Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category
T.V. Lark – Heart of a Champion
September 17th, 2009 | 
Author:
Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. C. R. McCoy
One Sunday when I was in middle school, I opened up the Sunday supplement in the newspaper and saw my father’s face looking back at me. Beneath his picture were the words, “The Man with the Million Dollar Horse.” I still have that magazine; it is in front of the scrapbook I kept of my father’s horses when I was a young girl growing up. My father was always an elusive, charming, successful man that existed somewhere out of reach. I adored him but also feared his every critical comment or disappointed look. I just could never measure up to the exciting world he inhabited. The magazine article was about my father’s latest success with a top colt he purchased, T.V. Lark.
My father was offered half interest in a couple of thoroughbreds for $7500 back when he was a young executive. He was interested and agreed to the deal, but was disappointed in the caliber of the two horses he purchased. He bought out his partner and then went on to procure some amazing animals; his first one was a colt name Echo Drums who was later lost in a claiming race. But his favorite was T.V. Lark; he breezed the 1/4 mile in 22 seconds which was unheard of for a yearling. T.V. was bought at the yearling sale in Del Mar and was one of the best deals in horseracing history at the time; he became the top money winning California-bred thoroughbred in his day. He was a good-natured animal, too, not mean and flighty as some thoroughbreds tend to be. And he had the heart of a champion, something my father always appreciated in an animal (or a human, for that matter). My father loved that horse. In 1961, he was Turf Horse of the Year.
Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. C. R. McCoy
Watching T.V. Lark win was always a heart-thumping event. He was a racing pro and would handle being in the gate well, but once the gate was opened, he knew just what to do. He always started from behind, never being in a hurry. Like the recent win of Mine That Bird in the Kentucky Derby, T.V. Lark would trail until he was coming around the final curve of the track. He would seem to shoot past every other competitor in the field until he streaked past the lead horse and claim the race. It was as if he was demonstrating for all of us to never give up –you never know what the outcome might be, you never know who might come from behind; in other words, T.V. showed us how to have heart. Another champion and long-time family friend was the jockey, Johnny Longden. He was great on T.V. and my father knew it, too. Willy Shoemaker, though, won the California Breeder’s Stake on him and John Sellers had a good run of wins with him for a time. By the age of 4, T.V. Lark was syndicated.
When T.V. retired, he was put out to stud on a ranch in Kentucky. My father let go of his ownership of him by then, but he still paid attention to his fate. T.V.’s stud career was also a proud one marked by his fathering several other champions, being a lead sire for two years, and he was allowed to live out his days in a beautiful and peaceful setting at Hamburg Place in Kentucky. I know the affinity my father had for him never waned; when I asked about him for this article, I could tell there was still an amount of respect and affection that was perennial.
Courtesy of Chase and Doris McCoy
When I scanned some old photos for posterity, my father knew immediately which race they were just by T.V.’s position across the finish line. This horse provided a comfortable living for my father; he provided a bit of notoriety when his ownership came into question, and a validation of my father’s ability to judge and predict horseflesh. He was the workhorse that paid for the rest of the stable. He helped my father stay positive when one of his finer horses jumped out of an airplane and was destroyed; when another horse, a very promising young colt, developed an aneurysm and his career suddenly terminated, when an exercise boy was killed when yet another horse threw him into the rail on a morning workout. And he kept us all afloat when, like the original two horses, a couple of hopefuls turned out to be big disappointments.
Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. C. R. McCoy
Many racehorses, however, are not so lucky; even Derby winners have been known to be sent to the slaughterhouse (see here to learn about the fate of the champion Ferdinand) when their time of use as entertainers and champions was over. The racing business can be a brutal one for the animals – they are all one injury away from obliteration. Even the good racing stock often have to spend long periods of time confined in stables on the racetrack, without the ability to socialize with other horses or run on the grass. They spend their lives being transported (which is usually very stressful and risky) from one race track to another via truck, rail or plane. Once their youth is over, unless they are considered good breeding stock, their options suddenly plummet and many face destruction.
To help save these amazing animals, please sign the petition here to prevent a horrible end to these noble animals. Many are sent to Japan and used until that fatal injury occurs; then their reward is suffering and slaughter. Let’s put a stop to this disrespectful treatment of these brave and determined animals.
Copyright © 2009 Veganacious. All Rights Reserved
Mowing on the Green Belt
Lawn mowing can be a pretty obnoxious enterprise. First, there is the noise of most lawnmowers, the fumes from gasoline, the violent spinning of the cutting instrument. I eradicated the first two when I started using my Neuton lawnmower ; I absolutely love it and enjoy mowing now, relieved that I am not adding greatly to noise and air pollution. It gets pretty toasty here in northern Texas in the summertime, so I decided to try early morning mowing in
I listen to podcasts while I mow, so put on the iPod and started towards the street. To my amazement, there was a small lizard clear down by the curb near the street, streaking quickly through the grass. It was early enough, around 8:00 AM, that there was still moisture on the grass; I imagined he was looking for water and possibly bugs. Still, it startled me to find him so near the road. I am fortunate to live on a small greenbelt and thought that the greenbelt area is where the critters would survive. I had no desire to eviscerate this small neighbor, so I turned off the mower and headed towards the side yard in the front of the property.
More neighbors
I turned on the mower and began gently guiding it through the quickly growing green. I cut a couple of paths and began going back and forth, diminishing the height of the grass as I cut through the yielding blades. When I started getting near the bricks of the house, I was startled again to see a very tiny, very beautiful small frog, gently hopping to get away from my violent instrument of destruction. I am glad I saw him because he was probably not trucking at a high enough velocity to avoid my whirling blades. That did it! I turned off the mower and put it back in the garage. I do leave some high grass near the edge of the house for the little ones that live around me: the precious little geckos, lizards, frogs, snakes. But I had no idea that my lawn, regularly trimmed, was home to so many tiny creatures, even at the perimeters. In the morning, this is their world, and I had just violated it.
Now I mow in the evening. I walk around and pick up anything that might need to be tossed away before I bring out the mower. I hope that my tramping about gives fair warning to the critters that I am coming to cut down their cover and they had better get scooting while they can. Honestly, I have never seen any of them in the early evening hours. The very early morning usually sends squirrels and a variety or birds searching in the back near the green belt and the creek that runs through it. I have always enjoyed seeing signs of their life. Recently two squirrels were busy scavenging in my yard; one scurried off at sight of me, urging his 
buddy to come on. But the other one just stopped, as did I, and looked at me, both of us in awe at sight of The Other on our shared space. Last summer I planted canteloupes on a very small space of very poor soil. The melons that grew were always gnawed before I could pick them. I am continually amazed anything can live in the unhospitable climate here: always too hot or too cold, lots of violent storms and rain. Three trees in three years have been killed by lightning; I hope they know how to stay out of harm’s way. But given that I can make a run to the market, they are welcome to the occasional tomato or pepper that I grow. It is their property, really. Their families have been here much, much longer than I have.
Last winter, during a pleasant spring day, I opened my garage door and let the boys play with an old basketball in the driveway. The older of the two suddenly yelled that he had seen a long tail suddenly flip into the corner of the garage. I saw nothing, but investigated. There was a very large snake, about 4′ or 5′ long, curled up in the corner behind some boxes that I was going to send to the local Mission. I am not someone who hates snakes. Good thing, because when my youngest was small (we lived on the Russian River then) he once brought a snake home and let it loose in the house. I was in the bathroom when this visitor crawled under the door and across my feet. One learns to take things in stride with sons that like snakes and frogs, especially when they like to introduce you to their friends. We always had a rule that they could have visitors but not prisoners, so the critters would have to be returned to their rightful place. This situation was different – the snake chose the garage. When the boys finished playing, the snake was still nestled in the corner and it had started raining, so I let him be. I was hoping he would leave at the next opportunity — but he had other ideas.
My son did not want his boys to get hurt by the snake and thought the snake should be encouraged to go home. It was raining a quite a bit by then and I wondered where the snake normally lived, and what it ate, and why it had travelled so far from the greenbelt, through all the trimmed grass, clear up to the front of the property, and into the garage. I figured he had good reason for being there but had no idea what that reason was. If it wasn’t for the sharp eyes of Nicholas, I would never have known he was there. My son tried to get the snake in a box but that snake wanted to stay right where he was in that corner. He seemed determined to stay. I had no way to know what he was leaving behind or what he was trying to accomplish but felt the safest thing for him and the boys was to assist my son in getting him back to the greenbelt area. It was not an easy task. Between the two of us, we got him into a cardboard box, shut the top, and carried it to the greenbelt. The snake finally slithered away from the box and lived his life in his own way, on his own terms. I was sorry to see him go, but relieved that he had not been injured, nor had my son. It was a reminder, though, that I am an invader on this bit of land.
A few weeks ago, I kept hearing a very loud, very rhythmic sound reminiscent of a large fan of gigantic proportions. I looked around the neighborhood but saw nothing. In the greenbelt, it seemed like someone set up some kind of wind structure, it was so loud. It also sounded vaguely like we were living in a swamp. I finally asked my son and he said it was the cicadas. Being a relative newcomer to Texas, I had no idea that little creatures could make such sounds and make them so harmoniously. They are quieter now, but there was a time this summer that their presence was quite profound. It is part of learning to love the south; I even have a magnolia tree. Quite a change from the palm trees I once saw outside my window when I lived by the beach. I love palms, in all their many varieties, and I do miss the blue Pacific. But with such fine neighbors as those I have now, I also love Texas. My new neighbors are keeping me busy checking online to see what they are, who they are, and what their behavior means. They are good neighbors; I hope I am, too.
Posted in Animals, Environment, Writing | 
Tags: cicadas, frogs, geckos, green belt, lawn mowing, lightning, lizards, magnolias, Neuton mower, quiet mower, snakes, Texas | 
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That Look
A momentary position among the wave’s rolls
when the black takes hold as the eyes glance down
toward a silent understanding.
“I met her eyes with my own…and stared.”
For one fluid moment I saw you naked and bared
to me without apples, scent; and without form…
We shared such a small slice of time, you and I.
Together we rode the tide of Mons Olympus
in full flowery expanse
and didn’t even know it.
I held you and kissed your neck.
I saw your eyebrows,
I tasted you.
…for a moment I saw you from behind a newspaper and stole your eyes, then looked away…
by Jason DeGrande, copyright protected.
Summer Friends
I had a privileged but isolated childhood. I used to drive every weekend possible to get away from home and visit my father on his horse ranch in the Bradbury hills near Santa Anita. I loved horses fiercely and longed to have my own horse to love. I took equitation and dressage, as well as jumping classes, but had to be content with the rental horses. In fact, I spent most of my spare time at the public stables, walking the horses, brushing them, and being a general nuisance. It was the best part of my life. Still 
there was the niggling little bothers that crept up – like the fact that my two cousins both owned horses which were privately stabled across the street from the public stables. The final injustice from my youthful perspective was when my little sister, who rarely went down to the barn, was given two Shetland Ponies, and later a Palomino. My little sister was cute as a button, I will agree; but I was the only one in the family that was truly horse crazy. My father and I had a very distant relationship; he had married the widow of his horse trainer, who had died suddenly of a heart attack. My new stepmother came complete with three kids, all very sweet, who won my father’s focus. It wasn’t fun to be the throw-away kid from the first marriage, the one reduced to the status of visitor. Since my father owned a stable of thoroughbreds, though, it seemed reasonable to hope I might get some attention from my him in that area, but it never seemed to happen.
The Summer of Hope
One summer, my father’s hired hand took me to see a wonderful show horse that was for sale, and I thought my turn had finally come. He took me to inspect the horse and let me ride him – a beautiful animal with top-notch bloodlines. I was thrilled beyond all imagination. But when we went home, things quickly fell apart. Someone called my father, or so he said, and told him that the horse was too much for me and they were pulling him out of the sale. I was crushed. I was struggling with the difficulty of a relationship with the father I adored; I was the awkward middle child. My older sister spent several years living with my father in the household before my parents divorced and they were close; and my little sister seemed to trigger his guilt, as she was born during their second doomed-to-fail attempt at marriage so she got most of the gift-giving. I had no special position.To make matters worse, I looked the most like my father, and I secretly believe I triggered some horrible self-loathing that he had. That summer of being 15 I prayed: just let me have one good summer with my father, just this one, just this one. But it was not to be.
Later, my father had one of his race horses recuperating in one of the paddocks. This horse had an injured tendon and was most likely going to be retired. I spent every day walking alongside him in the paddock, talking to him, until he began to run up to the fence when he saw me coming. His name was Lucky Cover and he was a beautiful, sleek, black animal, proud yet friendly. He was my sole companion that difficult, dreadful summer of my adolescent longing. My father finally told me he was going to give me Lucky because he was not of much use for racing any longer. I was elated and hopeful, but not so secure that I could fully exhale. I was old enough to know how these things usually turn out, but the flame of hope was still flickering. And I waited and longed for the day we could ride together and get out of the confines of the paddocks.
Summers and Winters
Of course, I did have to go back to my unhappy childhood home and readjust to the travails of my everyday life. But when a weekend would come, I would be traveling whenever possible to the ranch. I couldn’t wait to get down to the paddocks and see my pal Lucky, but one day, 
to my dismay, he was gone. In his stead was a beautiful baby steer with the most soulful eyes I had ever seen, gazing at me with intensity and fear from the center of the paddock, where he usually stayed. I gave him my usual patient presence, but he was always very skittish and never approached the fence. I felt so badly for him – so little, so alone. I knew just how he felt.
I asked my father what had happened to Lucky, who was supposed to be my horse. Oh, he said, I sent him to Mexico to try to get a few more races out of him before we retire him. I was very upset, because I knew this was not a safe practice for Lucky as he was still recuperating from an injury that I was told rendered him unfit for racing. Before much time had elapsed, I heard that he had to be destroyed after a further injury following a race at Calexico. It seemed so disrespectful to send him down there, to die all alone, that beautiful and proud animal, my friend. I was devastated and ran back to the bathroom and locked the door. My father was never much for emotion, so I had to let mine out privately. I was filled with grief. My father seemed to think it was quite quizzical that I would be upset – he didn’t suffer, he told me. But I did: I thought we were both invisible to my father, Lucky and I, phantoms that floated through his life and disappeared in the mist.
Baby, Too
The little baby steer was my only companion over the next several visits. I fell in love with his beautiful muzzle and his sweet face, but he never really seemed to trust me, never allowed me to get near. I soon learned why he might have been so fearful, for his was to be a short and vicious life; the approach of a human must have signified absolute terror for him. One day my father told me not to go down to the barn. He was very stern so I obeyed him. Later I learned they had slit the throat of the baby and hung him up to bleed out. I was sick.
Lucky and the baby both had short, lonely lives because they were treated like commodities, like things rather than beings. The beautiful and privileged setting of thoroughbred horse racing affords a privileged life for some, but hides a nightmare of suffering for many of the animals. I survived my childhood and felt the confusion of my early, erratic life into my adulthood. Experiencing the life of thoroughbreds and horse people by summer, being a kid with a single mom during the winters, gave me a breadth of experience that helped me when I later became a psychotherapist; I learned a lot from my childhood. In later years, my father and I have become acquainted and forged a positive relationship. And animals have helped me get through some of the tough times in my life; I have come to know them, to see how they have individual personalities, to recognize their feelings, their ability to dream and their wish to avoid pain and suffering. I was only beginning to see how cruel the racing industry could be. But I can tell what I now know, I can try to make the world a little less brutal. I can respect their lives enough to give them this space on the white paper of my life.
Please go here to learn more about the destruction of racehorses and here to sign a petition to save them. The majesty of these incredible animals deserves to be respected.
Posted in Animals, Writing |
Tags: creative writing, horseracing, horses, nonfiction |
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Finding Sophia
Feral Friends
I used to work in a two-story building built around a courtyard. It was a series of small businesses sharing the center, filled with umbrellaed tables and chairs. It was pretty easy to become friendly with colleagues in other offices; in fact, I walked at lunch with a woman in an attorney’s office, and got to know the entire staff there. Surrounding the building were acres of open fields, surrounded by other business properties and many busy suburban streets. The fields were shrubby and barren, with no source of shade or water – not too hospitable to life. But amid the brown grass and thorns, there was a struggle for life taking place.
One day my fellow office worker noticed a scraggly cat scratching around in the shrubs. The cat looked dissipated and wan, as if it was starving and barely hanging onto life. Nearby was a very young cat, possibly the daughter of the first one. After a while, she also noticed another older cat, a male, also struggling in the inhospitable terrain, so she decided to intervene. She carefully set about trying to trap the cats by enticing them with food and water, using a professional-grade trap and a ton of patience. The entire office was aware of the drama unfolding – all of us invested in saving these feral cats, and the cats just as invested in avoiding us.
Animal Control
Unbeknownst to us, there was an antagonist in all this: cat haters. The older female cat had evidently been impregnated, probably by the roving Tom, and delivered her kittens here and there among the office shrubs. The entire office (geologists, engineers, lawyers) were out on their hands and knees, peering about in the bushes, trying to find the kittens as the mother cat moved them. Just when we thought we knew where they were, she would move them again. Meanwhile, not content to allow us to rescue the bunch of them, the antagonists called the local animal control folks and they took the babies away – without the mother – to the pound and probable doom. All that left was the Tom, the Mom, and the little Daughter.
My colleague, Lana, was not one to give up. Bless her, she spent over $200 going to the pound and bailing out the babies, then continued to try to trap the scraggly Mom. She eventually caught the Daughter, and the Mom was not long behind her. It was in time for her to care for the young ones and get the whole bunch of them off to good homes. One of the geologists agreed to take a few of the kittens but unfortunately, his daughter proved to be allergic, so they came back onto the market. Finally, Lana kept the Mom and the kids moved in with her next door neighbor, keeping the family intact – all save the Tom. He was older, and wiser, and despite continual attempts, he alluded us. We always tried to look out for him but he was no way going to be anything but feral.
A Happy Ending
Once the Mama Kitty, as she came to be known, was given vet care (she nearly died, so it was a good thing we found her when we did,) and food and TLC, her transformation was absolutely incredible. It was like finding Sophia Loren underneath a bag lady’s layers of clothes – this was a gorgeous cat. She adapted to the indoor life and spoiling that Lana gave her and continued, as did her kids, to thrive. She never seemed to miss the outdoors – after all, it nearly spelled death for her. She was truly a princess awaiting her time to rule. Anyone that can get engineers and lawyers on their knees must have some special gift – Mama Kitty had that. She was royalty, we were her subjects. Isn’t that what cats always seem to know?
Copyright © 2009 Veganacious. All Rights Reserve
Posted in Animals, Writing |
Tags: cats, feral cats, kittens, rescue cats, Sophia Loren |
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Thumper
My first pal in this world was a boxer name Thumper; he was the Adored One of my father. I do not recall ever seeing my father show any emotion, except at the mention of his name. He was the pick of the litter that a champion wrestler, Sy Williams, had. Mr. Williams owned a local bar and grill which was only a couple of blocks from the office where my father worked, Case American, so my father had become friendly with Mr. Williams. It was one champion finding another champ, a top-notch pedigreed pup. When I was just a few months old, Thumper would accom-pany me around the backyard, picking up ripe peaches from off the ground, eating them until our skin itched and our tummies protested. We were true co-conspirators; he even allowed me to use his water bowl for wading purposes, and never shirked from my clumsy toddler efforts at affection. My folks were surprised that he didn’t knock me over or react aggressively towards my toddler ways, as he was just a young pup himself.
When I was studying clinical psychology in graduate school, I had to work on a genogram (a relational family tree) of family history, going back several generations. When I queried my father about his memories of my childhood, he asked, “Do you remember Thumper?” I answered I remembered the peaches, the water dish, and the itchy skin on the patio. My father had no other memories of me to share. Thumper was paramount.
Sadly, Thumper contracted a deadly form of mange while left in a kennel when my father was out of state. Despite repeated trips to the vet, Thumper did not recover. His health was going downhill quickly, and my father had to make the agonizing decision to have him put down. I did not know at the time it was the beginning of the end – for my father’s sense of place in the family, for our family unity, for my feeling of safety. My parents ultimately divorced and my brief interlude with family and a good pal ended forever. I wish, though, that I could thank Thumper for being so patient with me and giving me that time, short though it was. It was one precious connection to my father, one thing we shared: we both loved Thumper.
Copyright © 2009 Veganacious. All Rights Reserved
