single detail anachronistic or jarring. So beautiful.

 And right next door, the little store owned by her family. How I would love to make this a studio, not change a detail. Well, maybe drown it in flowers, put a Boston terrier on the front porch. That's all.

Tricia called this the greenhouse. Green it was, with a  huge black walnut dropping alarums on its roof.

 Too soon, it was time to leave, and I raced for Whipple, snapping photos out the car window. There are so many cemeteries in Amish country. All of them lovely.

I don't know why I like this photo so much, taken as it was from my car window. I liked the laundry flapping on the line, and tried to snap it, but the G-ll was sluggish and I got a sugar maple in the way. And it was perfect.

 A lonely field, more black walnuts having taken off their summer dresses, standing naked before the winter.

 A barn, being taken over by trees.

 As so very many are. I love the ruins, but I love more to see a barn doing its job. A trip to Amish country reminds me that somewhere, there are barns that aren't slated for demolition, barns that contribute and are appreciated.

 

Hackleshin Road, a nice name for someone who likes raptors. And before I knew it, I was home, a wonderful adventure behind me. I want to come back and see the Sunshine Corridor grow and grow! Thank you, Ohio Nature Conservancy, for this gift to the planet. 

Wha-ha-Happened?

I don't know what happened, I really don't.  While I had an awkward stage that lasted from first through ninth grades, my daughter seems to be morphing from cygnet to swan without a hitch. We're all mystified. Even her super-suave daddy was a bit gawky for awhile. Not so the Phoebster.

Liam is fascinated with his older sister. He adores her. Sure, they tussle and there's an ongoing battle over who gets the front seat in the Subaru or who gets to watch Cake Boss or Avatar, but he really, really loves her. I'm not sure she knows just how much she anchors his world. She's a second mama to him.

So it was a little confusing for both of us when daughter/sister/general good egg Phoebe stepped out of her room perfumed, becurled, and undeniably ravishing, ready for her first big night out as a high school student at the Homecoming Dance.

Liam's first reaction was to sniff her, to see if it was really Phoebe. My son as a dog. He sniffs everything.

Which was OK for a little while, but she smelled really good, and Liam kept sneaking a sniff here
and there.

Ak ak ak akgg

And then there was the problem of what to do with those long stems of hers. Fold them? Put them to one side or another? They just go on and on, unlike her mother's, which have a definite end in feet.

Just one more sniff. Phoebe: "Peach deodorant is catnip for creepers."

Time for some solo shots.

                                                       Whoops, he's baaaack.

She loves him, too. Neither of them seems to believe me when I tell them he'll one day tower over her. Just give him a couple of years.

One of my favorite shots. This was a hard shove which effectively removed Liam from the composition. Oof!

For a moment or two. Long enough for me to capture the essence of Fifi that still chokes me up every time I look at it. Like I said, I dunno what happened. I'm just glad it did. By the time you read this her braces will be off. Look out, world!