VolNExile
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Oil Can
- Thread starter Tin Man
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Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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@OneManGang, Barbara Fields and Shelby Foote are my two favorite historians to have participated in Ken Burns’ The Civil War. Without them, the documentary would be diminished. I’m pleased that The Civil War was so popular and introduced these two to many.
Tin Man
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@OneManGang, your mention of Shelby Foote in the countdown thread prompted me to search for videos of Shelby. I found one of a graduation address in 1999. Foote states that school is where one learns how to learn, preparation for the life long learning which the graduates are about to commence. Given that I’ve felt this way since high school, it pleases me to learn that I share this viewpoint with a greatly admired scholar and author.
Tin Man
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@malinoisvol, above is my post to peay’s countdown thread and OMG’s reply. Gotta say, being mentioned in the same sentence as Shelby Foote is quite a compliment.
Fly high, my brother in Orange.
Tin Man
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Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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Horseback Riding
At the ages of eleven and twelve, I rode horses, English tack, show jumping and steeplechase. The stables where I trained were on a large tract of land in the foothills of the southernmost Appalachian mountains. It was nestled amidst private lands owned by the horsey set. There were trails and pastures in addition to a competition class ring. The main stable was a formidable structure with many stalls, wooden with a corrugated metal roof.
One of the main stable's regular tenants was Scotch & Soda. He was a huge stallion, dappled in the color of whisky on the rocks with cream colored tail and mane. He was monstrous, dwarfing other horses in the stables. We wondered if he had some draft animal in his breeding, but his form and lines were that of a supersized thoroughbred. Despite hanging a pair, his disposition was calm and amicable. He was a favorite of everyone. His owner/rider was a large man in his forties, 6'4", robust, with auburn hair and a mustache. He was less cordial than his horse.
The stable manager had horses which the students rode. In addition, some owners lent their horses to the riding school so that they would get regular exercise. By and large, it was a better group of horses than those dedicated to "event" rides for the general public. They had spirit, respected and responded to riders (one Morgan had an attitude and was wily, but not jaded or ornery). Most of our training was in the ring, pacing the horses through multiple jumps. Every now and then, we would get to steeplechase or trail ride.
Though I didn't dress the part, having pointy-toed cowboy boots, a broad-brimmed Australian style hat, and an Argentine riding crop, I handled horses well with adept skill and excellent form. An owner of a gelded hunter jumper espied me dealing with the aforementioned Morgan and told the instructor that I could ride her horse, Sea Scout. Scout was four or five years old, very spirited, beautifully disciplined, and an absolute joy to ride. I was happy for the privilege, as my family's fortunes had taken a turn for the worst with my father's first heart attack. Without a free ride on Scout and a carpool with other riders, I would not have continued.
One fine Fall day, I had taken Scout on one of the trails. We'd walked, trotted, cantered, and jumped. As we entered a large field, we espied Scotch and Soda and his rider cantering into the same field a football pitch away. Scout was eager to gallup, and I gave him the reigns. This prompted Scotch & Soda to break into a gallup. Immediately, it was clear that his owner was displeased. He struggled to gain control of Scotch & Soda as he bellowed at me to reign in my horse. I reluctantly complied, turning Scout away from a fence line along a road and reducing him to a canter. The large man had no such luck. Scotch & Soda leapt the fence, landed in the dirt road, made a sharp left turn, and bolted up the road towards the stable with his rider desperately trying to stay atop him.
I took Scout back to his private stable, brushed him, put away the tack, checked his provisions, and walked back to the main stable to catch my ride. The manager espied me and pulled me aside. He quietly told me that Scotch & Soda's owner was upset with me. I told him what had transpired from my point of view. He put his hand on my shoulder and suggested it would be best not to gallup if I ever encountered them again and bade me to wait amidst the parked cars for my ride.
A few weeks later, there was a fire at the stable. Scotch & Soda and other horses were killed. The riding school suspended activity. I lost my ride. Thus ended my riding hunter jumpers on English tack. In the years since, I've periodically gone trail riding using western tack. These days, I much prefer it.
At the ages of eleven and twelve, I rode horses, English tack, show jumping and steeplechase. The stables where I trained were on a large tract of land in the foothills of the southernmost Appalachian mountains. It was nestled amidst private lands owned by the horsey set. There were trails and pastures in addition to a competition class ring. The main stable was a formidable structure with many stalls, wooden with a corrugated metal roof.
One of the main stable's regular tenants was Scotch & Soda. He was a huge stallion, dappled in the color of whisky on the rocks with cream colored tail and mane. He was monstrous, dwarfing other horses in the stables. We wondered if he had some draft animal in his breeding, but his form and lines were that of a supersized thoroughbred. Despite hanging a pair, his disposition was calm and amicable. He was a favorite of everyone. His owner/rider was a large man in his forties, 6'4", robust, with auburn hair and a mustache. He was less cordial than his horse.
The stable manager had horses which the students rode. In addition, some owners lent their horses to the riding school so that they would get regular exercise. By and large, it was a better group of horses than those dedicated to "event" rides for the general public. They had spirit, respected and responded to riders (one Morgan had an attitude and was wily, but not jaded or ornery). Most of our training was in the ring, pacing the horses through multiple jumps. Every now and then, we would get to steeplechase or trail ride.
Though I didn't dress the part, having pointy-toed cowboy boots, a broad-brimmed Australian style hat, and an Argentine riding crop, I handled horses well with adept skill and excellent form. An owner of a gelded hunter jumper espied me dealing with the aforementioned Morgan and told the instructor that I could ride her horse, Sea Scout. Scout was four or five years old, very spirited, beautifully disciplined, and an absolute joy to ride. I was happy for the privilege, as my family's fortunes had taken a turn for the worst with my father's first heart attack. Without a free ride on Scout and a carpool with other riders, I would not have continued.
One fine Fall day, I had taken Scout on one of the trails. We'd walked, trotted, cantered, and jumped. As we entered a large field, we espied Scotch and Soda and his rider cantering into the same field a football pitch away. Scout was eager to gallup, and I gave him the reigns. This prompted Scotch & Soda to break into a gallup. Immediately, it was clear that his owner was displeased. He struggled to gain control of Scotch & Soda as he bellowed at me to reign in my horse. I reluctantly complied, turning Scout away from a fence line along a road and reducing him to a canter. The large man had no such luck. Scotch & Soda leapt the fence, landed in the dirt road, made a sharp left turn, and bolted up the road towards the stable with his rider desperately trying to stay atop him.
I took Scout back to his private stable, brushed him, put away the tack, checked his provisions, and walked back to the main stable to catch my ride. The manager espied me and pulled me aside. He quietly told me that Scotch & Soda's owner was upset with me. I told him what had transpired from my point of view. He put his hand on my shoulder and suggested it would be best not to gallup if I ever encountered them again and bade me to wait amidst the parked cars for my ride.
A few weeks later, there was a fire at the stable. Scotch & Soda and other horses were killed. The riding school suspended activity. I lost my ride. Thus ended my riding hunter jumpers on English tack. In the years since, I've periodically gone trail riding using western tack. These days, I much prefer it.
Last edited:
Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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Tin Man
Dirt's Childhood Playmate
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@malinoisvol @OneManGang
I've recovered pics of Miss Mynookie. She was a later model B24 with a nose turret. I was mistaken in my earlier posts.
I've recovered pics of Miss Mynookie. She was a later model B24 with a nose turret. I was mistaken in my earlier posts.
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