Apprenticeships -- Explain That...Please?

 

Capital and Labor: 
 

 

 A War Never Won, Lost or Openly Declared.

And in the Middle: The Waning World of the Apprentice...

 

And Closer to Home: Farriery Apprentices in America; Just What in the Hell is That?
 

 

[Note: Before any discussion on apprenticeships in America can take place, it is important to have a rudimentary understanding of two issues unique to this country: 1) the always thorny role of capital/labor relations in this country and 2), the role of politics in the world's first wholly capitalistic nation.  I would also refer you to another post on my other blog: histrionics.blogspot.com:  "Guilds, Corporations and Let's Plan an Apocalypse Later."]   


"Know all men that I, Thomas Millard, with the Consent of Henry Wolcott of Windsor unto whose custody and care at whose charge I was brought over out of England into New England, doe bynd myself as an apprentise for eight yeeres to serve William Pynchon of Springfield, his heirs and assigns in all manner of lawful employmt unto the full ext of eight yeeres beginninge the 29 day of Sept 1640. And the said William doth condition to find the said Thomas meat drinke & clothing fitting such an apprentise & at the end of this tyme one new sute of apparell and forty shillings in mony: subscribed this 28 October 1640."  

Oh, by the way, he got screwed out of the forty schillings....

 

"One major concern of the guilds was to prevent unrestricted trade entry and thus apprenticeship became the object of much regulation. Epstein (1998), however, argues that monopoly or rent-seeking activity (the deliberate production of scarcity) was only incidental to the guilds' primary interest in supplying skilled workmen. To the extent that guilds successfully regulated apprenticeship in Britain, that pattern was less readily replicated in the Americas whose colonists came to exploit the bounty of natural resources under mercantilistic proscriptions that forbade most forms of manufacturing. The result was an agrarian society practically devoid of large towns and guilds. Absent these entities, the regulation of apprenticeship relied upon government actions that appear to have been become more pronounced towards the mid-eighteenth century. The passage of Britain's 1563 Statute of Artificers involved government regulation in the Old World as well. However, as Davies (1956) shows, English apprenticeship was different in that craft guilds and their attendant traditions were more significant."  Daniel Jacoby, University of Washington

Two recent events triggered this posting; one personal, the other concerning the recently released Ofsted Report, concerning what was seen as very serious deficiencies in the training regimen overseen by the National Farrier Training Agency and its various providers.  That report has resulted in the temporary public de-funding of the apprenticeship system in the UK.  The problems within NFTA are complex, divisive and not completely understood by an American observer, but on the surface they appear to be remedial in nature.  However, they do point to a number of issues experienced by those seeking an apprentice-type relationship within the United States.  And perhaps more relevant -- the reality that both farriery and any adjunct apprenticeship arrangement offered here -- has no legal joinery to justify its existence.  Farriers are classified by the US Department of Labor as "casual farm workers" and any and all apprenticeship opportunities in this country are normally conducted under government/private sector internships or within the development programs of recognized labor unions.  As such, all arrangements are both regulated AND subject to existing state and US labor laws.  More on that later...

Livery: Worshipful Company of
Farriers...

First, the Ofsted Report:  I had actually decided at one point to leave this topic alone...hell, it is not my backyard, so why bother?  However, it does relate to the business climate of farriery here, and as a piggy-back issue, the assault on the UK's Registration Act by those known euphemistically as the 'barefoot crowd.'  It is a case really of one nation moving away from a regulatory climate and another nation that really needs to look more seriously at protective regulation for its practitioners.  And yes, that is a personal opinion.

In a previous blog, I outlined the rise and fall of the European craft guilds and their ultimate destruction in the new America.  Some guilds, like The Worshipful Company of Farriers continued to function, but without the political clout of previous centuries -- more of a social companion to the regulatory agencies dominated by the government, aka, the will of the populace. However, like the fate of the International Union of Journeymen Horseshoers (IUJH) here, abuses, inefficiencies, quality of the product -- are the fall-out when a climate of prolonged complacency is dominating the discussion.  The short version:

  

Conclusions of the Ofsted Report:

1. Progress is too slow for just over half the apprentices and they fail to complete within the planned timescale. Apprentices aged 19 to 24 do poorly compared to the younger apprentices.

2. Whilst apprentices training with caring and interested approved training farriers (ATFs) enjoy their training those working with poor ATFs often have a difficult and poor experience of the training programme.

3. Assessment of apprentices’ practical skills and coursework does not happen often enough and the feedback apprentices receive on their work is often late and unhelpful.

4. College trainers make too many apprentices repeat the six monthly blocks of college training and the reasons are not always fair or in the apprentices’ best interests.

5. Apprentices report significant examples of bullying, abuse and humiliation by ATFs, and in a very small minority of cases by college trainers, which have not been identified or dealt with appropriately by the NFTA. Apprentices’ interests and needs are not at the heart of the training and in too many cases they are anxious to speak out against poor treatment since they do not think they will be believed or that the NFTA will support them.

6. NFTA has not estimated current and future needs for qualified farriers and it is not clear whether the country is under or over producing farriers, or the extent of employment and business opportunities for farriers when they complete their training.


Given the broad-brush assessment here, one can only conclude that the teachers are in need of some teaching.  And while I do not know the details (someone jump in here if you like), my assumption is that NFTA trainers are government subsidized for including ATF's within their business structure -- compensation/income that is derived from both government sources and the added generation to the business itself.  However the incentives may run -- uphill or down, the object of teaching is to teach; this mission secondary to the business pressures (productivity) that might be incurred.  If that is the case, then the system could be seen as archaic, inefficient and perhaps redundant as to cause and effect.  Fix it.  Structural problems are addressed by checking the foundation first, not last.

Secondly, students enter the educational system to improve their self-esteem, not have it pissed away by those who have apparently forgotten their own history, their own early aspirations.  If the instructors are overburdened by administrative demands, unrealistic expectations and a lack of logistical/administrative support -- then put the paper pushers and bean counters on notice.  My experience with all such technical/community college type models is that the shop is a long way from management's private lunch room.  Teaching requires love, patience...a bushel-full of humor.  That means time, and while time is often equated with money -- it should absolutely not dictate the quality of the education, nor contribute to the frustration and disgust of those assigned to carry out such an important and fundamental task.  So often it is the system that creates the heretic, then wants to burn him at the stake.

A few other observations on this report:  1) I am not positive of the background of those who administer or oversee NFTA.  If they are farriers, move them to an advisory capacity and hire a program manager. I made the same recommendation to the AFA in this country.  Hire a used-car salesman as Managing Director. The job is to sell the association, the idea.  Farriery is secondary to that goal.  2) Hold a very frank, open conversation with the instructors in an environment without the possibility of recrimination.  If. as it appears, they are burned out, find out why. 3) Consider a re-structure of the entire program.  It is quite possible that it is too long, too scattered...perhaps obsolete in the 21st century.  And find out what students want today and address those issues within a new structure.  Find out why those 19-24-year old's do poorly...I could answer that question over a cup of coffee. 

Okay...enough on the issues in the UK; 

 America is even more difficult:


"Annually there are nearly one-half million registered apprentices in training in American industry. They are learning under the guidance of experienced craft workers in such skilled occupations as computer operator, machinist, bricklayer, dental laboratory technician, tool and dye maker, electrician, drafter, electronic technician, operating engineer, maintenance mechanic, and many more. Management, labor, and government work together to promote apprenticeship and to develop sound standards for its practice. In many communities, joint management-labor apprenticeship committees conduct and supervise the local programs."


Key words:  management-labor [committees] supervise. That means outside oversight, which in the UK's case of late -- failed miserably.  In the US, no such supervision, oversight or protection exists for those who wish to apprentice to a practicing farrier.  Which begs the question: Why not?  The US has had a national association (trade group) of/for farriers for some 30 years.  And so far they have managed to implement....and don't say certification. That was initiated within 3 years of incorporation.  What about the other 27 years?   Yes, the question is rhetorical and aimed at America's farriers -- not the AFA.  An organization merely mimics the temper OR temerity of its membership.       

 

 

As I stated earlier, the US has no regulated system of education, apprenticeships...nothing really as either regulatory or protective in the business of farriery.  An apprentice in an unregulated system has no rights, no set working conditions and no recourse if abused, harassed or injured.  It is medieval really, as it is currently conducted in this nation.  And that is not a negative, just a fact.  If one is given no rights under existing law, then they basically have no way to define or seek compensation through the legal system.  And guess what?  The Master, the Boss...the head farrier honcho...well, you're in the same boat partner.  It is a system based on good-faith and wishful thinking.  What if an apprentice is injured, perhaps killed in this free-wheeling system?  When pondering that unpleasant scenario, also consider why the United States currently has 1,143,358 attorneys plying their craft here.

[2007 figures]


"Many U.S. industries maintain thriving apprenticeship programs. These programs can be found in the skilled trades and crafts, notably in occupations related to the construction industry. Indeed, in many states, apprenticeship programs are required to obtain occupational licensing or certification. The United States does not currently maintain a national apprenticeship program. The U.S. Department of Labor, Bureau of Apprenticeship and Training, maintains a registry of apprenticeship programs and the occupations that are covered throughout the country. [Note:  If farriery does not exist as a recognized occupation, then....what?  Why hasn't the US Department of Labor been petitioned by an organization such as the AFA for inclusion as a recognized trade?  1) The existing membership would probably object, and 2) it is doubtful that the AFA could even offer a statistical or economic appraisal of this 'thing' they seek to represent.]

Apprenticeship programs may be sponsored by individual employers, a group of employers, or a union. Trade and other nonprofit organizations also sponsor apprenticeship programs within certain industries. Unions and employers often form joint apprenticeship committees to administer the programs. Such committees are concerned with determining an industry's particular needs and developing standards for the apprenticeship programs. Apprenticeship programs are usually registered with the federal or state government to ensure that the programs meet standards relating to job duties, instruction, wages, and safety and health conditions."

  

How did this come to be?  Much had to do with the destruction of guild system when it showed up in America.  Laissez-faire capitalism was the new model of American business, any power held by the artisans was usurped by the new mercantile class.  The Civil War (once again), also played into this evolving socio-economic mélange, for the 13th Amendment not only addressed the issues of slavery, but those seemingly engaged by 'indentured servitude.'  This made line between 'voluntary' and involuntary' servitude fuzzy indeed.  "The courts determined that the labor contracts gave [Masters] unusual authority over apprentices.  Both age [of apprentices] and length of apprenticeships made the arrangement vulnerable to abuse."  Jacoby
                                                                                                                                  

As America entered the industrial age, two issues dominated the business environment:  a competition over 'human capital' and the needs inherent to mass production.  However, this actually split labor rather than presenting a cohesive front against capital interests, for the employers merely took the apprenticeship system in-house -- this, in an effort to lock out labor unions. Thus in reality, a return to the old guild system of controlling the means of education and training.  But like today in some cases, these apprentices merely became the another cog in capital's machinery.  We see this today in many apprenticeships offered to aspiring farriers -- the goal being higher and more profitable production, not the teaching of more advanced skills.  Why?  Suspicions of course...the old guild mentality of stealing secrets, luring clients away...perhaps even exceeding the Master's own comfort level in his/her work.. And very importantly, many apprentices today are better educated than their predecessors, perhaps even the Boss.  They come with communication skills, business plans -- a clear idea on where they want to go and how fast they want to get there.  And like the courts decided a century ago...under these unstructured arrangements, far from any regulatory control...yes, abuses are common, and for all the same reasons as the Ofstead report emphasized.  An apprentice is normally idealistic, enthusiastic, a little naïve perhaps, but very vulnerable.  In many ways like all students...a hostage to learning. 

As one apprentice put it:  "I am beginning to believe that highly motivated and smart young farriers are being pushed out of the trade because they are disgusted with the way they are treated  and the amount of bashing that goes on.  The only ones who will stay are those who embrace the same behavior and attitudes."   Yes.  In my own experience, going back to 1972, it was the same case of inheriting the attitudes and poor business practices of the previous generation.  Because that was how you attempted to fit in, be one of the 'boys' in a very hostile and suspicious business.  But in so many ways it was really like trying to find mutual respect at the insane asylum -- the doors are locked for a good reason.



Organization has helped in this country, but it remains in many ways a hollow effort.  Our educational systems are many and varied...most privately held.  Students are locked out of conventional loan systems for the most part, and few schools teach even rudimentary business, marketing or communication skills. Sure, you can shoe a horse, but can you sell yourself to the client, the trainer...the bank?  The British system is smarter by demanding general education courses as an adjunct to shop skills -- something that needs to occur here.  It would much better serve our students, clients and our legacy by seeking to establish an educational standard, rather than a system of self-certification that beyond a sense of personal pride -- means absolutely nothing in the real world, particularly when it has never been promoted to the end-user: the customer.  A 2-year course, with a somewhat standardized curriculum is a good start.  High school diploma or GED required, general education and elective classes both offered and demanded.  Realistically structured toward the end-goal:  a farrier running a business.  And a system to subsidize a truly shared apprenticeship program.

The hurdles?  Immense.  Welcome back to the Civil War.  By never settling the core issue: state's rights, we still have 50 separate sets of regulatory agencies.  And we have some of the strongest labor laws in the world.  And those laws are hard-wired into our taxation system.  Add to this the fact that at least 60% of all farriers are one kind of outlier or another.  And that is not a disparaging remark -- simply an acknowledgement of why many of us got into this business -- myself included.  Except that I came to realize that the real world, corrupt as it is, shares little interest in my desire to live in the woods like a bear.  But the next generation is not likely to share that viewpoint.  So the question remains as to what our legacy will really mean.  Business as usual, or progressive and ground breaking?  Or will outsiders make that choice for us.

But it still leaves us with some choices, albeit hard ones. As it currently stands, in most states of the union, having an apprentice (by definition) in this trade is illegal.  A violation of licensing law, labor law and more than likely the tax code.  An employee is entitled to protection under the law.  That means on-the-job insurance (Workmen's Comp), a safe working environment, a non-harassment policy, guaranteed hours, breaks and medical leave, SS and income tax deductions...sort of a Human Resources Department created by mutual consent.  But then, the Boss can't even afford that luxury -- which is a whole different can of worms.  My solution, under the laws of the state of Washington was to make my apprentices, helpers...however I defined them -- sub-contractors.  Each was required to obtain their own business license and bill me for their services.  That also meant that they were legally responsible for their own taxes, their own insurance...just like this Boss.  I, in turn, carried the liability for what they did or failed to do.  Yes, it limited my exposure to litigation while still offering an opportunity for learning while lessening my personal work load -- because if the Boss goes down, the ship flounders with it.  And like most things in life, this decision was a compromise based on a collection of available choices -- none of which that seemed too attractive at the time. 

Some of you may wonder why any of this matters.  The honest answer is that it doesn't matter, until you reach that point in life or business where you have a lot to lose.  That's the money side of the equation.  The other side is purely human.  It is quite true that many see this trade as a lifestyle more than a business -- a rare thing to hold nowadays.  But with it comes a degree of responsibility all the same -- sure, to family, to friends -- and to those who follow on the coattails of what may have been your own early aspirations.  And that means respect, fair play and honest communication.  Yeah, the apprentice deserves that too.  And the opportunity to really learn this business via an honest and open dialogue.  And they deserve the protection afforded every worker in this country -- and legal recourse if that fails to happen.   Much to consider here....perhaps much to be done.  There are elephants in the room folks...it is time to find out why.

A. Allan Juell 

                          

Equal Opportunity -- at Rock Creek

"Girls...they just wanna have fun now..."




 

 

"This operation proves that packing into the wilderness isn't always a man's work."

[Note:  While much of my earlier work involved following the grand prix circuits, I was always on the look-out for stories that wandered the outskirts of my imagination...where horse and human found themselves in what for many, seemed an improbable pairing.  Sure.  Breaking stereotypes, but also telling the story of people that don't seek the distinction, or put much value in the cliché.  They do a job where their co-workers have four legs and a tail -- and sometimes a set of 14-inch ears.]       July, 1991:


Around Bishop, California, the Sierra Nevada Mountains rise sharply above the Owens Valley to over 14,000 feet.  In the thin air of the Inyo National Forest, the Rock Creek Pack Station has been doing business since 1919.  Composed of around 20 employees and more than 135 horses and mules, the station has been operated since 1947 by 70-year old Herb London and his wife Aleta, making it one of the oldest pack stations in the continental United States.

Situated at 10,000 feet above sea level, the station handles outfitted expeditions into the Sierras, Kings Canyon, Yosemite, and Inyo national forests and parks.  Rock Creek offers tourists, hikers, fishermen and hunters some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, and the best possible means to get there. Like many pack stations, Rock Creek specializes in taking the uninitiated to the very edge of civilization.  But it does far more.  It helps to educate the public on how to enjoy the wilderness as guests, and not intruders.

Aided by partner David Dohnel and London's son, veterinarian Craig London, the pack station cuts through the old illusions if itinerant cowboys leading long strings of ill-tempered mules through the mountains.  Oh, the costumes are traditional, the mules indeed opinionated and the trails treacherous, but the guide may just have a masters degree from UC-Davis, and also just might be a woman -- leaving the weathered old axioms about mule packers to the history books.

Most of the credit for such an open-door policy falls directly on Herb London's desk.  He's a man who believes in opportunity and perseverance; two areas of philosophy that have dominated his life.  London was almost killed in a stagecoach accident in 1963, and he listened as his doctors told him first that he wouldn't live, and second, that if he did, he would never walk.  They never got around to the third item, which was that he would never ride again, because he had already gotten up and left the hospital.

London's beliefs in the business and the people who work in it run deep.  It can be summed up in one short sentence:  "If they could do the job, that's all that ever mattered to me.  Actually, there's always been women on ranches.  We've had women here since it first started.  We had this sign on the wall -- the Forest Service came up here and gave us this sign -- Equal Opportunity.  They said, 'You know, you have to have an equal opportunity outfit.'  We had four women on the place, a Chinese packer and two Indian fellows.  So I said, 'Does that qualify us?'"



The women employees at Rock Creek come from many different backgrounds.  In fact, it can easily be said that the packers and outfitters run the spectrum of the social scale.  Many have come from the student ranks of the University of California at Davis, which has used the pack station as both teaching laboratory and a source of summer employment for many years.  Although many of the students go on to earn degrees in animal science or veterinary medicine, the lure of the mountains runs deep -- so deep that some have forsaken their chosen careers to continue working at the pack station long after they've earned their degrees.

The role of the women at the station has evolved considerably over the years.  Used primarily as cooks for the many camps the station maintains, they've proven themselves competent wranglers and packers in their own right, even to the extent that they now compete in packing competitions as a separate entry.  No longer are they simply cheerleaders for the men.

[Note: I first caught up with Kelly, Tari, Jamie and Wendi at Bishop, California's annual Mule Days Celebration.  After watching a class known as the Packers Scramble -- details for another blog entry -- I headed up into the wilderness to learn more.]   

 

Mule Days -- not just packers...

 

 

Every May, Bishop holds its annual Mule Days extravaganza.  Established some 16 years ago as a packers' rendezvous of sorts, the annual event has evolved into one of the largest shows of its kind in the world.  Still considered one of the few opportunities for working packers to compete at their chosen occupation, the show has experienced something entirely different the last few years -- women's teams.  In fact, there are now so many of them that the show committee had to create a new division to handle the influx.

 

Last year, the rock Creek contingent put together all-male and all-female teams.  The Rock Creek men had dominated the event in the past, but the women had not been as fortunate.  The 1990 team of Jamie Hirnshall. Kelly Brumfeld, Tari Justus and Wendi Duddly were determined to come out at the top of the pile.  When the dust finally settled, they had their championship belt buckles, something that Wendi Duddly described as, "worth all the sweat and nerves it took."

 

Many of the packers at the station have more in common than their love of mules and mountains.  Both Kelly Brumfield (women's team) and Jim Brumfield (world champion individual packer), as well as Jamie and Phil Hirnshall found more in common than most -- eventually ending up at the altar.  Phil Hirnshall thinks it's because "packers and cowboys are such attractive people that women just gravitate toward them.  You don't want to leave them behind so you bring them along.  It's a partnership."

 

But joking aside, teamwork and co-operation are vital, because the Sierra Nevada Mountains can be cruel.  At 12,000 feet, the climate can change drastically, and early winters are not uncommon.

 

Herb London expects a lot from all his packers.  As Jamie sees it, "Herb is pretty good.  You have to prove yourself, but he doesn't expect too much either.  He figures he'll send you out to do a spot trip.  I mean he doesn't expect you to pick up 60-pound side loads.  So you make them up on the ground, put your bags on the mule, and pack off the ground.  Or he may send two of you over to the same area to help pack. I don't think Herb's ever had a problem with women.  He feels that we're real kind to stock.  We give him a bad time; yeah, just because we're girls.  But he never says you can't do that because you're female.  If you want to try it, he says 'just try it.'  But still, for the most part, if you're a girl up here, you are going to cook besides doing everything else.  The guys are just not going to cook."  Not all things have changed in the packing business.

 

The expertise of the packers, male and female, often includes them in search and rescue operations involving downed aircraft or injured hikers, many times in foul weather, or at altitudes that keep even the most sophisticated of helicopters firmly on the ground.

 

Yep, the girls won.  The 1990 champs!

[Photos: by the author]
 

Essays From the Road...1991

The World's Greatest Write-Off

 

 

[Note: This editorial was published in 1991, at the 5-year mark of a road trip that did have a wildly idealistic beginning, and as a tumbleweed roams the landscape -- no real destination in mind.  For it  is, and always has been about the journey.]   

 

 

Anvil Archives -- anvilmag.com.
Rob Edwards, Publisher Extrardinaire

Relax.  This isn't going to be a fifteen-hundred word essay on formatting a disc.  In fact, not only do I not know how to format a disc, I'm not sure what I would do with it once I had if formatted.  Smoke a cigarette I guess.

 

I'm also not going to discuss accountants, bookkeepers, the IRS or Uncle Benny's polyester farm in Georgia.  The same applies to profits, losses, deductions or appreciations; the latter a little meaningless anyway.  They are words that were invented by the federal government to make us think that we have a prayer of making a living.  I mean really, how can something appreciate when you have to push it three blocks just to get the engine to turn over?

 

My write-off is accomplished the old-fashioned way -- with a pen, a bright yellow legal pad and, of course, a computer.  A modern adaptation of the stenographer only harder to date.  As computers go, mine is probably not much different than most and after a year of heavy petting, we are still not committed to marriage.  It still randomly erases my best work (why the Pulitzer isn't sitting on the fireplace mantel), and every so often it flashes something about "invalid command" or "you have performed an illegal operation."  Which I respond to by either screaming, "BLOODY HELL!!" or phoning the local police to confess to whatever outstanding crimes they have on the docket.  (Writers are temperamental that way -- especially when modern technology is involved.)

 

Writing about farriery, and the rest of the horse world, seems to involve a lot of traveling.  (Not much money, but lots of asphalt under your feet.)  In five years I have covered about a half-million miles in an assortment of planes, (two or three of which were recalled by the factory part way through dinner); 50,000 or so miles in the motorhome (The Whale), another few thousand in rental cars, trains, horse vans and the occasional  bicycle, horse or shoes that needed a proper reset.  I have also slept in Rest Areas, on people's porches, in bars, and I have a good idea of where every sleazy motel is located on the entire West Coast.  Surprise!  No, we don't always stay at the Hilton, though sometimes I have slept in their parking lots.  (They have the best security.)

 

Airplanes have always scared the hell out of me.  They still do.  I usually sit in the terror section where I can watch the wings bounce up and down.  I know all the 'good' noises, and am beginning to know the bad ones.  You know the ones -- where the pilot forgets to turn off the intercom and says something like, "What do ya supposes that red light means Bob?"

 

My main mode of transport is the motorhome.  Affectionately called The Whale, it goes down the road like a...well, I was going to say a whale, but actually it handles more like a goldfish trying to breathe air for the first time.  It is 30-feet long, twelve feet, four-inches high (this was confirmed by a gas station in Nevada that was twelve feet, three-inches high), and consumes more gasoline than Patton's Third Army.  It sleeps at least eight (never try that though), has all the modern amenities (including a shower personally designed by some friends of Snow White.)

 

 

My main traveling companion is Emily the terrier.  Purchased  at the Santa Barbara National Horseshow, "M" as she is known, navigates for me.  (Which means that I drive and she eats the maps.)  We share everything -- left-over pizza, the last bottle of gin and the flea shampoo.  Emily has been traveling with me for about 3 years and no longer trusts anything that doesn't have wheels.

 

The motorhome has hung out in some of the more glamorous parts of the world: San Francisco's Cow Palace (right next to the sheep barn), the mule pens in Bishop, the back parking lot at Janie's whorehouse in Nevada (strictly a research project) and quite often in front of the Pioneer Saloon in Woodside, California.  The inside is piled high in computers, typewriters, large manila envelopes from countless projects, dirty laundry, somebody's tennis ball collection and all those things that make life on the road bearable:  a good set of tapes, two six-packs of Corona and the latest issue of the Anvil. 

 

Much of my writing has concentrated on the wonderful and changing world of farriery.  I have interviewed Russians, Poles, Mexicans, Australians, Scots, Kiwis, and of course a huge selection of Americans.  Sometimes I can't understand the answers, occasionally I'm not sure about the questions.  The more I travel, the more I am convinced that the differences are little more than geographic trivia -- a few numbers on an envelope.  Most people are concerned with living -- raising children, raising themselves, trying to do a little better than they thought was possible.  Basic issues at a point in history that seems far more complicated than it really is.

 

After five years of being on the road, I have drawn a number of conclusions.  Paramount in my mind is the quality of people that I have met.  Next, if you concentrate too heavily on the content of the evening news you will either want to own a very large pistol, four-hundred pounds of barbed-wire, or move next door to Oliver North. (None of which are practical if you happen to live in a motorhome.)

 

I am pretty sure that the road will continue to be my address.  I have yet to achieve any burning desires to mow lawns, watch television, or get a real job.  There are still at least 680-million people I have not met, and I still haven't figured out how to shoe a horse right -- or format a disc.  So, for now, it's The Whale, Emily the terrier, a few battered credit cards, and whatever comes next.

 

 

And the road did continue for some time...and just might need a second look soon!

The Human/Horse Bond

Giving Permission to Grieve

 

 

                                               My new book, "The Littlest RaceHorse," due out in July, has a lot to do with gains and losses, both human and equine.  And as so often happens in these unique relationships, the horse is both a friend, and in some cases, a healer of unseen wounds.  I first published this story in The Chronicle of the Horse -- probably about 1988 following a series of interviews at the University of California-Davis.

 

 

 

Loss is an unavoidable aspect of animal ownership.  Almost as surely as a deep bond of affection will develop between people and their animal companions, the human partner will have to cope with the animal's death.  The ensuing bereavement can be a difficult period when, instead of support, the owner is reminded time and again, "It's not worth being upset; after all, it was only an animal"

 

Not so, says Bonnie Mader, MS, associate director of the Human-Animal Program at the University of California, Davis.  More than anything, she believes, grieving animal owners need "permission," in the form of social support, to express the loss they feel when a companion animal dies --whether that animal is a dog, cat, or a horse.  Together with program director Lynette Hart, PhD, Mader has developed a unique counseling program.

 

As a non-profit organization within the Davis veterinary school, the Human-Animal Program serves both the veterinary community and the animal-owning public.  One of its missions is encouraging research into and education about the human-animal bond and the role animals play, both as companions and as instruments of healing, particularly for the disabled and infirm.  Another is immediate and direct assistance to grieving individuals.  Thanks to a telephone hot-line, set up by Mader in February [possibly 1986] and staffed by vet student volunteers, that assistance is just a phone call away for animal owners all over the United States and Canada.

 

A grieving dog owner provided the seed money for the program's establishment in 1985.  Bill Balaban, a retired television producer, found himself virtually paralyzed with grief over the loss of his poodle, Tiger.  Balaban worked through his emotions without support, but he decided more should be done to help people in similar distress over the loss of companion animals.  Following his donation, the school hired Hart, a zoologist by training, to oversee the program's development.

 

Mader, whose degree is in counseling, joined the program shortly thereafter, first as a volunteer and then as full-time staff.  When she found more and more of her office time being spent on the telephone counseling pet owners through their difficult times, Mader decided to establish a call-in service modeled after a suicide-prevention hot-line operating in Davis.  In a year's time, more than 700 callers from across the continent have found solace through the service.

 

"People really need to be legitimized for feeling as bad as they feel," Mader says.  "A lot of people will call, and when I tell them what they are feeling is common and that I've talked to hundreds and hundreds of people, they say, 'So, I'm not crazy?'  They really feel that they are crazy."

 

"No one is raised to feel that it is okay to be attached to an animal," she continues.  "You can be upset if you lose a human being, but we're not raised to be upset if we lose an animal.  So if we do lose an animal, and we're distraught, then that doesn't fit with our mental concept of what's normal."

 

The intensity of grief felt for a "mere animal" often makes people feel guilty, says Mader.  If euthanasia is involved, making the owner "play God" so to speak, that commands the bereaved person's guilt.

 

 

Horse people have their own distinct problems with loss.  Horse owners generally aren't present at their animal's deaths, and there's often little opportunity to memorialize a horse through burial and grave markers as compared to smaller companions.  Though human-horse relationships often involve trust and love, there is no fitting conclusion, no supportive ritual to help the owner deal with its dissolution after death.

 

Mader is concerned that so few horse owners make use of the program's hot-line or face-to-face counseling.  Only six of the center's 700 calls have come from horsemen, yet Mader knows from her own distress at watching her childhood horse being towed down the lane after being sold, that losing a horse can hurt every bit as losing a dog or cat.

 

"You should be able to talk about it, says Mader.  "You should be able to say, 'It hurts not to have that horse in my life anymore.'"

 

Operating on weekday evenings, the hot-line is staffed by a force of 60 student volunteers.  Each volunteer takes a mandatory six-hour training session, mans the office telephone and serves backup duty for a total of at least six hours monthly.  Training continues throughout the hot-line experience in discussion with Mader and fellow students.

 

When a call comes in, the counselor serves primarily as a sympathetic ear, allowing the animal owner to breach the biggest barrier -- the sense that, as Mader puts it, "they're crazy for feeling this bad."  After the call, the volunteer writes a personal letter, enclosing support materials and a suggested reading list that may be useful to the caller.  Though the project is time-consuming for students who are already extraordinarily busy, Mader believes the number of volunteers alone proves that the next generation of veterinarians appreciate how affecting the loss of a beloved animal can be.

 

[Note: Not sure if this, or similar programs are still in service.]

 

 

 



Co-pilots come in all sizes.....

 

A LittleTeaser on the...New Book

"The Littlest RaceHorse"

Late October, 1962.  The US and the Soviet Union stand toe to toe, poised to unleash their nuclear arsenals over the deployment of offensive missiles in Cuba – a mere 90 miles off the coast of Florida.  This is the Cold War, suddenly too hot to touch.  Apprehension flows relentlessly down the irrational corridors of chaos and panic – personal choices driven by the political realities of a world gone mad.  A pair of kids, suddenly cast adrift by the week’s escalating events, find themselves forced on a journey not of their own choosing – while the adults around them ponder the longest week of their lives.  Forced to finally choose between the past and perhaps a very different future…one that seemed to share an improbable link to a young Thoroughbred horse halfway across the country.  Lives that were stolen on a Thursday – and returned the following week.  Irreversibly changed.

  

And some 2000 miles away, one Bobby Lee Hancock and his common-law wife, Fennel McCartney. A farmer, a horse breeder – a man grown hard by difficult times and unforgiving choices.  And on that farm, a young Thoroughbred colt, seemingly doomed by the peculiarities of his own birth.  Or so the old customs had always dictated.  “Fen, I’m a farmer ya know.  Shoulda hit that damn thing in the head with a hammer when it was born.  Hell, next thing you’ll havin’ me raisin’ rats and corn weevils!  And that damn Kennedy’s gonna get us killed maybe…or worse!”

 

But the young President had already moved beyond the brink of a final apocalypse – opening a second, perhaps more volatile door by questioning the very core of American values.  Civil rights, the desires and ambitions of the country’s largest minority – women; and the wider responsibilities inherent to leading the world’s greatest democracy through an era restless for change.  The 1950’s were the calm between very different storms – one engulfing the world, the second threatening the nation.  But often, that ‘change’ was personal and highly private as well, especially for children caught in a sudden and seemingly unrelenting tempest.  And just as often, the salvation, perhaps life’s balance itself comes with four legs and a tail.  Just a horse?  Maybe not.

 

©  Back cover by: Sandra Mesrine,
 La Chambre Noire Studio Photography

 

 

© Front Cover by Azaliya, Shutterstock Images

From Yippie to Equine Midwife...And Back

Yippie Ki Ya....and Where in
the Hell did I Leave My Armor?
 

 

 

                    "Other wars with unseen casualties litter the landscape of societies cloaked in the hard veil of contradiction -- that myopic dance of the uninformed, unwilling and ultimately unknowing.  Sanctuary is not always a cradle for the frightened and the weak.  All too often it is the untended grave of an inconvenient truth."                          

 ♫“Come gather ‘round people

Wherever you roam

And admit that the waters

Around you have grown

And accept it that soon

You’ll be drenched to the bone.

If your time to you

Is worth savin’

Then you better start swimmin’

Or you’ll sink like a stone,

For the times they are a changin’

                                                                                                      ©Bob Dylan, 1963

 

     But did they, Bob?

 

From here...

 

I have often wondered how the roots of radicalism manifest themselves in the mind of a child.  For it is here, in the dry, undeveloped sand lot of the child's brain -- the dry deserts of future knowledge, where such a seed first gains nourishment.  An awakening really...the immature mind seeking to grow between the rows of neatly planted crops.  And like the destiny of most weeds; those armies of conformity: order...efficiency -- seek to quickly stamp you out.  But what these mighty opponents fail to consider is that this famine of the imagination merely fills the ravished belly of resistance; for like the roots, stalks and leaves that follow a seed's first exposure to light...thought follows the unbroken rules of an evolutionary process.  Sure, we are exiled to the outskirts of Concordia;  branded, ridiculed, belittled...beaten, robbed of our seat at the table.  But we stand erect.  Straighter than most, ours eyes only willing to offer a singular, rather unremarkable allegiance:  to a sometimes compromised truth.  The only one we truly own.   

 

"Then, quite suddenly, we discover the true value of the horse -- its speed -- and we gallop away, far from the clicking shutters, far from the angry voices.  And for a brief, incredible moment, we are free!"   

 

 

And for the first time perhaps...we sit among friends.

 

 

But the constant, almost nagging questions remain unanswered.  For once you have taken the radical's path...the high road of conscience; felt the hot, vile breath of conformity on your skin...seen the hate in the red eyes of those who fear your very presence, you are doomed and blessed to live among the happy malcontents of the fringe.  For you can never shed your beliefs as simply as a snake discards its old skin.  For lurking behind you, day and night, relentlessly -- the Army of Hippocrites...the soul stealer's, the money launderers...the panderers of an all-consuming gluttony.  And they are madly driven to close the distance behind you, to suffocate the truth in your presence, push the necessary reckoning demanded by a mass hysteria, the spoiled meat and broth that is the sustenance of all such angry mobs.           

 

"History is littered with the bones of the arrogant and self-righteous.  How will the present be remembered by the future, once we become the past?" 

 

To here...

An important question.  Perhaps it is each individual's present actions that determine the answers for another    traveler's future.  In my case, I discovered human cruelty at an early age.  I embraced it, savored its predictability...discarded it like a ragged and filthy sock.  For I had seen, touched and tasted the blood of anger.  The open wound that was a compassionate heart; bled dry, pooled around the bare feet of my innocence.  Two roads appeared to me in those moments of trial:  one high, one low.  Each with advantages unique for a child emerging from a seemingly endless forest of rain and fog.  I took the high, my younger brother traveled the low.  He is dead by his own choices; I alive by mine.  There is no judgement in that sentence, merely the circumstances inherent to all such decisions.  Yes, at times they are the very last one you will ever make.

 

It is always possible to re-trace the historical steps in one's life, but not always the emotions accompanying them.  Especially when your bag carries few non cognitive tools -- fear, anger perhaps....most others missing or somehow dishonest in a way you cannot readily identify.  Sure, you can say the words, but the mind cringes at the disclosure or by conditioned practice, invariably adds a question mark to the end of the sentence. 

 

"I didn't smoke because of peer pressure...I was the peer pressure.  Funny how you go from outcast to idol with the addition of one bad habit." 

 

 

So perhaps that is the radicals first lesson in politics and non-conformity.  This theater of the absurd run like a carnival sideshow for the happy maniacs living inside your head; albeit a little mentally disturbed by certain standards, but hopefully headed in the right direction.  Or left as the case may be.  After all, fitting in, the status quo...mowing the lawn every other Saturday -- just couldn't hold a candle to being a rowdy miscreant with somewhat honorable intentions.

But then one day, attitude runs into reality...not the kind that gets you thrown out of school, but the kind that gets you tossed out of life itself.  Somebody starts a war and you receive an invitation to join in the fun.  Except that you are no longer a joiner, no longer among the naive, no longer welcome in the vast herd willing to charge headlong into some distant, vague fray, where that wrong turn you took ended inside a black bag.  Worse yet though, no real compromise is available to you...no easy way to convert wrong to right because patriotism is now defined as conformity...truth sold cheap in a thief's marketplace.  And as a participant in this madcap adventure...you are denied the very language to explain the reasoning behind your own death.   For without a voice, it is no more than an execution for a crime not committed.  So, it is perhaps time to find another horse:                   

 

"Five-hundred dollars later I had a horse, a broken-down old western saddle and a rough idea of where Mexico might be.  The horse's name was Hombre, which I was to learn, roughly translates from Spanish into something like, "furry four-legged death."        

 

To here...

No, the photo isn't Hombre, but it kind of covers most aspects of our relationship. See, a radical (aka, a Knight of Disorder) needs a good mount when challenging the state doctrines of appeasement.  And of course, the stickier elements of draft evasion: firing weapons of mediocre destruction (tomatoes) at standing (ducking) Presidents; all kinds of substance abuse, women with angry husbands, operating a large, Salvador Dali-esque bus -- one lacking turn signals, brakes or a drug-free driver; while completely refusing to yield the right of way to anyone wearing brown shoes or a bowling shirt.   And like Leon Trotsky, doing all the heavy lifting in a fight, only to be exiled later to the hinterland as a continuing threat to a new brand of the old normalcy.  Hence, a trip to Mexico seemed wholly reasonable at the time.  The horse had other ideas and certain geographical preferences...see, I didn't run away to Canada, but the horse was damn determined to seek political asylum in the northern latitudes. That led to a shaky impasse, interrupted only by occasional bouts of equine insanity.  Humans exhibit this aberration by standing naked in rush-hour traffic -- horses tend to buck and fart wildly until they run into an object of some kind.  Like a Volvo.  Other radicals, sharing other causes, are quick to define the moment:
       

AIM:  “Not one of ours.”

 

PETA:  We’ll take a waiver on this one.  Shoot it.”

 

SDS: ♫  “Don’t Bogart that joint my friend…”

 

GREENPEACE:  We’re checking to see if he’s on staff here.”

 

BLACK PANTHER’S:  “Man, the horse is a white dude!”

 

KKK:  (Remember, they are so far to the right, they ended up on the left.)  “Man, the horse is a white dude!”

 WEATHER UNDERGROUND:  Hey, look.  He’ll save us the trouble of blowing up the damn car ourselves.”

 SOCIALIST WORKERS’ PARTY:  “What’s with this elitist capitalistic Volvo crap?”

GAY LIBERATION FRONT:  “Wave girls!  The press is here!”

 

CHEECH to CHONG:  “Wow man.  Isn’t that our car?”

To here...

So the horse is sent off to a re-education camp...also known as a Dressage Barn, where it is hoped that he can express his zeal for reform by...actually, I don't know how.  But the human is left to ponder a world suddenly lacking pertinent causes -- or quite honestly, too busy shopping to notice.  As if perhaps, one small victory will sustain a creeping uncertainty that the war is far from over, or just maybe, like many diseases infectious to the human soul, merely in remission.  And with the usual snide wink, the mimicry found in all such false armistices...for the dragon merely sleeps.  

 

Exile.  The audience has scattered, the musicians play a new song...people embrace polyester and tight jeans and Disco drums out the machine-gun cadence of another round of consumption.  The armies of the left scatter -- some to exile in the hills of Tennessee...others to the cocaine palaces of Wall Street or the halls of Congress, assuming the survivability of an ideal that was really only heard by those whose ears were pressed hard to the cold pavement of righteous dissent.  Yes, Congress.  A hall of cement, of walls without ears, mouths that wear the business-as-usual sneer -- sardonic, oily and self-assured, while beyond the great doors, wilted flowers now grace the graves, faded memories erode the power behind the great deceit...a past-tense races to the present; pages ripped from a book -- the scattering of pigeons in a long deserted park.   

     Gaskin, on the other hand, was probably digesting hallucinogenic mushrooms somewhere in the southern hills of Tennessee.  He was way ahead of Timothy Leary in that for him, enlightenment was merely the clarification of simplicity, minus the clutter of modernity.  The world really was sensual, unsophisticated and rather forgiving – i.e., governable under physical law.  No gates, no locks, no garrison manning the parapet.  One need not protect what can never be controlled.  Stephen Gaskin?  Led a great caravan of buses to Tennessee in 1971.  Formed the largest commune in the United States.  It lasted until the late 1980’s.  It was named for Don Quixote’s horse Rocinante, though everyone knew it as The Farm.

 

     Ah, the skinny war horse Rocinante and his pettifogger knight off on a prodigal quest to slay the sour-breathed dragon of the Hypocrites – that race of dogged assassins that left the dreams of Camelot in ashes and despair.  And vanquished the believers to the wilderness of Tennessee.  The foolishly impractical pursuit of ideals -- marked by rash, lofty, romantic ideas and extravagant chivalrous action.
 

Yes!           



What next though?  Radicals, as a rule, don't play well with others. Round pegs in a square world.  Yet we have discovered that horses don't care about the right, the left...who happens to be President or Pope, or what our flag really stands for -- unless it might be edible.  They are really more like the 2/3 of the human world we rarely focus upon; those folks who merely hope that dinner is on time, the water cold and clean...shelter still available for family and friends.  And that the fences are made to keep danger out, not the suffering in.  That a partnership may one day appear for all to excel beyond...jump higher...cover swiftly the roads that lead to a more permanent settlement -- a lasting truce.  So like all the weary warriors of lost causes and blighted victories, you head to the farm -- those outskirts of civilization where small things make sense, and the fences are built strong.  A farm manager;  a lone sentry walking the green rampart, relentlessly scanning the borders of the realm...ever keen for the denizens lurking just beyond the gate.  And you talk to horses...often, and in a language of intrigue, for neither side needs to know the meaning behind the words -- only the actions they produce.  And thus, the long road back begins.  And since you live on a round planet, you are bound to tread that same path -- where distant thunder threatens the peace once again.  

To here...

But this new day is somehow different.  For the horse has gentled you...stolen your love of chaos and anarchy...given you an ounce of compassion, a moment for consideration, the cause and effect of life without judgement or consequences -- for a horse learns by simply forgetting the previous moment in favor of the present one, while humans...well, we stack our experiences, our emotions, like cord wood, anticipating the hard winter that always comes unannounced.

However, a sanctuary can also become a prison...the horse a warden, a gatekeeper of a door never opened.  For the fences that keep him in, keep the many shoplifters out.  The life suckers, the sellers of sanity, the bookmakers and pundits who always know a sure thing once it has reached some distant wire -- perhaps love itself, the sweet smell of warm jasmine, somewhere just beyond the trees...faint, fighting desperately to overcome the creosote stench of a smoldering cynicism.  The horse sees her though, a lone Siren...a dry land mermaid beckoning one to the depths of an endless embrace. The horse tracks her passing with his ears, slowly tracing her movement along an uneven path; while the man remains in a desperate, myopic blindness, brought forth by a sudden and startling want.  But the trembling hand cannot open the gate.  And the horse finally blows snot on your back and walks off in disgust.  True friends tell you what you need to know, not necessarily what you want to hear.

Decades pass, seasons of undulating thoughts...uncertainty, moments of self-doubt, a small boat caught in many, opposing currents.  Vanity, pride...validations sought, gained, lost again.  Integrity bound and gagged by a sickness born of need and want.  You try to medicate it away, drink it away...knowing that the death of this parasitic worm may lie in the last breath of a suddenly reluctant host.  Yet somewhere, buried under the concrete patches of all the perceived affronts, indignities...the self-induced anger spawned by the malignancy of many assumed betrayals...a notion.  That maybe, just maybe...when you mix all the poisons of life together in one glass, death becomes the medicine of life...and you happily drink it down.        

  Life is merely an exercise in penning your own obituary.