Tales of the Farm

Eli's Coming! Hide Your Heart Girl!

I found him in the Giveaways section of an online forum.

To be honest, it was my friend Debbie Sellers who found him first, and told me about him. Everything that happened next was her fault.

17-hand Warmblood, free to good home. 16 years old. Not a husband-horse. Dressage, competed successfully to third level. Hock injury. Light riding only, no canter. Needs a stall. Owner will pay for transport. Approved home only.

Let me translate:

A very big, high-maintenance show horse who will eat you into the poor house (but look great doing it) needs a place to live in a manner to which he is accustomed. No one can ride him because he will be too much horse for beginners and speaks a language few people know (dressage). His current owner is so desperate to be rid of him she will foot the bill to ship him off to you. All of this can be yours for the low low price of FREE. 

A few email exchanges later I learned more:

He has a nasty drop-shoulder spin-and-bolt that will unseat even the best riders. He broke away from the shippers on his first day with his current owner. Ran through a neighborhood, demolished some fences, destroyed some yards and gardens and tore up what would later be known as his "bad leg." He's an Oldenburg who passed his brand inspection as Approved, just a fraction of a point shy of Premium. He has a great mind for dressage and scored well in a competitive market at Third Level, which is like super-horse-good. A two-inch thick medical record chronicles the Herculean efforts his current owner pursued to keep him healthy and fix the bad leg...which eventually ended an otherwise stellar career.

She would have kept him, but she already had another horse in training. And still she would have kept him, but board for both horses ran $1,500 a month. And still she would have kept him but her husband was battling cancer and sometimes life just kicks you in the gut and something has to give. 

Elijah had to give.

Since there really was no place else for him to go, of course he would come here. I could deal with all the baggage this Big Horse could carry. Here, he would have only one job: be a friend to King in his retirement. So I asked how he was with other horses, would he make a good companion? Was he social?

Not so much. He is aloof and quirky. The one time he lived out in a pasture, he lost 150 lbs and was bullied by the other horses. 

Perfect. Send him. Send him here. Bring him home. 

One day Elijah was living in a show barn in Chicago. A long trailer ride later, he took his first steps out onto the Kansas prairie, dazed and confused. The truck driver handed me the lead rope and said, "He probably needs some water."

"Sure," I said. "I'll take him down to the lake."

"Oh, I don't think he knows how to drink from a lake."

I laughed and thought to myself, Well, I reckon he will learn. We walked together through the barn and the paddock, out into the big field on our way to the lake. We got about halfway to the water when Elijah stopped. For as long as I live, I will remember this moment.

His eyes were wide, his head up. I followed his gaze and realized there was nothing but green grass as far as he could see. The prairie stretched out before, beside and behind us, a huge sea of grass and gently rolling hills. 

I gave a little tug on the lead rope to get his attention, Elijah dropped his head close to mine.

"No, Eli," I whispered. "It's not  heaven. It's Kansas." 

It was done. We were complete. A little band of cast-offs: A red cocker spaniel, so long at the shelter he was scheduled to be killed. A show jumper horse who could no longer jump. A dressage horse who could no longer dance. A middle-aged lady, single after a 25-year marriage. All together on a farm that no one wanted.

All together.

It was the together that would fix us. All of us.

I'm Keeping That Horse!

Did I mention that Honeybear was a pain in my arse? 

Of all the plans I had for the farm, managing a half-wild horse was not one of them. And I don't think being managed was anywhere on her to-do list, either! While the lady who loaned her to me was keen that I should buy her; for my part, I could not get rid of her quick enough.  

Honey had the mistaken notion that she was the alpha-mare.

One evening, I had to disabuse her of that thought. I called out to the field for both horses to come in for dinner when she thought "keep away" would be a fun game to play -- as in, "Keep King Away from Jennifer." Each time I called for King and he started coming in, she charged him and pushed him back out to the field. As you might imagine, I lost patience with this game pretty quickly. So I headed out to the field. When I got within about 50 yards of the pair, Honey decided I was too close. 

She charged me. Full steam, she ran straight at me.

I had a fleeting moment of fear, seeing this horse charging with murder in her eyes.

I have to say that did not last long.

I stood my ground, made myself as big as I could (now I understand why dogs get their hackles up!), took a step toward her, waved my arms and shouted "Whoa!"

Praise God, the little devil stopped dead in her tracks, about three feet from me. She stood stock still for a moment, then lowered her head and softened her eyes. I snapped a lead rope on her halter, King joined up with us, and we headed for the barn.

That's when it happened.

I don't know where it came from, or why it attacked us -- but a huge, snarling dog-like creature (coyote? feral dog? neighbor's dog? I don't know!) came running at us through the field. I had Honey on the lead rope on my right and King was following at liberty on my left.

The dog came at us from the right.

I panicked, not knowing what to do with Honey. I did not want to let her go with a lead rope dangling from her halter, she could easily get her feet tangled in it and break her neck. But I didn't really want to hang on to her either, certain she would spook and run any second.

So I just stood there, frozen with fear and panic.

What happened next was the first of many improbable things that would become commonplace at King's Ransom. The first story no one would ever believe. 

King, who had been strolling along on my left, took over. He dropped back behind Honey and me, slipping between us and our attacker. He picked up a few running steps, lowered his head and caught that beast mid-stride. With one more step and a flick of his head, he sent it flying through the air.

The dog yelped and squealed and hit the ground running hard -- in the opposite direction!

King calmly circled back around us, took up his position on my left side and we all walked on to the barn. As. If. Nothing. Ever. Happened.

Any other horse would have bolted and run, and probably taken hours -- if not days -- to calm down, and developed a phobia about ever walking that path again. That's just how they are, it's how they stay alive. A plastic bag floating on the wind can wreak havoc on a trail ride. 

But not King. He just knew things. Like that I would be useless in this situation -- as I had been in almost every sticky situation I had ever gotten us into before. And he knew that Honeybear had no sense whatsoever and probably would break her neck running off with a lead rope attached to her halter. He measured all of these things in an instant and since nature abhors a vacuum, he stepped in to save us. 

Now, it's possible that I overthink things.

But I can tell you this. As I stood in the barn that night with him, I thought (as I had countless times before), "I'm keeping this horse!"

And Honeybear had to go.

Which is how it happened that the finest horse I would ever have the privilege of knowing came to live with us at King's Ransom.

But that is another story.

 

 

Independence Day

 After three long months of back-breaking work, the farm was finally ready for King to come home.

He stepped off the trailer at King's Ransom on July 4, 2006 -- Independence Day.

I knew what it meant for him, and for us. It meant blue skies and green grass and kept promises. It meant a new story about to begin for both of us. 

I was thrilled.

King? Not so much.

Day One -- First Life Lesson on the Farm.

Horses live in the moment. They don't wax philosophical about whether one moment is bigger than another. See, this moment was pretty good for him because it was filled with grass.

The next moment of his new life? 

Complete and total meltdown.

I have to say this pretty well shattered my rose-colored glasses. I bought this horse a farm, for Pete's Sake! I spent every penny I had and pledged financial obligations until I was 80! I worked myself ragged, and most of my friends and family as well. But King did not care about any of that. He walked into the barn, to his well-bedded stall with fresh hay and water. And he threw a fit. I believe the scientific term is conniption fit.

He screamed. He spun around. He kicked the walls. He paced. He broke out in a foamy sweat.

He. was. not. happy.

He was so unhappy, in fact, that we feared he would work himself into a colic and die. Literally. (Yeah, I brought my horse home and instantly placed him imminently close to death. High-five on that!)

The source of his great displeasure?

No, he was not an ungrateful little sh#t, which is something that might cross your mind if you were expecting some kind of thank you ... or other human reaction from a horse. 

He was alone. 

(All the horse people in the room are now collectively doing the head-desk move. In my defense, horse people, I had been TOLD that he would be fine with this. I had been TOLD that King was not a particularly social guy and that having horses next door would be enough for him. I had been TOLD wrong!)

Solitary confinement was not what King had in mind for his retirement.

You see, horses are herd animals. It's not just nice if they have friends. They need their friends. It's in their DNA to be social, to rely on the collective wisdom of the herd for their very survival. To be alone is to shoulder all of the responsibility of staying alive yourself -- with no one to help find the food and water, warn of predators, swish away flies, or stand watch while you sleep.

And, just like people, horses will go a little crazy without friends.

Thankfully, that kind man you see in the photo (above) drove the horse trailer back to the boarding barn and loaded up a green-broke filly named Honeybear. She was a cute little wisp of a horse ... of the female persuasion ... and King fell in love. 

Honeybear was a pain in my arse. She had NO manners (yet), she was pushy and stupid and if you look up the word "mare-ish" you will still see her picture.

How stupid was she? Well ... the paddock was fenced in electric rope with a charge that would rattle the fillings out of your teeth (don't ask me how I know!). She tested that fence every single day of the 45 days she lived here. Every. single. day.

And every. single. day. it shocked her. And every. single. day. she screamed and jumped and bucked and ran off at full-tilt for the far side of the world. 

For his part, King saw this and thought she was the most lovely creature he had ever met. He swooned. He followed her everywhere.

But he never touched that dang fence! Not. even. once.

Because he was not stupid.

 

A Labor of Love

If you ever wanted to find out who your friends are, here's one way: Buy a big piece of property that needs tons of back-breaking work, including digging out 18 inches of packed goose poop, and let everyone know that you need help ... and you don't have any money.

I closed on King's Ransom on April 1st and for the next three months I pretty well called in every favor, tapped every friend and family member, and racked up a debt of gratitude I can never repay. 

So the next best thing is to say Thank You!

Ruthie Osa, my sister-in-heart and friend since childhood, came out and pulled weeds, extricated wire panels, dragged stuff around, swept up messes, raked and basically worked like a crazy person. Thank you, Ruthie. Those times we spent together cleaning this place up, and then floating around in the swimming pool drinking wine ... they are treasured, precious memories. 

Barry Stites, my nephew. Oh my gosh, Bear, if not for you I would still be sitting in the dark. You pulled out old t-posts, you pounded in new ones, you painted old ones to make them look new, you strung electric fence and electric wire, you installed a generator, fixed bad wiring and brought light to the farm (actual light as well as spiritual light). I love you to the moon and back. Thank you!

Debbie, Don and Emily Sellers -- you guys are awesome. You rejoiced with me when I bought the farm and it meant so much because so many looked at this place and said WTF? Your support and joy for me was uplifting. Then you came out and burned off all of the old, dead grass in what was truly a controlled burn (and not just a wildfire). That incredibly difficult, hot, grueling job breathed new life to my pastures, and watching the green pop up was pure joy for me. You guys worked so hard to help make this place habitable, to make it safe for horses and humans, I will never ever forget your friendship. Love you guys and yes, we are just turning a page, not closing a book!

James, Michael and Brandi -- well I could not do anything without you guys. Do you remember the day / night we painted the entire house? And all of the RR ties you lugged out of here? Oh my! You three had my back, even when you were holding your noses! Love you forever. Thank you!

Mom and Dad. Dang I miss you guys. Helping me get this farm and put it together was one of your greatest joys. We laughed ourselves breathless over every silly, crazy, stupid thing we encountered. You financed the little John Deere that was made to trim a lawn but got pushed into mowing fields and hauling ... everything. And it's still going, all these years later. And when I am out mowing, I still look up and half expect to see you guys driving down the lane. We had a blast and I am forever grateful that the good Lord gave us that time together. Just like King and Eli, your spirits are woven into the very fiber of King's Ransom, she is as much your story as ours. I could not have done any of this without your love and support. Thank you.

By the end of June, the place had been transformed and I was almost ready to bring King home!

BEFORE:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scorched Earth

When I bought the farm, it was so run-down that it truly was not habitable right away. Fortunately, I had 30 days left on my apartment lease, which I thought would be plenty of time to get the farm spiffed up and ready to move in.

Oh boy, was I wrong!

The first thing I did was rent a big dumpster and get it parked on the gravel road down by the barn. Then I started hauling out ... well, the best word I can think of is just junk ... I started hauling out  junk. Big junk. Heavy junk. Stinky junk. Filthy, dusty, unidentifiable junk.

I had been doing this every day for about a week when I smelled something. Now this was not particularly unusual, because pretty much everything out here smelled ... but this was different. It smelled ... burnt. I looked around and did not see anything burning, so I kept working.

About five minutes later, the smell got stronger and I looked up and saw a huge plume of black smoke rising over the timber line on the south side of my farm. 

Now, I may have been just a city girl, but even I knew this was not right! It was April in Kansas, a dry April, in the middle of what would become a three-year drought. And the wind was blowing, like it always does in Kansas -- hard.

I ran inside, found the phone book and called the non-emergency number for the local fire department. They assured me that my neighbors were doing a "controlled burn" on their property, with proper permits in place, and I had nothing to worry about. I argued, briefly, that everything seemed really dry and the wind seemed really strong and the fire seemed really close to my farm. The (I don't use this term lightly) jack-ass at the fire department literally laughed at me and hung up.

Back outside, the fire could by no means be described as "controlled." Flames were shooting high above the trees, smoke blackened the mid-afternoon sky, and I saw a terrifying line of flames flow right through the trees and onto the overgrown, dry tinder of grass that was my south pasture.

Even today, 11 years later, it's hard to describe the thoughts and emotions that sight ignited in me. I was angry and scared. And something else. 

In that instant, I became a farmer. My love for this forsaken patch of land rose up like a Momma Bear protecting her cubs. My farm needed me, and I would do everything I could to save her.

I called back to the fire department and demanded, in no uncertain (but certainly colorful) terms that they send firefighters -- and lots of them -- out here pronto. Then I ran out to the barn.

There is a water hydrant in my barn. And there was a 100-foot garden hose attached to it. But like everything else out here, the hose was in a tangled up pile ... full of kinks and knots and twists and ... well ... useless.

I stood there, watching the fire eat its way across the pasture, when suddenly an old man walked into the barn. He stood there like an angel, silhouetted in shadow against the afternoon light.

He didn't introduce himself, but offered that he'd seen the smoke and decided to drive down and check things out. He had to have been 100 years old. Just a frail, little old man. At about that time a few faint drips of water made it through my tangled, knotted hose and dribbled out the end. 

"Do you need some help?" he asked.

I looked at him, and at the water dribbling from my tangled hose and thought Oh Gawd yes, I need help! 

I needed a fire department, full of burly young men with tankers of water and high powered fire hoses.

What I got was a little old man and a garden hose with about as much water as I could spit.

The old man untangled the garden hose in about two split milliseconds and directed me outside to start watering down the dry tinder around the barn. Then he left to drive over and talk to the firefighters starting to arrive on my neighbor's property.

As it turned out, the fire was a five-alarm event. Fire departments from every surrounding community showed up and fought that blaze long into the wee hours of the next morning, battling the hot spots that kept flaring up.

I watched them from the safety of my back deck.

You see, King's Ransom was not really a Damsel in Distress.

She was a smart, resilient, crafty fighter of a little farm. Even left in disrepair, with dry tinder just waiting to feed the flames ... she rose up. 

What I didn't know was, beneath all that overgrowth of grass and weeds runs a little stream of water. From the far southwest corner, it cuts across the pasture, past the windmill, down the hill and into the lake. You would never know it was there ... until that tiny little stream stood fast and stopped a raging wild fire. Right. there.

Like she just drew a line and said, "No more. It all stops here."

 

 

Closing Days

Next month. We close next month.

On August 18th we will close on the sale of the farm in Kansas. Three days later, on August 21st, we'll close on the purchase of the ranch in Colorado. I've done little else this week than prepare for those two days. It seems like an endless barrage of contracts, documents, appointments, phone calls and emails. It's all going mostly well, mostly according to plan. 

Organized.

Nothing like the chaos I went through back in 2006 when I was trying to buy this farm. The deal almost fell through at least half a dozen times. Two lenders promised, and then backed out. Paperwork was lost. Hopes were dashed, then raised again at the last minute.

I was so excited walking into the loan office on Closing Day. So anxious to sign my name and get those keys, the keys to my new life, my Great Adventure. King's Ransom would finally be mine!

But later, while driving away, keys fresh in hand, my heart started pounding in my ears. I couldn't catch my breath. I felt like I was drowning, and in a way I was. I was drowning in anxiety. A full-on Panic Attack. I was suddenly, critically terrified.

It had started back in the loan office, signing that huge stack of papers. The ones that committed me to a 30-year mortgage.

And every instance of my name was followed by the words "a single person."

All I could think was: 

Jennifer-Campbell-A-Single-Person will be in debt until she is 80 years old. Jennifer-Campbell-A-Single-Person just bought a freaking farm! Jennifer-Campbell-A-Single-Person has no idea what she is doing!

I pulled over and tried to calm down, catch my breath. The enormity of what I had just done was overwhelming. Every shred of self-doubt that ever existed in me, from childhood until this moment, came pouring down to rain on my parade. 

Then it hit me.  And I started to smile. Then laugh. I laughed so hard, I couldn't catch my breath ... again.

It wasn't the reference to my non-married state that had thrown me for a loop. 

They had told me to sign and date the bottom of every page. So there it was, written dozens of times, in triplicate:

Jennifer Campbell (a single person)        
April 1, 2006.

Yeah, I really bought a dilapidated, overgrown, run-down farm for a useless old horse on April Fool's day.

And I knew everything would be just fine. Because God takes care of children and fools!

A Damsel in Distress

Having promised to find a place for King and me, I set about the search. Here's a nugget of wisdom for any home shopper: if you are darn-near destitute (as often happens when finances are wrecked by divorce) you're going to be looking at a lot of terrible places. Realtors lovingly call these "fixer uppers," while nightmare is the word that comes to my mind!

"Distressed" property is another good term for the types of places you'll be shown if your finances are, shall we say, sub-prime.

I looked at a lot of places that were just plain scary. And depressing.

Then, one day, my agent brought me to the end of a gravel road. I do mean "the end." As in, the dead end. Or the end of the world. Certainly the end of civilization!

17 acres that had been on the market for almost two years, abandoned and empty for most of that time. Descriptive adjectives: overgrown, run down, vermin-infested, stinky, smelly, cob-webby, rickety, rusty, dilapidated.

The previous owners had kept dogs and geese (an unlikely pairing!). They had ripped out half the stalls and left 18 inches of dog and goose excrement packed solid in the others. The remnants of a paddock were scattered among hog panels, rusted t-posts, barbed wire, vines, weeds and straw so wet and deep I sank in up to my knees when I walked on it.

But, when I saw the big sky, the timberline and the open fields -- well, it took my breath away (in a good way, not like the stench from the barn!). I knew this was it. This was where the next great adventure would start for our unlikely farm family: a flat-broke city girl, a retired show horse, and Red, a little cocker spaniel dog I had plucked from a last-chance rescue.

It could have been called "The Island of Misfit Toys." On some bitter evenings I considered calling it "No Man's Land." But there was always ever only one name.

This was King's Ransom.

King's Ransom

I spent most of the day today working on small maintenance items in preparation for the property inspection, which is scheduled for Monday. And thinking about my life on this farm for the past 11 years.

It's fair to ask how a city girl like me ended up moving out to a farm to live alone with just one old horse and a little red dog. I didn't grow up on a farm, had absolutely no farm or handyman skills, no tools, no tractor, no truck, and very little money. Sometimes its best when you don't know what you don't know!

I bought the farm for King. That's the truth. I loved that old horse so much that I bought him a farm to live out his retirement. That's a lot of love.

It all started one day when we were riding, and my old friend stumbled. He had been struggling with stiffness in his aging legs, but we were mostly fine if we took things slow and got a good warm up at the walk. And everything seemed fine this day, too ... until we picked up a canter and turned on the circle and King's back legs just gave out. We went down, almost to the ground. King managed to catch himself and came back up -- in full stride, on the correct lead, without missing a beat.

But I knew we were done.

It was all I could do to convince him to stop that day, he wanted to keep going. But finally, we did stop. I got off, pulled off the saddle and bridle, buckled up a halter and lead rope and we went outside for a walk.

King was agitated -- and I still don't know if it was because of the stumble, because we cut our ride short, or because he was wise enough to know what usually happens to old horses who can't do their jobs anymore.

We walked a long time, the two of us -- me talking, him grazing, both of us thinking.

That's when I made the promise. I was almost dead broke, didn't own a house, drove an old beater car, and was about as sorry as a girl could be. But I knew this: I loved that old horse, and he loved me. And if you're lucky enough to have a horse, then, well, you're lucky enough.

"I'll find us a place, buddy," I told him. "I don't know where, I don't know how, but I promise -- it will have green grass and cool breezes and a warm place to rest. And we will have another great adventure together. We'll walk the fields and tell each other great stories that all begin with "Remember when ..."

So that is how King's Ransom got started...with two great loves and one true promise.