Horses

I love horses, all kinds and sizes. I’ve loved them long before I was eight when I spent the entire summer on the floor in front of our living room bookshelf, strenuously copying the entire section about them from our ancient Encyclopedia Brittanica onto lined 3-ring notepaper. I called it my first work of nonfiction. The mobile lending library that would stop on my street once a week was filled with picture books about horses, and I read every one of them. I would beg my sister to repeat her stories about how she swept stables for the chance to ride and compete as part of the California Rangers. In time, I grew old enough to read novels such as “Misty of Chincoteague,” “Black Beauty,” and other classic tales about horses wild and tamed. I dreamt of the day that I, too, would be a noted horsewoman like my sister. However, it wasn’t until I finally got to sit on a real horse that was not a pony and not pacing wearily around an oval path somewhere near Griffith Park that I got my first clue my love would remain theoretical. Somehow I’d wheedled my parents into riding lessons. I’ve already told you about how the instructor took the first day to teach us self confidence by standing on our horse’s back (dumb, dumb idea) and the second lesson where he had us trotting down a dusty trail trying to figure out when to bounce and when to fall off. That’s all it took, those two lessons. Sitting on top of a horse is very different from admiring them as they are led out onto the fields at a racetrack, with other people in the saddles. This was reinforced when I spent the night with a high school chum who lived on horse property. We had to get up at so early it was still night so we could sweep the stalls, then water and feed her herd. It was cold, smelly, dirty hard work. One sleepover was enough. She offered to let me ride with her, but I declined. The truth is, I’m a coward. Everything I’ve learned about horsemanship has reinforced my reasonable fears. They’re too big; they take a lot of work that involves dust and flies; and if you’re like my Aunt Rose they sometimes bite a chunk out of your shoulder for the sin of standing nearby. Having confessed to my sniveling lack of bravery, I still do like to watch horses from a safe distance and admire their various forms and lineage. I do hugely admire people who are not afraid to either stand next to them and get bit, sit on astride them and get tossed off, or try to lead them and end up in neck braces and body casts. A very best friend decided it would be good fun to train Clydesdales and compete for blue ribbons in wagon pulling contests. At one point before she moved to the more sensible climes of Utah, she had 14-16 Clydesdales on her property, plus wagons of various sizes and naturally, a training corral. Her stables were open air stalls the size of condos, with water misters gently spritzing away any annoying flies every 10 minutes or so. This covered shelter was so big you could drive one of her wagons down the middle aisle. She may have put off visits to her dentist but her own horses and those boarding on her property had all the benefits of modern veterinary science, including daily grooming and exercise, naturally. During one visit, she and her partner offered to drive us around the corral in a short two-wheeled cart. This lightweight contraption was sans seat belts, naturally, so the only way to stay in place was to hang onto the tiny side wall with a vise-like grip. There’s no way to appreciate the size of a Clydesdale until you’re sitting behind and slightly below one’s back. My entire field of vision was occupied by the horse’s rump. I felt like Thumbelina perched on a cornstalk. Then the driver cheerfully explained that the horse was only obeying his lead because it felt like being cooperative. He added that no one was strong enough to control a Clydes through the reins and bit. If the horse decided to leave the corral and trot or gallop into town we’d have no choice but to bounce along behind it, assuming we weren’t tossed off en route. “You don’t say.” “Yep. I’ve seen them bolt many a time.” “How about that. Listen, I can see how eager my husband is to get a turn in the cart with you. Why don’t we pull up and let him take my place?” “But you’ve only had one lap around. We have plenty of time for more.” “No, no, that’s okay. I’ve had a great time, thanks ever so much. It’s his turn now.” The next time I saw this best friend was in the company of my daughter and her bestie who happened to have grown up on a horse ranch in Colorado. We were paying a visit of condolence because my buddy happened to be on the inside of a horse trailer, pulling on the lead, when the behemoth decided it didn’t want to go. I don’t remember how many of her bones got broken that time; I can just say that we stood around her because she couldn’t move, what with all her casts and bandages. My daughter’s bestie and my buddy hit it off right away. “Yeah, all the old hands on the ranch used to walk lopsided because their backs and legs had been busted so many times. I thought it was so cool. I wanted to grow up to be just like them.” Then they launched into more tales of damage while my daughter and I stared at each other in horror. Clearly we represented two schools of thought. Since my sister’s daughter followed her mother’s passion for horsemanship, winning prizes in jumping and other competitions, there was no need for my side of the family to continue the glory. She married a Ferrier, a blacksmith, with horses of his own. Today they live in Utah where she is the President of a private fine arts college, masking as Lois Lane during the week and transforming into Superwoman on Horseback during time off. Their idea of a playdate is to sleep in the cab of their horse trailer and then ride off into the wilderness in the morning. I’m so happy for them. Still, the nerd brain never sleeps. Every New Year’s Rose Parade, once I’ve dashed outside to see a stealth bomber flying over my house, I race back so I won’t miss any of the equestrian groups trotting down Colorado Boulevard. I get so excited when I see the Fresians of the Valley Hunt Club, the Budweiser Clydesdales, and all the others. I don’t care anything about the floats or bands. Just show me the horses. The more breeds I can identify and admire the better. That pretty much sums it up about my love of horses. Show them to me. Just don’t put me in a stall with one.