Theraputic riding teaches everyone

Littleton Colorado.

Tucked away between route 85, light rail and row townhouses, and below a massive dam lay Coventry Farms, a broken down ranch where we spend 30 minutes every Sunday for Mitchell's therapeutic horse riding. You would never know the place was there because it sits in a valley out of site from any road and too far south from the light rail. It's a cool place though, the buildings are all in dis-repair, the fence is jury-rigged together about every 20 feet, and there's old farm machinery sinking into the earth sometimes adorned with signs or filled with dirt for a planter.

It reminds me a little of the farm I grew up on in Illinois, except Dad would NEVER have let any of the buildings look this beat up. A non-profit called 'The Right Step' is allowed to use the facility for it's therapeutic riding program.

Mitch started riding when he was about 5 or 6 at a place called Praying Hands Ranch way east of Parker CO, and has usually enjoyed riding. Volunteer's walk on each side of him to steady his trunk (though he really doesn't need them anymore), and there is a licensed riding therapist who instructs the volunteers where to ride and also works with Mitch on communication and occupational and physical therapy. Mitch's teachers name is Ms. Paula, who worked with him at Praying Hands also. Paula is a very calm and quiet person who is able to sense the mood of her patient immediately and structure her session around that particular mood.

At first we could only afford a group lesson in which Mitch had to ride with 2 other disabled kids, and this proved hard for him because he didn't have the patience to wait while Paula worked with others. He just wanted to keep moving. So we managed to shift some funds around to allow him to have a private lesson with Paula which has made an incredible difference. His transition from house to car to stable sometimes is a little tough but once he's there and he sees Paula's face (or Cheryl, the manager of the program) his face lights up and he's ready to go.

Paula has gotten Mitch to sign more than anyone else at any time. He now signs three words in a row for her, telling her to stop, walk on, run, and even yes, no, more, and thank you without prompting him. The horses calm him down and allow him to focus on Paula more than he could anyone else, and Paula is extremely patient with him, never giving up on a command. Over the span of a year he has eliminated any complaining and stays focused on Paula.

The Volunteers are amazing too. They pull that horse around the arena and outside in freezing cold winters and boiling hot summers. That metal barn just roasts in the summer. And they keep requesting to ride with Mitch because they like him so much. He really is happy when he rides there, and everyone loves to see a happy kid. We are working on going twice a week since he has somewhat lost interest in swimming.

A few times we have been late in arriving and frustrated because of it, and it has reflected in Mitch's attitude. This was a great lesson for us, probably just as valuable as his lessons. His attitude reflects ours, so in this way we've learned just as much, and are forced to practice patience and restraint for the sake of the lesson.

Coventry Farms is a great place to visit. I would recommend it to anyone. The minute you open your car door the pressure of the busy suburbs falls away. With the exception of a train once in a while, there's very little outside noise. There's massive cottonwood trees all around that have obviously been there for hundreds of years. There's billy goats that walk up to you to see if you have any food, snort and then waddle away, all kinds of different dogs and cats wandering around and plenty of horses to pet. I often take a book and sit on the broken down patio furniture and try to soak up as much as I can before getting back on Mineral drive and dodging lunatic drivers on the way home.

Sometimes I wonder if we get more out of therapeutic riding than Mitchell does only without the horse.

A weekend with Dad

When my Mom and Dad visit from Walsenburg for the weekend, I usually plan a small project for Dad and I, because like me he can't sit still and we can get some quality time together. Last weekend I had him paint a used topper I bought for the truck. He's 87 now, but he remains the family auto painter, ever since he painted my '68 bug black in '78. He also still holds his own when he helps me frame, trim and tile.


A B-25 flew over the house and it brought back some memories of World War II, so I pressed him to get some more stories. Seems he was sleeping in a tent when 30 B-25's flew over high as the trees, sucking all the air out of the tent!


Dad enlisted in the Army Air Corps in 1942 in an effort to head of his eventual draft, so he could have his choice of which division. He had a fascination with airplanes but had poor eyesight, so he knew they wouldn't take him in flight school. He thought he was an ideal candidate for working on airplanes, but just like the Army they stuck him in radio school. He kept falling asleep during class so that ended that. The logic of the Army was twisted for Dad-get everyone up a 4 a.m. and then expect them to stay awake all day. He was stationed mostly in the south at first, mostly North Carolina where he was in one of the first units to try integrating with African Americans, some of whom would eventually join the Tuskegee Airmen. He was then shipped to New Guinea where they lost his papers and he wound up being a cook.


Dad always said the best way to see socialism is to be in the Army, where everyone gets their one job to do, and they don't make waves and sit tight so they won't have to work more than they have to. He also said whenever they ran out of things to do they just marched. If they weren't marching they were sitting in some mile long line to get a gas mask or something. Dad always had a good BS radar, so he didn't always go with the crowd. He didn't smoke so he sold his cigarettes and saved his money for when he had furloughs and then he would travel. Usually on foot. He was often amazed that the Army did so well because from where he stood it was a total disaster. He was and still is angry at Roosevelt for locking up the Japanese, and he always questioned Truman's decision to drop the bomb on Japan.


Being from Chicago he never experienced the type of racism that was in the south at the time, and it surprised him. Many of his bunk mates refused to even stay in the same barracks with blacks, and when a black couple was heading toward him in the street they would stand aside until he passed. Just like Dad, from then on if he saw them coming he would cross the street ahead of time so they wouldn't have to move.


His journey overseas was on board a destroyer, a month long trip much like a sardine can with rationed water and bunks only 24 inches apart. He remembers every time there was a dark cloud approaching the guys all got naked and stood there waiting for the rain (their only chance for a shower) just to have the ship turn away from the cloud at the last minute. This was because they had to zig-zag in order to elude enemy submarines. Dad was sure the captain had it in for all of them.



A cook in the Army overseas meant you get what you get and you better make the most of it. Sometimes they would get endless piles of dehydrated meat and he would have to make different types of meals with the same stuff over and over. The guys got pretty tired of it, but after a while Dad got good at hiding what was really inside. After the Army he owned a small bakery with his buddy in Georgia, but it never made any money, and after that he never cooked again. He'll make a sandwich now and then, but he won't cook.

It's always great to hear those old stories, especially the hilarious way he tells them, and I've done my best to sneak the video camera in when he's not looking. Dad has never bought that 'greatest generation' thing. He's always said that the just did what they had to do. He remembers huge anti-war protests in Soldiers field at the time, but he knew the storm that was coming, and that there was no way America could have stayed out of it.

Though I know it won't last forever, I still feel incredibly blessed that Dad is still around (Mom is still here too, but she'll be another blog) so I'm soaking up all that I can.

A day at Children's.

Every year and a half we have to schedule a day surgery at Children's hospital for our 13 year old son to get routine dental work. Since he has Down syndrome and Autism, the dentists chair for him is worse than pulling teeth. He won't even go into the office, let alone let anyone pry open his mouth, so his dental work must be done under anesthesia.
Getting him into the hospital is usually not too hard, because it's not a threatening place, until the guys in the green outfits come through the double doors. It would be too traumatic for 6 men to wrestle him onto the gurney and strap him down, so the 'sleep' doc gives him an oral sedative first (this time it was a shot) and then we heft him up on the gurney and wheel him into the workshop.
Yesterday was his day, and everything went fairly smooth until his recovery. It took most of the day for his dizziness to wear off, and when ever he tried to walk he would hit the floor and then vomit. It took a few wrestling matches with him to convince him that he had to wait it out.
Children's is an amazing place. We saw a few panic stricken parents fretting over their kids routine day surgeries, as well as some battle hardened parents escorting their kids with no hair, in wheelchairs and casts. We saw a tiny baby who had lots of complications at birth, who was making allot of progress, though still very jaundiced. We saw a CP kid in a super deluxe wheel chair being pushed around by his parents who looked strikingly like us. Sometimes in cases like that our eyes meet and we immediately see kindred spirits, though I know they have a lot harder of a time than we do. The place bustles all day long, tired nurses run back and forth, staff, security/concierge, doctors and coffee shop workers run non-stop through the day.
When we finally got Mitchell in the car it was 4 p.m. and when we got outside (2nd try) my wife and I both felt detached from reality. The inside of that hospital is it's own universe, it's own culture and language. It has a feel all to it's own. We were so focused on one thing we forgot there was a world outside the hospital doors. The frustration of having to go through such an ordeal just for dental work, the sadness of seeing hurt kids and also the joy of seeing the recovering ones, along with the satisfaction of getting out in good shape, wear at your conscience and burn you out.
The final hours of the day even everything out. Mitch is home and happily playing his videos over and over, and we're still feeling like the most blessed parents on the planet, warts and all.
M