A Christmas Fairy Tail...Fast Rudy

"Twas the night before Xmas                           
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse..."


That's because the cat ate them.  He's over in the corner gift-wrapping the bodies.  I'll try to act surprised in the morning.  And such is life on a farm...my farm anyway.  So after the turkey and gravy, my traditional purple mashed potatoes and too much cheer, I relax by the fire and dream improbable dreams.  Things like cheap hay, self-cleaning stalls and mares whose ovaries produce more than mediocrity and despair.  But no, I get this instead:

Fast Rudy

 

  

 

nce upon a time, in a faraway land, a young lad named Jack was sent on an important family matter.  Wearily trudging through the countryside, Jack hoped to trade his last bag of magic beans for a $5000 claimer.  Jack’s mother, who trained some runners at a local track was having a terrible season.  In fact, she was down to her last horse, a sad looking gelding named Fast Rudy, who had never been able to get in a race because of a red spot on his butt.  It really wouldn’t have mattered in most cases, except that it had been overlooked on his registration papers, a discrepancy that the evil Sheriff of Nothinghappening happened to notice, who coincidentally moonlighted as a racetrack identifier, duly appointed by the governor to rob the poor and stop those 2-5 favorites from walking away with a race.  He also had a ‘thing’ for Mrs. Jack, who was widowed after her husband stepped on a land mine in Cambodia.  There was also this bony appendage on Fast Rudy’s head, but so far everybody accepted the notion that it was simply a training device – like a run-out bit, only bigger and uglier.

Fast Rudy's Odd Appendages!
[image:flickr]

 

     Fast Rudy had been a tremendous disappointment for Mrs. Jack.  The best he could do was run for a $2500 tag, but even so, he couldn’t pick up a check if he couldn’t run.  Plus, he was coming back from a training injury, had coughed all summer and was on the steward’s list for erratic running.  By now, it was December and Fast Rudy’s prospects for picking up any kind of check were almost as good as his chance for getting a meal.  Zero.  But for some reason, Mrs. Jack still believed in him.

 

 

     Meanwhile, Young Jack was having his own problems.  The search for a $5000 claimer ended at a small shack.  The owner, a wizard named Obi Wan something or the other, gave him the grievous news.  Voice crackling like a broken welder, the old fellow spoke:  “Yes son, all of them have gone.  Gone away to run for big money at a place called Santa Anita.  Can I interest you in a Millennium Falcon?  Low mileage, recently overhauled.  Your girlfriend would really like the color."

 

     “Santa?”  And I don't have a girlfriend."
 

     “Just a coincidence,” the old wart answered.  “What about the Falcon?”  This thing'll get you lots of girlfriends!"
 

     Depressed, Young Jack moved on.  Someone was following him, though.  After a few miles, the stranger caught up with him.  “Hey, pilgrim,” the tall man said.  “John Ford is shooting a movie around here, and well, I can’t find him anywhere.  Ya happen to know where the Monumental Big El Dorado  and Rio Bravo Big Monumental Valley is?”

 

     “Well, no.  I’m trying to find a race horse.”

 

     “Ah, hell, give Mickey Rooney a call.  He’s done a lot of those pictures; little guy, lives in LA.”

 

     “Okay.  Say, where’s LA?”

 

A mysterious stranger...

     “Waaaaal, over thar pilgrim.  Say, have you got a spare cigarette?”

 

     “I’m sorry sir, but they haven’t been invented yet.”

 

             

♣

 

 

The fairytale unravels...

      A few miles down the road, Jack came upon the Scrooge Hay Company.  That’s it, he reasoned.  I’ll trade these magic beans for a ton of hay and a bottle of liniment.  That’ll at least get Fast Rudy through the winter.  Maybe by then¼

 

     Young Jack’s thoughts were immediately interrupted by the appearance of old man Scrooge himself.  Bundled against the cold by an over sized down jacket, only his lips peered out at Young Jack.  “So, you want John Gotti burned, huh?  You must be Lucky Lasagna from Jersey.”

 

     “No sir, I need some hay.  I have to feed my horse.  A ton in exchange for these magic beans.  Oh, and I need some liniment.”  Young Jack held out his hand, showing the six multi-colored beans.

[image:digginfoods.com]

 

     “Magic?”  old Scrooge inquired, his face creeping out of his coat.  “Just what kind of magic, dear boy?”

 

     “With these beans,” Young Jack whispered.  “You can meet Julia Roberts.”

 

     “Really!  She your girlfriend?"  Scrooge said.  His smile gave away the value of the trade.  “All right young man, I’ll give you nineteen bales of hay and a half bottle of liniment.”

 

     “Nineteen?!”

 

     “They’re heavy bales, my boy.”  Scrooge countered.  Take it or leave it.  If you don’t buy it, I’ll sell it to the Russians.  They’ll buy anything.”

 

     “But sir, Russians haven’t been invented yet.”

 

 

♣

 

 

     In the meantime, Mrs. Jack was trying to figure out what to do next.  The race meet was scheduled to close on December 24^th, a mere five days away.  The final race of the card, The Last Gasp Handicap, run at 22 furlongs, looked to be the spot that Rudy had always needed.  With a purse of five golden rings, three French hens and a bird in a pear tree, a victory would save Mrs. Jack from the poor house.  Eat the birds, hock the rings.  Real simple.

 

     But there was still the problem with the red spot on Rudy’s derriere.  Once again, she confronted the assistant identifier, a one-legged hunchback related to the wicked Sheriff by marriage.  His name was Quasi-Forget It.  And boy, did he smell bad.

 

    “Forget it!” he said bluntly.  “No, no, no, never!  Not in a million, zillion years!”

 

     “Is that your final word?”

 

     “No, this is.  Forget it!”

 

     Crushed, Mrs. Jack led Fast Rudy back to his stall.  There were no oats for his dinner, no hay and hardly enough straw for his bed.  Knowing how hungry he must be, she went to the adjoining tack room and searched vainly for something to feed to him.  In her haste, she dislodged something from a shelf that fell into Rudy’s feed tub.  Soon, she heard the horse thrashing about his stall, a sure sign of colic.  Rushing to his door, she arrived just in time to see him fall to the floor.

 

     “Oh, my gosh!  Rudy’s sick!”  she wailed.  Glancing around the stall, she finally found the source of Fast Rudy’s distress.  Lying in his feed tub was a half eaten fruitcake.  And was it ever hard.

 

     Summoning Dr. Gauze, the kindly veterinarian, the prognosis seemed grim.  “When you eat fruitcake, you pay the price,” he said.  “It doesn’t look good.”  He left Mrs. Jack with three cases of bute, a gallon of Banamine, electrolytes, a flu shot and a can of hoof dressing.  He promised to stop by later.  Fast Rudy only groaned.  "Say, did your boy ever find a girlfriend?  You know, he's gettin' on 25 years now...should have a girlfriend.  Looks kinda funny otherwise...you know, light in the loafers."

 

     Tears rolling down her cheeks, she slowly walked back toward the tack room.  Her progress was stopped by the sight of Young Jack pulling up with a cart full of what appeared to be blue hair.  Young Jack looked miserable as a toad.

 

Blue hay...
[image: atooms.com]

     “Fast Rudy’s terribly ill,” she said softly.  “It really looks bad.”

 

     Young Jack’s face drooped even further.

 

     “What’s in the cart, son?”

 

     “Hay, or at least it used to be.  It got rained on.  I’m afraid that’s all I have to show for the magic beans.  I thought we could at least feed Rudy, but now¼where is he?”

 

     As Young Jack jumped off the cart and ran to the stall, Mrs. Jack was interrupted by her favorite jockette, one S. White and her seven agents.  While the group of bickering agents surrounded Mrs. Jack, S. White slipped into the stall where Young Jack was sitting, Fast Rudy’s head cradled gently in his lap.

 



[image: 123rf.com]



     “Poor Rudy,” she said, her eyes beaming down at Jack.  “Maybe this will help.”  Leaning down, she kissed Fast Rudy on the forehead.  As Jack’s eyes me S. White’s, the world seemed to come to a stop.  For a brief second, they were in Paris, sitting

at an outdoor cafe, drinking red wine and eating escargot, not realizing that they were snails.

 



     Outside the stall, Mrs. Jack had finally beaten off the seven agents with her broom.  S. White wished Mrs. Jack well, slipped Young Jack a card for a motel in Stockton and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Young Jack with some throbbing things and a very sick horse.

 

     But things change fast in a fairy tale.  Four days later, Rudy was able to pass the fruitcake, and while one stall cleaner ended up hospitalized, the horse was on his feet, the fire once again dancing in his eyes.  And to everyone’s astonishment, the red spot on his butt was gone – vanished!

 

     “Quick!” Mrs. Jack shouted.  “Let’s get him to the identifier before it changes.  We only have an hour till race time!”

 

     Arriving at the test barn, they were once again confronted by the wicked little assistant identifier.  “You again?!” Forget-It yelled.

 

     “But the spot is gone!” Young Jack countered.  “Ask Frosty.”

 

     Forget-It spun around, not knowing that Frosty, the overweight, albino steward had been standing there the whole time.

 

     “Well?” Forget-It inquired sarcastically.

 

     Frosty, sweating profusely, looked closely at Rudy’s butt.  No red spot could be seen.  “Boy, it’s warm,” he said.  “Don’t you guys think it’s warm?  I think it’s warm.  Whew, it’s almost hot¼”

 
     “What about the damn spot?!”  Forget-It yelled.

 

     “Oh, that thing.  Anybody got any ice.  Ah hell, it looks fine to me.  The horse can run.  I gotta get out of here.  It’s too hot to stand around and worry about it.”

 

     With that, Frosty wandered off, leaving Young Jack and Mrs. Jack to watch as Forget-It applied the official tattoo.  As he quickly worked, the numbers and letters formed into an eerie XMAS 0 HOUR.

 
     “Just a coincidence,” Forget-It sniffed.

 

     “Waaaal, pilgrim, I reckon you got a race.  I could sure use a cigarette, but I guess they don't have any in this movie.  How come you don't have a girlfriend, pilgrim?  Most of my movies had one, but shoot, I always ended up with a noisy sidekick and my horse...he was a goodn'
 

     Young Jack spun around, but all he saw was a tall guy who walked like he had something wrong with his hips.

 
     Finally, it was time to run The Last Gasp Handicap.  Fast Rudy drew the number one hole.  Around the racetrack, a thick and menacing fog had settled on the course.  In the distance, lightning flashed.  The horses nervously pawed the ground.  S. White coaxed Rudy into the starting gate, an immense steel and wood structure that stretched across the entire track, quickly removed once the horses were released.  S. White shot Young Jack a quick little smile and mouthed the words, "Last Chance."  Young Jack just nodded.  Hell, he knew what the race was called.  "What!?" he finally shouted.  She just shrugged.

  The starter, one Claus Krinkle waited patiently while each horse settled in, waiting for a fair start.  “There they go!” the announcer yelled as Krinkle sprung the gate.

 

     Fast Rudy broke on top and quickly took command of the lead, Donner was second with Cheese Blintzes a close third.  As the horses disappeared into the fog shrouded backstretch turn, the racetrack suddenly went dark.  Out in the middle of the track sat the starting gate, its electric motors frozen in the fog and pitch-black night.

[image: paulickreport.com]

 

 
     “They’re going to hit it!” the announcer yelled, his voice unheard by the loss of power throughout the track.  The crowd gasped as the horses rounded the final turn.  Fast Rudy, at the head of the pack, could see the impending disaster.  Somehow, someway, the red spot re-appeared on his butt, like the trailing light of a caboose, shining brighter than ever before.  Illuminated in the ghostly red light, the horses followed Rudy safely around the crippled starting gate and once again vanished into the fog.  As the crowd roared its approval at the outcome of the race, the fog began to lift, the lights returned to brightness and the sound of pounding hooves gently faded away.  To everyone’s astonishment, the horses were gone, somehow lifted into the night on the wings of the fog.  As the crowd peered overhead, a small red glow emerged briefly from the clouds, only to vanish once again into the dark sky.  On the ground, the tote board flashed its message:  IT’S OFFICIAL!     ♫

And the red spot slipped over a distant horizon...

 

 

Farriers Defined: 1965 Federal Appeals Court Decision

Unusual Case Brings Farriery into the Federal Court for a Little Clarification...Maybe

 



[image:ncapb.com]



Bowie, Maryland - 1965: 

 

 

353 F2d 593 Taylor v. Local No. 7 International Union of Journeymen Horseshoers

 

 

 

I have added the actual court case numbers in case you are studying for the bar, live life anally-retentive, or like most instances, you assume I'm engaged in ribald fiction again.  It can be found at:  OpenJurist.org.  Fran Jurga's Hoofblog also referred to this case in a Sep. 29, 2012 column, (History: 1960's Racetrack Horseshoer's Union Court Case May Have...) [hoofcare.blogspot.com]  The principals in this case are not important, but the case did end up in Federal Appeals Court, 4th District in 1965 following an appeal by the plaintiffs on a lower court decision.  There were actually two cases involved (same principals), and the Appeals Court consolidated both cases for disposition.  More than anything, these cases were about semantics and the definition of what constitutes the business relationship between farriers, trainers and owners.  However, it entered the court system under the guise of a 'labor dispute' between racetrack shoers (platers), and owner/trainers operating on both sides of the border.  Three of the plaintiffs were Canadian citizens, but raced in both countries.  Now, this part you're going to absolutely love:  the whole thing really centered on some owners that didn't want to pay $16 to plate a runner, or concurrently, being denied access to their own guy.  Few things ever change, eh?



[image: ozfolksonaday,blogspot.com]

 

[images: property of teamsters.org]

A little background is in order:  The International Union of Journeymen Horseshoers (IUJH); today, simply the UJH, was formed in 1873 primarily to represent farriers employed by large livery companies.  Labor unions were on the rise, the Industrial Revolution looming on the horizon and immigration approaching its somewhat uncomfortable peak.  All forms of commerce, private transportation and agriculture moved by horse.  And organized Teamsters were one of the most powerful labor organizations from Chicago to New York.  The Teamsters and the IUJH shared a common heritage and purpose. Teamsters would refuse to drive any horse that did not bear the IUJH logo on its shoe.  And farriers could only acquire this stamp after passing the IUJH exam.  Mutual interest was more deeply ingrained here than mere professional courtesy.  This was about money, livelihoods, status and...put bluntly, what was seen as a foreign invasion.  Unions and shops were locked in a fierce contest over cheap foreign labor and the pursuit of profits.  Sound familiar?  Unions were not about to have their power undermined from the outside or the inside.

However, time and industrialization of the world moved on and while the Teamsters thrived with the invention of the truck, farriery declined steadily -- virtually bottoming out in 1960.  But it wasn't the end of the UJH, now more national than international for the organization found a niche in North American racing.  Why?  The 'rules of racing.'  Racing commissions throughout N. America demanded (and were sanctioned accordingly), to 'qualify' all participants engaged in the sport.  This the result of racing operating as a gambling venue.  The betting public had to be assured of the sport's integrity and the UJH was the only organization with the history and structure to fill racing's regulatory needs.

4th Circuit Court
[image: newmedia.com]

        Okay, back to the 4th Circuit Court.  For all intents and purposes, it appeared that a group of Canadian owners and some American converts decided that they didn't want to pay $16 to plate a runner -- or have no control over who did the work.  Evidently, the IUJH didn't have the controlling power it coveted on Canadian racing.  Further, it had become common for off-track shoers to work on Canadian tracks.  As such, prices were set by market forces and fluctuated wildly.  Like today, the quality of work also varied extensively.  However, on US racetracks, the price was set by the union -- membership in the union tightly controlled and re-enforced by those very 'rules of racing,'  contained therein:  access.  Meaning that the commission, a quasi-government, regulating body could and would enforce the dictate.  Hell, they had to.  Racetrack farriers had the power and right to shut the place down.  Not only by refusing to work, but by the supportive actions of the more powerful Teamsters Union.  In other words, no Bourbon for the Turf Club or much of anything else.

 

What set off this dispute, at Bowie Race Track in Maryland, was wrapped around the lack of union compliance in Canada.  The Bowie platers wanted a signed agreement from these Canadian owners to "use only IUJH members at Canadian tracks," or the farriers would refuse to work on their horses on the US side.  It was principle on one hand, but a Union rule on the other.  In some ways, the farriers were in a happy trap, because the price was set by the local chapter (themselves), and the shoers were subject to disciplinary action or expulsion from the Union for non-compliance.  Out of the Union meant you were booted off the track -- livelihood lost, as racing was the only consistent game going. 

 



Bowie Race Track -- 1900's



The owners decided to sue in District Court, claiming among other things that farriers 'were employees' on one hand and violating the Sherman Anti-Trust Act on the other.  The lower court ruled that the plaintiffs were indeed employees of the owners/trainers, but naturally threw out the anti-trust argument.  This merely led to an impasse.  The farriers were hoping for a ruling (under Norris-LaGuardia), that it was merely a labor dispute between independent contractors in a third-party arrangement.  But since the lower court ruled them to be employees, nobody was satisfied.  So back to court -- this time to the Federal Appeals Court in Richmond, Virginia. This suit was again brought by the owners who were dead set on getting a ruling under the Sherman Act -- the purpose being to break the IUJH by saying that the Union was, in effect:  price fixing.  On the other hand, IUJH members wanted their definition as 'employees' stricken down and their status as 'independent contractors' affirmed by a federal court. This had huge ramifications for both the present, and ultimately the future status as it defined farriers once and for all, including by the US Federal Tax Code.  Precedent setting you might say.

 

The Test: 

 

Singer Manufacturing v Rahn, 1889      

 

"The relation of Master and Servant exists whenever the employer retains the right to direct the manner in which the business shall be done as well as the result to be accomplished."

 

"However, complete control over the result to be accomplished is not enough to make an independent contractor an employee."

 

Splitting hairs?  Perhaps, but the Court had more to say:

 

"An employer has a right to exercise such control over an independent contractor as is necessary to secure the performance of the contract according to its terms, in order to accomplish the results contemplated by the parties in making the contract, without thereby creating such contractor an employee."

 

Numerous other cases supported the conclusion that some "reservation of control to supervise the manner in which the work is done...or to inspect the work during its performance...does not destroy the independent contractor relationship."  [Cited: Conasauga River Lumber v. Wade.]  "No one fact is controlling the 'totality of the circumstances must be considered.'"  Such as:

 

Points established in Appeals Court ruling: 

 

25.  Farriers provide own tools.

26.  Farriers are highly skilled.

27.  Farriers are paid by the job.

28.  Farriers control hours worked.

29.  Farriers regard themselves as independent contractors.  This established by their printed billboards, employment of apprentices, references in their constitution (IUJH) to trainers as 'customers, unilateral price-fixing and uni-lateral establishment of work rules. hours of work and bill collection methods.'

 

Points 30-33 merely added frosting to the cake.  30 noted that trainers make no deductions for Social Security, income taxes and carry no workmen's compensation insurance on farriers. They (trainers), consider farriers 'specialists.'  Similar to veterinarians.

 

Point 31:  Farriers decide whether to demand cash or extend credit.  Union rules on bill collection require that no farrier perform services for any trainer who owes money to another farrier. This was deemed legal by the court and is enforced to this day.  Well, most of the time.

 

 

Point 32:  "Farriers often receive retainers from trainers to guarantee first call on the farrier's services.  The payment of 'retainer' for this purpose is clearly indicative of an independent contractor, not an employee..."  Ha!  See where this came from?  All judges are first attorneys. How could they rule otherwise without damaging their own status.

 

 

Point 33:  The custom of the 'community' supports the conclusion.  Analogous to: plumbers, painters, roofers, electricians, etc..

 

{Should also be noted here that Point 24 in the ruling clarified farriers as being 'in the business of service, not retailing.' This was based on the notion that farriers bought their own shoes and made no direct profit on their resale.  Might want to remember this ruling if your state auditor decides that your business needs to charge sales tax.}

 

 

Farriers themselves testified during these proceedings:

 

 

Q:  "How does the trainer retain the right to direct you with respect to how much to cut or the type of shoe to put on?"

 

A:  "Yes. You have occasions that you might shoe a horse one day and you might not do it just right, and the trainer will tell you, maybe you took too much off or maybe you didn't take enough off, how about adjusting the foot or something to make it -- try to make it the same or whatever he wants."

 

 

Q: "And after you get him standing, what do you do then?"

 

A:  "Pull the shoe off, trim the foot?"

 

Q:  "Now, do you receive instructions as to to pull the shoe off?"

 

A:  "No."

 

Q:  "Well, now you indicated that those kind of instructions [ed: concerning lowering or raising heel, etc.] are given to you by the trainer at the time he decides to use your services.  At the beginning, he tells you those kinds of things. I like the toe short or I like it high or low or whatever."

 

"Now, do you tell me he repeats that instruction to you every time you come into there and shoe his horse?"

 

A:  "Well, if you go back and he happens to see a horse that is not shod to his liking, he'll tell you, I think you have missed this horse, maybe do something else to him, or change him."

 

 

 

The long and short of it was that the Appeals Court threw out the lower court's ruling, which in part was based on an Ontario (Canada) court ruling sought and affirmed by the same plaintiffs. The Appeals Court chose not to consider the Ontario ruling. Since they made a determination that farriers were indeed 'independent contractors' and NOT employees, a labor dispute did NOT by legal definition exist.  They also dismissed violations under the Sherman Anti-Trust Act as NOT applicable to the constitution of a labor union, further to the rules and regulations of a state regulatory body, i.e., the Racing Commission.

 

Who decides?
[image: diytrade.com

The ruling did settle, once and for all (short of the Supreme Court), just who or what a farrier is by legal standard, establishing the parameters of a business relationship that normally functions on little more than goodwill and good work. However, it did usher in later litigation, (in and out of the courts), over the relationship between UJH and the various state racing commissions.  In some cases, the commissions themselves were accused of being accomplices on a 'restraint of trade' basis -- arguing that the Union was using the 'rules of racing' (which vary in all 38 racing states, not to mention Canada), to maintain a 'closed shop' working environment.  On a purely theoretical level, most were.  But in these cases, the commissions were targeted in the claims, rather than the Union itself.  The outcome of these various actions have yet to be completely resolved, indeed may never be while the racing industry continues to operate, regulate and enforce on a state by state system.  Yeah, we never quite finished our Civil War. 

 

As for Bowie Race Track?  It stumbled along for another two decades, finally succumbing in 1985 to the fierce competition in the northeast brought about by the emergence of both OTB* and IOTB,** perhaps another case of one state waging financial war on another for the heart of the same bettor.

 

So...farriers should all give a shout-out to the 4th Circuit, Court of Appeals. At the very least, they know what you are. 

 

*Off-Track Betting.

**Interstate Off-Track Betting.  

 

 

 



 

 



 

 





 

 

 --

Thanksgiving....no, let's rephrase that....

"They Had Already Met the Vikings!"
 

 

Uh, huh.  Then they met us....or really, the distant European version that preached the virtues of Christianity, but practiced something else entirely.  Had to hand it to the Vikings though, for at least they were honest about the whole thing.  "We're here to steal your stuff and murder you folks because...well, shucks, it's what we do!"      




"Shit Bob, they're not gonna leave the boat?"

"We're here!"
[image: solarnavigator.net]

                                             
 

 

From the book:  "We all have this image of the Pilgrims -- overdressed, somewhat plump people that seemed to get their clothes from K-Mart.  They were always pictured with a few Indians standing around looking passive, but intent on butchering the whole bunch after dessert.  The Indians weren't stupid. Quaint perhaps, but they had already met the Vikings so they had a fair idea of what to expect from tourists.  They also knew that this bunch of idiots didn't seem to know the difference between an ear of corn and a parakeet.  Sadly, the Pilgrims persevered through that first winter, quite contrary to what the Indians had hoped.  Next thing they knew, the place had been renamed Manhattan and sold to Donald Trump.  The Indians never could fathom the real estate business.  It was like selling the sky.  The land had no intention of going anywhere, so why would someone need to own it?  Or build a fence around it.  Was the land going to escape, like a horse might?  Just run away?"

 

Yeah, we even stole this rock.  Oh, and invented graffiti.
[image:wiki]

Chief Joseph [image:biography.com]

Chief Joseph of Idaho's Nez Perce described it best:  "The white man comes to my house and wants to buy my horses.  I say, 'No, I need my horses.'  So he goes to my neighbor and buys my horses from him."

 

 

Ah, but outright thievery was too slow, so we adopted the age-old practice of genocide.  Pretty sure that is why Hitler figured he'd get away with it because...well, we did.  Revisionism is an historian's best friend...after ignorance.  Dehumanize the obstacle obstructing your plans and simply sweep 'it' away.



 

 

 Course, we never could quite connect the dots between Rights and Rights.  Seemed to be a few different versions of Equality floating around this new Republic.  However, we finally did accept the Irish.  Reluctantly.



[image: ponyexpression.com]

And the slaughter didn't stop with the people.  It was the intent of the US Army and its civilian leadership to put the great tribes of the west afoot.  The horses weren't captured and sold, but merely shot and left to rot where they fell -- among the wind-blown and bleached skeletons of their own brethren in the ageless competition between life and death:  the buffalo.  And the hunters and gatherers of the North American continent were left to drift in the endless morass of what was sold to them as a new civilized society....under God no less -- whoever that was.  But of course, the Indians didn't need this new God anyway.  They were content to worship, more accurately celebrate what was in front of them.  The sun, moon, stars -- abundant game, open sky and endless horizons.  The kind of altars that begged participation in this life, the one in front of them and not some magic kingdom hiding above the clouds.  And their own civilization was far advanced over the guilt-ridden palaces of Christianity, for they had created the notion of a shame-based society.  No police, no jails, no public rebuke was as powerful as the notion of bringing shame upon oneself or family.  And no moral confusion as all else was subject to the simple law of survival.  So basic, so savage and yet so kind.  And so vulnerable under these laws of God and man's making..    
                                                           
From the book:  "The only bright spot in American expansionism was when Custer scratched his head and said, 'I think we have a problem here.'  Well, it was probably more like using the 'F' word as a noun, verb and adjective in the same sentence, but I'm trying to keep my ratings intact.  "Holy something!" is quite likely a more accurate declaration of the situation at hand.  I'm pretty sure a lot of turkeys can relate to that image, especially if they hang around Safeway the week before the big day.  But that's the bewildering part about American culture -- we seem to be always celebrating somebody's bad luck, even our own.  What's the difference between Thanksgiving and Pearl Harbor Day?  And who honestly believes that George Armstrong Custer got a bad deal?"

Too severe a criticism?  Perhaps.  But history is the story of the evolving consciousness of what is assumed to be the 'smartest specie' on this planet.  We know that to be true because we said so.  We even wrote it down for other humans to read, just to make sure everybody was on the same page.  And if we didn't appreciate one spin on the events of our distant past, we simply gave them a new one.  Something appropriate to the sentiments of the time.  Sadly, I can't do that.  But it doesn't mean I am not thankful for being here, instead of perhaps somewhere in Rwanda, Palestine, the Sudan...or perhaps the vast plains of the Lakota.  But then I probably wouldn't know the difference anyway since I would have little knowledge of American life or the education necessary to separate my life story from a different life's tale. So, in that sense I owe a fidelity to the truth, because by all accounts, I can afford such an outlandish privilege.

From the book:  "One day the great American dynasty will join the ashes of the long dead pharaohs of Egypt's great kingdoms.  Archaeologists and anthropologists will be left to pick through the rubble, noting with astonishment that this civilization had 187 different kinds of cars.  Nothing else, just the cars.  And nobody knew where they drove off to."  

 So perhaps while we are all giving thanks and stuffing our faces with near fatal doses of arterial mud, we can take a moment for accountability.  History is rarely kind to the weak, the vulnerable or the marginalized.  So while we celebrate everything we have built, all we assume to have gained, the security that blankets our fondest dreams -- let us also look clearly at the price paid by those who merely wanted to keep what they already had.    



Worms....the Bulgarian variety.

 

Once More Into the Maelstrom...Smiling!

 

For Now Anyway.....

 

 

 

[image: smh.com]

Boy, one thing's for sure, farriers have a hair-trigger when it comes to subjects close to the heart...or maybe in that frustrating realm where the creativity of the mind makes unreasonable demands on the far clumsier actions of the hands.  Yes, we are talking about art.  A subject of wildly different interpretations and appeal.  But we are also talking about architecture too, for very often beauty and utility are thrown together in common purpose.  Sure, the building must be pleasing to the eye, to the sensibilities of its audience, its surroundings -- but it is of even greater necessity that it doesn't collapse in a heap.  And it is on that note that we visit one of our most humble of creations:  the horseshoe.

What happened next in this story was that a pretty fundamental historical (academic), discussion on a shoe (named for some country), turned into a monstrous firestorm that promised to scorch the landscape and crucify all the heretics.  Uh, huh;  the Bulgarian hind.  Or the Bulgarian hunter hind....or the Bulgarian hunter hind ala massolettes...or Vlad Dracul's favorite sneaker.  We never got far enough in the discussion to find out exactly.   [Better warm up the tar and pluck the chickens -- we're sacking Budapest next!]  

The question was an honest one by someone new to the profession and I might add, new to the United States.  You can guess from where.  The reason for the question was because the shoe, in its current, rather stylized form, bore little resemblance to the traditional Bulgarian shoe and seemed to contradict the 'utility' behind its development.  In her letter, she went to great lengths to explain her enquiry:

But instead of getting an honest answer to an honest question, the person was ridiculed in a rather vulgar fashion by members of this trade who insist that your validity as a student or aspiring farrier is only sanctioned by kneeling at one particular shrine or another.  Pretty pathetic for a bunch of folks that supposedly seek camaraderie in a common pursuit of personal ideals -- most centered on helping the horse and not the needs of a sometimes errant ego.   And to be honest, I don't speak or read Bulgarian, but a friend did.  Here's what HE said that SHE said:

 

     "Ah yes...the Bulgarian hind horseshoe. Some history here.  See, during World War II...do you have any Vodka?  This is a terrible story.  So, in the Bulgarian resistance against those Nazi fellows -- well, there were six or seven of us...not big resistance because, well Bulgarians drink a lot and lose track of things and ya know, we got the cabbages to tend, but a blacksmith here came up with shoe...quite different from this one in contest, but the toe was designed to look like German military boot print. So we put them on the horses. When troops search for us in woods, they see boot prints from horses and think, "Oh, troops already go that way...so we go this way."  Germans weren't too bright, uh, maybe why they didn't win war.  So while they chase around we ride off and blow up train or something.  This new version of Bulgarian hind shoe...gosh, wouldn't fool even the dumbest German I don't think.  Okay? You got the Vodka?"

 

  [Better take a break here -- I hear the tar boiling over.]

[image:wikipedia.com]

But let's back up a minute and look at a few personal observations:  mine of course.  Because this issue is really about horseshoeing competitions and an existing split in ideology between those that compete and those that apparently have better things to do.  And no that's not a negative pejorative but rather a personal opinion.  We're a country of personal opinions -- probably way too many of them.

Believe it not, I did compete way back when -- in the days when the AFA and state associations were an amusing and highly volatile concept.  Reminded me a bit of the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th....Continental Congresses in that the only broad agreement was who would end up wearing the chicken feathers.  In these early days of competing, the work itself covered a broad spectrum from good to...well, some bar shoes were handed in with the tongs forge-welded to them.  (And a certain unnamed person was known to use a crescent wrench in an emergency.)  But, we had a lot fun and it was an excellent venue to connect faces with names and perhaps temper a bunch of competitive animosity that existed in the workplace.  Competing still offers that rare opportunity to share what is a common thread:  shoeing horses -- which apparently is why we bought the $$5-figure truck with the chrome wheels.

However, once competitions evolved a bit, they became more and more of a 'mechanic's' convention in that the actual shoeing of the horse gradually devolved from the picture.  Contest shoes became a matter of schematics, mathematical determiners...worthy of examining with slide rules and calipers.  See, shoes you judge according to standards; i.e., by a template -- horse shoeing?  Well, just ask a certifier (and I was one), how much fun that can be.  It is not an subjective exercise because it calls for one to make a judgement on the execution of a job that has no definable rules. More accurately, few rules that are without debate.  Excessive bleeding probably qualifies as one, but the rest are best left to Tarot cards and tea leaves.  So, with the changing emphasis, the meticulous detail involved, I decided my time was better spent elsewhere.  So I studied horses, their jobs...the politics of trying to remain in business in a different sort of competition.  The one with the mortgage.  In the end, I became, in Michael Clayton's analogy: 'a janitor.'  I fixed things.  It is a wonderful niche to own because the only thing that matters is the results -- that judgement left with the horse and rider.  And no matter how beautiful the crease, how immaculate the clip...the horse will intentionally destroy it or leave it to be admired hanging on a wire fence.  And no, he won't be apologizing for that disrespect any time soon.   

But, that wasn't the only issue.  Just as today, with 'glue-on applications,' various alternative approaches to hoof maintenance, ad nauseum...technology was changing the playing field back then as well.  Yes, we still had to make shoes, particularly in the case of the rising trend in imported Warmbloods, etc., but manufacturers were also polishing their skills.  The need to hand forge shoes became less and less, which by any reasonable standard, successfully accomplished the intent:  to make the job of horseshoeing less labor-intensive.  And of course, sell lots of horseshoes.  The horse population was growing (after decades of stagnation), and better shoes and more farriers were the rule of the day.  Ah, the caveat?  Apparently, the message for some was that technology also meant that those with lower skills could compete equally in America's free-wheeling system.  And why not?  Farriers abhor regulation of any kind -- even when it is designed to protect their own livelihood.  So instead of dusting off our collective house, we blame the individual who embraces a less arduous path.  And it is nothing new and certainly not surprising, for there is great personal security in assuming you have a non-perishable skill.  Hold that thought for a minute and stir the tar.  That crap can catch on fire.

Oddly (maybe), this same resistance to technology showed up earlier in this century with the advent of manufactured shoes.  The source of the loudest hollering?  The racetrack platers.  Prior to the horse making its grand entrance into the world of recreation (things like chasing cows around for fun instead of a purpose), the racetracks were one of the few venues where farriery remained a viable enterprise.  And believe me, swaging shoes by hand, forge-welding grabs and stickers or the even more complex Standardbred shoes were no walk in the park.  In many ways, these platers and shoers probably appreciated  the convenience -- but what lurked in the background was what they saw as an erosion of what had always been seen as a highly valuable skill-set.  The short version:  these new inventions threatened their security as skilled tradesman...artists really, in a world where technology and manufacturing were threatening them with a degree of obsolescence.  It is precisely why the platers' unions held on to their rather archaic testing standards for as long as they could: a well founded fear over the impact of a rapidly changing world and what that meant to a secure living standard.  They failed to realize however, that shoe-making was merely one of many skills needed to service the horse properly and to be realistic, the least important element of the job.  With a well-trimmed foot, a decent degree of balance (no, I have no idea what that means), a person could cut shoes out of plywood and probably get around a course just fine.  Yeah, the truth hurts, but life is full of disappointments.       

[image: comshalom.org]

[image: wikipedia.com]

So now we come to the part where we bring in the psychiatric community for a little behavioral gibberish combined with historical realities. [See, bet you have already forgotten about the Bulgarian hind thing.] 

[image: intropsych.com]

 Nietzsche, Freud  and Jung

 

[image: toptalent.com]

Not much help here actually.  They're dead and not talking. However, they did establish a kind of 'emotional blueprint' for that 4lb. lump of fat between our ears. And whether you believe that a pritchel represents a wondrous monument to phallic penetration of the iron of life; the forge, with its eternal flame is the sacred womb of all the ample gifts of earth, fire and water...and the horse --  well... he is just a horse, so forget that part...and we're completely off track here anyway, though Freud is quietly smiling. 

Who we really need here is Abraham Maslow. He seemed to understand that farriers were actually almost the same as most humans.  Almost.  See, he is really smiling.

 

THe came up with a hierarchy of sorts for human needs, based somewhat loosely on how you might be wired.  Somebody else (probably a math major), came up with the pyramid.  I colored this one myself since it has been kind of a slow week.  The way it works is that as a person develops emotionally and intellectually (gotta do both or it doesn't work), their true needs migrate up the scale. The orange at the bottom deals with just staying alive (many farriers can relate to this one), while the top blue section is for people who say, "Piss-off on staying alive, let's see what's going on over there!"  Also notice that safety is two notches down. That means a lot of people are interested in staying alive through safety.  Dull.  But safe. Also note that people that ask intelligent questions about the origins of Bulgarian hind shoes hang out in the blue and purple zone, while those who offer personal and vulgar retorts wind up in the red.  In case you still don't get it, red means either stop doing that or get T-boned by a large truck.  So now that we're completely confused, let's talk a little about 'safety.'

 

Safety is really about security; more accurately [in]security.  Explains why some people can turn defensive in the middle of an overly long kiss.  See, they suddenly notice that the other person's eyes were open.  Break my trust, you have broken my sense of security.  But please don't dwell on that statement too long, especially if you've got an optimistic rendezvous planned tonight.

[image: foreignpolicy.com]

[In]security comes in many forms.  Personal, national, global....emotional, sexual, mechanical -- the lock on the front door of your house.  It somehow makes you feel safe in spite of the fact that the house has 27 windows made out of glass so fragile that a wrong-way sparrow could shatter it.  Hmm.          

My favorite has always been national [in]security.  Anthropologists have determined that we invented this concept at Catal Huyuk, in modern day Turkey (Anatolia), about 7500BC.  How did they conclude that?  Architecture. The structures were defensive in nature and quite permanent.  Hence, they determined that early homo sapiens had  decided to stop 'hunting and gathering' and instead teach chickens and cows how to obey the leash law.  And immediately thereafter, came the bane of civilization:  'private property.'  And we've been killing people over that concept ever since.

Now in case you haven't noticed, America puts a lot of stock in [in]security.  Kind of our trademark around the world.  That is why we have about 28,000 nuclear warheads in all shapes and sizes. Course that led to some other folks (pictured), wondering about their own [in]security:   



[image: wikipedia]

So they collected about 32,000 of their own and the result was something called: MAD.  Mutual Assured Destruction.  That made everybody feel better.  I guess. 

Oh. What does that have to with farriery?  Nothing, other than the fact that we we work in a field with few absolutes and no enforceable rules.  But it does show how [in]security can stifle friendships and goodwill in a profession that is 80% opinion.  And I suppose how wars start over a simple and honest question about the origins of a modified Bulgarian horse shoe.  So, as good members of civilization (my least favorite word), we yank up the razor wire over our brains and prepare for the siege.  Hell, it is a damn horseshoe -- and whether you make them, buy them, sleep with them; or like my cat, spray them in urine and call them his own...they are simply a mechanical device designed to aid a horse in his daily rounds.  And no, they are not going to add to your personal security.  Hopefully, that lives somewhere else inside you.

The moral of this story?  That mentors and role models have a responsibility that lies outside their personal beliefs.  And that it is just as important to listen as to talk.  That means you need to respect your audience and weigh your message according to the sophistication, naivete or even vulnerability of the listener.  Balance your approach and try to understand that your road, my road or the highway, isn't the only way.  Respect comes with responsibility attached.  And instead of becoming needlessly defensive (which greatly cheapens your opinion), just fess up. "Yeah, I changed it.  I like this version better."  Oddly, so do I, but that doesn't mean I would put it on a horse and it certainly does not diminish the skill required to make it.  So, how can that possibly threaten some body's [in]security?

Lastly, and once again, on a more personal note, I have had many young (and not so young) aspiring farriers query me about the business, about schools, competitions, certification....the drinking age in Idaho -- my answer has been mostly the same:  Try to find an apprenticeship with somebody well-grounded in what this business is about: shoeing horses for money.  Pick their brain, listen and watch. Doesn't matter if they make shoes, buy them at the feed store or steal them from other horses.  Get under a 1000 horses and then figure out what you might really want to pursue, or in some cases, if you want to pursue it at all.  And that is not a bitter or prejudicial statement by any available definition.  Farriery is a lot like the NFL -- your career can be over tomorrow.  One of the last fellows that worked for me (I was on the way to the hospital for one of four retirement parties with the surgeons), was a very skilled fellow of the mechanic's school.  He could engineer just about anything and normally made better shoes than I did, but he wasn't terribly ambitious.  On top of that, he was a bit older than most, had a wife with an excellent teaching job, two kids and a mortgage.  He had a couple of options:  take over my business (remember this point -- there is nothing to sell when it is over, except a few tools and some rather hollow goodwill), or...he had an inside slot to the Electrical Union's apprenticeship program.  Tough to get in, but lucrative via salary and benefits.  Oh...wife was expecting number three.  My answer?  Become an electrician.  That was what he needed to hear and quite frankly, wanted to hear.  Because it was the right truth for his situation, though in some ways it might have been a bad reflection on me.  And as far as I know, they lived happily ever after....no, actually I don't that, but I did want a nice ending before you folks show up with the tar and the bald chickens.     
            

[image: dennis haskett]

Okay....Well, you'll have to Fed-X the tar and feathers since I'm moving.  No, I don't plan on sharing the location. But someplace [in]secure.  Try to remember that life isn't nearly as serious as the alternative.