I love movies that were made in the 1930s. Everything about them--especially the black-and-white films, before color was developed--makes me swoon. I love the clothes, the plots, the complications that magically get fixed within the space of 90 minutes. I love it that men were men, and women more-often-than-not were tough broads, packin' hearts and hair of platinum.
This contemporary society, this 21st Century, can be so smug: too many peeps under the age of 30 believe that those of us over 30 are idiots. And surely, if it didn't happen,oh, within the last five minutes--it has no value. Western culture has too many "heroes" and others who are famous for being famous. It grieves me, actually, that someone with big hair named Snooki has a book on the "New York Times Best-Seller List."
I doubt that she wrote the book, and now I doubt the value of the List.
It's a relief to see that good movies still exist--but you have to wade through a sea of drek in order to find them. If it isn't heavy on sex and violence--the odds of it being a big moneymaker are thin. The problem with a society that insists on a diet of such emotional loudness is that the subtle and delicate often are overlooked--or worse, cast onto the cutting-room floor.
And because too few people can think back to a year that didn't begin in this century, contemporary culture has little room or respect for greatness that existed before this very minute. The phrase, "...that's so five-minutes ago..." is not a joke.
I get overwhelmed by this western culture, and the utter disrespect for the past. I want to close my eyes and transport back to the black-and-white world, where everything was neatly tied up before the film ended--and no one was dead or assaulted along the way.
So I was relieved--and practically out-of-my-mind excited--on Saturday night, when I came across two movies featuring Clark Gable, a mini-festival on TCM. (Turner Classic Movies, a cable channel in the U.S.)
The first, "The Misfits," will be fodder for another article in this column in the very near future. The second Gable film to show that night--"Saratoga," a gorgeous, lush nugget from 1937--is the one that made my culture-weary heart soar...
Note: This article appeared originally in the March, 2011 issue of "Galopp Magasinet," a Swedish horse racing magazine that I just adore. They cover flat racing of all ilks: Arabian, Thoroughbred, Mongolian--you name it. Their photojournalism is second-to-none--and,occasionally, they hire humble writers such as my self, to tell a story or two.
I love John Henry. Our birthdays were a week away: he, born on March 9th, me, on the second. I was going to wait and post this article for his birthday week, but, nah. I decided to put it up now. It's a quiet day, and I hope that some of you will read this and come away with a different understanding of the irascible old Champion. Sometimes, seeing a horse, person or issue from another side can help us gain new perspective...
As those who know me are aware, I am (sadly) a bit of a skeptic, regarding the good intentions of other human beings. My motto, "The more humans I meet...the more I love horses" didn't come into existence because I sought to be quoted 100 years hence, but rather because, in my experience--most people are not as trustworthy as most horses.
It's sad, but it's true.
Do you recall the Billy Joel song from 1989, "We Didn't Start the Fire"? In rapid succession, he barked out some 100 events and people that had passed through history between 1949 and 1989. The song's staccato beat and the seeming-cacophony of the music always made me anxious. I think that was the point: we heard and sang the names of some very bad people and events, accompanied by rat-tat-tat-tat music--and maybe, just maybe--we might think about the fact that the actions of an individual or of a nation can ripple to every living being on the planet.
Recent events in our sad, weary world have made me think a great deal about this song--and that things haven't changed very much since 1989, except that perhaps they've gotten worse. Greed, anger, prejudice, hatred--the majority of which are fueled by misconceptions, long-held myths or just plain jealousy--run rampant on our beautiful blue marble planet. One day Guy #1 wants to blow up Country #2; the next day, someone else wants to take over Guy #1's nation, and enslave his people.
It goes on and on, so much rage and unwarranted hatred--the names and locations may change, but the results are the same: we live in a fractured world, with imminent threat of extinction at our own hands. How very stupid are we?
I wonder how it looks from the perspective of One whose feet aren't standing anywhere on the planet? How does this bloated bickering look to God?...
A few weeks ago, I was up way-too late, incapable of sleeping. As I channel-surfed, I thought that the infomercials and other shoppertunities should have bored me into the Arms of Morpheus.
But no. I couldn't sleep, and became aggravated by the drivel that clogged the proverbial airwaves. "These people are earning Big Bucks,and I know great writers who can't get a gig. No justice," I declared.
But then, by the Grace of God and my finely-tuned eye, I spied a horse. A Thoroughbred, to be exact. And he was the newest acquisition of one Mr. Fred Sanford.
Yes! A double bonus: an episode of "Sanford and Son" AND a Thoroughbred. Seems that Fred bought the guy for fifty bucks, with plans to turn him into a stud horse and make millions.
Of course, you know how Fred's plans always work out: they don't. The previous owner had gelded the guy (the horse, not Fred). So once again, Fred was foiled...
For some human beings, writing is an obsession. We have to write, or the chemicals in our heads go haywire. There's stuff floating around in there, and it can get to the point at which we must, absolutely must, get it Out There, into the world beyond our skulls--or we will implode. Shrapnel everywhere. (I wonder what that shrapnel would look like? Bits of lines of poetry by Frost and Dickinson? Fragments of paintings by Bosch, Klee and Moses? Algebraic symbols?)
Anyway. Take the need to write, and complicate that place of perpetual insanity by the passionate, no-holds-barred love for The Horse. Now you have a potentially dangerous person on your hands: while the rest of the world may view the horse writer as a quiet, mousy introvert who keeps to themselves and lives with a cat...
Sweat pouring down her face from exertion and long hours without respite, the soldier moved one arduous step at a time. She'd been on this exhausting journey for five days now: back and forth, back and forth, from the munitions station to the front. By the end of the week, she had carried 386 rounds of ammo (9,000 pounds) to her comrades, sharing the uber-real danger of bullets whizzing over her head. But still she carried on, until the battle was over and her troops were back at their frozen unit. Sgt. Reckless was there for her brothers-in-arms: the Battle of Outpost Vegas was one of the most savage in the "police action" at the 38th Parallel.
The Korean War often is called, The Forgotten War, with good reason. This non-war war began less than five years after the end of World War II--and not many average people supported the war effort.
The soldier in the scenario above, with strong back, keen eye and gentle, loyal heart was named Sgt. Reckless, and she was a horse. A small Mongolian mare, she also could have been named, "Sgt. Fearless," because there was nowhere that her soldiers went, without her. Sometimes, even in the aforementioned five-day battle--she trod her journey alone, but never turned back, never went AWOL.
Had it not been for Robin Hutton, a writer who brought Sgt. Reckless to my attention, I'd not have known about the brave little mare. (Robin is writing a screenplay, BTW, so hopefully the whole world will know of this magnificent steed in the near future.)
But not all war horses are the subject of movies: most, like the Korean War, have gone unnoticed--or at least, unappreciated--by the public, after their human-designated "usefulness" is over.
From the beginning of time, horses have been in the trenches, literally, with their humans. Whether in battle as a knight/soldier/warrior--or as an unwilling potential victim, taking their people on wild-eyed rides through the woods, away from harm's way...
 Time-travel with me, if you will: it's July of 1863, and the Battle of Gettysburg (Pennsylvania, USA)--the bloodiest battle in American history--has just taken place. Mass casualties on both sides. The country was hurting--neither the North nor the South was gloating after the enormous loss of life. Uncommon valor and sheer guts were the only things that kept some men alive in the days following, as litters of broken bodies, housing broken souls, were carried off the battlefield.
The emotions of the nation were crushed, as brother fought against brother--many families were divided, and there was no end in sight to the War Between the States.
Gather up your hoop skirts now, board the cart and come with me just one month later, to Saratoga Springs, New York. The city that was founded on spring waters with curative properties was just about to embark on a venture that would eclipse the springs, as a new distraction would be offered to The People...
Oh, all right, it's up to The People to save the world. Most American politicians have no interest in trying. (I can't and won't speak about politicians in countries other than the U.S., my only experience is here.) But if you added up all the politicians in the US and added a dollar--you couldn't buy a decent cup of coffee. Certainly Corporate America isn't interested in doing it--I can't speak for Corporate Anyplace Else.
So once again, it falls upon the shoulders of We, the People, to bring about change.
That's OK, we're pretty good at it.
The change of which I write today seems like an easy one: change in the life of a youth. If we can get horsepeople from every corner of the globe to participate, one year from today we will have touched the lives of 1,000,000 young people.
Imagine that...
Think about this concept, if you've not done so before: everything has an expiration date.
Everything. Let's start with the basics: a carton of milk, a can of soup, special offers from your favorite restaurant. These are expiration dates that we see every day: remember the last time you grabbed a big glass of milk, only to discover that the beverage was far beyond its "good by" date? Blech.
Ignoring the expiration date in that case resulted in a less-than-satisfactory experience. And that's just milk.
But everything in Life--in the Universe, in fact--has an expiration date: stars, galaxies, trees, bodies of water. Nothing disappears, of course--it gets "recycled," as it were, into a different form of energy, molecules, etc.
The expiration date relates to the form as we know it: that pretty star that we see in the sky? It was there a billion years ago, and now all we're seeing is leftover Star Shrapnel. The orange leaf on our favorite tree? Will be gone in a few weeks, turned to brown, crunchy, dry mulch.
But in turn that leaf will feed the tree and other plants and microscopic critters in its surrounding environment, and will live again next year, in the form of a bigger, stronger tree and even more-vibrant leaves.
Ah, now we get to the part of the Theory of Expiration Dates that make some people feel uncomfortable. Not one aspect of Life is exempt from the Theory, for the Theory speaks of growth, and of the future's need to clear space. Out with the old, in with the new. Everything expires, whether or not we think we're ready for it: Relationships. Jobs. Living situations. Life, itself, is subject to expiration of one form, in order that another form can be born...
In the next few days, I'll post several articles. I hope you like them all. But tonight I have to dash off a little something, inspired by a video I just saw on Facebook. Don't worry, it won't be long, just pointed.
People who love horses should work with them, or at least get to be around them, somehow.
People who do not love horses should not be allowed to be near them, ever. There's something about the kindness and innocence of the horse that pushes the buttons of people who have the need to dominate another living being. I don't know why: maybe they can't get away with that behavior at home. Maybe they hate their bosses. Whatever the inspiration, some people just plain need to be cruel to a living being.
The natural human response to a horse is the strong desire to defend her or him, to become the horse's protector. People lacking this response should steer clear of equines, or face the wrath of those of us who DO feel compelled to protect and defend...
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THE ALPHA MARE, commonly known as M.E. Altieri, is a writer/editor/activist who lives and breathes the art and sport of horse racing—both Arabian and Thoroughbred.
In 19 -- (we're not sharing the year!), at age four, Mare first rode a horse—an American Quarter Horse—on her cousin's farm in Stephentown, New York. That same year her Mother took her to Green Mountain Park, a now- (sadly) defunct Thoroughbred track in Pownal, Vermont. Next stop, Saratoga Race Course. The seed was planted, and a passion, born.
While she does have other interests, none hold a candle to her passion for horses. She finds that horses are far-more intelligent, compassionate and kind than 99% of the people she meets.
Mare has just finished editing a beautiful history book, about Iraqi Purebred Arabians, and is eager for the western world to discover the book, its author and the history of this strain of the breed. Additionally, she contributes to several horse publications (racing and otherwise), including Arabian Finish Line, Desert Mirage and Galopp Magasinet. The Alpha Mare Series, a book series for children, will debut on Caballito Books.
An Alumna of Mount Holyoke College, Mare is a member of American Horse Publications, the Arabian Jockey Club and Arab Business Club. She invites you to read the blog—and to comment here in the Comments section. Become involved in the equine industry via whatever interests you most—and tell Mare about your passion for the horses, the people and the scene. In the words of the great Harvey Pack, Mare offers this benediction: "May the Horse be with you."
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M.E. Altieri
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