We will eventually look back on this period of time and reflect that in many ways it was a special time. I do believe that as frightening as it’s been, as scared as we’ve all felt, we will wish we’d appreciated the “stay at home” time more. Will we ever have this amount of family time again? Probably not. Our lives are normally flooded with comings and goings, social media, television, our children’s daily schedules, work, social lives. We’ve had to begin a new normal; find simple pleasures and recreate the image of what happiness looks like.

Our daughters are grown now, but I still find myself in moments of panic and insecurity. I wish we were all home together, I wish things would go back to normal. But we are called upon to teach our children resilience and strength, two qualities that will always serve them long term no matter what their age. Every generation faces something that rocks them the core, and 2020 is testing us.

Spring comes early in Texas. We already have flowering trees, lawns to mow, and rain showers that bring May flowers. For me, this spring is full of travel with a bit of anxiety tossed in. I’m not heading anywhere grand - I have lots of 3 day weekends that take me to from Maine to Louisiana, Boston, and Georgia. And my anxiety does not revolve around air travel or the recent health scare (although those do complicate life in general). My anxiety is all about four-legged dependents.

I’m often asked how many animals we have, and my response of “four cats, two dogs, and a horse” is often met with wide eyes. And yet truth be told, this is the smallest zoo we’ve had in years. What began with two cats and a dog, multiplied exponentially and there was a time when my answer would have been “five cats, four dogs, five horses, eighteen hens and a flock of rescued sheep.” I think the biggest change for me is that Sterling is the last of our many horses. It was a conscious family decision to keep George and Sterling forever. We knew once the girls outgrew them that they would grow old in our care; we owed them that. The other horses (and there were many - we’ve owned over twenty) had careers ahead of them and were either sold to other riders or donated to schooling and therapeutic programs.

So I went to the person who I relied on for all my animal advice, our trusty country vet.  This man had an answer for everything and was always wise and pragmatic - our own James Herriott.  His reply to my fears about ticks bringing disease to the farm was simple.  “Guinea Hens” he replied.  “Get a dozen or so this spring.  All they do is cruise your property and eat ticks.”  It wasn’t the answer I expected but I liked it a lot more than the thought of spraying something, so a few weeks later 18 tiny, newly hatched Guinea Hens arrived in a donut box and settled under a warming lamp in my middle daughter’s bedroom.  They were the size of a tangerine, fluffy and a bit smelly.  Luckily they didn’t have to be in for long, just until they were steady on their feet.  Fortunately, the farm already had a hen house, and with a little spiffing up and the purchase of feeders, waterers and their food, we were in business.

The sap house was nestled in the middle of the woods along the path of the winding dirt driveway and a small, unassuming hand-painted sign hung crookedly over the undersized door  — the first time we looked at Ox Pasture Farm I knew we must raise our family there; the sap house clinched the deal.

A Thoroughbred racehorse, a three-day event horse, and then left as a cast-off. . . this was Chance’s bio.  When we stumbled upon this handsome, huge, grey gelding when he was an “extra’ lesson horse at a barn about an hour from our Vermont farm.  All three of our girls were riding regularly and on Saturdays, we would load Sterling and George onto our trailer and head over to New York for lessons and shows.  Two horses for three girls posed a bit of an issue, but it was one way they learned to share.  And, if necessary, the barn where their trainer was at that time often had an extra ride. 

So on December 23rd of that year, my husband drove from our farm in Vermont to Rochester, New York (an all-day drive and overnight stay) to bring our daughters the Christmas gift to end them all.  Pippa was ten weeks old, and was welcomed by three squealing girls, a skeptical Henley, and a bossy Spice.  She drove for seven hours on my husband’s lap on Christmas Eve, wearing a red bow that now sits in her memory on our tree.  My recollections from that Christmas are some of my most vivid because they were carved by the arrival of one of the sweetest dogs to ever walk the earth.  Anyone who knows Labs understands; they are just different. 

“I wish people would realize that animals are totally dependent on us, helpless, like children, a trust that is put upon us.” James Herriot

We’ve had so many animals, that I’ve come to connect certain years with the animals they brought us.  2004 was the year of Mr Paws, a starved yellow cat who found his way to our barn amidst a winter storm.  2003 was the year of Chance, a huge grey Thoroughbred we rescued and rehabilitated, and who changed the way I think of horse racing and how animals heal.  There have been cats, dogs, horses and even sheep.  And 2019 was the year of the kittens.  

We have owned more than 20 horses over the past thirty years, and there has never been a bigger personality to jump off a trailer. George arrived on a bitter cold, January night in 2002. He was stout and built like the ponies from story books. A chestnut brown coat as thick as a stuffed animal, a mane that stood straight up, and a long, silky tail. But it was the way he carried himself that set George apart - he had presence.

This is the time of year I become very reflective, especially as we come up on the year anniversary of the finding our four kittens. Our house is bursting with animals, but in reality, it’s one of the smallest “zoos” we’ve ever had.

Sterling is known to many of you who follow me on Instagram because of his regular appearance in my stories. He is a huge part of my daily routine, and although I probably don’t NEED to go to the barn every day, I find a way if at all possible.

I’m often asked about our Vermont years - how did we end up living so rurally, on a farm, after growing up in suburban Boston. 

As I remember, it started innocently with the Sunday Boston Globe job section. I was 28 years old, eight months pregnant with our first child, and we wanted out of suburbia.   As born and bred Bostonians, we were ready for a change.  Ready for a place to truly call “our” home.  To put down our own roots.  To raise our child in our own way.  To blaze our own path.