Cup of COFFEE: A New Year, a New Approach

Cup of COFFEE: A New Year, a New Approach

By Sean Clancy

Sean Clancy

How’s the writing?

I’m asked that often. All writers are asked that often. All writers ask that often.

This year, like all years, I’m trying to write every day. So far, so good. I use this in my response, actually.

Writing every day. Not writing well every day but writing every day.

My comrade nods his head, understanding the sentiment.

January 2, 2022.Good morning. Happy New Year.

I’m trying a new approach, writing first thing in the morning before the day runs off, blows the turn and heads for the hills. Barn duty this morning as Covid continues to wreak havoc with all aspects of life. Nine horses waiting their turns.

We aborted our trip to Alabama, a day early, as Covid wreaked havoc there as well. We feel fine. We shall see.

January 5, 2022.

I hear him all morning long.

“People don’t understand, everything you do with a horse is a calculated risk. Turn them out. Work them. Run them. Graze them. Everything you do is a calculated risk.”

The late great Thoroughbred trainer, Allen Jerkens, calculated risk with horses all the way to the Hall of Fame.

I’m no Allen Jerkens and our nine-strong string on Snake Hill Road in Middleburg is a long way from Sky Beauty, Onion, Prove Out, Kelly Kip, Emma’s Encore, Admiral Vee, Wagon Limit, Shine Again and Beau Purple but, alas, we make calculated risks all day long. Annie, Rob Massey and I make calculated risks about how many scoops of beet pulp, timothy or alfalfa or both, little paddock or round pen, ring work or road work or hack the hills, green Rambo or blue, shut the windows for warmth or leave them open for fresh air, bring them in when they look antsy or let them blow off some steam…

And when it snows, the decisions, the risks are magnified. It’s constant. Most of the time, you get the decisions right, the risk right. Sometimes, you get them wrong. I’m sure The Chief had an adage for that, too.

January 8, 2022.

It’s the time of year to regroup, reload, reset for the coming new year. In our world, January offers the only respite from the wheel. A few yearly resolutions have been made, but what about monthly resolutions? At the

beginning of each month, take a day, a moment, to think about what you did right over the previous month and what you want to do right in the next month.

Let’s face it, New Year’s resolutions are hard to keep, too big, too audacious, but perhaps 12 monthly resolutions would be easier. It’s not about declaring resolutions, that’s easy. It’s more about changing habits, staying focused, taking incremental approaches to change or improving habits, your trajectory. We’ll see. Twenty-three days to go.

January 14, 2022.

Here it comes.

Sunday. Low, 14. High, 39. Snow, 100%. Winter Storm Watch. Heavy snow/mixed precipitation possible. Total snow accumulations of 3 to 6 inches are most likely, with up to 8 inches. Ice accumulations of one to two tenths of an inch are possible. Winds gusting as high as 45 mph. Snow may fall at 1 to 3 inches per hour late Sunday afternoon into Sunday evening, resulting in nearly impassable roads. Visibility may be reduced to a quarter mile or less.

Put the blade on the tractor. Find the snow poles. Where’s the shovel? Fill up the car. Start the truck, let it run, prop out the wipers. Got milk? Bread? Coffee? Load the porch with firewood. The generator’s plugged in and gassed up. Hay in the sheds, the mangers.

“Snow on a farm should be fun,” says Miles, 13.

Yes, son, it should be fun. We’ll try to make it fun while trying to keep nine horses, a goat and a cat alive and well.

January 20, 2022.

I manage an evening run, the training center loop, 5 miles up and down hills, 22 miles so far for the year. I’m not promising anything, no declarations of 1,000 miles, no promises of marathons. This year, I simply plod, one step after another step. It’s all I’ve got. I hadn’t made my traditional loop through the Middleburg Training Center for months, perhaps, since before Saratoga last summer. I know it well, know where and when my breath will take over my thoughts, know the flitter and flutter of the deer at the bottom of the hill, know the weather-beaten Centennial Farm sign, know the ridges, the ruts, the rainedout washes of the dirt road that cushions my feet falls. At least a little.

January 23, 2022.

My friend the hawk has returned. Perhaps, a red-shouldered hawk, although I’m no Audubon. He comes here most mornings, huddles on the top board of the back paddock. Turns his head and inspects, a traffic cop on a quiet street. Then he flies off, glides a few feet above our frozen ring and slows to a stop on the top board of the other back field. He lands a few feet from Eagle Poise. Like old friends, they acknowledge, almost a nod, an acceptance. The life, the beat, of the farm.

January 24, 2022.

I need to write something for Badger Len. Yeah, the ZEST editor, Len Shapiro. What have I got? What have I got?