The Horse is NOT a Mirror

Guest columnist Tim Jobe runs NaturalLifemanship and is a leader in equine-assisted therapy. The Texan, who is also an accomplished cowboy poet and horseman, shared this point of view with us:

Tim Jobe

The horse is not a mirror. Before you start shooting, give me a chance to explain:

Would you say your spouse is a mirror? I don’t think I could get away with that. My spouse will react or respond to my emotions, thoughts, or feelings, but definitely doesn’t mirror them back to me. This also happens in a relationship with a horse. The horse responds or reacts to whatever is going on with me and hopefully I do the same thing for the horse. The horse doesn’t mirror my actions. In fact, horse training would be much easier if only this was the case.

If I am too aggressive, the horse may become passive and try to appease me. This often shows up as lowering his head and licking his lips. Some people see this as a good sign. I don’t think that it is. I don’t want my horse to try to appease or submit to me. I want him to make an intelligent, informed decision about the right thing to do.

Appeasing turns into resentment which turns into aggression. If I am too aggressive, the horse may become aggressive which could be mistaken for mirroring but is really just a reaction to my aggression. On the other hand, if I am passive, the horse doesn’t become passive. It will eventually become aggressive.

Have you ever seen passive parents produce passive kids? I think that is pretty rare. It has been my experience that passive parents have overbearing, aggressive kids. I have worked with lots of people who have horses that bully them all the time. These people are usually too passive with their horses and it ends up causing aggression in the horse. That is in no way a mirroring effect.

It is true that when I am calm my horse has a tendency to become calm. Again, this is merely a response to me, not mirroring. If my energy goes up, so does that of the horse.

Sometimes the horse recognizes some of my needs and tries to provide for them, just like my spouse does or anyone else with whom I have a functional relationship. Yawning is a great example of this: when a horse repeatedly yawns she is trying to release tension, either in herself or in the person working with her.

During sessions, frequently, the horse seems to magically do things to meet the client’s needs. We see this in our other relationships but it doesn’t seem as magical because it is what we expect from good relationships. It is a response to our emotions, thoughts, or feelings – not mirroring.

When we categorize it as mirroring, we take away the most valuable element of therapeutic work with horses. That is, the ability to build a relationship in which the emotions, thoughts, and feelings of each are important to both and responded to by both. A relationship with a mirror is called Narcissism. A mirror has a passive role in that relationship, and we believe a horse is more valuable when he/she has an active role.

Horses can only have that role when we understand that they are responding or reacting to us. If we assign the role of mirror to horses we are robbing them of an active status in the relationship. If we want the client to move to a place where they have an understanding of the patterns they create relationships, then the horse must have an active role in that relationship.

The horse is not a mirror. It is a living, breathing being capable of either a functional or dysfunctional relationship depending on what the human wants to build.

Quick End for Beloved Belle

Since many of us count animals as companions and friends, and since many of us have dogs, please Dear Reader, allow me to remember Belle and recount how she died this week.

Photo by Beau Gaughran

You may recall her in another piece here. The Basset hound mutt with a yard-long body and short legs even made it into A Rider’s Reader. Notable as an independent spirit, Belle was her own dog.

On New Year’s Eve, as the day was fading into evening, Belle joined the rest of us on a walk down the road. The road is gravel, four miles long, and follows a north-south canyon with steep ridges on each side. Only eight homes have full time residents. It’s quiet, beautiful, and bordered by undeveloped public and private lands.

When we turned for home, it didn’t surprise or bother me that Belle wasn’t with us. She has a history of civil disobedience and I have loved her through gritted teeth. After all, she’s a hound and her nose demands far more attention than my calls ever did. In her 12-year old form, she’d also become a dawdler. She’d come home in due course. She’d stand at the door, give me that high-toned woof, and be let in. It happened every day, several times a day.

After an hour, though, we grew concerned. With my son, Cormick (home on college break), and dogs, I headed back out, into the dark and snow. We retraced our steps and took long detours into the juniper and scrub oak, using headlamps and calling her name. We followed the dogs as they picked up scents and dropped them. We listened.

Belle as a younger dog

Over the last week, Belle had been rejuvenated by short-but-sweet visits from my three sons. She loved them and they loved her. Aside from me, she was the only being who’d journeyed these 12 years with them. They shared histories of porcupine and skunk run-ins, humid Maine summers by the ocean, long wilderness treks, and long cross-country road trips. While less than obedient in the field, Belle was an in-house ham. She would sit, stay, lie down, and roll over, often in rapid succession. She would bark loudly or “air bark” depending on the request.

When I’d last seen her, she was bounding like a puppy, big ears flapping. She’d caught a scent and was following it with obvious glee.

As the calendar turned from last year to this year, I tromped through brush and snow with a fading headlamp.

Could she have fallen into a drainage?

Could she have tussled with coyotes?

I checked the shallow ravines and watched for any sign of struggle. (Productively following her tracks was nearly impossible with our other dogs in the mix.) We searched by truck, too, covering the length of the road with high beams, stopping to call and to listen.

In the morning, I got horseback and rode the fields, checking streams and peering into the timber for any signs. The challenge of searching miles of snow-patched ground for a snow-and-dirt colored dog struck hard. I started thinking about closure, the need to know, and how I might never know.

In the early afternoon, I headed out again. The falling snow made it too wet for a saddle, so I fitted Shea with a towel and bareback pad. Checking drainages, ditches, and scrub oak crannies, we worked our way up the ridge from where I’d last seen her.

The search had become something of a mind game. In the face of needle-in-haystack odds, methodologies of reason and intuition blend like chocolate syrup and milk. Doubt and determination ebb and flow.

The dogs, horse, and I continued to climb. Four years ago, a wildfire moved through the canyon. Scads of standing, charred trees remain. My white chinks streaked black.

We paused along the side of the ridge and I looked south across miles of country. Had the dogs not gathered to inspect, I might have missed her body, perfectly inconspicuous 15 feet down the hill. Belle looked asleep and almost unharmed save some blood on her side and her head.

Had she been shot?

Did she hurt herself and then die of exposure?

I took the towel from Shea’s back, wrapped her in it, and with Cormick’s help, carried her home, placed her in the bed of the truck, and studied her body. I called some ranching friends. Belle had rough puncture wounds above one eye and under her jaw. It appeared that her neck had been broken.

From all indications, I learned, this was a mountain lion kill. It had been quick and not motivated by hunger but more likely by aggravation. Belle pursued it and the cat had disposed of her. The image at right was taken by my friend a few miles away, earlier this year.

I’ve trained my dogs not to chase game, especially in the winter. They often wear electronic collars so if necessary they can be reminded with a tone or vibration that they must not bother the wildlife. Belle, I’d figured, didn’t need a collar. She’d grown too old and slow to be a threat. Most recently, she seemed to enjoy watching her buddies do all the running and playing.

A mountain lion after a deer kill, a mile from our home. photo by Cecil Thurman

I don’t harbor any ill will towards the cat. (Though that might change if it gets a taste for domestic dog.) It was doing what cats do. Belle was being Belle. Living here requires a balance of considerations: respectful coexistence whenever possible. Mostly, I think us humans get it wrong. William Kittredge wrote about land ownership and stewardship as he reflected on the unwitting havoc his family wreaked on thousands of acres in southern Oregon. His people never owned the land “not in any significant way,” he wrote in Hole in the Sky: A Memoir. We’re all just passing through.

It took a while to dig through the frozen ground and shovel deep enough to discourage coyotes from rooting out her body. We buried her on a knoll above the house, under a tree. It was a spot Belle often chose to survey the neighborhood. I think the old explorer might have approved.

Photo by Beau Gaughran

Unwrappable Gifts between Horses and Humans

Giving of the most meaningful kind comes in unwrappable packages of time, attention, listening, and guidance. We humans often substitute these gifts with rings and things. But the gifts you can’t box, I’ve learned, are the most valuable and the most empowering. They build on themselves. They are boomerangs of energy, looping back to the giver. They are ripples of good will.

This is a story of gifts and gift-giving.

Peppermint Patty was meant to be a grandchild’s pony. She was meant to stand passively as kids banged their legs against her flanks and yanked on her mouth. Like many poor ponies profiled by size alone, she was meant to tolerate that innocent kind of cruelty. When she bolted with one grandchild and sent another into the fence rails, the grandmother was hell-bent on teaching Peppermint Patty some lessons.

I learned of this unfortunate arrangement while working one day at the barn where the pony lived through her unfortunate days.

At the time, I had a little Shetland pony that I’d inherited from a neighbor when the neighbor went into a nursing home. I got to thinking: while thankfully too small to ride, the Shetland still could be that lovable, lead-around pony that the family desired. With a swap, Peppermint could get out of her doomed-to-fail predicament.

And so it was arranged. The stout, black and white mare came to my farm, joining two horses from similarly unlucky backgrounds.

We had a rough start. I came off Pep twice in the first two rides, showing the same kind of imprudence she’d experienced for years: She’s just a pony. I’ll just jump on.

No ground work.

No preparation.

No connection.

No saddle.

The change of barn and handler (For starters, I could catch her in the field while the former owner had had to lure her with grain into a stall.) made her life better. But the bigger fix wouldn’t be so simple.

I studied her. A fireball in a little package. A smart, sassy equine whose athleticism and intelligence h

Steve Peters
Photo by Beau Gaughran

ad been squelched at every turn. An animal whose distaste for humans ran deep, stewing below a perky surface. Amazingly, she still wanted to connect; I could see guarded willingness and curiosity behind her antics.

With a bruised ego and bruised back, I took a new approach She’d get out as a ponied pony. We went for miles in Maine’s backwoods. We went on road trips. We hiked. She got lots of new experiences, on a lead line with my big PMU mare. She got to sweat, run, swim, roll, and hang out.

It was progress and I felt I’d helped her. But I lacked the skills and confidence to do more.

Then came another gift.

I’d met Steve Peters a few months prior. He visited us in Maine, bringing his saddle, his horsemanship, and his interest in helping. He taught me to embrace Pep’s need to move. He taught me to direct her instead of trying to stop her.

In practice, this looked like many, many big circles of trotting and loping. It was fast rides in fields and on the beach. I learned to sit deep and stay off the reins.

Internally, it was just as exciting. I was facing fears, tamping them down, facing more fears, and replacing them with new skills and confidence.

Over many months, thanks to Steve’s guidance, we experienced positive change. The pony no longer bolted at the smallest miscue. We moved from snaffle bit to bosal. I became a lighter, smarter, more confident rider (a benefit that paid dividends with other horses, too).

Pep now stepped to the gate when she saw me setting out tack. Over six years, we’ve ridden thousands of miles in Maine, Iowa, Utah, and Colorado. She’s a Go-To girl.

This summer, I noticed another development. When I bring her out of the pasture and start saddling her, Pep enters a brief, intense period of relaxation. Her eyes nearly close and her lower lip goes flappy. She lowers her head and cocks a back leg. I like to think she knows she is safe and that good times are ahead.

How do you bundle confidence? How do you bow tie that buoyant feeling of being okay with oneself and with each other?

Witnessing her change over the years has been a tremendous gift, a boomerang that has looped back to warm my heart. In a similar fashion, Steve’s gift of knowledge and support has reverberated well beyond that simple riding lesson years ago.

So as I mull over shopping lists and stocking stuffers, I’m taking a moment to consider and appreciate gifts we can’t fit under the tree.

Happy Trails and Happy Holidays


Leaders or Bullies? You be the judge

Last month, I camped with horses on Bureau of Land Management land. I wanted to experiment with something Mark Rashid mentioned at his recent clinic. To paraphrase, he said that wild horse herd leaders are true leaders, defending the herd and leading it to food sources and away from danger. Domestic leaders are more paradoxical. They tend to be insecure, food-focused bullies – just the opposite of true leaders.

How would this play out in my camping scenario?


Pep wanders far afield

On Day One, I brought three horses. I kept two in a small enclosure and let Pep, who is lower in herd order than the other two, graze outside the enclosure.

Result: Pep wandered far and seemed far less interested in her whinny-ing penned companions than they were in her.

On Day Two, I brought four horses. I kept two in the small enclosure and let the two leaders, Brooke and Jodi, graze outside the enclosure.

Result: Sure enough, Brooke and Jodi were not interested in straying. They seemed insecure about their surroundings and chose to stay close to the enclosure.

Was this leadership (protecting herd members) or insecurity?

Top mares, Brooke and Jodi, stay close to their penned herd mates.

Top mares, Brooke and Jodi, stay close to their penned herd mates.

Rashid says that domestic herd leaders lack a certain sense of self. Their identity is all about who they are in the herd. That’s why they tend to be more ‘barn sour’ than other horses down the herd ladder.

Based on what I’ve seen and experienced with my own horses, I tend to agree.

Another side effect? It’s no surprise, too, that the lower ranking horses are much more enjoyable to ride. They enjoy getting out far more than their “leaders.”

Happy and unplugged: Montana horsepacking at its best

We welcome our very own marketing director, Emily Thomas Luciano, as a guest columnist this week.

Here’s her report from a Montana horse pack trip:

I wanted to unplug. That is what I was most looking forward to about the four-day back country pack trip. Of course, I was

Heading out on the Montana trail

Heading out on the Montana trail

excited about the riding, breathtaking views, campfire camaraderie, and good food. But, it was definitely getting away from my phone, email, Facebook, Instagram, Snap Chat, text message, voicemail, etc. that I was most excited about. And unplug I did!

My dad, Bar T Horsemanship’s Jim Thomas, and I teamed up with Montana Mountain West Outfitters out of Eureka, Montana, to put together the all-inclusive pack trip for us flatlanders. We had four days and three nights of backcountry fun.

What constitutes the backcountry?

Nine humans and 11 equines crammed into two rigs, then traveled 30 minutes out of town on a paved road into the West Kootenai National Forest. At that point, we turned onto a dirt road and drove IMG_6142another hour as we weaved, bumped and dusted up a mountain to a deserted trail head. We then packed the mules and climbed aboard our horses to ride another couple of miles into camp.

Home for those four days consisted of three tents, cots with bedrolls, a campfire, and a small kitchen where Yours Truly prepared two hot, made-from-scratch meals each day. The horses and mules called a makeshift paddock by a small pond home for the duration of our stay.

We began each morning with coffee, breakfast and talk of goals for the day before tacking up and heading out. Though we rode varying distances each day, our longest day (and our most eventful day!) clocked in at about 12 miles.

Montana viewWe had a picturesque ride planned for the day. We’d ride out from our camp, which was perched on a ridge, back down to the trail head. From there, we’d cross over onto an old logging road that curved around and down the mountain. There, we’d pick up another trail that followed a mountain creek and eventually lead to a waterfall where we’d break for lunch. There was even the promise of huckleberry picking along the way!

Though the ride started off just as planned, we had some unwelcomed guests not long after we reached the creek. It started off as an isolated incident—one rider dismounted and tied her horse off trail to use nature’s lavatories. When she got back on and moved toward the trail, her horse stepped in a yellow jacket nest! Needless to say, we all moved down the trail IMG_6163pretty quickly.

Just a short distance down the trail, we found a glorious huckleberry patch that hadn’t yet been picked over by bears. Of course, we had to stop and fill up any empty water bottles with the little blueberry-like balls of deliciousness.

After remounting and continuing down the trail, we found another nest. But it wasn’t just one horse— the nest had likely been disturbed by the first horse in our line, so they got us all. Though it was definitely a scary moment as the horses tried desperately to lope down the narrow trail to get through the bees, it made good fodder for campfire laughs that night. We all agreed that had we been on our horses from home and not these back-country-savvy steeds, it would be no laughing matter!

The memories of those four days will last a lifetime! From awe-inspiring views of the Kookanoosa Reservoir at 6,000 feet to campfire cooked pork chops and fresh huckleberry pancakes, I’m already counting down the days until next year. If you want to join us, please feel free to get in touch with me at We’ve already nailed down our dates and have secured our permits.

Insight from a Height; Equine Partnership has Many Forms

Clinicians say their clients are focused more than ever on the development of the horse-rider relationship. The personal connection with a particular horse and the development of thScreen Shot 2016-06-08 at 10.26.20 AMat connection is what matters most to us.

Relationships can certainly grow with studious application. They can also grow with the camaraderie of hours, seasons, and years on the trails. It’s a BFF kind of thing in which decisions are made cooperatively, often subconsciously, and in which the destination is less the point than the journey.

I head out with Pep, the paint pony on a warm, sunny day. My goal is to find a route up Joe’s Canyon and onto Menefee Mountain. The area suffered a devastating wild fire in 2012, so the canyon is marked by a seven-foot deep, mostly dry stream bed with vertical walls. (With no trees or plants left, areas often flood after fires. Subsequent erosion damage can last for eons.)

We find ourselves dropping into the stream bed when the going gets too thick or steep on either side. This strategy involves identifying a not-too-steep place to descend and then an equally doable route for getting back up.

Pep considers the route

Pep considers the route strategy involves identifying a not-too-steep place to descend and then an equally doable route for getting back up.

On one stretch of creek bed, I get off and walk with Pep and the dogs. We come to a cul-de-sac, where dead fall has jammed up the narrow fissure and clogged the way. A box canyon in miniature.

We all stop to examine the remains of a deer who had recently met its demise here. A small pool of water should have triggered a yellow flag in my brain. Instead, I’m just happy the dogs could rehydrate.

I turn to face Pep, who has been more wary about the dead-end spot with its high embankments on each side. I watch as her hooves are being swallowed up by the fluid mix of sand and water underneath us. With Pep in the lead, we u-turn and get out lickety-split. I thank my partner for her attentiveness.

Further along, we need to cross the eroded stream bed again. I clamber down the steep embankment and ask her to follow. Six feet above me on the bank, Pep hesitates. To get out of her way, I climb up the other side, holding the very end of my mecate reins.

Not easy going

Not easy going

We’re staring across a divide at each other. It’s at least six feet across and six feet deep. Pep hesitates, assesses, thinks. I believe she’s flustered by the dogs; they are waiting at her heels for the next move. I call them to my side of the stream bed.

Suddenly, the mare gives me a I-have-a-better-plan look. In a split-second, she bows her head, sits back on her haunches, and l-a-u-n-c-h-e-s herself across the gap to land right beside me.

My jaw drops. I’m made speechless by her daring, by her athleticism, by that I-have-a-better-plan mentality which I’ve come to accept and love.

On days like these, our partnership – one that has had its share of ups and downs, literally and figuratively – becomes that much more of one.

I laugh. She licks her lips. And we continue on our way.


When Moving is like Riding

Moving to a new place where you don’t know a soul, don’t know what the weather will do, and don’t know where to buy stuff is a IMG_9783lot like riding a new, fresh horse. Read more about the move to Colorado.

For me, anyway, it’s about being ready for anything and tamping down the fear.

Friends say ‘how adventurous!’ and, indeed, it’s adventurous and fun. But along with the curiosity and excitement, there is fear and self-doubt. Those negative feelings sit on the back porch of my brain. Most days, they knock to come in. I wave – which is to say, I acknowledge them – and move on. Watch Mancos slideshow.

It dawned on me one day as I was repairing fence that what I feel is precisely the alert state of mind described in the BestHorsePractices article on optimal learning. It’s midway between relaxed and panicked. It’s out of the comfort zone, as the article explained, which referenced the work of Martin Black and Dr. Steve Peters, authors of Evidence-Based Horsemanship.

Interesting things happen out of the comfort zone as I meet people, explore new territory, and ask questions.

— My eyes and ears are more open.

— My attitude is inquisitive.

IMG_9835And yet, there are moments when I simply strive to stay busy, keeping rushes of adrenalin, nausea, and anxiety at bay.

— When your windows face wilderness, do you draw the curtains?

— When you get lonely, do you have longer conversations with animals and with yourself?

— Do you wonder what strangers and acquaintances really think of you?

I tend to call friends and family more often. When I call, I pace around the mostly empty house, trying not to hear the echo of my voice.

I have conversations with people working cash registers, with fellow coffee drinkers at a local café, with the UPS guy. I ask their names and try to commit them to memory for the next time. I extend myself.

It’s like:

— Putting an energetic horse into a long trot

— Doing big turns in an open field with this same horse

— Reminding the horse that a one-rein stop is still there.

— It’s singing and smiling while galloping.

These are all exercises I use to relax and connect.

Do you have some of them? Do you extend yourself?

Goodbye Utah, Hello Colorado

After two years in beautiful Utah, the NickerNews herd has headed to Colorado!

The decision was a tough one, mostly having to do with knowing we didn’t want to live out our lives in the Beehive State. Read more about that here.

IMG_9783Our ties to Utah will remain strong: my partner, Steve Peters, will live there until he retires, several years from now. We picked a place that’s just a half-day’s drive from his work, so he will travel here regularly. I will return often enough, too.

We chose Mancos, a small town in southwestern Colorado, near the Four Corners (where the borders of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah meet). Coming from the small town of Harpswell, Maine, it feels great, like returning to my roots. In towns like these, you get to know people and they get to know you. You feel your involvement might be appreciated and that folks are more accountable for their actions.

Though its population is under 2,000, Mancos has a great bakery, a vibrant library, a brewery, and is home to many artists, artisans, and ranchers. The local package store (A “package store,” I’ve learned, is strictly New England vernacular. When I’ve asked, “where’s the packy?” locals replied, “Huh?”) has a beautiful mural of a cowboy moving cattle.

IMG_9789The riding opportunities are tremendous. Our property borders public land and the San Juan National Forest has scores of trail heads within a short hauling distance.

We moved five of our seven equines, leaving two for Steve to ride and care for.

The five – Comet, Pep, Jolene, Shea, and Wallace – seem to love the new place. For the first time in two years, they have grass to graze and flat space to stretch their legs.

Winters, admittedly, will be tougher and longer (elevation is 7,400 feet, 1,500 higher than our Utah place). Even in the summer, nights routinely dip into the 40s. I’ve dug out my long underwear, scarves, hats and coveralls for the coming winter.

Here’s to putting down new roots, meeting new friends, and learning the lay of the land!

Mural on the Mancos liquor store

Mural on the Mancos liquor store

Zarzyski’s Wild Rides

I had the excellent opportunity to interview poet and former bronc rider Paul Zarzyski last month.
As a young man, Zarzyski headed west from his Wisconsin roots and landed in Montana where he started riding bucking horses and attended the University of Montana.
COVER_Poet1Some 40 years have passed. He’s hung up the spurs, but still “spurs the words wild” as he likes to say. Read the three-part interview here.

As we talked, Zarzyski kept mentioning his “Dumb Luck.” He called his successes at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, for example, Dumb Luck.
But I know Dumb Luck:
When my kids were young, we lived on Massachusetts Bay, south of Boston. One day, I took my six-year old son rowing in a friend’s skiff. To keep him amused, I rigged up my fishing pole.
With a slack tide, we rowed easily up an ocean inlet. It was his first time fishing and he tended the rod with enthusiasm, pulling in the line every few minutes. Once, he hooked a crab. We shook it off, restrung the bait, and tossed back the line.
Given his rambunctiousness, I thought it best to tie the rod to the skiff’s seat. (Never before stripedBassand never since have I had such foresight.) We rowed and fished some more under the hot afternoon sun.
Suddenly, my little boy felt a big tug on the line. He yelled gleefully as I coached him on how to reel in what I suspected was an old boot. Ten minutes later, we had a magnificent, 30-inch Striped Bass flopping between our knocking knees.
That’s Dumb Luck.

Zarzyski, I realized, was just being humble about the huge amount of effort, talent, and commitment he’s given to his vocations.
“Fortune favors the prepared mind,” commented the famous chemist, Louis Pasteur. (A funny reference since Zarzyski was studying chemistry before an epiphany steered him to poetry and creative writing.)

Zarsyski showed up to ride back in those rodeo days. And, under the tutelage of poet Richard Hugo, the Montana man translated that passion into the business of word-crafting. You could say he segued successfully from one sometimes-torturous occupation to another. He swapped a saddle for a Smith-Corona and shimmied effectively from arena to stage.
Dumb Luck had nothing to do with it.
If only I’d had the wit to challenge the claim, as author Amy Hempel wrote once: “There is no such thing as luck. Luck is where preparation meets opportunity.“

I hope you enjoy the three-part interview. Check out Part One here.

July Storm: poet gives us telling image

July Storm


Like a tall woman walking across the hayfield

the rain came slowly, dressed in crystal and the sun.

Rustling along the ground, she stopped at our apple tree

only for a whispering minute, then swept darkening

skirts over the lake,

and so serenely climbed the wooden hills.

Was the rainbow a ribbon that she wore?

We saw it when she was gone. It seemed a part of her brightness

and the way she moved lightly, but with assurance

over the earth.

Elizabeth Coatsworth
Gary Lawless, owner of Gulf of Maine Books, was kind enough to send me this poem.
Coatsworth and her husband, Henry Beston (who helps open the pages of A Rider’s Reader) lived in Maine for more than 50 years.
Lawless writes:

“They bought the farm in the early 1930s. She died in 1986 and we came here to caretake right after her death. I read her poems at her funeral…She left six horses and a pony. Someone had to be here…Elizabeth published over 125 books in her lifetime, a full and beautiful life.”


© Copyright NickerNews Blog - Theme by Pexeto