Looking for something nice to do this upcoming steamy Saturday? Well, if you live in or near Litchfield County, CT, I have a lovely plan for you.

First, arrive in Washington Depot at around noon and enjoy a tasty lunch at either The Pantry or Marty’s. Then, at 2:00, make your way over to the Hickory Stick Bookshop, where my friend Wendy Burden will be signing copies of her book Dead End Gene Pool until 3:00. I’l be there with her! It’s air-conditioned and, in my humble opinion, the nicest independent book store in New England.

After you’re done meeting Wendy, browsing, and perhaps purchasing a book for yourself or a loved one, hop into your car and head on over to Roxbury’s 36th annual Pickin’ and Fiddlin’ Contest – a really fun outdoor music festival to benefit the Roxbury Volunteer Fire Department. There are banjo players, fiddlers, and other strummers and pickers, young and old, from all over the country playing great bluegrass and country music all afternoon and evening. Bring the kids. Pack a picnic basket. It’s a blast, and for a great cause.

Or, if you’re not up for a crowd, drive to Steep Rock Land Preserve, which is about three minutes away from the Hickory Stick. I would suggest you walk, but it’s going to be so hot out. At Steep Rock, it always feels about 20 degrees cooler than everywhere else, because you are hiking along the cool rushing waters of the Shepaug River, under the shade of towering hemlock trees. You can sit on the river bank and read your new book, or chat with a friend, or even go in the river for a swim.

After your Steep Rock meanderings, head on over to the GW Tavern, also in Washington Depot, for a nice cold beer and a burger. My friend Joy is the bartender. She’s also an EMT in training, so be extra nice!

If you are unable to do any of the above, why not order Wendy’s book from the Hickory Stick by calling their toll free number: 1-800-255-2665 and asking them to have Wendy personalize a book for you? That way, when we discuss the book with her in an upcoming live chat (to be scheduled soon, promise), you’ll already know what her signature looks like! Many people don’t realize that independent booksellers are happy to have authors sign books for individuals and then ship them out. Just try to get Amazon or Walmart to do that. They won’t. So go on the Hickory Stick website and if you see any upcoming author appearances, you can request a personalized, autographed book. It really makes a great gift.

Now, must study. Have a certain final exam tonight. Can somebody please tell me what to do to treat a priapism?

I had a full day.

I was up with the dawn because the puppy needed to go out and the animals all needed to be fed before I headed off to be on a television show.  I was co-host on Better Connecticut with Scot Haney again today and I couldn’t possibly have had more fun.  Here’s a clip that I was able to lift from the web.  I was given a DVD of the entire show and would like to figure out how to load clips from it onto the blog, because we had a woman celebrating her 102nd birthday on the show and she was amazing.  She was beautiful and bright and lighthearted and she had hand-crocheted the most intricately worked lace doilies for us.  I just loved meeting her. She was born in 1908.

Then I came home and had some fun taking photographs of animals enjoying the galley of my friend Julie Klam’s forthcoming book, YOU HAD ME AT WOOF.  My favorite of the photos is this:

That’s my friend Jenny Carolan’s dog Rugby, above. He is quite the character, as you can see.  I also like the photo below:

Okay, this is the best:

Alright, my favorite:

And then I went riding and found that I could videotape our silhouette – our shadow, on the grass, climbing up and down the hills with us.  I could have done a better job editing. At one point we were cantering quite fast and I had to mess around with the reins. It was a beautiful day for a ride. Hope you like the video.  If you can’t see the embedded video, click here.

Mark must review anything that is blogged about him (in his contract)

Last month I moved Mark, my boyfriend horse from our property to the farm of my friend Jenny.  I moved him there because our driveway has been almost completely washed away this winter and until it’s fixed, it’s hard getting the horse trailer in and out. So I thought I’d move Mark to Jen’s so that I can ride every day.  Jen’s beautiful farm abuts the Hidden Valley section of Steep Rock Land Preserve and there are miles and miles of well-maintained trails all around.  Jen is a veterinarian and she takes in horses who are recovering from surgery and need to have special care during their recovery time.  She also takes in regular boarders like me and Mark.

Mark is in heaven.  Seriously, he is at the horse version of a Four Seasons resort.   Jen keeps an immaculate barn and the stalls and aisles are so clean that I almost feel that I should wipe me feet when entering.  Mark’s not completely anal, but he likes a tidy stall.  What he really likes, though, is his personal space.  At home, he’s turned out in a weedy field with Gabriel and Snoopy, who are pushy, and Mark’s a little bit, well, he’s kind of a… a wuss – there, now you know – so he spends a lot of the day getting pushed around by the bigger horses. If he finds a nice patch of clover to nibble, Snoopy barges over and shoves him out of the way.  On his way into the barn at night, he must wait for Gabriel and Snoopy to enter first, because they’re a herd and he’s the bottom-dweller (I know, it breaks my heart).  At Jen’s, however, Mark gets an entire paddock to himself.  He can see the other horses who are each in their own paddocks, but he doesn’t have to share his grass with them.

So, after a restful night’s sleep in his luxuriously bedded stall, Mark is led out to his private paddock where he spends his mornings grazing and wandering around admiring the view. The afternoons are devoted to recreation and we often have ourselves a nice jog and canter down to the Shepaug River where Mark likes to splash around and goof off. Then, of course, he must take in a little sustenance so I allow him to stop and graze all the way back to the barn.

But wait, why am I telling you all this?   Why don’t you come along with us for a ride?

Sorry about the shakycam again. I was holding reins with one hand and camera with other. Yes, Mark was dragging his feet a little at the end. That closed trail was a bummer for him as it meant a slight detour.

Here’s the link for those whose computers can’t read video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MP2UrVoxN-k

Wicked old photo

Here in Connecticut, the weather has been beautiful and nobody loves glorious weather more than us (we?) New Englanders because it’s so cold in the winter, muggy in the summer and rainy, drizzly, foggy and muddy in between.  But this past week has been warm and sunny, and last Saturday, I loaded Mark onto the trailer for our first trip back to Steep Rock.

Mark hadn’t been ridden since last spring and as I groomed him and tacked him up, he became excited, to put it mildly.  He was doing a little tap-dance in the barn aisle, stepping this way and that, puffing and blowing air through his nostrils and trumpeting long, drawn-out and almost deafeningly loud bursts of flatulence every few minutes and apparently his nervous energy frightened Holly and she hightailed it down to the house.  That little dog usually sticks to my side.  I can’t go anywhere without her following me, including the bathroom.  I don’t like going to the bathroom with a little terrier staring quizzically at me, her head cocked, ears perked, so I must push her out the door, which she takes very personally and I always have to be careful not to shut the door on her muzzle.  She just doesn’t understand why she can’t enjoy EVERYTHING with me.

So last weekend, Denis was home with a very bad cold and was inside watching a game when Holly suddenly appeared at the screen door.  So surprised was Denis to see Holly without me, that he thought that Holly had pulled a Lassie.  He thought I was hurt and that Holly had run down to the house to get help.  I’m choking with laughter right now at the very idea of this.  My animals are very much of the every-man-for-himself mindset, and all would happily leave me in danger’s way to save their own hides.

So Denis came running up to the barn, God bless him, expecting to find me staggering around, drooling and grinning insipidly with a horse shoe embedded in my brain.  Instead, he found me currying my little tap-dancing grey horse, drooling and grinning insipidly, brain perfectly intact.

Well, now I’ve run out of time to write about our adventures in Steep Rock.

Tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I’m sorry to report that poor Holly is under the weather.  She spent the night before last throwing up and I took her to the vet yesterday.  It’s a very irritated stomach, probably from something she ate.  Some dogs are quite stoic.  Our old Pongo barely whined when he was run over by a car and he tried to trot away with a broken pelvis.  Other dogs like to have everyone  know that they’re suffering and do all sorts of sad walking around with lowered head, sad eyes and tail tucked between their legs.  Holly, we’ve discovered, is one of these.  We have reinforced the sad-sack behavior by cuddling her constantly and gushing, “Oh, you poor puppy!  You POOR, POOR, puppy!”   We have no idea if she’s still sick or if we have just trained her to lie around looking like this, for extra kisses:

Remember when I blogged about the New York Times coming to our house to interview us and take our photos? Well, I have just received an email from our very own Tracy, informing me that the piece is up on the Times’ website. You can view it here.

There’s a slideshow on the Times site and I’ve nabbed some photos to post here.  The photographer, Andrew Sullivan, was really great, as was Beth Maker, the reporter.

Now do you see why I love that grey horse almost more than life itself?  Have you ever seen a horse with a sweeter expression. Love.

Here I am trying to be all pose-y.

Well, it’s hard being photographed next to HIM.  He always looks good..

I’m still trying to sort our how to arrange photos in this new format.  Is it weird to have typing in between the photos like this?

Here’s a shot of our home:

Please go on the site if you want to see the slideshow.  There are a few blog mentions, so everybody on their best behavior tonight.  Tea bags are for brewing tea!

A few weeks ago, I received a call from my book publicist. He told me that he had just given my agent’s phone number to somebody at Town and Country magazine.  Town and Country had an idea for me, he said. He actually used the word “collaboration.”  It was something they wanted me to write. They would be in touch by the end of the day

My first thought was that Town and Country wanted me to write an article for them.  But why wouldn’t they just contact me directly?  And why did they use the word “collaboration” and want to speak with my agent?  Suddenly, I knew what they were after.  Town and Country wanted me to write a column for them.  A regular column in which I would cover all my exciting goings on in town…and in the country.  It would be sort of like this blog – but I would get paid.  A lot.

I actually rushed out and bought Town and Country, and after leafing through its glossy pages, I realized why they wanted me.  They needed me.  This is one dull magazine.  Where to Shop, Where to Stay, What to Buy –  do people even care about stuff like that anymore?  No, thought I, they most certainly do not.

I was then stricken with this toxic combination of self-delusion and self-glorification that was escalating by the second and making it hard for me to sit still.  The publishers of Town and Country needed somebody to change the whole tone of the magazine and they knew just the gal to do it.  With a zippy column penned by me, about the really important things in the Town (where you can safely lock your bike, best dog parks, cool movie premieres) and the Country (horses, dogs,attack sheep, cool author interviews) they would have to brace themselves for the swelling circulation, the demands for space from advertisers and the need to start throwing an annual Town and Country Oscar party, hosted by … well, me!

Everywhere I looked I saw an idea for my column.  Everyone I spoke to became interesting future interviewees for my column.  Oh, my column.  My beautiful, beautiful column.

Well, the day ended with no call from my agent (whom I, of course had alerted to be on standby for their call).

The next day, still no call.

About a week later, I received a call from a friend in my town who is also a writer.  She was writing a piece for Town and Country!  Could she possibly have a photographer take photos of me riding my horse in Steep Rock for her piece?

So, they didn’t really want me to write a column.  I found out from a friend that Town and Country was looking for names of writers in the area, to write this piece, and my name was one.  My friend was the other.

I’m not exactly in a shame/self-loathing spiral.  It’s more like a little shame/self-loathing curtsy.

Well, yesterday, I had to leave the country to go to the town. I took a few photos with my iphone so that I could fool around with the photo placement capabilities of the new blog format.  I like how you can place them side-by-side.

I took the photo to the right while driving over my “Bridge of Sighs.”  It’s the bridge I must drive over every time I enter or leave our area.  I always sigh at the beauty of the lake, whenever I cross it, though it does have a rather spooky history.

When I arrived in the city I took a picture of the George Washington Bridge. Entering Manhattan, the way I do, on the Westside Highway has got to be the most beautiful drive into any American city.  The mighty Hudson is on your right, the George Washington Bridge looms ahead, and if you’re stuck in traffic, you can watch the trucks and cars crossing its span, carrying cargo and executives and musicians and waitresses and maybe even a writer or two into and out of the city.  There are massive barges being guided up and down the river by tugboats.  There’s a boat basin where sailboats bob up and down during nicer weather and there’s even a little lighthouse at the base of the George Washington Bridge, though you can’t see it when you’re driving. We have an apartment downtown, and I’m finally used to that hole in the sky where the WTC towers once stood.  Instead I focus on all the beautiful parks that have sprouted up along the river in the last decade or so. I love New York.

Yes, I took this photo while driving. Yes, I know, I know.

Somebody needs a little horsey Prozac:
He was just sad to be left behind today. Have I mentioned that I’m rather fond of this horse?
Well, I was up with the dawn to feed the horses and then I met up with the Little Britches gang at the Washington Horse Show. The Washington Horse show is an annual horse show to benefit Steep Rock Land Preserve and there is a category for handicapped riders. I assisted three young riders who all won ribbons (deservedly so, they all did an outstanding job). Then, when the Little Britches riders went home, it was still early so I drove home, watched Denis and his friends play street hockey for a nanosecond, then loaded up Snoopy, picked up Jen and a new horse she’s trying out and headed BACK to Steep Rock, just to see how the new horse would do with the show crowd and the trails and the river and everything. New horse (yet unnamed – have at it, blog readers) did wonderfully.
He’s a Paint Horse, which is a type of horse that usually has large white splotches on a darker colored coat. Sometimes it’s the opposite – dark splotches on a white coat. This horse has a white splotch that looks like the continent of Africa on his rump. I wish I took a photo of that. I thought Africa might be a good name, but Jenny already has a mare called India.

Well behaved Paint Horse with Africa on his butt is for sale by the way. Christmas is just around the corner!

(Blogger’s note – photos below were added later. They were sent by our friends whom we saw at the show):

And to prove you can hug your horse with helmet on:

It was just another gorgeous fall day. When I arrived home, I let Snoopy graze in the yard while Denis and I sat outside, and I heard all the gossip about this week on the set, while the dogs put on a show:


Then I hung with Mark a little. Sorry about the dumpster. It’s still there from my dehoarding weekend with Meg.

I’ve blogged before about what a spooky time of year this is, here in New England. The days are getting shorter, but our windows are still open so we can hear all sorts of madness outside, which makes some of us a little mad inside. During the last full moon, I had a terrible time sleeping. The next morning, I was talking to a friend who lives in a neighboring town, and he said that he had been sitting out on his porch until three in the morning, unable to sleep as well.

“It was the coyotes screeching that kept me up,” I said.

“Oh no, that was me,” he quickly replied. “I’m surprised my cries of anguish carried that far.”

Last night I got a little spooked again. I was standing at the back door, calling in the dogs, before I went to bed. I leave the screen door closed when I call the dogs, because I believe that the past few times we’ve had bat invasions, they flew in over my head while I was yodeling out the door for my dogs. So, last night, I was calling away, when I noticed a small piece of paper that somebody had slipped in between the screen and the frame of our screen door. It was on the outside, so I opened the door and removed the paper. On it was a name, which appeared to be Cory or Rory, and a phone number with a local prefix.

I studied the paper carefully, then looked out into the darkness, my heart racing. We live in the middle of nowhere. If a civilized person drove up the driveway, they would have left their number at the front door. You would have to come creeping out of the woods to leave your number at our back door. You would have to be a madman who came creeping out of the woods.

Who was this Rory (or Cory)?

I studied the number. There was something familiar about it. The last digits were (let’s say) 1212. I kept repeating them over and over. 1212, 1212. There was just something about the number. I remembered that you can do a reverse phone number search so, after the dogs came inside, I went to my laptop and shakily typed in the entire number. That’s when I realized who it was. It was me. That’s our number. I looked at the slip of paper, now, with my glasses on, and saw that it said, Leary, not Cory or Rory and that it was followed by our number. Then I realized that we had the screen replaced, recently, as a certain mentally challenged member of our pack leapt through it not long ago, leaving a hole that was like one of those cartoon silhouettes of her body.

Mystery solved. The screen door people had stuck our name and number on our new screen. It only took me 45 minutes (of hyperventilating inner hysteria) to solve the whole thing. Really, I should offer up my services to the Feds. There is no mystery I can’t solve, given ample time and a working computer, as long as the culprit is me.

This is what I managed to do before I got kicked in the head by a horse today:
Yes, I was going to have hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. I put the eggs in the water, set the pot on the burner and said to myself, remember what happened last time! Mustn’t forget the eggs! Then I decided to run upstairs to answer a couple of emails and …yadda, yadda, yadda…what’s that funny smell coming from downstairs?

People, I can’t tell you how many times I have done this. A timer. Why don’t I set a timer?

So I had oatmeal for breakfast, then trailered Mark to my friend Jen’s again. Jenny and I are trying to get our very unfit horses into shape. We think we might take them to a few hunter paces this year. So, off we went. It was chilly and sunny and windy today, which I love. I just love the fall. We rode through fields, up and down hills. We admired a wonderful old tree with a very inviting swing hanging from one of its branches.

Can you see it?

It was just one of those days when you think, if my life ended right now, I would die a happy woman. And then my life almost ended and I realized that I wouldn’t die a happy woman, I would die a very angry woman with a horseshoe embedded in her brain.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. First I want to explain that my daughter went to a 4/H camp for a couple of summers. The kids all brought their little ponies to camp. Dev brought Snoopy. On the first day of 4/H camp, the kids are shown a film called Every Ride, Every Time. It’s a safety film about the importance of wearing helmets when riding horses. There are all sorts of testimonials from bereaved parents and spouses of people who were killed because they were riding without helmets. The film was very effective because after watching, Dev and her friends didn’t want to be in the same county with a horse without helmets on. So, I always ride with a helmet. Except for the other day, of course, when I took it off so Dev could take my picture.

I didn’t want to be photographed wearing the dorky helmet. I put it on after the photo. Thank goodness a gigantic tree limb didn’t come crashing down behind us as it did today, causing Mark and Levi to spook and Mark to spin so rapidly that I was caught unprepared (I was slouched back in the saddle, gossiping to Jen, the rein dangling from my fingertips) and I was unseated and fell under my horse and then was kicked HARD in the head with his big metal horseshoe-clad hoof. He didn’t mean to kick me, my head was just in the way of his flailing hooves.

Well, I was wearing a helmet. I stood up and said, “I was kicked in the head!” Jen had caught Mark and she asked if I was okay. I just stood there for a moment, waiting for gray matter to come seeping out of my ears, for my frontal lobe to suddenly burst out of my forehead, but I realized that I was fine. My head didn’t hurt at all. There was dirt up my nose and in my eyes – I had done a faceplant – my neck and shoulder were sore, but my head was fine, thanks to this amazing helmet:

When I arrived home, Denis was lying out in the sun, enjoying his last days of vacation (they start shooting again on Monday). I told him about getting kicked in the head.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Do you feel disoriented?”

“Yes,”

“Confused?”

“Yes, terribly!”

“Did you remember to pick up that stuff I asked you to get while you were in the Depot?”

“No.”

“So you’re your normal self?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

But I have learned my lesson. Every ride, every time.

I feel that Snoopy has been underrepresented on this site. I adore Snoopy, but as I’ve blogged before, he’s a little bit too laid back at times. He just likes to chill:
But today, I decided to load him onto the trailer and take him to my friend Jen’s farm for a ride. I urge you to click on the link and look at the pictures of one of the most beautiful farms in Connecticut (in my opinion).
When we arrived, Jen and her horse Levi were waiting for us and we headed into the Hidden Valley Land Preserve, which is actually a part of Steep Rock. There’s a beautiful pine stand in Hidden Valley:

We went into the river, which the horses love:

Levi, really gets carried away with the splashing. We were all soaked:

The boys were conspiring to dump us, I believe:

When we returned, we saw young Oliver, who was two days old when he was last on this blog. He’s a big boy now:

Then I loaded up Snoopy, and Jen’s beautiful Aussies, Rugby and Flora, bid me farewell. Have you ever seen a more beautiful pair? They both competed in sheepherding trials this weekend and earned titles.

Gorgeous!