Twice Shame on Me…

WISE WORDS TO BE SURE…

It’s hard to predict the change that certain events bring to your life and that particular morning in mid- August when A.J. and I stopped by the modest horse ranch in Los Olivos on our way out of town to say goodbye to the man who had been something of a “father-like figure” to A.J. throughout the previous few years was just that kind of harbinger. He was no longer just a horse trainer; he, his wife and the times we shared together were a part of our lives. Dare I say we were friends? We had spent hours upon hours away at Cuttings, and back at the ranch, practicing, visiting, getting to know one another, growing A.J. into a young man, as well as building a bond and connection, which included much teasing, and a back and forth exchange about A.J. being Tim and Carrie’s only daughter Annie’s…little brother. Our impending trip to Alabama, and the entirety of the next two weeks in general was meticulously planned, and while I wasn’t excited about the eventual return home minus my son who was about to start College, I was super anxious to get the journey started, and the stop at Tim’s was our last “goodbye” before getting on the road. How is it that I’m able recall with vivid detail the exact outfit I was wearing with everything else that was simultaneously changing at a rapid-fire pace? Weird, huh? How some things stay etched in your mind, while others come and go with equal ease is a concept which continues to elude me?  Maybe I remember the pair of Black Orchid Skinny Jeans I had on because at the time, I could still comfortably squeeze myself into a Size 27, and I’ll be damned… but that’s sure not happening today. Yet those same jeans still hang in my closet, a reminder, maybe, of the variety of directions and possibilities life holds. Per usual the ranch was bustling with energy. It wasn’t the most pristine or well-kept place (wildly understated at best) and the dust that settled on the backs of the horses and cattle was second only to the grime which covered the huge tractor usually “napping” beside the enormous hay barn or the assortment of plastic chairs which were haphazardly moved back and forth between two “viewing decks,” one adjacent to the large arena and the other a mere stone’s throw away, attached to an aged round pen. There were trucks and horse trailers parked everywhere, all oddly but strategically situated so as to surround and almost command that your attention was drawn to a recently poured, mediumish-sized concrete foundation that had would eventually house an office for Tim and Carrie as well as featuring a substantially sized viewing/breeding stall for the magnificent, large Red Roan Stallion, who held the distinction of having become Tim’s coup d’etat in the horse world…not to mention the potentially monumental financial score the horse symbolized for what otherwise might have been an uncertain future. We both hopped out of the car, and I reminded A.J. that we had to keep the visit relatively brief as we still had to get back home and pick up Em and Alex for the drive to LAX. Tim was riding back to the tack room from the round pen as we parked and got off his horse to give A.J. a big ole bear hug and exchange farewells. The closeness they/we had developed over the past couple years felt so real and my heart was full knowing that even though his biological father had chosen to be an absolute asshat and absentee parent, A.J. did have a handful of men who were present and “there” for him. At the time, I considered Tim one of those. Anyways, as the goodbye was ending, I made an off-handed remark about the handsome horse now standing next to Tim rather than beneath him. In the horse world, there are many different ways to be involved, and financial commitments vary accordingly, but one constant remains; anytime a horse, or competitor, is aggressively chasing a world title, an enormous amount of time, effort and money are being expended. One of Tim’s customers had been “campaigning” two, wickedly talented and impressively bred Cutting Horse stallions for the last couple years. In addition to Tim’s modest stable of other customers and horses, these two incredible horses and their very wealthy but elderly owner had successfully infused new life into what had become a somewhat stagnant, waning career. Tim was the seemingly carefree and fortunate recipient of this customer’s goodwill, as well as the enormous financial obligation an endeavor like that requires. Before thinking twice, I off-handedly commented how much I loved watching the horse standing beside Tim work, and what I’d give to own such a phenomenal animal. “Why not,” Tim asked? Pointing at A.J., he said “with this guy going off to college, we need to keep you around; go ahead, jump on up there.” Wait, what I asked, I thought he was sold?” “Yeah, he was supposed to be, but the buyer can’t make it down this week, and I’d much rather you get him. That way, I get to keep him in the barn, and keep you as a customer.” The exchange of conversation went like the day itself…fast. “Tim, I can’t ride a horse like that; he’s way too good, plus today we’re too tight on time to change saddles?” “Like hell you can’t; just go on and get up there in my saddle. We can adjust the stirrups, and I already have him warmed up…you’ll be fine.”

The devil within got the better of any sane judgement I might have possessed that day, and while I knew time was tight and I was decidedly not dressed for horseback riding, the excitement pulsing from head to toe far outweighed my common sense…or any rational thought at all?  A.J. shot me a mischievous, daring glance and said, “go on Mom, you should do it.” That’s all it took, too late now, there was no going back. I lifted my right leg to put my foot in the stirrup as I reached for the horn and reins simultaneously and swung my left leg up and over Whiskey’s back. For a quick second I panicked thinking about the size 27 jeans I was wearing and said a quick prayer that the seams didn’t burst as I climbed aboard that stunning Liver Chestnut stallion with the big white blaze and white stockings. I thought about the kind expression in his eyes, the way he crept around the arena, real-low like, and his intensity as he “locked in” with the cattle he worked. I considered too, but only for a moment, the brand new, super cute Rag & Bone booties I had worn for the day’s travel. Those same russet brown, 3” heeled, booties were now firmly pushed, heels down, inside the iron of Tim’s very worn stirrups, and I was pretty sure the booties would forever brandish a scar to show for the experience, but the thrill of adrenaline together with the sure-footed, sweeping, and speedy motion of Whiskey as he “worked” the flag hanging against and running alongside the tired looking arena was breathtakingly worth whatever small mark might remain. Time seemed suspended, and it might have been? I have no idea how many minutes had passed when Tim said… “that’ll do; he’s perfect for you. Ride him back to the tack room, and let’s get you and “college boy” on your way.” There was no further exchange of “particulars” between Tim and me; just comments from the other regulars about how exciting our “dance on the flag” had been to watch and how great we (Whiskey and me) looked together. I had heard talk about the price Whiskey was set to fetch, and it was far in-excess of anything I had previously spent or was prepared to pay for a single horse. As well-mounted as my son had been through his six years of Junior High and High School Rodeo competition, I had yet to pay the kind of number for any one horse that was in play at the moment? Regardless of the details, or lack thereof, Tim simply said, “he’s yours; now go get your boy on the road.”  I didn’t contradict Tim; few people did…at least not that I knew of. I was also pretty sure the interaction meant I just bought myself an exciting but pretty f***ing expensive gift, whether it had been solicited, was needed, or either?

Once the car was loaded and we were on the road, each of us securely positioned in what had become our designated spots for road trips, only then was there mention of our “goodbye visit” to Tim’s, and A.J. was quick to report what had transpired. “You should have seen Mom riding Whiskey and how great they looked working the flag.” Emily turned my way, and with her signature look of concern and furrowed brow, said “please do not tell me you just bought another horse?” Emily had, or at least had tried her darndest, to become my much-needed voice of reason. That her sound judgement didn’t always prevail or wasn’t always adhered to was on me alone.  The impetuousness I was capable of exacting, and resulting trouble I often found myself mired in, was solely my doing. Nonetheless, she still tried to rationalize a way that I might extricate myself from this most recent, spontaneous act for a good bit of the car ride from Santa Ynez towards LAX. Despite her efforts and the sage words aside, I was resolute that I had committed to the purchase and would see it through. “Why, Mom, is it so necessary for you to act with integrity when it’s rarely reciprocated? We could fill several sheets of paper with the multiple incidents and number of times you’ve been screwed by people in the horse business, or in general for that matter; what is it that keeps you going back for more? It’s not like you can say it’s for A.J.’s benefit any longer. He’s going to be in Alabama for the next four to five years, and you know how emphatic you were after this past Fiesta that you have no intention nor interest in showing horses again yourself?” As was most often the case, Emily’s words were, unfortunately, spot on, but I continued to wrestle with some inexplicable need within and was absolutely determined to secure a position in that world of horses, holding on to a tie that kept me connected with a big part of my childhood, as well as to my kids and our recent years together…even if it meant I had to buy, rather than ride, my way in? No amount of reason thus far had quelled the gnawing sensation deep within. I still felt compelled to prove my worth and value in the equine world as well as others too. Obviously and unfortunately, several years of “therapy” had done little to resolve nor restore the lack of self-esteem I felt resulting from either my upbringing, failed marriage, or both. Similarly, my desire to feel needed persisted too, remaining an integral, if often camouflaged, aspect of my identity. Would, or could, anything ever put that fire out for good?

THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN FOLLOWING MY LAST BIG SHOW AND THE “OVERALL CHAMPIONSHIP” TITLE I EARNED AT SANTA BARBARA’S FIESTA HORSE SHOW MANY YEARS EARLIER. IT MARKED THE LAST TIME I SHOWED “TOPPY’S SIS,” MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE HORSE PRIOR TO HER RETIREMENT. MY OTHER, MOST RECENT EXPERIENCE SHOWING AT FIESTA JUST A FEW MONTHS EARLIER THAT SAME SUMMER, BORE ZERO RESEMBLANCE TO THE SUCCESS OF MY YOUTH.  I SHOULD HAVE FOLLOWED THE EXPRESSION REGARDING A VARIETY OF GAMES AND CERTAIN PLAYERS… “ALWAYS LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE.”

Eventually our conversation in the car that August day turned around and took a more positive tone as we got closer and closer to LAX, with the adventure of the next couple weeks looming in the distance, begging our focus. A.J. was leaving. I didn’t want to spoil his last thoughts of home, nor sully the successes of the past six years that we had all collectively achieved while repairing the damage done during the divorce, and prior to the purchase and reinventing of Rancho Valiente.  We had become quite a team…Em, A.J., Alex and I; something akin to the Four Musketeers even. 

Our T-Town trip was thoughtfully and thoroughly planned; all that was left was the execution… Wednesday was set for travel, with Tuscaloosa Alabama the destination and our main focus before a subsequent road trip to and stay in Nashville, Tennessee and a couple other spots. All the extra stops were originally designed and meant to distract me from what would surely be the fresh sting of A.J.’s absence. I wasn’t sure if that would successfully occur, but it was worth a try. The notion of calling myself or being referred to as “an empty-nester” was unappealing at best. Nonetheless, I was determined to try to make the best of it all. You know, like this trip might be one last hurrah. We secured a Suburban from “Avis” at the Birmingham airport to pilot through the journey and made our way to a previously arranged and prepaid VRBO home on Lake Tuscaloosa to serve as a “home base” and launching pad from which to ease A.J.’s assimilation into college life. We figured we could relax a bit and explore Tuscaloosa on Thursday before college life was going to get really…REAL. Friday was reserved for Freshman Orientation at University of Alabama, and while none of us could fathom how it could possibly take from 8:30 a.m. through 3:00 p.m. to be introduced to UA’s various systems and what-not, we were committed to the entire process and ALL in for everything.  A.J. would be settled, completely comfortable and in good shape for his first semester away if it was the last thing I did.  We figured dorm room shopping could take place on the two “free days” Saturday and Sunday, as it didn’t make sense to pack a bunch of materials for his room if we didn’t yet know the size nor the location, and spontaneity felt like the better choice. Plus, Tim and Carrie’s daughter, Annie, lived in Mississippi with her boyfriend, while studying for Vet School and wanted to join us over the weekend to help prep her “little bro” for his new college life. That said, the first 36 hours sped by at breakneck speed, but time stopped abruptly, and our eyes opened wide when on Friday morning, the four of us parked the rented Suburban and proceeded to the enormous Auditorium where right in front of us, standing just outside the large double-door entrance was… Al. None of us were expecting to see him, as he had been quite remarkably “exit stage left” for the past six to seven years of A.J.’s and Em’s lives. Nevertheless, he was my children’s father and it seemed only right to put my personal feelings aside, as well as the path and memories of scorched earth Al had left in his wake, in favor of this very monumental occasion. Not even Al, nor the enormous heartburn and sense of “agida” created by his very presence was going to spoil this trip…PERIOD!

Somehow, quite miraculously, the five of us survived the day’s activities and experience unscathed, and when the Orientation program was concluded, Al looked at Emily and I, and asked what was next? Neither of us knew exactly how to answer, but thus far the day had been oddly pleasant…in a bizarre, mind-blowing, alternative universe kind of way, and so I answered. “We have an early dinner reservation at this cute spot down the drive, but there’s probably an hour or so to kill before then? If you want to join us, you’re welcome, but Em and I are going to make a quick stop in a “darling” shop first. I waited for his response, guessing the impromptu pit stop would signal “game over” for Al. I was mistaken. “Great, he replied. I took a taxi from my hotel this morning, so if it’s okay, I’ll just tag along with you all.” That was certainly NOT the response I expected, but we (the four musketeers) rolled with it, and I managed to speak up, saying, “super… how about y’all (meaning A.J., Alex and Al) wait here at “The Five,” unless you want to join us, while Em and I go next door; we’ll see you in a bit.

SHOULD YOU EVER FIND YOURSELF IN T-TOWN OR THE TWO ALTERNATE LOCATIONS WHERE THIS COOL PUB EXISTS, BY ALL MEANS, GET THERE… SOON AND OFTEN.  @FIVETUSCALOOSA HOLDS MANY DEAR MEMORIES; THEY WHIP UP A MEAN BLOODY MARY ON GAME DAY, AND THEIR FRIED CHICKEN SPECIAL ON SUNDAYS IS BOMB! SADLY THE GYPSY SPUR SHUTTERED ITS DOOR PERMANENTLY ABOUT A YEAR AFTER OUR VISIT THAT DAY, BUT IT’S SAFE TO ASSUME THE ONE SHOWN ABOVE WAS JUST ONE OF MANY BAGS I CARRIED AWAY FROM THAT UBER COOL BRICK & MORTAR SLICE OF COWGIRL HEAVEN ON 6TH STREET IN TUSCALOOSA.

Orientation on Friday was an exceptionally and unpredictably odd experience, but I hoped it meant that growth was possible following the vile and ugly events of our past. The eventuality of such hope remained unanswered back then. Nonetheless it didn’t stop Al from finding the chair immediately next to mine at dinner, regaling us during the meal with recollections from the past, all prior to asking if we could drive him back to his hotel afterwards? And, just like that, as quickly as it had occurred, the somewhat pleasant experience was over.

A few years later, I would rediscover that Al was still his “same-ole, same-ole” self. “The master of deception” held onto his title securely and remained just that, performing for all in his finest gaslighting glory! Meanwhile, back at the time, I found myself feeling torn and a little sorry for Al. He appeared weak and miserably self-conscious, as well as incredibly uncomfortable, especially with his own kids?  Was it a shame that he appeared sad, lost and could only count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his children over the past five years…yes, that was true, but it was also the product of his own doing. Angels surely had to be sitting on my shoulder that evening as my conflicting emotions subsided, and I was left feeling very blessed, grateful and relieved that Al was no longer my husband, my problem, nor any part of my life beyond the experience of that day?

 The rest of the weekend was a total blur! True to her word, A.J.’s “new, make-believe sister,” Tim’s daughter Annie, joined us along with her boyfriend from Mississippi and a girlfriend from back home in California. They stayed with us at the Lake house; we dined, we explored Tuscaloosa and the campus, and we SHOPPED; boy oh boy, did we shop! If dorm room shopping were an Olympic sport, it’s certain our team would have Gold Medaled in at least three categories… perseverance, purchase power and high jinks. By the time Monday arrived and it was time for the actual move-in, Annie, Mack and Sarah left for their scheduled return to Mississippi.  The four musketeers were once more left to our own devices and comfort zone. Em would have said the weekend was a total loss with nothing but frivolous interference and it was true, we did have more “holes” than checkmarks on our list of necessities, but while Em got to the nitty-gritty business of securing A.J.’s campus meal plan, University email address, laundry service, mail box and a new bank account, Alex and A.J. started the process of hauling our weekend purchases along with all of A.J.’s luggage from home up the two flights of stairs to the new room and the awaiting roommate. I took the rented vehicle and made another Target run, sans distraction, and quickly completed gathering the unchecked items. Four o’clock came fast, indicating it was time for A.J. to attend another Campus/Freshman activity as well as time for us to say our goodbye’s. He was set to spend his first night at The University of Alabama, and I was sadly prepared to have a mini, emotional, nervous breakdown. Thank God for the remaining two musketeers who got me through that evening and the next morning. The three of us picked up “to-go” food, returned to the Lake house, sat on the porch overlooking the water, ate our meal, reminisced about the past six years, the fun that had been had, and the adventures that we shared together. It was hard to stay sad with all the laughing we did, recalling our past antics, and adventures. Tuesday morning, we woke early, cleaned the house, stripped the sheets and towels as the rental directions dictated, gathered the trash, and packed our bags to load the car for our departure. It took all my self-control not to stop and give A.J. another hug goodbye on our way out of town, but he had a class schedule to observe, we had a road map to follow and “The Hermitage” in Nashville was awaiting our arrival. If there was one thing I’ve learned over the years… it’s to chase a sad event with a positive one, when, where and if possible. The Hermitage delivered; I felt a bit like “Eloise At The Plaza” from the books of my childhood, and the pampering was hugely appreciated.

Upon our return to California, Rancho Valiente looked the same…the grounds were still immaculate, our 4-legged family members were all happy and had been well-cared for in our absence by Em and Alex’s dear friends Brynn and Dave, yet nothing felt the same. I was desperate to, like that little Dutch boy in the story “plug the dike!” The enormity of the void wasn’t often discussed; it was easier for me “to spin” in silence, but the world felt “off” its axis with A.J. away. Suddenly, my previous self-worth and life’s work felt irrelevant; being a single parent, Rodeo/horse show Mom, homemaker and busy community member was no longer going to satisfy or quiet that voice inside me that kept repeating…do more! My problem was that I had no clue what the “more” looked like any longer?

I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED ROSES. AS FAR BACK AS MY MID TWENTIES, WHEN I STILL SHARED A HOME WITH MY MOM ON SUN VALLEY ROAD IN DEL MAR; WE PLANTED AND TENDED A WIDE VARIETY OF HYBRID TEA ROSES IN OUR GARDEN. MAYBE A FUTURE COULD BE DRAWN FROM A PAST PASSION?

Once back home, Em and I were floating all kinds of ideas and projects as potential outlets through which I might “nurse” my emptiness, and some were even implemented. Alex was an eager supporter of whatever we wanted or asked. He led the effort, reworked the ground, installed a drip irrigation system and planted the back pasture, previously housing the cattle A.J. required for roping and calf-tying practice, with a carefully curated selection of Hybrid Tea and English Garden Roses which Emily and I had handpicked. I adored Roses, had already planted quite a collection in the original Ranch landscape and spent most mornings cutting and caring for the hundreds of bushes around the house’s exterior. Emily was getting all kinds of inquiries and subsequent bookings for Event Planning, following the vast entertaining we had done, and because we had always had such a talent and eye for floral design, it was a natural fit. The “business” of roses and event planning was all well and good, but still…I felt like there was more for me to do and much more emptiness to fill, so with the guidance of a dear friend from Georgia, also the successful founder of a lifestyle magazine, Em and I created a local platform for such a publication; we secured I.P. protection, and busied ourselves with photoshoots, content creation, designed a visual identity and I wrote an introduction, telling the story of “Vine & Equine Valley Living.” Much was happening, but none of it seemed to really satisfy the emptiness I felt. I continued to flounder, feeling hollow, distant and removed from the energy of day-to-day goings on. The times when I did feel fulfilled, like I still had a purpose were the many trips I made to Alabama over those first few Fall months to get an IEP for A.J. established and implemented with UA.  His diagnosis of ADD and the host of other issues falling under the broader umbrella of Dyslexia, required much intervention and support. My efforts and travel to secure A.J.’s success were the instances when I felt most worthy and productive. But those visits were also not sustainable, nor logical once A.J.’s needs had been properly addressed and he was all set up with a personal academic counselor in UA’s Educational Support Department. My mediation was no longer helpful, and my life’s proudest achievement as a Mom was gone.

After one of those visits to T-Town and during my drive home from LAX, I was lost in some serious soul searching trying to make sense of my recent but chronic feelings of loss? Driving up the coastline through Malibu to avoid the mess of traffic which usually gridlocked both the 405 and 101 freeways, I could feel tears streaming down my face. I had yet to identify, or more likely was unable to verbalize and accept, the definitive cause for the angst prompting my melancholy, but the presence of a certain depression was very evident and demanded a solution. By the time I pulled into the gate at the main entrance to Rancho Valiente a couple hours later, my tears had subsided. I decided it was time to stop the pity party, stop trying to replace the inherent loss I felt with new distractions and instead embrace the life that was in place prior to A.J.’s departure. “Go ahead, Missy… let life take its natural course rather than constantly attempting to fix and manipulate a scenario over which you have no control.” Do you ever do that, you know talk to yourself aloud? Maybe it’s an attempt to resolve whatever troubling issue might be “messing with us/me” at any given moment, or maybe that theory is way off base; I don’t know? At least we know one thing, I am completely transparent. I’m unafraid and unwilling to hide my foibles and idiosyncrasies, of which there are many; trust me.

That single decision, however, put an immediate hold on many of the projects Em and I had started recently, and instead found me trailering varying horses over to Tim’s ranch several times a week to ride. I had no immediate intention of riding Whiskey again, as he still had another year to show in the Open Aged Events with Tim aboard, and he sure didn’t need me making rookie mistakes on him. Whiskey Cat deserved better. Thankfully, we had more than enough horses for me to “play on,” while riding away my anxiety. Going to Tim’s was kind of like going to a party, as any given day might find anywhere from 5 to 25 people saddling up to ride or just sitting around shooting the shit; there was always someone to talk to and some kind of shenanigans going on. So too, I had been enticed and talked (with NOT a ton of arm twisting) into buying a 2-year old at the Snaffle Bit Sale earlier that same year, which meant I now had two exciting show prospects to watch Tim work each time I drove through the entrance of that ranch. The 2-year old, little red roan Colt chosen by Tim at the Snaffle Bit sale, looked an awful lot like Tim’s big red roan “star,” and being a stallion himself had all kinds of piss and vinegar to go along with his striking looks, even if his name…Sweat Son, was pretty unfortunate? I preferred the handsome, dignified look of Whiskey and his powerful but kind nature. Still, it was exciting to watch the antics of Sweat Son as he went through the process of “getting broke.” Tim had so much more enthusiasm for Sweat Son, than he’d ever shown the other “babies” I had put in Tim’s care and training program over the past several years. I guess that makes sense since he personally chose Sweat Son, rather than merely being tasked with the breaking and training of my own homebred babies brought to him as 2-year old prospects…although, either way Tim got paid.

On more than a few occasions during our association, I questioned and felt some serious doubt about Tim’s motives, but in the aftermath of my divorce from Al and the devastating misrepresentations and damage which resulted, I didn’t trust my instincts well enough to seriously examine my hesitant feelings.

THERE WAS A CONNECTION BETWEEN TIM AND A.J. THAT WAS RARE AND ONE WHICH I, UNWISELY AND UNWITTINGLY, HELPED TO FOSTER…

One of the several “babies” I took to Tim for “breaking” held a particularly special spot in my heart. He was a handsome little Bay gelding, with a white Star and small strip on his face, who had been born and was raised at Rancho Valiente. He was out of one of the two decent broodmares I owned, Two D Two Bar, who we bred to Cats Merada. I remember with great clarity the day when his AQHA papers arrived, confirming that the name we had chosen was granted, “This Cats A Keeper.”  Tim’s assessment of Keeper’s potential after a few months of training was less than keen however. Tim said, “Keeper was a “dud,” he seemed weak in the hind end and could potentially have some big problems going forward.” He further recommended I sell him off fast rather than investing any more money into the sweet little guy. It pained me, because I felt a such a special bond to him, but I relied on Tim’s experience and did indeed sell the colt as directed. On that occasion, I felt no upside, and if that disappointment wasn’t bad enough, it pained me to learn years later, that “Keeper” had won the NRCHA’s Open Derby Championship with his new owner. Trusting Tim’s opinion didn’t always serve me well, but I convinced myself that the experience was in the past, and I wasn’t willing to blow up the box. So too, by that time, I thought we had become friends, not just trainer and client. 

A PRETTY FINE EXAMPLE OF JUST ONE OF MY MANY LESSONS -AGAIN, TWICE SHAME ON ME.

Moving on… Mid Fall 2015 - Tim was going to be showing both his star, the red roan Stud (hereafter referred to as just “Roan”) and Whiskey at the “PCCHA Cutting Futurity, sponsored by Holy Cow Performance Horses. I’d been to that same show as well as many others, dozens of times before, but 2015 presented a twist. This would be my first Cutting show without A.J. showing, and also as the new owner of Whiskey. And wait for it, but there was more; this particular event would mark Tim and Carrie’s “coming out” party for their prized Roan to be held after the Open Finals on Monday, kicking off his promotion as a hot, new and exciting Stallion available for breeding. The party was scheduled to take place right after the 3rd Go, (a.k.a. The Finals) were over and was a really big deal, even warranting a mention on PCCHA’s website. Emily, Alex and I had offered to do the catering/party portion of the event, while Carrie and the woman who was helping with the public relations and marketing component of “Roan” would stage a “Special Presentation” to include a table displaying a number of custom wine bottles and other promotional materials regarding Roan’s Pedigree and achievements thus far. Tim and Carrie had been guests at Em & Alex’s wedding, among numerous other occasions we hosted and knew how comfortable and adept we were at entertaining. They were only too happy to accept our offer, particularly since we were doing everything pro bono…for the planning, staging, and execution of Roan’s big debut. Tim’s one request was that Em make plenty of my Mom’s famous Breadsticks. Those signature thin, deliciously spicy Breadsticks were a much-loved staple at any event we hosted, and “Roan’s” coming out party would prove no exception. I headed up to Paso on Friday, checked in to The Oaks,” which had become something of a second home anytime we were in Paso, which with all the Rodeos, Cuttings and Concerts held at the Mid State Fairgrounds site, was frequent to say the least. It was strange and unfamiliar to be at a Cutting without A.J. but having Whiskey to cheer on would have to be enough.

I sometimes get so caught up in my thoughts, memories, experiences, and words that I forget YOU may never have been around horses, or equine competition, and I apologize if you’re not relating to this particular post. Much of my life has been taken up with horses, dogs and the “showing” of each. And while that may still not be enough to hold your attention, I beg and appreciate your patience. I think we can all relate to an experience when we’ve been wildly taken advantage of and betrayed. This is essentially a story about that.

IF YOU ARE FEELING EVEN A TEENSY BIT CURIOUS ABOUT THE SPORT I SO LOVE, CHECK OUT THIS WEBSITE AND CLICK ON THE NCHA 2022 FUTURITY THAT’S BEEN RUNNING SINCE NOVEMBER 14TH, CONCLUDING TOMORROW, DECEMBER 10TH…IT CAN BE EITHER TOTALLY ADDICTIVE, OR NOT, BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL SEE WHAT I BLABBER ON ABOUT SO OFTEN.

Back to Paso Robles & 2015…Along with a multitude of other classes, Saturday’s Open Classic Challenge 1st Go, had three sets with roughly 12 competitors in each set. Tim was up on “Roan” third in the first set, and Whiskey had drawn the 23rd slot (next to last) in the second set. Not a great draw for Whiskey, but such is life. With all three sets completed, it took a score of 216 to advance to the 2nd Go on Sunday and Tim would advance on both his mounts. Whiskey marked a 218 and Roan put up a 216.  Those scores meant that Sunday’s performance and “Go #2,” were next on the docket.

I can’t say for sure what happened on Sunday in the 2nd Go; there were 22 horses, and this time Whiskey drew the 19th spot, with Roan up 6th. It would take a score of 436.5 to advance to the finals and be counted among the 8 horses competing in “The Finals,” and 3rd Go on Monday.  At the conclusion of the class, I left the stands and walked back to our barn aisle and tack room. Roan had a great go and marked a 220.5, so combined with his 216 the day before, he was advancing. Whiskey worked great and had a swell of enthusiasm and support from the crowd, but then, quite suddenly, with most of the working time elapsed (2.30 minutes) a “bobble” occurred which resulted in Whiskey marking only a 212; thus he would NOT advance to the Finals on Monday.  I had an unsettling feeling as I made my way back to the barn but wouldn’t allow myself to seriously consider Tim might have purposely sabotaged Whiskey’s “go” to keep him from marking a higher score and making the finals, which would have split Tim’s attention between Roan and Whiskey as had been the “M.O.” for the past two years. But that was before I bought Whiskey, and prior to Roan making his official Stallion Debut. There was a tiny part of me that considered how realistic that pessimism sounded, but even so and still worse, while I was hugely disheartened if that had been the case, I kind of understood why Tim might make such a decision. The impending transition of Roan, and his upgrade from an incredible show horse into Breeding Stallion was a big deal for Tim and Carrie. Roan was about to make an extremely lucrative jump, and with deep pockets funding the process. The change would certainly present all kinds of opportunities for Tim, Carrie, and their family as well as provide a pretty secure future.

“No, Missy (again a brief internal conversation) even if you’re willing to overlook the possibility of Tim sabotaging Whiskey’s go, knowing the upside that such an action might mean for Roan and his big Debut, how will you rationalize and be able to live with yourself moving forward, if it’s actually true? That type of calculated move is nothing short of cheating! God knows you’ve seen and experienced more than your fair share of that crap already. Tolerating that type of b.s. and knowing your horse had been dealt such dirty cards will not age well.”

I was already internally chastising myself for allowing such thoughts to cross my mind when, as I got closer to the concession stand and the barn beyond… Dan (another Cutting Trainer that was a friend of all of ours, was determinedly, walking my way. He gave me a quick hug and then in his larger-than-life manner, with his unmistakable “hunky-dunk” Australian accent said… “Missy, you know he had to do it right? This is Roan’s moment, with the Finals and big party tomorrow. Whiskey has many more Finals in his future. Come on, let’s go get you a Margarita.” Hmmm, so much for second guessing my gut instincts; that never goes well.

You know what they say…or, maybe it’s only certain members of my family who use the expression, but I am reminded from time to time… “If you don’t want your face to get slapped, stop putting it in front of the hands that are doing the slapping.” I felt conflicted; the naïve me, who always wanted to believe there’s good in everyone was still buried somewhere inside, and yet I knew I wasn’t so dense as to have missed the nuance of what went on in the show pen earlier that day. Maybe if I hadn’t spent so much time watching Cutting over the past several years, there’s a chance I might not have caught or even thought twice about, the “bobble” that kept Whiskey from the Finals on Monday, but the comments from spectators and other competitors who were sitting with me during that class, followed by Dan’s immediate appearance and statement afterwards left little doubt about what had transpired.

Back at the barn, Carrie was, indeed, pouring Margaritas for the group that had assembled outside the tack room, including Dan and his wife Virginia. As soon as I walked within view, Tim got up from his chair to speak to me. “That was some tough luck Whiskey had today and I’m sorry, but don’t worry, he’ll win plenty.” I was uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. I sat down and tried to shake off the bad “juju,” but I just couldn’t rid myself of the icky feeling within. After about 10 minutes or so I rose from my seat and excused myself. The crowd which had gathered around Tim’s tackroom was brimming with excitement, talking about Roan and the big party tomorrow. I felt like a total “Debbie downer;” it seemed like the wisest decision for me at that juncture was to simply leave the scene. After all, I still needed to rally and deliver a convincing performance as “party planner extraordinaire” the next day. Extraordinary, however, was decidedly not how I felt. A hot bath, together with a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio sounded awfully therapeutic, and so back to The Oaks I hurried.

A good night’s sleep usually clears my head and early the next day… Monday, and Roan’s party day, proved no exception. When I drove from the Valley to Paso on Friday, I had brought with me the linens planned for the numerous tables, some banquet size, and some high-top, cocktail size, as well as a wide assortment of serving pieces, tons of votive candleholders and a mock-up or two of the vessels/florals which Em and I had chosen for the centerpieces. The cocktail tables would each sport small, but tastefully elegant florals, so guests could set down a cocktail or wine glass while still engaging in conversation. The banquet tables were being arranged for maximum effectiveness. The goal was to present a plentiful display of food selections strategically positioned to prevent “bottlenecking” along the front side of the buffet, providing for both ease of replenishment as well as the comfort of all in attendance. The building at Paso’s showgrounds where Roan’s party was to take place already possessed a well set up, permanent Bar structure, so we had an assortment of tall florals staggered with slightly smaller vases planned for it, along with more votives, and large Pewter Tankards, each of which would hold Mom’s signature Breadsticks. Em and Alex were absolute pro’s at executing this shindig gig, and were set to arrive in Paso by noon, with Em’s best friend, Brynn, as well as all the food they had prepped, and the remaining completed centerpieces too. I was responsible for setting up the main room, including all the tables, other large rental items, the linens, and votives as well as picking up all the goods for the enormous Charcuterie Boards we were going to arrange and present for party goers. That part was a no brainer; I had prearranged and ordered on Saturday with the help of a wonderful local Italian Market, “Di Raimondos” in Paso Robles, an enormous selection of tasty treats.

Early Monday morning, I stopped by the fairgrounds in workout clothes and did a preliminary walk thru and set-up of where all the tables would go. Along with the plastic wrapped hangers of tablecloths which I set atop each coordinating table, I dropped off the assortment of other rentals and left behind the Bar all the many serving pieces, including my favorite, 4 foot tall, tiered Iron serving stand which Em and I thought would be perfect to display the special, individually-wrapped Sugar Cookie favors, decorated with Roan’s signature logo, a treat that Emily and I had gotten in the habit of offering at our own events and always proved hugely popular. Together with those things, and along with any other item we might possibly need, including Wine Coolers, cocktail napkins, bottle openers, scissors, string, ribbon and a plastic bin filled with a variety of other essentials we had learned to keep handy for just such occasions, I went back and forth transferring the many items to the ‘party barn” and after a number of trips, my car was emptied. That done, I made a trip back to the hotel to change, ready myself for the day ahead and then went to pick up the fresh Charcuterie goods. Upon my return to the fairgrounds, I parked adjacent to the building where the party was to occur and couldn’t help but notice all the hustle and bustle of riders and their horses prepping for the Finals. Jon, Tim’s assistant/ranch help had a truck and trailer parked in the alleyway between Tim and Dan’s assigned stalls and was loading up a small group of horses which were no longer needed at the show; Whiskey was among them! 

Rather than engage in any of that commotion, I returned to the “party room” and was totally taken aback to discover that my preliminary, early morning set up had been thoroughly disrupted, with the tables all moved to odd, new locations and the linens dumped in a heap on the bar top? I was still alone at the time, and I remember saying “WTF” aloud to myself? Who had done this and why? The answer to that question just happened to be simultaneously walking my way from the direction of Tim’s tack room with Carrie trailing behind. Donna, who I will now forever (only to myself of course) refer to as “dowdy Donna” due to her permanent facial scowl and “grumpa-dump” attitude which seemed fitting for the title I had assigned her. She was obviously annoyed by my presence and was making zero effort to hide that fact. I know it sounds a “tad bitchy as well as catty” of me to say this…but nevertheless, she had undone a great deal of my effort, and while she was the queen of P.R. for a really big Cat, she looked like she had a difficult time just putting herself together, much less host an affair like the ones Em and I routinely planned and presented over the years. Carrie quietly confirmed dowdy-Donna was indeed the source of who had undone and rearranged my previous hours of effort, and went on to describe her as the “ad genius” who was handling all of Roan’s marketing and promotion. It was dowdy-Donna’s decision to “restructure” the set-up of the party room. Desperately trying to channel my upbringing rather than the annoyance I felt, I remembered my family of origin’s adage, “you get further with honey than vinegar.” Hmmm, upbringing aside, it was really an enormously large, powerful spray bottle of vinegar that I longed for, but I opted to go with a “honey” first approach. As such, I asked both women what their vision for the room’s set up was and how could I help?  Carrie was uncomfortably silent and deferred to Donna, who was quick to snap a series of directives about where I was to set up tables etc… Taking a deep breath, I asked both Carrie and “dowdy-Donna,” again, what was needed for Roan’s promotional part of the event, and did they have a plan or selection of “props” they intended to use?  I asked how I might help and tried to explain that I had placed the tables earlier with great thought given to the reality of how party “traffic” can become challenging and that our lay-out was executed with great attention paid to the flow of people, use of the bar, as well as an impactful and strategic presentation of the culinary aspect of the event. Dowdy-Donna had less than ZERO use for my part in any of this event and was unyielding regarding consideration for the plan Emily and I had carefully strategized regarding our part of the evening’s presentation. Rather, she stated that she wanted NO distraction from flowers, centerpieces, votives etc… “This party is about Roan and selling his success and future. It’s not important where you put the food.”

Oh, good Lord…with that one statement, as it left her lips, she effectively communicated more to me about the poor woman’s lack of sophistication, experience and knowledge of entertaining than I’d hazard a guess she would ever begin to contemplate. First rule of entertaining: ALWAYS offer good food, good drink and plentiful amounts of each. Both are essential to a successful event and while simple enough, each is necessary. If you’re able to add good company and music too, great, but the first two items are non-negotiable!  

I’ll bet not even 30 minutes had elapsed before Donna and I clearly were at an impasse; poor Carrie was totally out of her element and almost in tears. As happens often, my maternal Grandfather Pa’s, words echoed through my mind… “they may be a son-of-a-bitch, but make em yours!” I was trying really, really, hard to channel Pa’s wisdom, but with each statement dowdy-Donna made, any motivation for me to be accommodating was being quickly eroded. She only succeeded in making herself more and more transparent; simple, miserable and worse…ignorant. A wee bit more insight was provided when Carrie paged Tim and relayed a smidgen of what was transpiring. Tim strided over to the party barn, took me aside and said, “I understand what you are trying to achieve, but I have to give Carrie some kind of “win” here. She’s not used to this entertaining thing like you are, and Donna handles the marketing of the hottest Stallion out there, who just also happens to be Roan’s sire. Bottom line…make it work.”

Thank the dear Lord, Em, Alex and Brynn arrived shortly thereafter, providing me some much-needed support and back-up. All I could manage to say, as I’m sure steam was escaping from every pore of my being, was “watch out for the blond, and p.s… we’ve been sold out!” Tim had since returned to the barn to ready Roan for the impending finals and 3rd go of the Open Classic Challenge, but his directive was clear as could be.  As the day wore on, I was never more grateful for the steadfast tenacity of Emily, Alex and Brynn. They had cooked and arranged flowers all weekend, and had since loaded vehicles, were now helping and working hard to do this party right, all without any compensation…solely because I had asked them to. There was no hidden agenda on their part, no benefit, and yet we were all being treated like hired help, with no attempt to even be polite, forget appreciative. What was left unsaid but didn’t go unnoticed, was that dowdy-Donna WAS being paid to be there.

Early the next morning, Alex and Dave (Brynn’s husband) drove back again from Santa Ynez to Paso and arrived at the fairgrounds with our Dually Truck. We (mostly they) loaded up all of our belongings, party props, etc… into our two different vehicles, as I had stayed in Paso overnight, and we all then left the fairgrounds in our tiny caravan of vehicles. Tim placed a call to me shortly after our departure and attempted to plead his case as a giant misunderstanding. “They were all under a great deal of pressure to ensure Roan’s success and had potentially gone a bit overboard regarding the disrespect they had shown my family, friends and me as well as our efforts to host what he then proclaimed was an amazing party and huge success.”  I listened as he told me not to do anything rash, but instead recall the times we had shared. I calmly, albeit shakily, told him, “No, I’m done, there’s nothing left to say!” But, maybe there was? Perhaps I should have taken that opportunity to repeat the title of this particular post. “Twice, shame on me.” There might not have been much left to say that day, but there was plenty more to do.

Once safely and gratefully back at Rancho Valiente, we were all pretty worn out. Brynn had come over to pick up Dave, and we agreed it might be nice to just relax, cook some steaks and have a “debriefing,” so to speak. Dave and Alex’s other good buddy and our collective family friend, Anson had heard by then (the horse world as do so many others, has one hell of a “grapevine”) what transpired at the show, and as we finished emptying the Dually of party wares, Anson’s truck pulled into Rancho Valiente’s driveway. After an exchange of greetings, I mentioned to the group, now gathered on the back patio overlooking the lawn and pool, that I was feeling anxious about Whiskey and Sweat Son, who were both still at Tim’s ranch, although I had zero intention of keeping them in training with Tim one minute longer. Separately, selfishly and yes, a touch cowardly, I wasn’t looking forward to whatever conversation or confrontation might occur should I arrive at Tim’s on my own to collect them. There was no one who wasn’t aware of Tim’s, sometimes surly side, and I was notoriously a pathetic pushover when in a confrontation with strong men. Another consideration worrying me, was the very real fact that I was more than a little afraid of Sweat Son and not even sure if I’d be able to get him loaded in my horse trailer by myself. He was a young, immature Stud colt and I’d not spent any amount of time with him? Anson looked at Dave and Alex and said, “c’mon, let’s go get them right now. No sense waiting when she doesn’t want them there?”

ANSON WAS ONE HELL OF A HORSEMAN; HE COULD RIDE AND ROPE ANYTHING AND FREQUENTLY DID SO AT OUR RANCH AS IN THE PHOTO ABOVE. GOING TO COLLECT MY TWO HORSES WAS TOTALLY IN HIS WHEEL HOUSE.

Pulling into Tim’s ranch, it was easy to tell that most of the regulars and various vehicles were still up at the show in Paso. There was one truck and trailer parked alongside the shed row barn of some 30+ stalls, and I knew it was the same rig that Jon had used the day before to pick up Whiskey and a couple other horses from the show grounds.  Sure enough, as soon as Anson turned off the engine of my truck, Jon appeared and approached us, asking what was up? Jon was a “tad” rough and while I had always gotten on fine with him, we had never had a situation such as this in the past. Anson spoke up and said simply, “we’re taking Missy’s two horses.” Jon looked unprepared, even while “bowing up a bit” and stammered as he said, “wait, what, no way.” Without another word, I handed one halter and lead rope to Anson, and carried the remaining set while the four of us walked first to Whiskey’s stall. Anson led Whiskey easily from the barn and loaded him in the front slot in my trailer. Sweat Son was a different story. I felt a combination of both immense fury and sorrow as I saw Anson slowly enter the colt’s stall, gently extending his hand and arm toward Sweat Son’s neck. The little red roan colt reared up, eyes bulging, and he began racing around the tiny square stall, holding his head high all the while snorting, as he dodged any effort to halter him. Sweat Son had been in training and Tim’s care for almost two months…what the hell had happened? What kind of care was that? He was more “amped” and afraid than when he appeared at the Snaffle Bit sale and Tim swore that he looked like a winning prospect?  Alex, Dave and I stood quietly by, waiting for Anson to give us direction. With more patience and much more skill than I could ever have hoped to exhibit myself, in the same, or any, situation I watched Anson persevere in a quietly strong but soothing and steady manner. Maybe, 20 minutes later, he finally led Sweat Son from his stall, but the colt remained wide-eyed, bouncing around and snorting the entire time. Back at home, Em and Brynn were waiting outside for us; Anson backed the trailer up to one side of the barn and told Alex to go close the barn doors at the other end. Dave and I moved the three horses from the one side of my five stall barn out to the mare motel, so as to give each of the Studs a large stall and run, but without a horse between or on either side of them. This was going to be interesting…

Once Anson was satisfied that Whiskey and Sweat Son were settled, he looked at me seriously and said, “Missy, Whiskey is one thing, but this young guy is a really, bad idea for you to keep here. I can see him becoming a huge, even dangerous, problem. The simplest of chores, like cleaning his stall or getting him to and from the round pen for exercise could go wrong? You’ve got to decide what you’re going to do, and make it fast?  My reply was weak but true…“I don’t know Anson; I wasn’t anticipating any of this mess with Tim to happen. Would you be willing to call Russ for me? That’s who I’d like to put the horses with. “You bet,” Anson replied as he took his cell out of his pocket and made the call right then and there, with all of us waiting to hear the upshot. Whiskey Cat went on to enjoy great success with his new trainer, Russ, and I continue to enjoy keeping up with the equine world I so love, even if it’s done via my laptop.

Some stories have a happy ending and some don’t. In this instance, it was not a “twice, shame on me.” Thus a very happy ending. The graphic and quote I chose to lead with introducing this particular post is spot on. I’m 100% convinced every single moment of the day, that every woman alive needs to hear, know and be empowered by that message. Trust that voice inside, and go ahead and “ROAR,” just as Katy Perry sings about. No more “twice shame on me!”