It’s a rare thing in our transient and fickle world to meet with the kind of steadfastness and constancy that spans decades. How could I have known that in my ninth year, when my greatest desire was to spend an afternoon with my nose in a book, that I would find my first real and enduring friend? She turns 50 today, and it seems fitting to mark the milestone with a tribute of sorts. It was the late 70’s when we met, when summers were spent running through sprinklers and being told to “just go outside,” before the Adam Walsh incident injected fear into the suburbs and parents hovered, constant hawk-eyed supervisors. At nine, we’d both ridden our bikes to the community rec center to discover that hanging on the bulletin board was a holy grail disguised as a tattered and smudged sign-up sheet for lessons in horsemanship, something that required no experience or skill with a ball of any kind.
An instant friendship began as Linda and I penciled our names on the list. Turned out she was also in the fourth grade at my school, both of us transplants into central Florida that year. My father had been transferred from a military base in South Carolina, and hers within PanAm from the island of Antigua. In the interest of saving gas money, our parents alternated carting us to and from the barn that summer–and every weekend for the next five years. That first summer together we learned how to curry a horse’s coat, clean out a hoof, and ride. From there, we worked at the stables in exchange for lessons, mucking stalls, creosoting miles of fencing, and oiling endless tack.
Our chief language was equine-speak. When we weren’t at the stable riding actual horses, we played with model horses instead of Barbies. We alternated between being famous trainers with our stables full of noble steeds to making up dramatic sagas with the horses playing speaking roles as they journeyed through treacherous arctic tundra or across barren prairies. Occasionally, we’d even hitch one another up using robe ties or belts and careen around the yard clearing broomsticks between lawn chairs. When we could entice my younger brother to play, we’d enlist him to catch a handful of green and brown anoles, the lightning-fast small lizards that bask in the Florida sun. Fashioning “reins” out of yarn, we’d hitch the unfortunate reptiles to “carts” made of leaves and drive them around on scalding sidewalks. Eventually we released them, but I’m sure generations of these creatures told strange and horrible tales about their giant captors to their stunned offspring.
We spent so much time together between fourth and ninth grade that our families were interchangeable. We called each other’s parents mom and dad and were as comfortable in each other’s kitchens, bedrooms, and yards as our own. I was the fourth girl born into my family, and Linda was the first (and oldest child) in hers. This birth order may be the reason she rankled at comparisons, never bearing labels or playing designated roles. She is exactly three months older than I am, a fact I liked to point out smugly as we grew, both of us late bloomers in middle school, but she enough later that I lorded it over her, my one pathetic competitive edge. Being brought up in the “no worries” Caribbean island atmosphere may have had a part in her naturally breezy and que sera sera approach to life, which fascinated me since it was decidedly different from my more rules-based childhood. Once (and only once), she came to church with us and during communion impetuously demanded to know why she “couldn’t have one of those little wafer thingies.” Glancing wide-eyed down the pew at my father, I mumbled something about having to talk to the priest first and shushed her to be quiet.
At Linda’s house they played soundtracks—albums from The King & I and My Fair Lady, while at mine we heard Pat Benetar and Michael Jackson courtesy of my older sisters. It was just as well because she danced like a thespian with flair, not an 80’s teenager emulating characters from a John Hughes movie. She peppered casual conversations with vintage movie stars I’d never heard of and was the only person alive I’d ever met who’d read more and more widely than I had. She constantly handed me books–whole series of them–that she’d finished in a week, forcing me to up my game and reading capacity. She never wanted to waste an afternoon in front of the TV; growing up in the British Isles had spared her some American vices. When I was with Linda, we climbed trees outside, in kingdoms of the “Tree People,” with names like Queen Oleander and Princess Poppy. We’d ride our bikes for miles, often ending up at the Ben Franklin drug store in the Plaza, in predetermined dramatized roles where we’d speak in only loud butchered Spanish, as if the suburban moms and sales clerks couldn’t see straight through our lame middle school antics. No chance either of us could be mistaken for exotic Latin travelers, despite our single Spanish class in junior high branding us Luisita and Bonita, names we call each other to this day. Or, one of us would lead the other one–who one day would be blind, the next day deaf– through the store, either for attention (me) or practicing for future dramatic scripts (her).
She was coltish–tall, thin, and easily tanned, completely unconcerned with middle school popularity or pop culture of any kind. By eleven, she already moved through the world like a movie star or model, long-legged with her hands floating in practiced, graceful gestures. Her innocent gray-green eyes and quick giggle belied an unmatched vocabulary and imagination, not to mention a cultivated lack of blind acceptance for authority or that anything should be so just because an arbitrary adult declared it. Knowing this last to be true, I was astounded when I heard she’d enlisted in the Army years later, once I’d moved away to dutifully attend college. Seeing her in fatigues was like seeing a peacock hula hoop atop a polar bear–preposterous! In true Linda form, her Army experience resembled little of what I knew of the military from my own family. She was a journalist, stationed in Germany and Fort Knox, even snagging a spot on the Churchill Downs infield to cover the Kentucky Derby itself–the horse race we’d once dreamed of attending as either trainers or jockeys ourselves. Of course I wasn’t surprised.
reading, always reading
bridesmaid
Off Broadway in NYC
trying Korean bbq, NYC
1977, the year we met
lunch in NYC
It’s been over forty years since that sign-up sheet knit us together as life-long friends. She’s a New-York sophisticate now, traveling the world with her interesting and talented husband and occasionally singing with his band. She plays different roles now: carefree aunt and sweet daughter, charming hostess and, when I visit, intrepid taxi-hailer and city tour guide. She wears funky jewelry and browses vintage thrift stores for the kinds of clothes she’s always been drawn to–distinct, unique, with character, clothes that mimic her personality traits. We still trade book recommendations and stories about horses. I still call her mother “mom.” We’ll always be different–that’s what I love about her. I’ll probably always nurse a shred of jealousy over her confident, sure-footedness and the way she navigates without hesitation through life which is, come to think of it, a lot like the horses we rode endlessly under that hot Florida sun. Happy Birthday, Luisita!
Back in another life, I flew without wings. All my free time was on the back of a horse, aiming toward ditches, brush piles, or neatly stacked poles, and cantering forward until hooves parted with earth and we sailed upward, buoyant for brief glorious moments.
Most of the time, this is not a point-and-shoot exercise. On TV it looks like the rider balances primly with her shiny boots in the stirrups while the horse bounds around the ring or through the field like a lamb, vaulting obstacles in a neat line. Inside the rider’s head, it’s a different story.
It’s all about timing, the length of a horse’s canter stride and how many of those 3-beat strides fill the space between one jump and the next. If it’s a tricky distance, you might go faster or slower to shorten or lengthen the stride. Just as you’re taking off, you shift your weight forward and slide your hands up his neck a bit, loosening the rein so you’re not jabbing him in the mouth as he stretches over the jump. Would a horse naturally do this on his own? Generally, no, not even to escape an enclosed pasture. Horses are by nature fairly lazy and would much rather swish flies and graze in a sunny field all day.
On one sticky Florida afternoon, I navigated through a cross-country course with obstacles made from tree trunks and other “natural” barriers. My horse was a stocky palomino with a mid-section like a barrel. He had been a poky western pleasure mount before arriving at the farm in his reluctant new role as a hunter jumper, and his strides were clipped, his manner resentful, and his driving force was to avoid exertion and retire to the stall as soon as possible.
My calves ached from the constant “encouragement” this horse required to make it up and over each jump in the field. He’d obediently break into a misleading canter, only to pull up short just before the jump and pop over it grudgingly from a stand still, leaving an unprepared rider wobbling in the saddle. Despite knowing this, I let my guard down at the water jump. It was just a two foot ditch flanked by railroad ties, like hopping a crack in the sidewalk. He could have trotted over it easily, and in fact, that’s just what I expected him to do. Pridefully, I thought, this one was easy. We all know what proverbially follows pride.
Inches before the simple jump, he stopped dead, planting his hooves like a mule. His muscled hind end gathered up behind him like we’d just roped a calf and he was in full skid. I continued on without him. In what I like to imagine was a graceful somersault, I tumbled over his ears and down, cracking my ribs across the railroad ties before flipping backwards into the water.
Icarus, fallen.
I lay on my back in the mud, feeling like a bird must after it has flown full-force into a plate glass window. Submerged, I looked up through about three feet of water, my arms pinned against my throbbing ribs by the solid sides of the jump. Thankfully, I did not try to breathe. I could not even gasp, as all air had been forced from my lungs on impact. A muted sort of quiet surrounded me, like when you sit like a yogi on the bottom of a swimming pool, testing how long you can hold your breath. The blue, cloud studded sky rippled overhead and I saw my horse’s nose as he peeked over the edge, certainly not concerned for my well-being, but more to inquire if we were now, in fact, done for the day.
In short measure, my companions rushed over to hoist me, dripping and muddy, out of the ditch. Rule number one is get back in the saddle. Never end on a bad note. So, up I climbed, each breath ragged and painful, and we approached the jump again. He gauged from my black mood that he should not repeat his little trick and skipped over it this time like he was in a girlish game of hopscotch. Afterwards, I sullenly led my horse back to the barn, water squelching in my boots the whole way.
For a time, while my ribs healed, my wings were clipped. It was one of those formative childhood moments: invincibility is imaginary. While I preferred the air to earth’s tether, the air was risky; lying face-up in a mud hole was always a possibility.
It’s tempting to cling to the sure thing, the comfortable, in lieu of that risk. Sometimes we even prefer our own painful mud hole to climbing out to face what might be humiliation or vulnerable exposure. It’s quiet in there, and we’re kind of used to it. We tiptoe along, watching others achieve goals, be adventurous, learn a new skill, go on that first date after a lost relationship, craft their art.
The view from down in the ditch is less than inspiring. We placate ourselves, pointing out the blue sky and sunshine, but it’s a stifled view we’re used to, settling for a rippling opacity, void of fresh air and birdsong. We cannot be afraid of bruised ribs or bruised egos. Take a breather after the hard knocks, but bruising is only a reminder of what not to do the next time. Because there should be a next time! We are not meant to be ditch dwellers. We are meant to test our mettle, reach beyond our grasp, experience abundance and taste what it is to fly, even without wings.
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
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:
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.
