Spring is perhaps the best time for a homecoming, especially the sort of homecoming that brought Batman back to our little red ranch. He came home just in time to celebrate his third birthday, and although we did not celebrate with the trappings of streamers and cake, or the frivolity of song, we celebrated from a place from which music is composed, the very depths of our souls. Once home, nestled in the stall that Kimberly selected for him, inside the mare motel on the end (with a view of the western side of the ranch) next to Tess and across from Play Boy, we stood for far too long, watching him, possibly just wanting to be with him, or maybe we couldn’t bear to leave him…not just yet. Our broken silence was mostly filled with repeated murmurs of how handsome he was, how big he had gotten, and a few “holey moley, would you look at that hip”. Certainly, we shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, it wasn’t as if we hadn’t gone out to check on him in pasture, or hadn’t brought him in periodically for “Red Bucket Charm Farm”, but the home coming had layers of emotion and memories and a symbolism that had more complexity than crushing time in Napa.
 
They say that timing is everything, and spring of course is considered across the board to be a time of both birth and renewal. We recently celebrated another birthday, while it is hard to believe, Winni just turned one. She is not only the picture of health and confidence, she well could be the poster girl for Charm Farm. Like Batman, Kimberly and I practically caught her before she hit the straw, and in her case, with a small red army of protective surrogate mothers, grannies, aunties…and one uncle, we touched her, loved her, handled her, and imprinted her into the best adjusted, and most confidant little filly to ever trot down English Road. That is just what she did, although rather than trot, we loaded our well behaved and supremely adjusted Princess Winni right onto our trailer, and drove Winni a mere two farms down the road to Kennedy Pedigo Farms. It is at KPF that Winni spends her days in pasture, as all yearlings should, playing with Cinderella by day and safely tucked into the barn at night. The trotting is done by Kimberly and Lauren who periodically jog down the lane and remind Winni of her manners and early upbringing, but otherwise Winni enjoys carefree days running, playing, and growing, until she too is three years old, and like Batman ready to begin her saddle training and preparation for her very own happily ever after.
 
While this spring has been marked by the return of Batman, and Winni’s newly found pre-school version of pasture, it has also brought the promise of new life darkened by a few gray clouds that threaten to storm, but are tempered behind a red curtain of hope. Three previously slaughter bound pregnant feral, neglected, and malnourished mares have joined our family of the previously unwanted and abused. They have new names Darla, Marlee, and Darcy, new red buckets, and a promise that really means something, only they don’t know it yet, not really. We count every day a gift, as it allows us to feed their ravaged bodies, nourish their babies, and slowly brick by brick, lay a foundation of trust. During this final period of helping the mares settle in, and relax a guard that their life has depended on, the Charm Farm doors are open, and Lauren is gentling and halter training 3 month old orphan Roulette. Roulette, like the mares were saved from slaughter, we close our eyes at the possibility of what happened to so prematurely to Roulette’s mother, and focus on preparing this this little baby doll of a filly for a future that will hopefully repair her traumatic beginning.
 
Watching Roulette’s fear turn to curiosity with an occasional glimpse of emerging affection brings us back to the early weeks when Batman was little. His mother Scarlett was feral, rescued with 6 other very pregnant mares moments before they were to ship to slaughter. The 50 pregnant mares that could fit on the first truck were not as fortunate, as they were sent without apology to a Mexican slaughter plant. Scarlett proved to be a wonderful mother, and while we have never touched her, she has touched us. Kimberly spent every night of Batman’s first 5 months gentling him in a dance with Scarlett that lacked overt interference, but enough motherly instinct to make Kimberly’s job very difficult but not impossible. Today Scarlett safely grazes in a pasture surrounded by other victims of previous abuse, her days are peaceful. Standing outside of Batman’s stall, much of our work is confirmed by his attentiveness and gentle nuzzles. Like Winni, and our new little crop of babies to come this spring, Batman will never know the fear and abuse that his mother endured and survived in order for him to have his second chance. As Kimberly’s shoulder lightly grazed my arm, my thought again turned to Scarlett, and the promise that we made to her and commit to keep.
 
This culture message is dedicated to Scarlett, the mothers that we have yet to save, and those we sadly could not.