Wild Roses Overhanging Naked Creek

Hay and Wild Roses

Hay and Wild Roses

It is awfully difficult to write about smells and tastes. What’s that word we all learned in seventh grade poetry appreciation class, onomonapia? (I couldn’t even get close enough for the spell check to find it). It means letters that describe the sound of an animal. The same is true for explaining tastes and smells.

While I appreciate the best efforts of the wine critic, there’s no way that the taste I find in a good glass of wine is a relation to the words that can be put down on paper. Terms like ‘earthy’ and ‘robust’ and ‘hints of peach and almond’ for me do not convey the ‘taste’ that I taste.

Aromas are as hard to describe. Seems to me that words can much more easily have a vision come to mind than either a taste or a smell. The ‘Mind’s Eye’ is what word excite. I’ve never heard of a ‘Mind’s Nose’ or of ‘Mind’s Taste Buds’.

This philosophic discussion leads to one of the more pleasant smells of the countryside. It’s May and in the Shenandoah Valley that means Haying. It also means the blooming of the wild roses.

Our wild roses are a nasty breed. The thorns are fierce and the roots tenacious. Once a pasture or fence line is invaded, there is no remedy except serious pruning, digging or spraying. Neglected areas are soon subjected to the spread of the rose, as rose hips are a favored feed for birds that transport the seed to every imaginable corner.

They are a pretty sight, the roses. Mostly white but some have a soft pink. They bloom but once a year and the vines are covered with a sweet smelling blossom. They are particularly handsome along a waterway, the brambles leaning down into the stream. It is this time of year that the curse of the wild rose is mitigated by the sight and the smell.

I suspect that if you were to hold a poll of farmers and ask their favorite smell it would be hay – freshly cut, slightly dried and ready for baling, or in winter when smelling it brings back the days of summer. Combining the two, the wild roses and the hay as it lays in the fields awaiting the gathering the only word that comes to mind is indescribable.

Hai, aka Haidetz Acasa and his hopeful handler

Hope that Springs Eternal

Hope that Springs Eternal

Every year, first Saturday in May, in Louisville Kentucky the Run for the Roses occurs. Every year that I have a foal born on the farm or, as this year, a yearling gaining power and speed with every blade of grass he eats, I dream of the Kentucky Derby.

It is an unrealistic dream, usually dashed by the time a horse of mine is two years old and started out in training. A trainer once told me about one of my better two-year-old horses, Joe Benign, “He’ll win. I’m not sure at what level, but he’ll win.” It was encouraging news, except that we both knew at what level he wouldn’t win.

It is an unrealistic dream, yet remains MY dream. And as the filly Eight Belles met tragedy this year, so too have some of my animals. Last year, my filly, Lady Marguerite suffered a severe colic attack the morning of her first scheduled start. Two days later, I had to make the decision to ‘put her down’. The sadness was almost enough for me to discontinue thoroughbreds. Now though, looking out at Hai as he tests his muscle against his 31-year-old mentor and pasture mate, the hope still springs eternal.

Nancy says about my thoroughbred habit, “It’s throwing money out the window.” It is. I agree. My horses have earned over $75,000 in purse money over the years, but I’ve had to spend a great deal more than that to get ‘em there. Yet, I can’t think of a better way to spend that money. It is what I want to do. She, of course, can think of better, more practical, ways. So we compromise.

She does indicate that she would like one day to go to the Preakness or the Kentucky Derby or one of the other ‘Big Hat’ races. I tell her not until one of my horses is good enough - at least, good enough to run in a race on the under card.

Why I Grow Wisteria

White Lilacs