Worth Every Penny! 

In keeping with CNN’s current  series on the seventies, the star of my seventies was a Morgan gelding called Kanes’ Classic.

We had just sold a young, home-bred mare that I was showing for a lot of money and went looking another show horse.  My husband, Bob, and I were at a Morgan show several states away from our farm in Connecticut.  We sat in the stands during the park classes (I wanted a high-stepping park horse) and looked for something we thought was special.

We knew that most likely the horse we  wanted would not be openly for sale, but we didn’t think that purchasing that special horse would be impossible because, after all, we hadn’t planned on selling our special mare.

The first horse we took a shine to was a golden maned and tailed gelding.  Bob followed the horse and his rider back to their stalls and made an offer.  It was politely refused.  It’s interesting to note that this horse went on to win multiple championships at the top shows.  So I guess we at least had good taste.

The next horse that caught our fancy was Kane’s Classic.  Bob made an offer to the owner and it was accepted. We had a new horse!  And to sweeten the deal, we were able to take “Classy” back to our stalls and show him the remainder of the show.

Kane's Classic winning Ladies Park Harness

                                                                             
Happily we went back to the motel that night, looking forward to getting to know our new horse.

When we got to the barn early the next morning, his stall was empty!  Bob stormed over to Classy’s former owner, demanding he bring the horse back to us.  Money had changed hands and a contract had been signed.

“My wife,” the man explained, “said she would divorce me if I sold Classy.”

Arms folded tightly across his chest, Bob fumed. He turned on his heels and began to walk away before he physically hurt the man.

“But,” the man said to my husband’s retreating back, “I can probably talk her into letting Classy go for another $500.”

My husband wanted no part of such unscrupulous dealings. However I was already picturing many blue ribbons with Classy.  I reasoned with him that we were prepared to pay more anyway, so we could afford the extra $500.  It took a lot of convincing, but to his credit, my husband swallowed his pride and forked over the additional $500.

As we walked away with Classy, the man said that he’d return the $500 once his wife calmed down. Never heard from him. That was forty years ago! 

Classy was worth every penny. We won countless ladies park harness classes and he soon earned the reputation of the horse to beat.

Isn't showing fun?!

This picture of me smiling through the mud, was taken after a major rain storm at an outdoor show.  I’m dressing is a saddlesuit and am sitting in a four-wheel show buggy; the typed used for park harness classes.  This particular class was a “Combination Park” class.  Horses worked a full class in harness then lined up.  Grooms came in, removed the buggy and harness and saddled the horses up.  Then the horses did a full walk, trot, canter saddle class. 

Come back next month and I’ll tell you all about the scariest adventure Classy and I had.  

"He's a Pepper, She's a Pepper...."

Patti Brooks  

http://PattiBrooksBooks.com

Back in the day, when we were raising many foals each year, we put a lot of thought into the colt's registered name. When someone heard the name (hopefully when he won a blue ribbon!) we wanted the horse's parentage to be obvious along with the understanding the horse came from our Morgan horse breeding program.

Little Miss Pepper came into our lives when she was 18. She became our foundation mare. When she died 11 years later, she had given us 7 very nice foals who truly bought and paid for the farm. We wanted her children and grandchildren to be easily identified as her descendants. It was a given that all her kids and grandkids would have "Pepper" as part of their names.

Mr & Ms Pepperlect,
Bob Broooks, whip

Her first foal was named Mr. Pepperlect because his dad's name was Donalect. Next she had a full sister that was easy:  Ms. Pepperlect. They did great things on their own, but most people remember them as an exciting park harness pair.

Mr. Peppermarch

Little Miss Pepper's next mate was March Time. The first of this cross was Mr. Peppermarch who spent most of his life in California as a speedy roadster.  

Mr. Peppertime

 The second was Mr. Peppertime.  He stayed with                                  us, siring 105 colts on the                                      ground. We had lots of fun                                      with him, including  jumping                                    out of a horse-size birthday                                    cake! ('nother story, 'nother                                    day)

Mr. Lymelight

We went out of the box for the third because he had a very large spotlight-type star. He became Mr. Lymelight (Lyme carrying double significance because our farm is in E. Lyme)  I think Lymelight lucked out with this name because those working on the farm at the time he was born thought he should be named Mr. Pepperoni.



By then, Little Miss Pepper was know as "Granny." We bred her to Dobson, whose mother was a full sister to Granny.  This doubling up on "pepper" gave us an ideal choice. He became Creme d Pepper and his barn name quickly became "Dopper" combining Dobson and Pepper. 

I've puzzled over the reasoning behind saddling horses with names like "Never Too Late" and "The Old Duffer." It's hard to picture a hrse show announcer say, "And the winner is The Old Duffer."

Granny spent the summer months in pasture with other broodmares.  She was next to impossible to catch up. One time when it was important to bring her in, we resorted to saddling up four horses in the hopes of herding her toward the barn.

Granny outsmarted us for over a half hour, darting nimbly away from horses half her age. Then, while we sat on our horses, giving them...and us... a chance to catch our breaths, Granny moved out into the middle of the pasture and looked back at us.  She clearly said, "Okay, I'm ready to come in now." I walked up to her and led her into the barn.

March Time solved this "catching up Granny" problem. He was a really nice-to-be-around stallion. We made the decision to let him live with a group of mares. Granny fell in love with him. Since March Time was easy to walk up to and put a halter on, when we needed Granny, we simply caught up March Time and she eagerly followed him anywhere!

March Time had another great trait, too. He ruled a 5 acre pasture with his harem and their foals. From time to time we would see all the foals (6 - 10) hanging around their dad while the moms were off grazing in peace.  No wonder the mares loved this guy that willingly babysat the kids.

P.S. Be sure to catch our country's premier horse event, the Kentucky Derby today!

The Boogie Man

by Patti Brooks

Life was scary for Tommy, a big-eyed Morgan gelding. He saw the boogie-man in everything. His official name was Trijas Tantara and his two older sisters had graduated from our Storybook Training Stable and went on to bring years of enjoyment to their owners. But Tommy.....

Our farm was located at the edge of a state forest and after serious lessons in the ring, we would take the horses out on the forest trail. That was not a plus for little Tommy. He was the only horse I ever trained that would shy at the shadow cast by a big bird  (hawk, Canada goose, buzzard) flying overhead.

Bicyclers enjoyed the state forest trail, too. Tommy was certain they were panthers. Bicyclers, hunched over their bikes, sliding quietly toward him. His equine instincts said PANTHER! And those same instincts told him exactly what to do...flee.

Tommy: "Out of Here!"

The sight of a car was enough to make Tommy break out in a sweat.  He simply lost his mind and would run blindly in the other direction.  Something had to be done. He wasn't safe to ride.

So, one day when it was everyone's day off, I turned Tommy out in our indoor ring. Then I drove our small Datsun truck in. Tommy raced to the far corner. I drove willy-nilly around, honking the horn. Then I stopped and slammed the truck door. Next I revved the engine and took off, weaving about the indoor, honking the horn.

Tommy was visibly shaking. I parked the truck in the middle of the ring, got out and let the tail gate down.  I went to the feed room and got a pail of grain which I brought to the quivering Tommy.  The grain took his mind off the truck and he gobbled a handful. Turning away from him, I walked slowly to the truck.  Tommy followed a few steps before he glanced at the monster truck and quickly turned tail.  I continued toward the truck and placed the bucket of grain on the tailgate, then walked out of the indoor.

I kept busy in the office for a good hour before coming back to check on Tommy. There he was, cowering in a corner of the indoor.  But...the pail of grain was now sitting empty on the ground.  The little guy got up the nerve to snatch the pail off the truck and carefully place it on the ground.  He obviously stayed long enough to eat the grain before retreating to his corner.

Tommy & Pam
Note all 4 feet off the ground!

Tommy took more hours of training than any horses we trained into world champions. But eventually he found a soul mate. From the moment this girl laid a hand on Tommy's neck, he immediately felt comfortable and willing to put his life in her hands. She would make his life's decisions from now on and keep the boogie man away.

Don't you think those big eyes we all think are so attractive on a horse let him see more than he needed to?

Foaling Season

By Patti Brooks

With New England desperate to leave winter behind, it makes me think back to foaling season on our Connecticut Morgan horse farm. On any given year, we expected five to ten foals.

It was early June this particular year, and all but one old mare, Dutch, had foaled. Because the grass was sweet and the breezes gentle, Dutch spent 24/7 in a small pasture, with a shelter, easily seen from the house and barn. Dutch wasn’t due for another ten days.

About 2:00 a.m., our young daughter, Trisha, knocks on our door.

“What is it?” I ask, hoping it’s something I can solve without fully waking up.

“Nera had her baby and is running all around.”

Well, that was easy because Nera was a very old mare who hadn’t foaled in years. She has free range of the farm.

“Go back to bed, Trisha.”

Unfortunately Trisha comes back with the same concern.

Sigh. Could I check this out without getting dressed?  

I go to the door and sure enough, the old mare is galloping between the house and the barn with a new foal trying to keep up. My mind sorts through the possibilities. Dutch must have foaled early. But why does Nera have the foal?

This would take both getting dressed as well as getting my husband up. Grabbing a halter, we hurry out of the house into a noisy night, what with Nera’s frantic running, other mares calling out in concern and a thunder storm moving in. We hurry to Dutch’s pasture, forming a plan as we run.

I catch Dutch up and head for the barn, with the mare screaming for her foal. Nera is making another pass toward the barn. My husband stands in the drive, letting Nera slip through and tackling the foal. (He later said he had never felt a foal’s heart pound so forcefully.)  He picks her up and follows Dutch and me into a stall. 

Dutch clearly said to her foal:  “Don’t leave me like that.” And the foal clearly said:  “Where’s my mom?”

After a good half hour of convincing the foal that Dutch was truly her mom and her food source, we figured out what had happened.

Nera, making her rounds on the farm, stopped to visit with Dutch and stayed with her as she lay down to foal.  But....when the foal got up, she got up on Nera’s side of the fence and said, “Mama!” Nera took off. Not my kid. She was finished with having needy little foals to look after. And the foal raced after her.

All the Morgans we raised carried the “Trijas” prefix. This little one, who spent the first moments of her life running while a thunder storm brewed, was the easiest to name: Trijas Tempest.