Foxhunting on the Chesapeake!

 A glorious day down by Dameron, Md.  In the distance across the waters at 12-15 miles are the tree tops of islands in the bay.  It will soon be winter, just two days.  Thoughts turn to Xmas.  Bald Eagles were calling and circling overhead in the distance, couldn't get close enough for a discernible photograph.  A good day to be alone with your thoughts.

Newtown

None have the courage and moral fortitude to act.

Nothing has disturbed me to this degree since the dreadful events of September 11, 2001.  There, at that instant, we knew who are enemy was.  It was something to work on, to deal with.  To avenge the innocent, to show to all concerned that this behavior was not to be tolerated, those guilty to be hunted down to the ends of the earth and to receive the maximum penalty we as a nation can deal out.  It is one thing to perform their cowardly and detestable acts against our military, it is another matter entirely to injure the innocent.  I still think of those poor souls trapped on the higher floors of the World Trade Center knowing help will not come.

You question your faith.  How could a loving and merciful God let this happen to little lambs?  I hear nothing  but mumbo-jumbo from the various religious leaders on this.  Nothing.

Ingleside on a Foggy December Morning.

 A fine turn out for the joint meet with Commonwealth Foxhounds down by Oak Grove.  A chill in the air, but spirits were high.  Long driveway gave for dramatic camera shots.  

Thanksgiving Day Hunt.

 Horse, rider, and hound reflected in the smooth pond waters.

Reynard making his escape!

 The Huntsman and the pack in this four picture sequence.  The first photo (1) is before the hunt has begun.  In the far distance, beyond his left shoulder, is the thicket in photo (2).  The pack has picked up a scent and are working around the marshy area.  In photo (3) the Huntsman has dismounted and is helping the hounds as they try to locate their quarry.  At this time, they are 400 yards away from my location.  In photo (4) Reynard, a fine large grey fox with a bushy tail, has sprung from the far side of the thicket and with a bound races across the field of winter wheat.  The photo taken is between 300-400 yards distance, and Reynard, in full flight, rushes past the two whippers-in.  I was so astonished, I only snapped the one image and then switched to video to record the rest of his flight.

Blessing of the Hounds.

The Blessing of the Hounds. An excerpt from my novel Tally-Ho!

The field gives the Master of Fox Hounds another round of cheers and applause, and then quiets quickly as the clergyman moves to the forefront.
The minister, his attendants carrying an ancient looking silver crucifix mounted on a six foot tall staff, follow behind him. The vicar opens his prayer book, and flips to a bookmarked page.

“Let us pray,” Caldershot makes the Sign of the Cross while speaking, ‘In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Several large and noisy crows pass overhead, and vanish still squawking as they soar westward over the manor.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come,” continues the Vicar as the assembled throng joins in, “Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory forever. Amen.”
Several of the hounds move forward and the priest rubs their heads and noses. He moves toward Boothby and scratches the muzzle of the Squire’s great horse, still having three Fox Hounds joyfully spinning around him.
“Heavenly Father, bless all your creatures that share in this hunt, and grant that each may find their own path as you, Our Father, have ordained since the beginning of time. Extend your merciful hands upon the Field Masters, Grooms, Equerry, Huntsman and their staffs, who have loved, trained, and cared for the animals that we see, and whose marvelous songs will shall hear today,” prays Reverend Caldershot raising his hands in blessing while he speaks, “Bless and shield these brave riders, man and woman, from danger to life and limb. Bless these noble steeds who will run today and bear their riders, let them all come through this day unhurt. Keep in your Merciful Hands the hounds who hunt today as did their ancestors, in this special sport. Let them be diligent in the efforts and eager to raise their voices in their own hymn of praise.”
Several of the hounds, as if on cue, take up the cry, and sighting a nearby orange house cat, start to yip. They are quickly and quietly stilled by the Huntsman who calms them under his breath.
“Your pardon, Vicar,” says the red-faced man, “My apologies for the interruption, sir. Pray continue.”
The whippers-in move around the edge of the pack. The interloping cat, recognizing his error, flees for his life through the kitchen door.
The Vicar lifts an eyebrow at the commotion, and then smiling, continues the prayer.
“And last but not least, Our Heavenly Father, bless our noble quarry, the wily Master Fox, and grant that our skilled and cunning foe may be our guide to a deeper understanding, appreciation, and love for your natural world,” continues the Vicar, “Help us all to see and appreciate the eager willingness and creative cunning that makes Reynard the very heart of the spectacle we participate in this day. O God, who blesses all things by Thy Word, pour down Thy blessing on Thy servants and horses, and their hounds; to all who shall take part in this hunt, grant protection of body and soul. Grant that the true sportsmanship may prevail in all we do this day through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit all of you gathered here today. May the Lord bless and keep you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give each of you here in this company, peace, this day and evermore, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”
The field echoes loudly, “Amen.”
There is a moment of silence as the Vicar turns back to where his acolytes stand with the cross. He takes the staff from the boy and holds it out in his right hand.
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” the Vicar sings out loudly, projecting over the crowd. The riders begin to take up the familiar hymn.
From over a quarter mile away, the hill-toppers join in.
“Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost” the voices all meld together, the ancient hymn echoing from the hilltops down into the scene below, “Amen.”

Opening Hunt

The Huntsman and his charges await the word from the Master.  The day is windy and cold.  It is November.  It is Opening Hunt.  The fine ladies and gentlemen are dressed and ready.  This moment is several months in the making.

Final Cubbing of 2012

Paints in front leading the field.  

Oct 3, 1915. The Big Game.

My grandfather, Louis F. Grote, is pitching in this long ago game.  He lost that day, but the picture of the game and crowd was lovingly mounted and displayed in his dining room for 62 years until his death in 1977.  He was quite a character, hardened by years in the steel mills, yet kind enough to grow roses in his small garden out back.  He had a pet nickname for everyone of his grandchildren, most to their utter embarrassment. I remember, after cutting the grass, careening through the side streets of Latrobe ensconced gleefully in his 1949 black Oldsmobile.  We never went very far, but it was always an adventure.  I am very glad I found this writeup yesterday, it makes him come alive again, and I can see him putting one of my younger brothers or sisters in "The Clampers" and not letting them go.  The picture of the game is in the Library of Congress.  http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/pan.6a29249/

Almost Opening Hunt.

The months of training are drawing to a close, soon will be Opening Hunt.  No more ratcatchers.

Jack Frost is getting busy.

The new horse

Finally, after many miles and kissing a few frogs, a horse of someone's own.  Splash and his 'two faces' is a welcome addition.

Kindlegraph signing for ebooks.

Something new for Kindle readers. You can get a "signed copy" of my books from Kindlegraph. Take a look.

Check out my website if you are interested in signed copies.

I wonder who will remember their names and deeds?

A small graveyard, still kept clean, hidden away from prying eyes. Who recalls their lives? What secrets do the silent stones hold?

Maire Rua

While chatting with Tom Mulqueen, he made mention of Mary McMahon "Maire Rua" or 'Red Mary' of County Clare, a legendary figure in 17th Century Ireland.  I will incorporate her and her home, Lemaneagh Castle, into the tales of The Cavalier series.  

Final book covers for The Seekers

 The remainder of the covers for the series "The Seekers."  Juniata and Loyalhanna take place in 1751.  Braddock follows the ill-fated expedition from Cumberland, Md to the battle in the forest as the opposing armies run into each headlong.  Kittanning, in 1757,  follows Hugh Mercer, and the raid by the Pennsylvania militia to free hostages held by the Shawnee.  Ligonier, in 1758, tells the story of General Forbes with George Washington, making the last assault on Fort Duquense.