Hobby Horse

Hobby Horse

For Mother’s Day several years ago my family gave me a manure spreader–because nothing screams “mom” like a device for waste management.  Despite probably having some deep subliminal meaning that I chose to ignore, it was actually exactly what I had asked for.  The fact that I now had actual manure to spread meant only one thing:   I had a horse.

When I was nine I begged my parents to enroll me in a “basics of horsemanship” class at

Corky, the sneaky pond pony

Corky, the sneaky pond pony

our community Rec Center.  Each weekend during the summer, we carpooled out to a seedy little horse farm with patchwork fencing and stalls cobbled together from spare lumber where I learned how to ride shaggy ponies in a Western saddle.  A small murky pond sat in the middle of the main pasture (more sand than grass) where we’d have our lessons.   Many times, Corky, the temperamental Shetland I rode, decided the lesson was over and took  an abrupt right turn straight into the pond.  I’d balance atop the saddle, my legs held high to keep dry, pulling at his bridle and mane in futile desperation to get back on dry land.

Eventually that horse farm folded, and my parents thought that was the end of my foray into horses.  Silly parents!  My friend Linda and I soon moved on to grander pastures.  We started spending weekends at an English riding stable run by a one-armed German named August Gruen.  He’d sit astride his Thoroughbred chestnut stallion and clear six foot fences as if they were nothing, all this while holding shortened reins with his one hand.

Technically, we were “working students,” which meant we traded labor on the farm for riding lessons. In reality, each weekend, we sweated profusely in the Florida sun mucking stalls, shoveling sand, pitching hay, creosoting fences, lugging sloshy water buckets, and cleaning and oiling leather tack.  By the time our fathers arrived to shuttle us back home, were were covered in sweat and filth and sometimes smelled so bad they’d drive all the way home with the windows down.  Utter bliss.

All through my childhood, my every waking thought was consumed by what I’d do at the horse farm that weekend.  I learned classical dressage, cross-country, and stadium jumping.  Every extra penny I had went into riding gear and model Breyer horses.  On the days we weren’t at the farm, we’d play with the models, imagining we were rich horse trainers, stables full.  Either that or we’d pretend to be horses ourselves, setting up “jump courses” in the yard with chairs and broomsticks, trotting and tossing our heads as we cleared the rails.

A canal ran through the farm, ending in a large pond of dark water. Happily, by this time, I’d figured out how to prevent ponies from darting there as a throw-me-off tactic.  Instead, after a morning of cleaning stalls, we’d hop bareback onto the horses and ride them into the pond on purpose.  The moment when the horse beneath you reaches a depth where it loses solid footing and starts to swim is magical.  As I held on to the wet mane and gripped with my knees to keep from sliding off, it felt a bit like flying, weightless, the horse’s nose angled above the water as it snorted and whuffed, enjoying the coolness.

It was Florida, after all, and there were known gators somewhere in the waterway.  We could hear them croaking to each other like mammoth bullfrogs at dusk.  Occasionally, we’d find headless turtles left on the banks, a small snack left abandoned.  Either the bravado of our youth or the muscular pumping of the horse’s legs were enough to ward off the beasts while we swam.  We were flippant and fearless as long as we were tethered to the horses.

All my significant injuries have been from horses:  cracked rib from falling off during a jump over a water obstacle, broken wrist when the saddle slid off at a gallop (my fault for not checking the girth), sliding face first on a gravel driveway beneath galloping hooves, and a purple and yellow bruise the size of a grapefruit on my hip from being bitten by a particularly bad-tempered Tennessee Walking Horse (why I’ve never cared for the breed since).

When we moved from Florida and my Mecca horse childhood, I mourned.  My only solace was that my parents had bought acreage in Tennessee, which meant pasture and room for a horse.  I had a solid “maybe” from my parents, so I reluctantly boarded the moving van.   I had only three years at home before heading off to college at that point, so rather than dive into the money pit, my father stalled until the timing of buying a horse became impractical.  This is perhaps the one thing I have trouble forgiving him for.

Years later, in my late 30’s, we finally landed in a spot with pasture and (gasp) a ready-made barn.  Once again, the scent of pine shavings and hay filled my days.  I spent long stretches of time with a curry comb and hoof pick, stocked up on carrots and remembered how to clean and oil a bridle, even briefly showing again at a hunter-jumper event.  These days, the ground seems a lot harder than it did when I was 12, and I’m not as quick to take chances with a half-ton animal.   But I sure enjoy looking out the window and seeing a horse in the field, calmly grazing and swishing the flies with his tail.

Growing up with horses gave me a grand sense of power, freedom, motion, and imagination that formed who I would become as an adult.  When most girls my age were obsessed with lip gloss and slumber parties, I was laboring in the sun and dirt, kissing that Barbie-doll female image goodbye.  If I fell off, my German instructor gave me a withering “Stop crying and get back on that horse!” and I learned how to correct my mistake so it wouldn’t happen again.  I learned the boundaries of taking risks, earning respect of a being that had a will, copped attitude, and could crush me if it chose (much like a two-year old, now that I think about it!).

Horses grant a deep connection.  You’re balanced atop an animal capable of running over 50 mph, and all you do is turn your head to the right and give a slight pressure of your right calf, and magically, intuitively, your mount changes direction beneath you.  A light touch of the rein and his head bows in an arc, ears swiveling as he waits for your next cue.  It’s ballet.  It’s orchestral harmony.   A video of Stacy Westfall from several years ago never fails to give me chills:

https://youtu.be/TKK7AXLOUNo .

Carrots and sugar cubes are not enough reward for this gift.  I’ve lost two horses over time and my mourning for them ran deep.

I’ve had to take a double-dose of Advil for the past two days after spending several hours spring cleaning stalls.  But I’d rather have that than an empty pasture.   I’ll take my manure spreader over a tennis bracelet any day.