It started the morning after. I guess a lot of things start that way. We were at Stachowski farms in northern Ohio. Jimmie and Peter Stachowski, along with Tim Shea and Bobbie Phillips had put together a private treaty sale/showing of some pretty good show horses they had in training. And Ray La Croix had sent a couple down from his barn in Wisconsin. These guys are pretty much the ones to beat in this part of the country, so it seemed like a good idea to present part of their show string for sale in early May. For those who may not know, private treaty sales allow you to think awhile and negotiate on the price before you commit to buy as opposed to an auction where you bid, frequently on the spur of the moment. It’s not as exciting, but you’ll probably feel more comfortable.

    Like a lot of good ideas, it was only moderately successful the first time around. It takes Arab people a little time to get used to something new. The guys showed good horses, mostly young, some proven, to a decent audience who bought some and probably went home thinking about others they should have looked at a second time. Some likely winners went back home. Anyway, we were kind of half way satisfied, half way wishing it had gone a little better, and generally enjoying one of those rare times when horsemen don’t have anything really pressing to do and can visit with each other. A peaceful, noncompetitive Sunday morning. And there were a couple of prospective lookers who were about half an hour late for their appointment. Maybe they’d still show up.

    As I get greyer and/or balder, conversations have a way of drifting to things past when some little current event triggers it. We heard a stallion bellow, as stallions will, and Tim (Shea) was reminded of the shows, years ago, when the first night after arrival was one constant bellow. Particularly at the Buckeye. Everybody got there the night before the first day of classes and set up in portable stalls in a huge warehouse of a barn with tar-paper spread over slick cement floors. Most of us couldn’t afford to sleep anyplace other than our tack rooms so we cussed the bedlam all night long and started the show exhausted. As Tim said, those of us who lived that life hate to hear stallions bellow.

    As happens, specific memories spring to mind after laying dormant for twenty years or so and Tim remembered Dalul as being particularly loud. I think Dr. Coles owned Dalul and Barry Monaghan brought him to the Buckeye. Since Dalul was both valuable and kind of rambunctious, Barry sort of built a safer stall with all kinds of plywood and lumber. While it made Dalul’s carryings on safer, they were also louder as he banged on his walls. Well, Dalul was Egyptian and Tim is fond of Polish horses, (more on the Polish/Egyptian wars in a later portion of the book), and mention was made of nationality with mostly feigned derision. I cautioned Tim that his pride and joy, a twelve year old Mercedes 380 SE, which sat, looking showroom new, less than twenty feet away, was in fact Egyptian related. With a mild oath that my memory was too good, he agreed. An explanation was owed to several who were sitting around, listening in.

    The story of the car was a story of one small part of the Lasma yearling sale of 1982, or was it ‘83? Doesn’t matter, memories don’t have to be precise, just close enough to feel real. Lasma, basically the La Croix family, was a major farm in the Arabian business and instituted several major auction sales, including an annual yearling sale. I always thought it should have been a two-year-old sale, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, Tim and his wife Marty had a pretty filly who sold really well in this sale that I announced. Probably $180,000 or so, again it’s my memory so I can remember it as I choose. The filly was Polish through her sire, but her dam was a daughter of Ghaliis Comet, a part Egyptian of dubious temperament. After the sale I kidded Tim that I deserved a piece of the action for not telling the bidders all I knew about Ghaliis Comet. We all laughed and enjoyed Tim and Marty’s good fortune. That is a big chunk of money for a horse trainer to earn.

    The story about Ghaliis Comet, which may not be true, but I’ve never heard it disputed, is that he seemed to enjoy attacking people, particularly during his stay in the horse program at Michigan State University. The story goes that he got so dangerous that permission was given to shoot him, if necessary, to prevent anybody else from being injured. He’s supposed to have gotten somebody down, wouldn’t let go, and gotten shot to free the hapless victim. Addendum to the story, his sire Ghalii, also presumably at Michigan State, also had a touch of ill temper. The story told is that Ghalii got peeved and started kicking his stall. He kicked hard enough to break his leg. That made him mad, so he kicked hard enough to break the other leg. Exit Ghalii. These events are too long ago to be particularly sad, they’re just retired to the dusty memory bin. Come to think of it, I heard that *Sakr, the winningest Arab ever, kicked his stall and broke a leg. He recovered.

    My wife Sue, who was familiar with all parts of the story, had a question for Tim. We never heard of the filly after the sale and she wanted an update. Tim told us that "Oh, she killed herself. A couple of months after the sale, she flipped over backwards in the cross ties and killed herself". That’s why he bought the car because the insurance paid off right away and he had all the money in one year rather than spread over two or three. He needed the investment tax credit the government used to let us have. (More about taxes and the market decline when I think about it in a later chapter.) It occurred to my wife and me that genetics works in strange ways as we considered the "Ghalii Triangle".

    And so, Bob Bradburn of Pinnacle Arabians, who was listening to the stories, and Tim Shea decided I should write a book. After all, Gene La Croix was writing one. Tim allowed that he wouldn’t believe everything in either book. In fact, he might not even read Gene’s book because Gene was just ornery enough to screw up Tim’s mind in the book, sort of like golfers getting worse with every "how to" book they read. (I’m sure I’ll remember some Gene La Croix stuff in a later chapter. He’s the most remarkable talent I’ve ever seen on a horse. And he is a little ornery sometimes.)

    And this is the book. Whenever I stop, I guess it’ll be finished, or at least, done. I’ll probably write most of it during breaks of the television coverage of the O.J. Simpson trial and having said that, you’ll know it was written in the last part of the twentieth century, and/or the first part of the twenty first. If I can find a lawyer O.J. isn’t using, I’ll have the book expunged of most risks of liable, or at least change the names to protect myself from the guilty. (I know you’re going to check the table of contents for the section on controversies and read that first).

    This is a book of memories, more than thirty years of ‘em, from a life of horsin’ around with Arabians and Arab folks. As I said, maybe some of the memories aren’t precisely accurate, but they’re the way I think they happened. Or the way I heard they happened. Or maybe even the way I wanted them to have happened. I promised myself I wasn’t going to waste a lot of time researching little details. This is a book of memories, not testimony. And if my lawyer’s good enough, it’ll stay that way.

    I hope it turns out to be a big book. Thirty years is a long time to fit in an essay or a short story. And I hope it turns out to hold some stories of my past that touch on something that was special in yours. It’s been thirty-some pretty good years, a lot of chuckles, only a few tears. Well, if you’re brave enough to read this, I’m brave enough to start writing. I hope we finish together.