on eighteenth century living

and the skeleton keys to greatness

Another Sunday, another day at the barn, dear reader.

My daughter had two lessons to teach, then she was going to ride.

Knowing this, I had come prepared.

My backpack contained snacks, water, a Bud Zero, extra socks, gloves, two coats, a second pair of boots and most importantly, my snowshoes.

For over an hour I marched up and down and all around the property.

Imagine the look of confusion, dear reader, as I crested the hill and descended upon the horses.

Their heads cocked and ears stood at attention as if to say Who? How? Two leggers never come from there unless we see them go up first? What the hell is goin’ on? This place is crazy town.

It doesn’t take much to impress a horse it seems.

The sun was warm and I found some shelter in the trees. There, I ate some granola and drank a fake beer. Life was good.

Back at the barn, my daughter finished teaching and I watched her ride. Every bit of warmth left my body, dear reader, while I sat and watched. As she groomed and put the tack away, I got…