Susan Larson's Blog - Posts Tagged "farm"
Another free book opportunity
Horsemad persons, young and older, can get my book free on
use the coupon code HS88U and you can get the book in the e-format of your choice.
If you are not personally horsemad, surely you know somebody who is blessed with this condition. Think what a nice gift this book would make.
It's a little scary and some characters are heard to use cuss-words, so it may not be for those under eleven or twelve.
use the coupon code HS88U and you can get the book in the e-format of your choice.
If you are not personally horsemad, surely you know somebody who is blessed with this condition. Think what a nice gift this book would make.
It's a little scary and some characters are heard to use cuss-words, so it may not be for those under eleven or twelve.
“I Wish you were Somebody Else”
These words may be the worst and most murderous message one can deliver to another human being. In “Sam (a pastoral)” my novel about horses and humans, those words are never said. But the protagonist, Ruthie gets a the unspoken message from her Dad: he would have liked a better kid than the one he got.
When I was young, many folks thought that being harsh and judgmental with your children was something you did for their own good. Belittling them, telling them what disappointments they were to you, toughened them up for the inevitable hard knocks awaiting them in the real world. Cuddling them produced adults who were soft, gay, dependent on food stamps, whatever. Today, at least among liberal thinkers, what was once a popular child-rearing method is called ‘abuse.’
In “Sam” there is a quiet, bucolic chapter called ‘At the Horse Show.’ In this chapter Ruthie, having bought and befriended the homely, cranky horse Sam, she leaves him snoozing in the barn and goes to see a local horse show. She is happy that she’s no longer feeling left out and jealous– she has a horse now too, and he is wonderful in so many ways.
She forgets all those wonderful ways the moment she sees the pretty, graceful, shiny ponies the other kids have: their braided manes, silky tails and sleek clipped coats. The ponies she used to dream about; just better in every way than hers.
She goes home and tries to pretty Sam up. She trims the mops of hair off his fetlocks. She cuts off his beard and whiskers. She braids his mane and hacks off half the hair on his tail, trying desperately to turn him into some other horse; but the task proves impossible. By the end of this fruitless makeover session, which Sam enjoys immensely, she reaches a wise conclusion: Sam is OK just the way he is.
Later in the book, there is a deeper echo of this story, as Ruthie and Bea Pilcher sit in Bea’s kitchen talking about the breakup of Ruthie’s family, and the terrible burning rage that has devoured her life ever since. Bea reaches over and pats Ruthie’s hair and tells her she wished she had a kid like her.
This is the beginning of Ruthie’s return to herself. Somebody has said to her, you may be in a bad place, but you, you are OK just as you are.
When I was young, many folks thought that being harsh and judgmental with your children was something you did for their own good. Belittling them, telling them what disappointments they were to you, toughened them up for the inevitable hard knocks awaiting them in the real world. Cuddling them produced adults who were soft, gay, dependent on food stamps, whatever. Today, at least among liberal thinkers, what was once a popular child-rearing method is called ‘abuse.’
In “Sam” there is a quiet, bucolic chapter called ‘At the Horse Show.’ In this chapter Ruthie, having bought and befriended the homely, cranky horse Sam, she leaves him snoozing in the barn and goes to see a local horse show. She is happy that she’s no longer feeling left out and jealous– she has a horse now too, and he is wonderful in so many ways.
She forgets all those wonderful ways the moment she sees the pretty, graceful, shiny ponies the other kids have: their braided manes, silky tails and sleek clipped coats. The ponies she used to dream about; just better in every way than hers.
She goes home and tries to pretty Sam up. She trims the mops of hair off his fetlocks. She cuts off his beard and whiskers. She braids his mane and hacks off half the hair on his tail, trying desperately to turn him into some other horse; but the task proves impossible. By the end of this fruitless makeover session, which Sam enjoys immensely, she reaches a wise conclusion: Sam is OK just the way he is.
Later in the book, there is a deeper echo of this story, as Ruthie and Bea Pilcher sit in Bea’s kitchen talking about the breakup of Ruthie’s family, and the terrible burning rage that has devoured her life ever since. Bea reaches over and pats Ruthie’s hair and tells her she wished she had a kid like her.
This is the beginning of Ruthie’s return to herself. Somebody has said to her, you may be in a bad place, but you, you are OK just as you are.
The World of "Sam (a pastoral)"
Four little country Hollows. They seemed like an endless universe for a couple of runaway kids– and their tireless, rampageous doublewide trash horse– to range around in. What is so memorable bout those hollows?
Farms. Woods. Freedom. Ancient trails that led somewhere or nowhere. Neighbors who liked to see us when we paid calls on horseback. Some creepy secrets. Everything we needed to find our hero selves.
There is something magic about your view of the world from a horse’s back. Your head floats a little higher off the ground and you feel a bit lordly. You can look all around you too, because you aren’t the only one watching the road.
Deer and other critters gaze mildly at that big centaur coming their way, and they don’t skedaddle unless you talk. The world of nature enfolds you, and you start to be an animal for a blessed while.
You dare to turn onto those strange and alluring trails that you stumble across, even if the sun is sinking. One of you, if not both of you, always knows the way home, even in the dark.
Going back to my neighborhood as an adult, I see how tiny it really was. Of course it has changed a lot. Much of the land is now posted. Old houses are torn down and modern ones are built. Kids ride Quads or snowmobiles now, and the wild critters run when they hear them. But some of my neighbors have stayed on. We talk about the old days, the old places, the mighty deeds, the mighty steeds now all of them gone to their long homes.
I have travelled the world. I still remember my little magic corner of it, and how it was when I claimed it as mine. I’m really glad I wrote it all down in “Sam.”
Farms. Woods. Freedom. Ancient trails that led somewhere or nowhere. Neighbors who liked to see us when we paid calls on horseback. Some creepy secrets. Everything we needed to find our hero selves.
There is something magic about your view of the world from a horse’s back. Your head floats a little higher off the ground and you feel a bit lordly. You can look all around you too, because you aren’t the only one watching the road.
Deer and other critters gaze mildly at that big centaur coming their way, and they don’t skedaddle unless you talk. The world of nature enfolds you, and you start to be an animal for a blessed while.
You dare to turn onto those strange and alluring trails that you stumble across, even if the sun is sinking. One of you, if not both of you, always knows the way home, even in the dark.
Going back to my neighborhood as an adult, I see how tiny it really was. Of course it has changed a lot. Much of the land is now posted. Old houses are torn down and modern ones are built. Kids ride Quads or snowmobiles now, and the wild critters run when they hear them. But some of my neighbors have stayed on. We talk about the old days, the old places, the mighty deeds, the mighty steeds now all of them gone to their long homes.
I have travelled the world. I still remember my little magic corner of it, and how it was when I claimed it as mine. I’m really glad I wrote it all down in “Sam.”
How People Talk in "Sam (a pastoral)"
“They All Sound So Real!”
Several of my readers have remarked to me that the conversations in “Sam (a pastoral)” sound as if ‘real people were talking.’ I am really flattered when they say that! And I think it’s true.
I spent a lot of time listening to my neighbors Upstate in Sam-Land. These good folks had a huge repertory of epic tales about farming, hunting, and the crazy things that they or other people had done. Their language was rich and antique, their comic timing was gorgeous, and if they repeated themselves over the years, that was just fine with me.
The characters in “Sam” are based on many of these fine folks. I am especially indebted to a venerable patriarch, a tart-tongued farmer’s wife, an elfin farm child, and a series of Zen Master farriers.
I have their wonderful styles of talking stuck firmly in my mind’s ear, and I did my best to write them down in “Sam.” The book, with a few exceptions, is fiction, but the flavor and the savor of the talk is true as true.
I was also familiar with the wise and foolish sayings of my poor parents, as they struggled to make sense of their lives and of their children. I adopted their style of verbal flailing at their mulishly ungovernable offspring, and used it for my Mom and Dad characters; but I firmly state that, except for a few instances, my actual parents are innocent of any of the wild doings in “Sam.”
Sam himself has many things to say, which I have translated into English for the reader. He was extremely communicative and had lots of opinions. He expressed himself in pantomime, and also with grunts or moans of bliss, sighs of resignation, and his own patented lip-popping, which he used to express his frustration at not being allowed to gallop. We called this phenomenon “Mupping,” and still make the sound ourselves when we are annoyed beyond words.
Several of my readers have remarked to me that the conversations in “Sam (a pastoral)” sound as if ‘real people were talking.’ I am really flattered when they say that! And I think it’s true.
I spent a lot of time listening to my neighbors Upstate in Sam-Land. These good folks had a huge repertory of epic tales about farming, hunting, and the crazy things that they or other people had done. Their language was rich and antique, their comic timing was gorgeous, and if they repeated themselves over the years, that was just fine with me.
The characters in “Sam” are based on many of these fine folks. I am especially indebted to a venerable patriarch, a tart-tongued farmer’s wife, an elfin farm child, and a series of Zen Master farriers.
I have their wonderful styles of talking stuck firmly in my mind’s ear, and I did my best to write them down in “Sam.” The book, with a few exceptions, is fiction, but the flavor and the savor of the talk is true as true.
I was also familiar with the wise and foolish sayings of my poor parents, as they struggled to make sense of their lives and of their children. I adopted their style of verbal flailing at their mulishly ungovernable offspring, and used it for my Mom and Dad characters; but I firmly state that, except for a few instances, my actual parents are innocent of any of the wild doings in “Sam.”
Sam himself has many things to say, which I have translated into English for the reader. He was extremely communicative and had lots of opinions. He expressed himself in pantomime, and also with grunts or moans of bliss, sighs of resignation, and his own patented lip-popping, which he used to express his frustration at not being allowed to gallop. We called this phenomenon “Mupping,” and still make the sound ourselves when we are annoyed beyond words.
