On the sleepy spring morning of Thursday, May 29, 1986, a new arrival was eagerly welcomed in the stable by the curious nicker of horses. He was a noble bearing colt, dressed in a rich burgundy satin resembling the colour of a fine red wine. His sharp features of a delicately defined head were anointed with a bright star. Cautiously he peeked his nose out from beneath the camouflage of his mother's tail and craned his somewhat long neck in search of exciting scents in this mysterious world. He was undeniably handsome from the moment the sack was shed to reveal his true identity.

From his ancestral roots, this colt would show the resilience and survivor instincts that this family of old government bred Morgans is noted for. He would be named in honour of his famous great grand sire, UVM Flash and would be known from that day forward as "Trillium Flashdance".

As the colt found unsteady support from his wavering long limbs, he clumsily bumped his way along his dam's sides and quarters, until he was rewarded with the warm nourishment from his mother's fulsome teats. Everything had appeared normal up to that point. The foaling went well, the colt seemed alert and inquisitive. He was up and moving with new found strength and improved equilibrium in every step. The mare was grateful for the relief from her aching and swollen udder, as the long suckling noises brought contentment and joy to a famished new member of the equine species.

It was not until the colt had had his fill of that all important protection of colostrum, or first milk, when he turned to greet his dotting human companion and something unusual was revealed. A soft cough was heard and a slow steady trickle of white fluid drained from his nostrils. As the colt returned to nurse at his mother's side, again the milk trickled from the nostrils and the spontaneous cough persisted. Alarm bells rang - something was terribly wrong!

The usual visit by the veterinarian was hastened this time when the observations of the newborn colt were relayed. The arrival and diagnosis of the attending veterinarian set in motion an emergency plan of action. Within twenty-four hours, Flash and his mom were loaded into the now converted box stall in the spacious six horse trailer and were on route for a two hour journey to Large Animal Admissions at the University of Guelph (Equine Centre).

On May 30, Flash was examined by a battalion of veterinarians and surgeons. The endoscopic examination and diagnosis was that Flash had a split soft cleft palate or incomplete closure affecting his windpipe and trachea. There were three options of choice available: do nothing and let nature take its course with only a ten percent chance of survival and normal growth, euthanise the colt, or surgery. They could only give odds of 20 percent for the surgery being successful. Without surgery, he may not have survived, quite possibly succumbing to respiratory failure via pneumonia or infecion. The time for surgery with the best prognosis, was now.

The decision we came to was to give this darling little fellow, a chance, no matter how small the odds were. So less than a week from his birth, Flash underwent his life-saving operation to repair his palate. As with any surgery, there was no guarantee that the operation would be totally successful. Indicators of its success would be observed in his latter progression and rate of growth . There was no way of foretelling the fate of this little Morgan colt.

Flash came through his surgery well and after several days was finally allowed to come home. He would later return to Guelph for re-examination and evaluation. During the interim, special intensive care at home would have to be provided during his nearly two month convalescence. A daily journal was kept of all observations, temperature and treatment administered. These findings and readings were recorded every one to two hours with only a reprieve from note taking during the late night hours. Flash was closely monitored, the incision site, left open for drainage, had to be cleaned and medicated to protected against the constant onslaught of summer flies and dust. Antibiotics were administered in paste form as instructed to combat infection.

On June 18, Flash was re-admitted to Guelph for follow up post-surgery evaluation. He would return to Guelph once more on July 21 for a final evaluation. The last report was positive. The repair to his palate appeared to have been ninety percent successful. Now it was just a matter of time that would determine just how successful the surgery had been, remembering that the growth of the colt was a strong determining factor.

During his first year that took him from weanling to yearling, Flash continued to be monitored for any signs of respiratory distress. He was gaining size too, another good omen and he began initial training in voice commands and longeing. Since it was not known for certain if the cleft palate had been a result of an undetectable in vitro viral infection, or that it was somehow heredity, it was decided that gelding Flash would at least safeguard against passing on a possible problem. (To date, this defect has never been seen in Flash's siblings or any other member of his family.)

In the spring of 1988, Flash caught the eye of a prospective buyer who visited the farm. Shortly thereafter, Flash was sold with a full disclosure of his medical history. The now tall two year old continued to mature rapidly and was becoming a very pretty boy indeed. Flash bid farewell to the only home and family he knew, as he traveled to a new stable and a new life; everyone filled with excitement and promise. However, the final chapter to this story had not been written.

His owner was deeply saddened by the unfortunate turn of events and just wanted to have her old Flash back. It would later take the better part of two months of intense conditioning and confidence building to bring Flash around to accept his tack, let alone a rider again. And so, Flash returned to his birthplace once more.

Although the somewhat over used popular term of the day, namely "horse whisperer" congers up connotations of mystical ways, I am reluctant to attached this label to myself. Whatever title you may want to bestow for my role and method of training is unimportant. There really is nothing magical about it, suffice to say that it involves a capacity for compassion, enormous patience and simple understanding of the horse's mind and circumstance. The journey of Flash's ascension from unbridled fear and despair would begin.

Those once healing hands that soothed his incision, the soft voice that gave him comfort during his young days of recuperation, would return to instill trust once again much as a kindred spirit. It was a daunting task to restore a frightened fragile mind to its former self, or closeness thereof. But little by little, Flash began to respond until his transformation was complete. All too soon, it was time to say goodbye yet again.

I can still remember the day they came for him. He was loaded into a pony trailer that was dwarfed by his now 15.2+ hand, 1,200 lbs. frame. I had lent them a helmet to protect his poll from trauma as he willingly walked on the trailer, stooped, and traveled home in that position. Only unshakable confidence in his handler would allow him to enter such small confines and tolerate the ride in such cramped quarters.

Six years later, another desperate call would come. This time, Flash's owner's personal situation had become precarious and she feared that Flash might possibly become a target of violence once again. An urgent plea was made for us to try and find someone to lease Flash until her life could return to some normality and she could be reunited with her best friend. After several phone calls and attempts to secure a lease, Tanya, our junior rider at the time, entered the picture.

It was a cold windy day in late fall when we first saw Flash grazing alone in a large open field with only sheep as his companions. It had been months since he had last been ridden, but the meeting went well and at the end of the visit, a signed lease was tucked safely in hand. The union between Flash and Tanya would become one of utter devotion. So once again, this time with caution and trepeditation for our own safety, Flash walked up the ramp and came home to the safe haven at Trillium.

As the lease formally came to an end, and Flash was to return home, more than a few tears moistened the cheeks of those involved with this horse. When it was learned that he had found a new owner and home, Tanya felt it difficult to accept that her beloved Flash would no longer be a part of her life. It took great courage for her to watch Flash and his new owner parade the show ring. (I'm certain that Tanya rode every stride of the class from the rail.) But with maturity, Tanya soon accepted that Flash was loved too and being cared for as he should. Tanya can take pride in knowing that she in some small way contributed to his success.

Today, Flash is a star performer in the show arena competing at class "A" rated shows in the english and country pleasure divisions as well as saddle seat equitation. He has also shown in the hunter classes with much success. His future continues to look promising as he trots the tanbark, striding boldly and reaching longer with effortless ease.

So if by chance you wonder why all the hoopla and hollering that follows this majestic 15.3 hand horse down the rail, the tri-colour hanging from his headstall dancing in the breeze of a victory pass, just know that there is more behind the applause and cheers for a simple ribbon won. It's a celebration of struggle and accomplished that Flash has overcome and achieved. He has touched many lives as he trotted a true path over a trail of past illness, abuse, misfortune and lost love. The title of champion befits him, not only for his great ability as a Morgan horse, but also for his dauntless courage. If we had it to do over again that Friday afternoon in May, as we reflected upon our options over a cup of coffee, the decision would probably be the same - we would do it "for the love of Flash".

Preamble: I never imagined that I would soon be writing an obituary with this story, but sadly I fear this may be true. The old patriot of the Morgan world has suffered a debilitating illness that has robbed him of his balance and cat-like maneuvers. Rather than put the grand old man through any more suffering and possible serious injury, I have had to come to terms with the inevitable. For now, we hope to give him one last summer. After twenty-five years of companionship, and I say that with all reverence, how does one ever have the courage to say goodbye. For a quarter of a century, Foxy has owned me; not the other way around. Foxy and I have been through so much together that it defies all logistics of such a final farewell. But in my heart, I know I must. Perhaps writing his life story on these next few pages will ease the burden I must face one day soon. I can only scarcely summarize our times together, for to tell it all would take volumes. But for the record, here is Foxy’s abridged story, as glorious a celebration of life as I can tell.

The Beginning

Lauralee Foxy Man was the first Morgan I had ever owned. He had become the realization of a dream and aspiration I had as a child to own one of his kind after reading about them in an all breeds book. I loved all horses that had a mane and tail, even those without tails and I still do. But there was something extraordinary, even magical about the Morgan that still sets my heart aglow. Everything about the breed appealed to me as I turned the dog-eared pages of the library book, even though I had never seen one in the flesh. However, I kept the mental image of the Morgan tucked away dormant for years until I met Foxy. Today, he represents the Trillium Morgan Horse Farm as its founding sire. He is responsible for the farm’s existence and outward success spanning 25 years. Many of his kids, grand kids and great grand kids live at the farm today. Foxy has given many others a pure sense of devotion to the Morgan breed, through his deeds and example.

It all began when I saw a sign from the highway that read "Morgan Horses". I was curious and eager to visit the farm, remembering that book of long ago. I was surprised that the horses were so small. I had been used to 16 hand horses or better, so when the 14 hand plus or minus Morgan was shown to me, I hate to admit that I was a little disappointed. It’s amazing how one’s impression can change. But as Morgans do so well, it was the personality and grandiose stance that won me over, especially that of the stallion, Cordon Marksman, a son of Bro-Rock March On by Vigilmarch. He was literally bigger than life and never thought of himself as anything less, yet gentle and kind. Other factors I assessed were the conformation of symmetry and strength. Everything fit well in this nice tidy package. It was apparent that my initial faith in this breed was now reborn and it would be a Morgan that I would have at long last.

On a second visit to the breeder, I was shown the mares that were then in foal. It was at that time that I decidedto choose my future Morgan before it was even born. The sire and dam I had selected were Skipper Boy and the maiden mare Lauralee Delia Rose, a daughter of Cordon Marksman, who would later come to live with us for a spell in her later life. This was to be Delia’s very first foal. The sire had recently been acclaimed the Ontario High Point Champion and was a sweetheart to handle and very pleasing to behold. Now the waiting game began in earnest.

In the wee early morning hours when daybreak was rising, a spunky colt squirmed his way into the world and immediately made his presence known. His bright red coat glistening from its embryonic bath, quickly dried and repelled the moisture. A tiny star fixed in the centre of his forehead would become a trademark for future generations. The breeder had already decided on a name for the little fellow when the phone call was made to inform me of the birth.

It didn’t matter to me the sex of the foal, as long as it was healthy. I can still remember, as clearly as if I was there at that very moment, when I first peaked into the stall and saw my perfect miniature Justin Morgan and knew that I would see ownership on paper within weeks.

The breeder asked me how I liked the name she had chosen for the colt, a combination of names from his pedigree – Foxy for Foxfire and Man for Cordon Marksman. Little did she know how foxy the "Foxy" would be in later life. So at two weeks old, the deal had been made and Foxy would come to live with me upon weaning. His future as a stallion would not be determined until his late yearling year.

Owning and raising a stallion would be a unique experience for me. Although I had been exposed to an old Standardbred stallion by the name of Claude Hanover when I was a young girl, it was not the norm in those days for women, let alone young ladies, to handle the studs. They were strictly off limits, believe me. You were never allowed to enter the stall, groom or lead the horse. So I had to be content to admire the handsome boy from afar. It was still a male dominated environment that would eventually begin to change over time and dispel old myths. So here I was, raising and training my very first stallion. I had been given all sorts of advice from the horsemen of the day and strongly recommended that I geld the colt before he became too much. I had heeded their cautions, but seemed determined to keep the colt unaltered for as long as possible. Whether or not I lucked out, or because I had been the dominant herd leader from the start, Foxy never in his entire life ever posed a problem. Firmness and discipline had been instilled from the start and we respected each other. I had given time and commitment to this project. Although I don’t advocate owing stallions, I personally still prefer the character and sharpness of a stallion, ideally those I have raised since birth. They always keep you on your toes and humble, but with that comes a magnificence all their own. I credit Foxy with giving me the courage and working knowledge to handle the big boys. (Presently, we have four stallions.)

Our earliest achievements of success in the show ring came when Foxy was just a month old. He placed second in a weanling class. This show would be the first of many to come over the sixteen-year span of ring presence. As a yearling stallion, Foxy was Reserve Champion Futurity Yearling at our breed’s annual show. His second year proved to be even better as he was shaping into a very spectacular and debonair stallion. He captured the Junior in Hand Championship for the year and never looked back. It is estimated that Foxy has accumulated 1,000 ribbons or more, many of them championships for harness, saddle and in hand.

I suppose when thinking back over the years, there are certain moments in the ring that people remember best. As they can never be repeated, these treasures of time past are locked safely away somewhere in the deep recesses of our memory awaiting retrieval. For us, one the most vivid exploits of this horse was his entry in the "Justin Morgan Performance" classes. Foxy, always the underdog, managed to win second place for this exciting and stamina driven event. Foxy did this under handicap as well, which I will describe a little further on. He was a true stayer with a heart that just wouldn’t give up. After competing in 14 classes over the two days of the show, he ran the ½ mile race with all out effort, settled for the pleasure class which he always won, then came back in work harness to prove his strength with the stone boat pull. All of this was done in 90-degree weather, with a chronic lung condition, and segments of this class running in succession. He was truly gutsy and amazing! It usually boiled down to just two horses, Foxy and the great Danell’s Nova Don. Years later, one of the Field girls (owner of Nova’s Don) visited the farm and reminisced about Foxy’s duel with Don. Those two horses certainly provided the entertainment to the hordes of screaming people hanging on the rail with excitement in their grip.

Bob and I were noted for holding the record time for the fasted tack change in the Combination classes. Maybe this helped us win so many of these classes, but most likely the credit belongs to Foxy and his ability to stay calm amidst the flurry of harness to tack change. Or maybe it was just his ability pour it on when coming down the rail when it counted.

Foxy even attracted his own fan club over the years with his performances at Lindsay Fair. These classes are shown in front of the grandstand, which demands an audience of large proportions. Unlike most horse shows, the Grandstand here is always filled with spectators. There was a time when Foxy won every class for three or four years in a row. His fans always dropped by the trailer to say hello and congratulate him on his repeat success. At this show he took the english, western, pleasure driving and combination classes and Foxy loved the applause from the bleachers, as he made his victory pass with full extension. He was a show off indeed!

On one occasion at this fair, a rather inebriated fellow began to harass me while I was mounted on Foxy making our way to the holding area for our upcoming western pleasure class. I was alone at the time with Bob off on an errand to check the ring situation. The security staff were no where to be found. As the drunkard yanked on my chaps while making lurid comments, I called upon Foxy to rescue me. With a light leg aid cue, Foxy very nicely lifted his front hoof and placed it hard and square on the man’s foot. The guy was in excrutiating pain. Even with the all the liquor he had consumed, it did not dull the sensation. Foxy never moved and continued to press down hard. I finally relented to the man’s pleas and moved Foxy forward and away, without looking back. I can still hear the guy howling and wrenching in pain. Foxy was my hero and we went on to win the western pleasure class.

Upon his retirement from the ring at age 16, Foxy had competed in just about every division. In those days, versatility meant just that. It wasn’t specialized like it is today. The ½ mile trotting races were always a crowd draw along with the combination classes. There were no heavy show shoes to impede or strain and manners did count for something. We even had gaming events! In one way, those days were more enjoyable, certainly for the spectator and most likely the horse too. The show ring of course was only a small part of Foxy’s life and I believe to this day that is why he was able to be so fresh in the ring for so long. He never was bored and always did an honest job.

As a trail horse, we travelled the pathways with much enjoyment and good cheer. Foxy appreciated these outings and break from the boredom of ring work. I recall one such ride when we decided to follow a creek and ventured in. It was a warm day; the cool splash of the water on his belly was a welcome relief. As we clip clopped further along, Foxy suddenly disappeared beneath me. The bottom of the creek had sharply dropped off and Foxy found himself swimming. At first the shock of being dunked was frightening, but I soon realized that yes, Foxy could swim and yes, I could still stay in the saddle. When Foxy claimed the bottom of the creek again, we headed up the bank, totally soaked with the initiation rite of bonafide trail buddies complete.

On our pleasure rides, the only thing that Foxy imagined as being an enemy were those large killer rocks. He always passed them with respect, giving them a wide berth. He wasn’t taking any chances that these sleeping giants might awaken and eat him. He was out of there as quickly and silently as possible.

Panic however, was not a word to be found in his equine dictionary. Even with a hoof caught in a fence, or cast in a stall, Foxy just waited and waited for someone to release him from his predicament. He never struggled, but instead trusted his human friends to come to his aid. I’ve never known a calmer or more sensible horse.

In the winter, Foxy became our sleighbell horse and many a rides in the antique cutter were enjoyed. It was invigorating and fun! He proved to be a great all seasons , all terrain driving horse.

At age seven, we came very close to losing our dear Foxy. He had contracted a virus from a new horse that entered the stable. Although he had been examined by our then vet of many years, his condition worsened. The vet had prescribed more cough powder, but we were becoming increasingly worried that the treatment wasn’t working. Enter our current veterinarian. We had sought a second opinion and this vet had come highly recommend. Upon examination, it was concluded that Foxy was suffering from a severe case of double phemonia. Damage to his lungs was cautioned. To find out just how serious his condition was, Foxy was referred to the University of Guelph for further examination. End of Part I

PART 2

Foxy underwent a thorough examination at the University of Guelph. The ravages of double phenomia left him with a permanent condition of chronic bronchitis. Never again would his wind be sound, but with careful environmental management, he could return to some function of activity. I now know that the doctors prognosis of his abilities were seriously understated as testimony to his campaign of competition in the Justin Morgan class mentioned previously.

Foxy came home to a life style change. Ideally, he should never have seen the inside of a barn again, but of course that was totally impractical. A small paddock had been added to the outside door of his corner stall. It would remain open year round to provide him with fresh air at all times. This stall/paddock arrangement would later be reconstructed for him when he was moved to Trillium and his final home in Orono.

During that first winter following his return from Guelph, he was put on medications to clear his airways. Coupled with this medication was a regiment of light, but regular exercise. Every morning before leaving for work in the big city, I would drive out to the farm. Since the best path to take Foxy on meant riding the shoulder of a busy service road, bicycle flashlights were strapped to my stirrup irons and a workman’s safety vest was pulled over my riding jacket. Off we would go in the darkness of early morning heading west, then south towards the lake. At times the wind would rudely slap my face and sting my hands that gripped the reins. Still on we would go at a steady walk. By spring, his breathing had improved considerably. Despite the occasional cough, Foxy returned to his usual activities. It wasn’t until years later when we met the vet who had diagnosed Foxy’s condition at Guelph, did we learn that they had only given Foxy a couple of years. That couple of years had been extended to 18.

Foxy’s tolerance for pain has always been high. Like some of the great racehorses that tried to finish the race on three legs in the face of mortal injury, Foxy too would give his all. At one stage in his life he battled with another stallion whose door had been carelessly left unlocked by accident and not design. It was a large Thoroughbred who decided to rid the barn of this little pesky Morgan stud. When we were urgently summoned to the barn, the stable looked like a war zone with debris and blood splattered everywhere. Foxy stood exhausted and bleeding, but he had won the fight and didn’t appear any worse for wear. Down the aisle, a veterinarian was attending to the wounds of the 16 hand Thoroughbred stud. The stallion was so traumatized that he was also being treated for shock. It wasn’t until a few days later when riding Foxy for the first time since the incident that a problem was noticed. Once and awhile Foxy would stumble slightly then continue on at the trot or canter. Figuring it was just the roughness of the field that caused the break in gait, not much thought was given. After a few more stumbles, I decided that it would be prudent to investigate a little further. When I pulled Foxy up and looked down his front leg, I was horrified to see blood gushing from a crack in his hoof wall. Apparently, while doing battle with the Thoroughbred, he had kicked so hard (probably catching the stone wall) that he had cracked his hoof. Special shoeing was required to stabilize the hoof for the next twelve months. In the end, the hoof grew out normal and no further intervention was required.

Foxy had been my first training project of consequence and I had been so pleased with our progress. By his fourth year, Foxy had been trained to harness and shown, he’d been worked under saddle and competed as well. We wanted to enhance Foxy’s driving abilities so we sent him to a well-known trainer at the time. It was not to be and although Foxy can home with an extended trot albeit, he wasn’t Foxy. The once mild mannered and friendly stallion had turned into a crazed animal, literally climbing the walls of his stall. He fretted constantly and we feared it was the equivalent to a mental breakdown, much like the horse in the fictional best seller and movie, "The Horse Whisperer". He had lost considerable weight and had no appetite. What had we done! Was there any hope now? A friend of mine who had worked at the racetrack suggested we get him a goat. We were desperate to try anything and so we found a breeder and purchased a young goat and introduced him to Foxy. Within a week, Foxy started to respond. I dare say that Tinker the goat was Foxy’s Tom Booker and ultimate salvation.

Foxy and Tinker lived together all that summer. Foxy found great delight in carrying poor Tinker around his stall by the scruff of his neck. The wailing Tinker would call us to his rescue. Foxy just thought it was neat and released him when we scolded him with a sharp tongue lashing.

Later that year, we decided to try another trainer to improve Foxy’s western discipline skills. Although somewhat nervous over our decision, this time Foxy had company and off he went to school. Again tragedy happened. A gelding had got loose and both Foxy and the gelding fought. During the disagreement, Foxy’s sharp toe clip had twisted sideways and punctured the sole of his hoof. This meant lay-up again, but at least this time, his injury was less severe. During the end of his stay for western training, Foxy would lose his constant friend and companion.

Being a master of escape as goats are, Tinker had managed to expedite his way out of the stall and into the grain room. Tinker later died of bloat just outside of Foxy’s stall. If any animal could grieve, then Foxy surely did. It was such a pitiful sight. Foxy stood by his door, pawing endlessly trying to pull his buddy back into the stall where the door gaped open at the bottom. Foxy went off his feed for a couple of days, refusing to eat, standing with his head pressed into the corner of his stall, ignoring everyone. As time passed, Foxy returned to his old self. Tinker was buried at that farm and Foxy came home.

Foxy’s personality was one of youthful play and determination. He was quick and crafty, just like his name. They say that horses can’t solve problems, but I don’t know. Foxy came up with an ingenious solution to escaping into the pasture from the confines of his paddock. On a number of occasions, Foxy would been found grazing in the field, instead of his private enclosure. The stall door was secure and the fence untouched. Now you must understand that Foxy would never attempt to jump anything, except a mare in season, so how then was this Huodini making his escapes?

Upon closer inspection of his pen, a large hole was found, large enough for a horse to crawl under the fence. That is what Foxy had been doing in his spare time, digging his escape route. You would have thought him to be a POW like in the classic movie "The Great Escape". He was that persistent and determined. Since he had mastered this technique, we had to find a solution. Hot wire was installed on his fence – top and now bottom. But even then, he knew when the fence was on or off, depending on whether or not he could hear the clicking noise from the shock box.

A contortionist he was. You learned in short order never to leave him unattended with just a stall guard up. He had been caught in the act attempting to escape again by going down on his knees and literally crawling under the guard. No kidding!

Foxy enjoyed a variety of activities that kept him constantly interested in his surroundings. He participated in parades many times riding stirrup-to-stirrup with his favourite mare, the late Hobbiton Tinuviel. He also excelled at breed demos, tours and workshops. He was constantly in the public eye and claimed the people for his own.

On one occasion as a parade horse, Foxy managed to slip free of his halter while Bob was saddling him and I was in the throws of dressing in the trailer’s tack room. Foxy very nicely decided to go for a stroll in the schoolyard where we were parked. His leisurely stroll soon advanced to an all out road trot. I could hear Bob’s frantic calls and when I reappeared from the trailer, there was poor Bob, holding onto the cinch strap and pacing Foxy. In true horsemanship response, I yelled to Bob not to let go. Well, have you ever tried to keep up with a road trotting horse! I had never seen Bob’s feet fly by so fast. You would of thought he was going after Donavan Bailey’s world record sprint time. Foxy moved up his gait and challenged poor exhausted Bob to go even faster. Bob took hold of the horn with his feet just bouncing with every stride of the horse. I think Foxy was having a good hardy horse laugh at our expense! A group of us finally managed to form a human corral of sorts and brought Foxy back to a walk and eventual halt. Bob was panting so hard you thought he was having a heart attack. We finally finished tacking up the wayward stud and he completed the parade route without further deviations.

In later life, he became a reliable teacher for first time riders such as Ruth Gray. When they were informed that the stud Foxy would be their mount, they were apprehensive at first. You could literally read the dialogue racing through their timid minds, "Oh my God, Stallion!!!"

Foxy had a knack of dispelling any fears and cautions, quickly and easily. He gave these future want-to-be riders a confidence in their ability that continues with them today. All of his students have gone on to be excellent pleasure and equitation riders. He taught our junior riders, like Sarah Hawkins, daughter of a former professional jockey, who at age eight used to ride Foxy bareback around the field with just a halter and two lead shanks. He was that special kind of horse that took care of children and the insecure novices. Today his son, Trillium Samson, also a breeding stallion, continues in that tradition of teacher for beginner riders and drivers.

Foxy entered the breeding shed later than most. We wanted to concentrate on training first before adding this duty to his roster. In his entire career at stud, I believe there were only one or two mares that were not successfully covered and in these cases the mares were well in their 20s. His offspring and the next generations have honoured the old boy well. Many of them have surpassed Foxy’s show record. His most famous get includes Trillium Reflection, two time Reserve Champion winner of the Vermont Governor’s Cup Road Race ; Trillium Samson, five times OMHC Park Champion, OMHC and CMHA Champion stallion; Trillium Flashdance, multi champion gelding and Trillium Justina, Reserve Champion High Point Western Pleasure. His grand get are reserve national award winners too, including Trillium’s Chantilly Lace and Trillium Arioso.

The doors closed and the engine purred quietly awaiting the driver’s command. The car groaned into "leveling" position, adjusting for the loads of luggage in its trunk and the occupants of its interior. Soon the Caddy would roll out the driveway and into VACATIONLAND!

Four ladies who had never traveled together before, but held the common thread of horse lover that bound them in friendship, embarked on a journey that would take them to the green mountains of Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York over the next four days.

Each passenger on this adventure would soon reveal their own unique personality that richly blended with others for the enjoyment of the trip.

Phyllis was the "take charge" person in the group. Ruth was the mischief-maker who liked to knock on men’s rest room doors among other things; Carolyn was the one who became known as the wrong-way driver, while I was simply referred to as "the boss". The Boss would later be known for spilling things on herself or dropping things in her tired stupor. Just couldn’t seem to hold on to anything for long.

By late afternoon, the car was piloted into the parking lot of the American Morgan Horse Association Headquarters and Museum. After touring the hub of Morgan activities, it was off to the motel. A not-too-friendly innkeeper who confirmed their reservations with a rude politeness first greeted me. After surveying the premises and finding just one lonely small bar of soap and two towels which was to be shared by four adults, Phyllis took it upon herself to ask for additional toiletries and linens. Big mistake… The manager was outrageously indignant when Phyllis made her plea. He insulted her, and turned away with the parting words – not to comeback to this establishment again. There was no worry of that! It upset everyone, but not for long as the modern buggy was spurred on to dinner at the famous steak house down the road. After a waddling good feast, the ladies decided to go for a stroll to burn a few recent calories they had just acquired. Off to a mall with Carolyn solidly behind the wheel.

It was becoming more apparent as the miles passed by, that our volunteer chauffeur had a bit of dyslexia when it came to white directional arrows on the black pavement. It seemed that the downward arrow meant forward to Carolyn and the upward arrow meant backwards. She just couldn’t get the hang of those arrows, no matter how many times she encountered them.

As the ladies began to march ahead with great gusto, Cathy and Carolyn quietly faded into a local popular hunt – Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor, while Phyllis and Ruth continued their trek to conquer fat cells.

That evening, Ruth decided to entertain the sleeping quartet with her own musical renditions of Miss Piggy. You see, there is no subtle way to put it - Ruth snores. Oh dear, now the whole world knows!! Carolyn was too scared to move too much and awaken "the boss". She was the most silent member of the sleeping quartet. We never heard from Ruthie again, so I don’t know if she ever got any sleep after we teased her so much. Probably felt so guilty (as Ruth does) that she must have stayed up all night thereafter. There was no more snoring from her pillow for the rest of the trip.

After a restful night for Ruth, the rest of the weary travelers packed their bags and departed from the dust bunny motel post haste. It was a glorious day in the comfort of the Cadillac as the car gently followed the slow bends, opening up a new delight of landscape with each curve in the road. As the car climbed the last roadway to the Inn and found a shade tree to park under, the doors opened and everyone stepped back into another time. You could feel the ambiance of the old Vanderbilt/Webb estate beckoning you into its great vista rooms. They were decorated with freshly cut flowers from the ground’s own Victorian gardens. We were graciously greeted and invited to visit the estate before breakfast. Out through the wide screen doors, we ventured onto the tranquil and endless manicured lawns and wonderful gardens that lay before us with Lake Champlain as the backdrop.

After sampling the English garden with its fragrance, herb patches and beauty, the four of us strolled slowly back to the Inn and were ushered into the great dinning room. Like ladies of nobility, we were seated in the grand hall. Once again the décor of the room, the elegance of the fine china and bouquet of flowers made for such a pleasing sight. Classical music played softly as we enjoyed the fresh fruit cups, crepes and other delights. Soon it was time to leave the inn and hop on the wagon tour of Shelburne Farms.

The guide was pleasant enough, but Ruth, Phyllis and Carolyn thought that my version of the history of the farm was much more interesting. After all, Bob and I had first hand knowledge of the farm when we stabled and raced Trillium Reflection on these very grounds 15 years ago. Both of us have visited and toured the farm many times since then and had watched its restoration from the beginning. Each time we came, we acquired a little more history of the majestic model farm that once totaled more than 4,000 acres.

Everyone was awestruck by the Mule Barn with its inner courtyard that equals two football fields and the large corner turrets and copper roofs that stand boldly on guard against the blue sky. This building once housed more than 100 mules in its day. Now it is home to one the country’s finest cheddar operations, with the cheese made from the farm’s own prize dairy of Brown Swiss cows.

There was one special tour of the farm yet to be taken and that would prove to be one of the highlights of the trip. The Breeding Barn or horse barn was now opened for tourists and so we horse crazed ladies boarded a van for the spectacle we were about to be treated to.

I had heard the stories of the magnificent riding arena that was a marvel in its day and still is today. The story goes that Dr. Webb imported the finest Hackney stallions to be put at stud for the local farmers to improve their stock. What Dr. Webb didn’t understand, was that Vermonters already had what they considered the perfect horse – the Morgan, durable and strong enough in the mountains and in the fields, fancy enough for a carriage. Why fix something if it isn’t broke. His kind offer of his prized Hackney stallions’ services for little or no stud fee, had no takers. The proposed breeding program of Dr. Webb for the local inhabitants was a failure. Adding insult to injury, the advent of the car, eventually over-shadowed the horse and its prominence in transportation and farm labour. His beautiful stable and dream was abandoned.

The stable had fallen into disrepair over the years and was sadly neglected. However, funding was found to restore it and what a prize it is.

As you enter through the mighty stone arches of the building, it is the immense size of the structure that literally takes your breath away. Imagine if you will, a riding arena more than 400 feet in length and over 140 feet wide. Imagine that facility filled will 60 box stalls, tack rooms, coach rooms, a balcony overlooking the arena, and a hay loft that goes on forever. Imagine the hustle and bustle of grooms and trainers doing their daily routine. Once again, just imagine life with the horse and carriage and how it must have been in this place so long ago.

The great stable is looking for a purpose as the tour guide explained. They are thinking of hosting special events and market type activities. Being the horse people we were, we simply blurted out with all the enthusiasm we could muster – "it should be used as it was originally intended – it should be used for horses!" Novel idea, the tour guide suggested. "We’ve never had that idea put forth, but then again, we never had horse people before." She must have thought us a little strange, but the more she lingered on our proposal for horse events, the more she seemed to like it. She must have thought those people from Canada have some good ideas! We suggested a number of activities from polo matches for charity fund raising, to a Vermont showcase show for the Morgan Horse.

We said goodbye to Shelburne Farms and headed south to Middlebury and the UVM Morgan Horse Farm. It would be our final destination of sightseeing for the day. One quick stop at a tack shop along the way, and then on to UVM.

The young lady giving the tour (which happened to be the last tour of the day) was rather lackluster in her presentation. Her "ho hum" guided tour was met with just as much enthusiasm by her guests. She seemed a little off guard when I filled her in on some bio of some the farm’s famous residents, such as UVM Dexter (Moonraker’s sire) and the great world champion stallion, Royal Fleetson. 

Off to the famous Middlebury Inn. We decided to dine in the inn’s pub room. We chose the room because of its name – "The Morgan Room". Photos and paintings of famous Morgans hung on the wall. The food was excellent and the evening most enjoyable. Take Charge Phyllis took charge all right and stumbled on her way up the grand staircase to the ladies room. After dinner and a quick walk about the historic town, we headed back to Shelburne and our new accommodations for the evening.

After a restful night, we awoke to rain – lots of rain. Ruth was our weather person who checked conditions every morning on her way out for a run. I don’t think she ever did get a run in. We dressed accordingly and headed off for our complimentary breakfast at the little establishment down the road. You have to wonder when something is free. Believe us, nothing is free.

We crowded into the tiny restaurant waiting patiently for our turn to be seated. There were line crashers that day (not us) and a restaurant that was short of staff and short on temper. We would later comment that a few of the waitresses needed a "happy pill". After an infinitely long period of time standing elbow to elbow, Take Charge Phyllis decided to investigate the seating situation and report back. She marched forward, but with discretion, only to be quickly ushered back in line by the sergeant-in-arms. It didn’t seem to matter that some ignorant patrons pushed their way by us and seated themselves. It seemed to be the "pick on Canadians" day at the restaurant and other patient individuals.

Phyllis decided she might pour us some coffee while we were waiting and headed towards the deserted coffeepot. Take Charge Phyllis was once again dissuaded when one poor desperate soul grabbed the pot to pour himself a cup. "That’s against the law, sir" the waitress bellowed for all to hear. "You can’t serve yourself in here." A little embarrassed – or maybe a lot embarrassed, he retreated back to his seat. Eventually we got service – well maybe not what you would call service. As we were seated waiting for the waitress to finish taking our orders, Ruth’s school mom training came alive. Ruth gritted her teeth every time the waitress opened her mouth. It became a joke eventually. All you had to do was look at Ruth and try not to laugh. Her face said it all. So, at every restaurant, we had a few chuckles when the waiter or waitress tripped up on their grammar and repeated such slang terms as "OK" and the like. We wasted no time exiting that place. Out in the pouring rain we dashed to the car. It was off to Shelburne Museum for a day’s adventure.

Only Phyllis had the foresight to bring an umbrella and it was far too small for all of us to fit under. In the gift shop, Ruth and Carolyn decided to purchase the over-inflated priced clear garbage bag rain ponchos. (Phyllis had another word for it, but it can’t be printed here – something to do with what the male species might use on occasion, if you get my drift.) I declined to purchase the flimsy plastic and said that I wouldn’t melt in the rain. Sure enough, the rain stopped mid way through the tour.

We managed to take in about one third of the sites before leaving to catch the mid afternoon ferry across Lake Champlain to New York state. Timing was perfect when Carolyn turned into the parking area at dockside. She was particularly nervous when the cars were being loaded onto the ferry. Parking attendants guided each driver into their prescribed tight space on the lower deck. There was barely enough room to open your door and exit the vehicle. All Carolyn could do was think of Bob’s car and that she better not scratch or ding it. It might be an old Cadillac, but it was still as Cadillac!

The ferry ride would take one hour to reach the shores of New York State. Everyone enjoyed the scenery, even on a cloudy day. The shoreline was always in view. Rocky projections of small islands jutted out of the water like stone green icebergs. We decided to scout the waterline for signs of the mystical lake monster "Champ". It probably wasn’t sunny or warm enough for Champ to surface for a visit, as he was not sighted.

Once the car rolled off the lowered drawbridge of the ferry, we headed what we thought was north towards Lake Placid. Mistakenly we followed the highway (pardon me, that should be "route" as they call the highways in the U.S.) 9N, assuming that "N" meant north – NOT. But being of the female persuasion, we didn’t drive too far out of our way before logically stopping to verify directions. (I don’t know what it is about men, but they would never admit to being lost or helpless.) Ruth, the only available lady in the group, liked the look of the attendant who gave us proper directions. We told her she was robbing the cradle, but that didn’t seem to deter her. She liked his smile, at least that’s what she said. Back south we headed and picked up 9N that eventually headed north towards Lake Placid.

On route we decided to find a rest room so that we might be more comfortable. After a long stretch of scenic but winding highway, we came upon three signs – "clean", "flush", "toilets". Carolyn decided to signal and turn into the gas bar when Ruth noticed one more sign – "Phil Has Worms". That was the kicker that turned us all off – and so without missing a beat, Carolyn signaled back onto to the road and we continued. I don’t think the bait sign went well with the theme of clean washrooms! Soon we found a respectable place with washrooms, but once again, Carolyn had some difficulty in the rest room. All I could here from a frantic sounding Carolyn was the word "SHI….." You see Carolyn had drop the car keys in the toilet bowl. Since I was the one with dropsy, this wasn’t expected from Carolyn. Luckily she had just flushed the toilet so at least the water was clean and the keys hadn’t penetrated any further. After a little try off, the keys turned over the ignition and off we were again.

Eventually we found our way to the Olympic town of Lake Placid. Wrong Way Carolyn some how made it into the parking lot of the motel, but only to the annoyance of other drivers trying to navigate around this detoured blue Caddy that was determined to come in the wrong way.

Our accommodations were spacious and quite nice – pool side too. Unpacked and ready for food, we strode off again to the Cadillac with Wrong Way Carolyn, who once again, thought that they had painted the angle parking lines wrong.

We found a nice pasta place to dine at. After dinner Take Charge Phyllis headed for the washroom. You have to understand something about Phyllis. She has great difficulty figuring out those little people characters you see posted on the washroom doors. So in she went – INTO THE MEN’S WASHROOM! Hardly frazzled by the episode, she excused herself and went into the appropriate bathroom. One fellow told Phyllis that she might be quite welcomed in their rest room. I’m not sure if that was a compliment? There would be other episodes (two more in fact) where Take Charge Phyllis would enter the sacred domain of men. In one of these instances, Wrong Way Carolyn followed right behind Phyllis into the men’s room only to notice a man standing there in bewilderment. Ruth inevitably had to ask the question – were his hands up or down? Carolyn was so embarrassed; she just wanted to make the quickest exit as possible. And Take Charge Phyllis didn’t even notice the man!!

Once back in the hotel and after an evening swim in the pool, we decided to get ready for bed. We all seemed thirsty, but only Ruth was still dressed. Ruth devilishly encouraged myself and Carolyn to come with her to the vending machines down the hall. So Ruth headed off along the passageway with Carolyn in her PJ’s and a sweater, and me in my "Pooh" nightshirt and jacket. Strange looks were given by the passerbys. These vending machine vixens turned a few heads while they were dropping their coins in the machine, as Ruth of course (the famous lamp post lady) made the most of it.

In the morning, after one of Ruthie’s marathon morning put togethers, we left the hotel for a "shop till we drop" outing. I think every boutique and antique store in Lake Placid saw our faces and sometimes wallets. Ruth made her big purchase in one of the antique shops; an ornate lead/brass clothing hook featuring a large horse head in the centre. She was so worried about Customs that she had us all going. She was afraid she would be over her limit and for those of you who know Ruth, she kept repeating "I can’t lie". Wrong Way Carolyn assured her that it would be fine since the rest of us weren’t over our limit and she could just pond off some of her purchases to one of us. Still Ruth was skeptical and continued to repeat the commandment "Thou shalt not lie".

Exhausted, we made one more trip to Ben & Jerry’s before opening the trunk of the car one last time and making tracks north to Canada.

The border crossing was a non-event, much to Ruth’s relief. I thought Carolyn handled the nice customs officer well. We stopped for dinner one last time and reminisced about our trip. We must have made an impression in the restaurant as one old gentleman came over to our table to compliment us on our sense of humour. He told us we would all live long lives if we kept that up.

So as we headed out the door, once again Take Charge Phyllis entered the men’s room. I don’t know, but I think her husband should know about her wayward tendencies….