Today I heard a message from Obama that was clear to me
I love to hear Obama speak. There is something about what he says that appeals to something deep rooted in me. I have not been able to quite figure it out until today, when I heard his “closing argument” speech in Ohio. I’ll try to explain it.
First, let me say that I agree with some of his policies, and I disagree with others. For example, I like the idea of policies that encourage a fairer tax policy – I mean, who can say it is fair when a CEO walks away with millions and does not have to pay taxes on it due to big loopholes. And that money he or she walked away with was earned through, basically, fraud. And now my taxes are going towards cleaning up that huge mess while I see my savings shrink to nothing.
And who thinks it is fair when Bush provides tax incentives to mining companies who rape and pollute the land for their own gain, then leave the rest of us with a toxic landscape to clean up.
The current administration should be prosecuted in my opinion. I see them as criminals.
But I digress. These behaviors really get under my skin and I am ashamed of these people. But I do not see them as part of me or my country really. I know what makes me proud to be an American. I think of the day after 9/11 when I was in Manhattan and I saw strangers helping and comforting each other. When I see small communities bind together to help neighbors who have gotten ill and cannot pay their hospital bills. When my neighbor Edwin and his wife take an afternoon and mow the lawn and clean the yard of the fellow down the street who has injured his leg. I think of the members of Flight 93 who, in one of the more heroic times in our history, joined together and gave their lives to save others.
Americans come together and we help each other. We solve hard problems as a team, we boost one another as a community, we show compassion to other countries as a nation. Our strength is in our unity.
The babble babble of the right lately about Obama has rung hollow to me. Oooooh, socialist, liberal, marxist, blah blah. What childish name calling. They are basically saying “he’s going to rob you to give your money to someone else.”
That is what the GOP has been pushing since Reagan. Instead of America being about community, it is all about “me”. My money, my ideas, my buddies. Me me me me me. Good Lord, what are we, two years old?
In Obama’s speech today what I heard was, it is about “us”. All of us. We are stronger together than apart. We have a responsibility to not only ourselves, but to each other. And if we work together, and support one another, we will all benefit and as a whole we will be stronger. We are a family, and it is time we started acting like one.
In Memory of Pam Jackson
On Saturday evening October 11, my Dad called me as I was driving home to tell me that Pam Jackson – our friend, and a beloved friend to scores of people within and outside of the horse community – had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. I had seen Pam less than 2 weeks before this, and I was immensely stunned and saddened at this tragic news. Yesterday I was honored as I was asked if I might write a tribute to Pam. I have been thinking of what to write, and I came to the conclusion that I should write about Pam as I knew her – as my friend and part of our Friesian family. So this is a personal story, but I hope from this story readers will get to know or remember Pam and feel the love and respect I have for her.
In 2002, Karen Waldron hosted a keuring at her estate in southwestern Virginia. The “Belle of the Ball” was a stunning mare named Lies van Bommelsteyn. Lies became Model mare and Best of Show that day. My parents were vocally enthusiastic as Lies took the honors. “That’s Pam Jackson’s horse!”, my mom exclaimed. “You remember Pam, she used to show saddle horses with your sister and Karen Waldron when y’all were kids”. I could not quite remember (I was a kid a long time ago), so my dad just grinned and said “Pam is a great lady”. After all those years, my parents still had an obvious affection for Pam, and that was how I was reintroduced to her.
Over time I would see Pam more and more – at inspections, shows, FHANA meetings. She and her husband Bill were inseparable in their devotion to one another and their love of their horses. Pam became a breeder of some of the best Friesians in North America. I would look for Pam and Bill at each Friesian event. Often I would see Bill first. He’d give me a big hug and ask about my family and I would kiss him on the cheek and ask how he and Pam were. Soon I’d ask about the horses – where they were showing, and what the plans were for the next breeding season. Bill would just laugh, point to his wife, and say “you’ll have to ask the boss!”. Very few knew Friesian horses as well as Pam. As soon as I could, I’d monopolize Pam’s time, asking her about the new crop of stallions or how the training of her show horses was going. I remember her laughing that infectious deep belly laugh followed by some incisive quip in her smooth South Carolina drawl. I loved the sound of Pam’s laugh; sometimes I would try to say something funny, just to hear her laugh.
In 2004 Pam persuaded our family to bring two of our horses to Statesville, NC for a Friesian under Saddle class Pam was organizing at a big saddlebred show. We are not really into the show circuit, but Pam was a woman on a mission and it was tough to say no to one so passionate. She felt very strongly that the Friesians needed to be performance horses. “Jeannine”, she would say (Pam would start many sentences to me by saying my name first. This is an old southern trait that shows friendship and respect to the listener). “People need to see these horses. It is good for the breed”. After that show it took us 2 hours to get our horses from the stable to the horse trailer 100 yards away. We were swamped by crowds of people wanting to know about this beautiful, impressive breed. Once again, Pam Jackson was right and had done yet another positive thing for the Friesian horse and our Friesian community.
Later on Pam became heavily involved in the Friesian performance horse group, IFSHA, and her horses competed all over the southeast. I saw Pam’s mare Tessa van de Zuiderwaard in Roanoke at one of Tessa’s first showings as she blew away everything in the ring that night. I was so impressed that I meandered to the stables to see the horse, not knowing a thing about her. The rider, Ashley Walker, told me a lady named Pam Jackson owned the mare. “Of course”, I thought. “Who else…” Tessa went on to win nearly every class she ever entered as she had the show career of a lifetime for a Friesian in saddleseat. Pam and Bill became good friends of Tessa’s breeder, Femmy Fien from the Netherlands. Femmy has since visited the Jacksons often to see Tessa and Tessa’s brother Maurice compete. And so, through her horses, Pam is loved in the Netherlands, just as she has been loved here in the US.
Pam has hosted the South Carolina keuring for the last three years and it was at that keuring this past September that I last saw Pam. She was running on all cylinders to get through the keuring as organizer and owner of a number of adult horses and foals. She excitedly told me about her and Bill’s plans to go to the IFSHA show with Femmy in late October. Thinking of hauling those expensive horses for thirteen hours to attend a show sort of made my eyes glass over. Pam saw this and said, you guessed it, “Jeannine, people need to see them. It is good for the breed.”
At the time, we were standing over by Tessa’s stall. Tessa is now retired from the show ring, but was there in the keuring stall with a little filly by her side. “I thought she was not pregnant this year”, I said. Pam’s face softened and she stroked Tessa’s nose. “Tessa was not pregnant. This baby’s mother rejected her and Tessa took her in and has adopted her.” I could not believe it – Tessa adopted this baby without even having any milk for her (and thus – one would think – no maternal instinct). I commented on that to Pam and Pam just said “Tessa is special. She has a heart of gold”.
You know, you can tell the character of a group of people by the character of their leader. In a similar way, you could tell the character of Pam’s horses by knowing Pam. Like Pam, her horses are tough and impressive. They are also kind and dedicated. When I think of Bill and the horses and all of us without Pam, I get overwhelmingly sad. I have to think of something to cheer me up. Somehow I imagine Pam is with her own angel now. An angel, who like Tessa, took a wide-eyed newcomer and is teaching her the ropes. And no one deserves that angel like Pam does – Pam was, and always will be, special, with a heart of gold.
Dahlia’s new foal and the letter to my vet
Today I mailed off a letter to my vet, Heather Jenkins. She is a wonderful vet and has been great with our horses. She is practical, yet kind. Knowledgable and skilled, yet always open to learning more. We are lucky to have her. She helped me navigate some tricky waters yesterday and today I mailed a letter to her. The contents were of some thoughts I had concerning Dahlias new foal. I do not think Heather will mind if I share this…
May 30, 2008
Heather,
Sometimes I write down the stories of things that happen to me. I have found that I enjoy this, and it helps give me insights to my own thoughts/feelings. And besides, the stories on southwest Virginia and the horses are good stories that deserve telling.
Yesterday I wrote to my other Friesian breeding friends – the people I am closest to. Here, with a few edits, is what I said:
You are all my best Friesian friends. I probably will not post this, because it goes to my heart. But I wanted to tell you about my day.
Dahlia delivered at 1:15 am and it was picture perfect. It could not have gone any smoother. I gave the enema (“ah. a colt”), he nursed. I went to bed exhausted but relieved.
Today I called the vet to do a vet check. At eleven she got there and said “oh, a filly!” Huh? How did I get that wrong? Well, I had the feeling Dahlia would have a colt. Dad thought a filly. We were both right. This sweet, beautiful baby has a congenital defect in the reproductive system. He is a little of both. So, he pees funny and has odd looking privates. And his testes are sort of here, there everywhere. But otherwise, he is perfect in every way. He is just “special”.
I read up on this defect. It is not hereditary, so neither Dahlia nor Feike is at fault. It is just one of those things that happens in utero every now and then. There is no reason this horse cannot be a wonderful trail horse and companion. You just need to make sure he is gelded early and his hormone levels are monitored so he will not be a problem at puberty.
But of course it makes no sense to try to register him or send him to a keuring. He is not “up to snuff” per the KFPS. After the vet and Va Tech confirmed the diagnosis, I was a little at a loss. I could not really sell him to people wanting a sporthorse. And I did not want to sell him to someone who would not care for him, or would look down on him because he is “different”. But I could not keep him as a pasture ornament. I do not have the space or money for it. I asked my vet, should I euthanize him? “DONT YOU DARE” she exclaiimed. “He is perfect except for this one thing. I will find a home for him or take him myself. He is wonderful.”
“OK”, I said “I will keep him with his momma and our herd until he is weaned. Then we will find him a good home”.
Two hours later my vet called. One of her vet techs, who has little money but adores Friesians and has always wanted one of ours (“an Everhart Friesian!.” That is what she calls them.), heard about my little fellow from the vet. She came to see him and fell in love immediately. She asked if I would sell him, because she would give him a great home (I knew this would be true because it was the vet who made this match).
Unlike a lot of Friesian owners, this family is not exactly rolling in money. But they are horse people and know Friesians. I gave her the Friesian magazine with Feike’s picture on the front. And I told her about how talented Dahlia is as a carriage horse. “I will teach the baby to ride AND drive”, she said. I told her that if she would pay my dad to baby train the foal until he was weaned, she could have the horse. I could see she was filled with joy.
And so my sweet little colt has been sold. He will live with us until he is weaned. Every day he will play with our other colt and be admired by his mother, who thinks he is absolutely perfect. When he reaches puberty he will be with an owner and vet who understand his special needs and will help him, so he will keep his good heart, and remain a safe horse. He will be just 20 minutes away where we can visit him any time. He will be with a family who does not care that he is a little different. A little special.
As they were leaving, the young woman’s mother, who is paying for 1/2 the horse, said to me “I am sorry the breeding program did not go well for you this year. But I promise he will have a good home.”. And I asked the young woman, “will you love this horse?”. “Oh yes, I already love him”. “And”, I said, “will you work with him every day and teach him so he will be a good partner and companion?” “Yes,” she said, “I will not spoil him, and I will always be kind to him and teach him”.
“So,” I told the mother. “I think this year my breeding program has been a great success”.
Atticus is a big name for an Appalachian vet tech to remember/appreciate. So, we have decided to call him my favorite Friesian name – Tsjip (“Chip”).
I am not so keen on the hand I was dealt today, but I must say, it played out well.
As odd as it may sound, today I am very grateful.
Regine Brockway, a small but incredibly experienced breeder in Washington State, answered me with this:
dear jeannine,
i read your story and while i feel for you, i am glad that you decided AGAINST euthenization. nature sometimes plays us a bad hand, but i do not consider a hermaphrodite to be one. i have met 3 altogether and i must admit, all three impressed me because of their beauty, athleticism and kindness. you have a lot of “positives” of two genders combined in one horse with both gender specific genitalias. it is nothing to be embarrassed about. fact is, the foal is healthy. while it may not be a profitable business endeavor, i think you got your satisfaction by making someone extremely happy today, which may not have been the case if the foal had been a single gender. you also found a heavenly place for your foal by finding someone who will love him regardless what “it” is.
i give you a big hug and while i am sad that you did not get the filly you were hoping for, i am glad that tsjip is healthy and will have a happy life!
So, my final thoughts?
I feel grateful because I got so many life lessons over this. I saw a kind vet who went out of her way. I met a wonderful family who knows the value of a great horse and does not care that he is a little different. I am a little “different” myself, and this meant a lot to me. My friends have been so sweet and it is comforting to know they are there. I see how Dahlia loves and cares for her baby – and I’ll swear, she really is proud of him – and I realize (yet again) that animals often have their priorities correct when we do not. And I got all these lessons at almost no cost – monetary or otherwise. Sure, I am out the breeding/vet costs, but they were not that great. And the baby and Dahlia are completely healthy – no one even had to go to the hospital. Not even a retained placenta! Many of my friends lost foals or (shudder) their mares this year. Mine are fine, and I am immensely grateful for that.
So there were a lot of gifts to me.
Well, now I look to 2009. Since the winter I had been considering only breeding Cori, and leaving Dahlia open since the economy is a bit tough and I figured I might have Dahlia’s foal on the property a while. But now, he has a good home to go to in 5-6 months.
Hmm, maybe I will breed Dahlia this spring after all….
Heather, thank you for all you do.
- Jeannine
What’s a “Risin”?
In three weeks mom will graduate from Va Tech with a Master’s degree. She accomplished this while working full time, and as an “older student”. For a final assignment mom wrote an essay about her experiences in medicine in rural North Carolina. I thought this essay was very entertaining and well-written and asked her if I could post it on my blog. She said yes, and here it is!
What’s a “Risin”?
A Short Essay on Health Literacy In Rural N.C. 1961-2000
In late August of 1961, a young physician just out of the Air Force, his nurse-wife, three young children, and an old Chevrolet car came to rural North Carolina to set up a family practice in medicine. The young “doc” just wanted to be the country doctor in the south that took care of his patients from the “cradle to the grave.” His first office was in an old store building and was financed with a personal loan from the local bank. The loan was for five thousand dollars and was secured with a handshake and a promise to work hard and repay the loan as soon as possible. The doors opened on the first Monday after Labor Day and this was the beginning of an odyssey that lasted for forty years. In that time, the doctor and his wife learned the most valuable lessons of their entire lives.
Lesson number one – you may live in America, but do you speak the language? The office had only been open for a few days when a young man came in complaining of a risin in his grind. The doctor looked in amazement; medical school never mentioned a risin and where was the grind? After several moments, some sign language, and a request to “Please, can you show me where the problem is on your body?” the young man pulled down his trousers and underwear to expose his groin area and a large carbuncle. The problem started with a single furuncle (boil) and the infection had spread to the entire groin area. Fortunately, penicillin was available, warm soaks were applied, and soon he was well again. The doctor was medically educated and a every good physician, but that day he became aware of a language barrier that he had not been taught existed.
Lesson number two – assume nothing and be sure the patient understands what you are saying. Several months after opening his practice, the new doctor was doing better financially and was able to hire a nurse to work beside him while his wife did the business of office administrator, bill collector, signing in patients and all other business aspects of the practice. One early fall morning, a very pregnant young lady came into the office with the announcement, “I think I’m stagnant, can I see the doctor?” It took a few moments for the nurse to realize the patient meant she was pregnant, had not seen a doctor and wanted to be sure that if she went into labor the doctor would deliver her baby. When all logistics were settled, the nurse took the patient to one of the examining rooms to prepare the patient for the doctor to examine her. The patient was told that sheets were at the foot of the examining table and that she should take off all her clothes and get on the table. The doctor would arrive shortly to check her. The physician received the shock of his life when he opened the door to the examining room and found an eight-month pregnant, seventeen year old standing completely nude on top of the table. She had done as the nurse requested, taken off her clothes and gotten up on the table. She didn’t know what the sheets were for, so she left them at the foot of the table.
Lesson three – if the patient reads his chart be sure to be there to explain the medical jargon. After several more years, the doctor had matured and so had his practice. He now felt comfortable with the language barriers and understood that fittin meant fighting; a pone was not cornbread but a swelling on a particular area of the body, and it was acceptable to tell patients that bathing helped to prevent skin problems. One thing he had not learned at this point was that the patient might not understand medical jargon and the context in which it is used. At the time of this disaster in the making, a female came to the office where a history and physical was done. One of the questions asked concerned pregnancy. Gravid meant times pregnant, para meant number of babies delivered, and abortion meant loss of a child during pregnancy, whether medically induced or spontaneous. To the lay public, at this time, abortion meant criminal abortion, since all abortions were illegal.
The lady’s chart was left on the desk beside her while she awaited the arrival of the physician. As most patients will do, she began to read her chart. When the doctor arrived and opened the door he was met by a very angry lady. In loud tones, she announced, “I have never had an abortion and I will not have that on my chart!” The doctor told her that yes, she had experienced an abortion in the past. Once again she announced that she had never had an abortion and resented the fact that he was writing false information in her medical record. It was at this time, the physician realized that to this patient she was speaking of a criminal abortion. He every quietly and calmly set her down and explained to her it was a miscarriage and to the medical community an abortion and a miscarriage were the same thing. He knew she was innocent of wrongdoing and remembered the pain she had felt on losing her baby. Once the patient understood the medical jargon and was soothed, she left feeling much better and remained a loyal patient for many years. She knew the doctor cared about her and had time to explain and correct problems if and when they arose.
Lesson number four – if the patient is unknown to you but has a chart, study the medical record before you assume you know everything. Several years later, the nurse-wife became a nurse practitioner and took care of the doctor’s practice when he was at a meeting or out of town. She felt very smart and thought she could take care of patients as good as any one. One day, she had a rude awakening. One of the doctor’s regular patients came in for a check-up. The nurse practitioner went into the room and began her examination. She did not check on the past history of the patient and knew nothing about him. While talking with the patient she learned he was a famous “fiddle” player. Now, she was really feeling that she was good at what she was doing. While examining the patient she noticed he did not have a complete thumb on his right hand. Showing empathy and a concern for the patient and his loss of the digit, she began to question how he could continue to play the ” fiddle” when he didn’t have all his fingers .The patient looked at her very soulfully and explained that he could not play as good as he once had. When she asked him when and how he had lost the thumb, he stated that he lost it at age eight playing games at home.
All the anecdotes the author has used are real and did happen. They are related as close to fact as can be remembered. In forty years, one of the greatest lessons learned is that low- literate may be applied to the patient, but perhaps it should be applied to the caregiver, too. As caregivers, we may not understand the language, the culture, the gestures, the body language, or many other things that make each patient unique. This week we had a patient in our rehabilitation unit that was thought to be mentally handicapped. Once it was ascertained that she was very hard of hearing, and sound magnifiers were applied, the staff learned she was very bright. Every day it is a challenge to cross the barriers before us in order to deliver the best care possible to each individual.
Floyd County and the Locust Tree Story
This Saturday was gorgeous in Southwest Virginia. After a lot of tough days we decided to head out to Floyd County, about 20 minutes away. Now, I must say, I really love Floyd county. It is such a beautiful and oddly weird, eclectic place. Half the populace is made up of old time farmers. The other half is comprised of new age artists and organic farmers in the granola/birkenstock tradition. If you were to see a fellow with draft horses pulling a wagon down the street, you would not be surprised, and when I saw someone driving on a country road in his energy efficient, electric golf cart… well, that did not surprise me either. Almost everyone I know around here is enchanted with Floyd County.
The place is growing. There is only one town of any size in Floyd County, and that town is called Floyd. There is actually a stoplight at the major intersection. Just past the stoplight, the Floyd Country Store, home of the famous Friday night jamboree, is newly renovated. Floyd now has a small hotel (built with sustainable. renewable materials, of course) and a small set of shops for the timberwrights, photographers and local artists.
As I walked around town Saturday I found a new shop had opened – this one specialized in handbuilt furniture and millwork. Sam, the owner, makes everything from local woods and from scratch. All the hardwood flooring, wainscotting, fireplace mantles, stair parts – all of it was done by Sam. I was pretty impressed. An older woman who works for Sam was running the shop. She was a small woman quietly sitting in the back, working a jigsaw puzzle. As I looked more through the store I was taken by the fact that everything in there was hand made. By a local guy. This amazed me – it was like a trip back in time. Not one “made in China” sticker anywhere. I asked the woman (whose name I did not catch, I am sorry to say), if the owner actually made all his own hardwood flooring. “Oh yes”, she said, and looked down at the different floor patterns where we were standing. “This is cherry”, she said, pointing to the back wall. “And this, well this is a stressed maple. That over there is red oak. And the part you are standing on, that is locust”.
“Locust!” I exclaimed. “I have never heard of a hardwood flooring made of locust.”
“Well”, says the woman, Sam uses anything he can get his hands on. This is yellow locust, but when they first put it down it was an ugly green. Now it has turned a kind of a golden color.” The woman had an interesting expression on her face as she looked at the flooring. Kind of a mix of admiration and disgust. Having grown up around locust trees my entire life, I understood completely.
“Those locust trees,” I said. “You don’t know whether to praise them or curse them. They make such nice fence posts because they never rot. The wood is harder than oak. No wood smells better when burning in the woodstove. But Lordy, they are ugly, they have stickers (thorns), the limbs fall off all the time, they take over your pasture, and when there is a storm they are nothing but lightening rods. They get struck ALL the time.”
“Oh yes, you are right about that”, the woman exclaimed. I could see her face kind of relax. I knew she was thinking of a memory and a good story was coming.
“When I was a little girl, my momma took her metal bucket and went out to pick some berries. All of a sudden a big ol’ thunderstorm came up. It came so fast and fierce that there was no way she could get back home. ”
I could see this in my mind’s eye. “Don’t tell me she went under a locust tree to get out of the rain!”. I didn’t even want to think of that. We are fearful when horses go under the locusts trees during an electrical storm. Many a farm animal has died that way.
The woman’s voice started to rise and she was filling with emotion from her story. “Oh yes! And not only did she go under the tree, well she turned that metal bucket upside down and sat down on it!”.
At first I laughed, but then there was a silence as she looked me in the eye. “Oh no”, I said. “Don’t tell me she got struck by lightning”.
“No, but that tree sure did. And”, the woman added, loudly and seriously “it blew her right off of that bucket!”
Fortunately, momma was safe, even though she got blown off her bucket. I can’t help but wonder if she has a circular scar on her behind.
I’ll never see another thunderstorm when I do not think of momma and her berries, all asunder. And the next time I put down a hardwood floor, I think I’ll see if Sam can make me a nice one out of locust.
