Horsekeeping

BY NOVEMBER, winter nipped at heels and hooves and “finished” remained a dirty word. The barn and outbuildings were all re-built and painted, although there was no end to the hanging of hooks and racks and shelves and myriad doohickeys necessary to organize a functional animal- and equipment-filled space. The main barn was a gut job in the end, and when we stripped down an un-insulated building with a dirt floor it begged the question of what was saved. Not much: inside, all surfaces now shined with golden new wood patched between the few stately old pine planks that remembered history and experience. Scott still joked that we could display the few bits of original lumber on one wall in the tack room, and his crack wasn’t far off.

Painstakingly, all thirty-seven stall floors were dug out to a depth of two feet in order to excavate the accumulated manure packed down from years of poor or no maintenance. We pitied the determined, brow-mopping guys who, with pickaxes, chipped away at this compressed “concrete” for weeks on end. But now cement floors with thick rubber runners span the formerly dirt alleys, and a stone base under a cushiony mat carpets each stall. New “touch slide” doors with black coated bars and working hardware replaced the rusted, bent metal on all doors and windows. Footing beams throughout were replaced where rotted from inadequate mucking and drainage. Toasty warm tack and viewing rooms now boasted clean, damp-proof tile floors. The piece de resistance, a heated indoor ring, while not huge at 80 x 150 feet (the ideal is at least 100 x 200), whet our riding appetites with mostly patinaed old wood that warmly glows in the morning and evening light, lovely new-paned windows that preserve the old barn look, and no dented metal anywhere in sight.

We resisted the lure of the increasingly popular steel barn, an economical and perhaps greener route, though a material colder in temperature and atmosphere. The new roof is asphalt shingle—a lot of asphalt—in keeping with the softer, quieter to rain and hail, and no doubt leakier standard. However, we did yield to one newer technology. Eschewing the dusty, must-be-watered-regularly-or-you’ll-choke-to-death dirt footing, ours is “dust free,” a secret concoction of wax and sand and who knows what else that took three days with a special churning vehicle, not unlike a mini-Zamboni, to install.

The out-building foundations had been shored up with one hundred and twenty-six bags of concrete, refurbished with new wood and the same green roofing and brown paint trimmed with cream to match the main barn. Gary, our contractor, was rightly proud of his work. He reveled in our weekly tour, and Scott and I delighted in exploring each transformation, ostentatious or modest, the three of us lingering to drink it in. He was a rugged fairy godfather to our big pumpkin, and I appreciated the magic craftsmanship that resulted in barn doors with hidden hardware and grooved wall panels that joined with invisible seams.

The smell of sawdust promised a new start for this old barn that now radiated a palpable lightness, freed from the dreary dank of the last decades. Scott and I realized how happy such transformations make us and how right it felt to rehabilitate a farm, speaking both to his farming roots and my solidarity with animals. Our barn walk-abouts dissolved any remaining rancor from our fight about my riding, which we left alone to find its own way. Time management is tricky for both of us, especially when we can’t resist projects that push us well beyond a reasonable fullness, but we’d work it out. Eventually the farm would heal the land and us.

Outside, beyond the double-sized riding rings still under artistic management by Kenny, the round gazebo beckoned as a prime destination. Originally used to showcase young, untrained horses, its one hundred feet circumference impressively radiated without any center support, but it leaned like the tower of Pisa. Gary hoisted and reinforced the sagging frame and halved the sides to waist height. We splurged on blue stone flooring to evoke a shaded terrace. Indulging aesthetics now, my plans percolated a rapid boil: ring the inside with teak benches and lighting and fill the middle with tables and chairs. Not only will it shelter us from the summer sun and thunderstorms, but also afford perfect viewing of the outdoor arena, the barn, the fields and the hills beyond. During shows, vendors can hawk their wares, and I envisioned breezy summer dinner parties with soft notes wafting around men with ascots and women in spaghetti-strapped, ruffled dresses dancing barefoot in the grass. A dreamy Ralph Lauren scene had carried me away perhaps, but to think that we’d considered taking down this lilting relic that now reigned as the crowning centerpiece.

In our earliest imaginings for this project Scott and I had just hoped for cheap and cheerful. But with Mrs. Johnson’s legacy, Gary’s touches, Bobbi’s horse knowledge and our funding, Weatogue Stables emerged deeply beautiful in the way that form follows function. We uncovered the farm’s original blueprints that beckoned us that extra mile, and we followed its design. Deceptively simple and re-colored to blend into the New England landscape, the farm re-birthed unpretentious and welcoming, an enterprise that will wear more comfortable with use and age. The disdain I initially heaped on the former owner, I supplanted with respect for the flow of the grounds and the layout of the barns, and I can now understand its former healthy life. I saw that Mrs. Johnson got it right: horses were everything to her, and she sacrificed much for her dream, but sometimes even your all is not enough. Many worthy farms arc a belled trajectory, with heartbreak obliterating success. I hoped we would fare better longer, and that Mrs. Johnson would find some pleasure in El-Arabia’s resurrection as a boarding stable rather than a subdivision.

Our fencing man finally showed up, months late, but flew along faster than we could believe with 11,000 thousand feet of new wood. I apologized to our neighbors for the days of post pounding, 1,710 to be exact, only to be encored by weeks of hammering on the four boards in between each and every one. Mike still disappeared occasionally, but snapped to when, frustrated, we dictated a deadline for a particular section. Perpetually jolly, he was hard to yell at.

I shrugged. I had no good answer other than Kenny was on the project part-time, a cost-saving measure to us. The topsoil mountain built from what is now the outdoor riding ring was half gone, but the unsightly rest sprouted tall weeds like a steroidal Chia Pet.

I also questioned Kenny’s progress, but I wanted to pacify my impatient husband who was tired of all the mud. He understands the bushy look in wild spaces, but likes good grooming in his landscapes. Likewise, I’ll never see my husband in a beard; I think he distrusts wooly guys.

“I don’t know... drainage is complicated? If we get it right, proper elevations will rid that huge pasture of standing water—you know, what Elliot calls the skating rink? Plus, Bobbi rightly concluded that the last bit of driveway and parking area closer to the barn shouldn’t be finished off until all the heavy equipment is gone?” I smiled my reasons and met his eyes in anticipation of a funny rejoinder. He squinted back he wasn’t buying, but graciously let it go.

Underlying site work is expensive and necessary, but hardly aesthetically gratifying. In our farmed valley, streams, culverts and drainage pipes all pour the rain from our expansive barn roof and out of the pastures into the many streams running from the hills neatly into the Housatonic River. Many of these waterways have been enhanced by farmers of old, and Kenny busily tapped and redirected them yet again for our own purposes. Excavation also continued to run septic and water lines from the barn (which never had a bathroom), an undertaking held hostage by the mostly obliging building inspector, and what also prevented us working on the little cottage meant to house an on-site stable hand.

Thankfully, to hydrate our aesthetic thirst, the Italian stone masons arrived to lay the flooring in the gazebo and to snug a walled patio into the nook outside the main barn’s tack room. They worked by hand: chipping, lugging, pounding. New England stone is beautiful and echoes olden times, and the artistry hasn’t changed. I added the last minute, view-encompassing patio with Scott in mind, just in case he decides not to ride. At least he can comfortably survey his land.

I had hoped my commiseration would appease, but undoubtedly we were facing vast tracts of mud-in-waiting. Our restlessness met some consolation in the new (though raw) fencing that contoured the paddocks and delineated the pathways throughout. The entire property finally cohered as “farm.” Where the line of fencing meets the river and our northern boundary, we’d left enough room to mow a bridle path. Between this late addition, the open fields to the east and south, and the adjoining twenty acres of woods, we’d have plenty of territory to explore nature from our mounts. I looked forward to this more than anything else and pictured Scott, Elliot, Jane and me on our own safe, contented horses enjoying a family ride. It was a dream that seemed distantly within reach, once the farm was complete and if we all learned to ride well enough.

Preserving open space excited Scott and me, but underutilized farmland quickly reverts to brush and woodland. Hayfields must be cut and tended, and openness guarded. While a return to tree cover is generally desirable, Connecticut sports more forest now than one hundred years ago when entire mountains of trees were cut, round-stacked and slow-burned into charcoal to fuel the iron industry. Salisbury’s strong iron ore was its heritage, significantly contributing to the Revolutionary and Civil Wars mostly in the form of canons, balls, guns and anchors. Much of this region’s beauty relies on patches of open agricultural views that followed in industry’s wake, but such vistas are shrinking as farms disappear.

That said, Scott is a tree hugger, and our farm lacked shade. Only a few ancient, questionable oaks graced the property, and these sat on the road or distant along the far fence line. On one of our more exciting days at the renewing Weatogue Stables we attended the installation of fifteen thirty-foot sugar maples to line the main driveway into the farm. They arrived in threes each laid out long on, and carefully tied to the bed of a trailer, five Gullivers among the Lilliputians. Their six-foot root balls were neatly burlap-wrapped and tied for protection—massive gifts of nature. Our landscaper Mari staggered their planting in two pseudo-organically unlined rows.

“I really wanted you to see them with some leaves before the winter set in,” Mari told me as I practically wept at the graceful sweep of their branches, inviting arms that waved us in with every breeze and rustled benedictions in our wakes.

But I knew he was pleased. Wealth has its privileges, as the old advertisement said, this time in the form of mature trees. We had long since stopped trying to contain all the “requirements” into some kind of meaningful budget. The overruns serially exceeded our re-padded projections, but so had the transformation. Our deepening satisfaction was such that, dangerously, we felt compelled to tack on whatever marginally made sense. Like kids in a candy store, the addicting sugar fueling a reckless overdrive, we simply couldn’t get enough. At least I couldn’t, and more restrained Scott was not enough of a killjoy to rein me in. And I knew the added touches satisfied such that even if Scott never climbed aboard a horse, he would enjoy this farm.

On one hand, I newly appreciated his generosity of spirit even though the Weatogue Stables business model of personal indulgence and land conservancy didn’t fit his hard-headed capitalistic parameters. On the other, we both worried about what it messaged the kids. Regularly, we tried to keep ourselves and our kids thankful for Scott’s business acumen that affords us an exciting NYC life and a refuge in bucolic Salisbury. Scott and I remember that money doesn’t grow on trees having come from little, but our kids have only ever known prosperity. They can’t help but take a lot for granted. We understand, but it pains us, more so since we can’t resist the fruits of his labor—nice homes, pricey vacations, horses and a farm we don’t have to kill ourselves working. Is personal philanthropy and talking them to death about the harder roads of others on our own block and around the globe enough or are our kids lost to Mammon devoid of their own bootstraps?

TOWARD THE MIDDLE OF NOVEMBER Bobbi deemed the farm complete enough to move in horses. The sun shone boldly for a late autumn day, a sign of approval. The morning clanged and banged with hammer-in-hand Bobbi hanging water buckets, installing gates and blanket racks, and organizing bedding, food and wheelbarrows. Elliot’s hockey game sent us south to Danbury mid-day, so we returned just in time to see the horses arrive in shifts of two in Bobbi’s trailer. We brought all of Bobbi and Chip’s horses over, optioning immediate critical mass and avoiding the split of a well-knit group of five—the princess Angel, her younger brother Toby, and the three oldsters Theo, Glimmer and Katie. Room we had in abundance: should we be lucky enough to eventually fill all thirty-seven stalls, we could repatriate them.

So far, we boasted one boarder who lived in Avon, Connecticut, over an hour’s drive due east. Nancy discovered us from a handmade flyer Bobbi persuaded a friend to post in her tack shop. Our new facility, the ample pastures, Bobbi’s training and especially the all day turn-out overrode Nancy’s longer commute. Previously her horse spent limited time outdoors because of the pricier suburban real estate. Chase is a six-year-old gelded Quarter Horse on full training board. “Board” means we perform all the daily horse care—feeding, hay and grain supply, cleaning, bedding supply, turn-out, and arrange shoeing and vet care. The training part consists of Bobbi either teaching Nancy or riding Chase four to five times a week. As our prized first customer; Nancy opted for a near paddock with a run-in shed to provide sun, wind and rain shelter, and a roomy center aisle barn stall between two horses for company. When chestnut Chase moved in our first day, he pranced and whinnied his satisfaction with Nancy’s choices.

Scott opted for a hike and office work rather than hanging around the barn awaiting four-footed tenants. He promised to turn up later, so Elliot, Jane and I hung out with the new barn cat Ninja and the two bunnies Elliot had begged for and Bobbi had needed no encouragement to find. She located the bunnies through a newspaper ad and put together the wood hutch herself. Scott wisely pits himself against more pets as a bulwark to my tendency to stockpile, but since these mini-furballs would live in the barn I just gave the nod without the usual family council.

There was cheering all around, and I described the two female sisters (we hoped—despite dedicated peering, unlike horses’ balls, bunnies’ are hard to spot)—one black and white and the other mostly white with tan markings, both with blue eyes. Luckily, Elliot claimed the black and white one “his,” leaving Jane surprisingly content with the white and tan. Elliot named his “Hera,” after the Queen of Olympus and the goddess of marriage. Jane decided on “Butterfly Girl.”

“Jane, did you know that the Roman name for the most beautiful goddess of the hunt is ‘Diana?’ Wouldn’t that be a nice name for your bunny?” I played Jane’s penchant for soft, feminine names like Vanessa, Sara and Olivia.

“Oh, and what is that?” I asked, “Making umpteen phone calls to corner Mike into finally finishing our fencing?” Poor Bobbi had attended to the countless details and phone calls throughout the renovation when all she really wanted was to train horses.

I felt naughty about buying two baby bunnies when my “Bunnies for Dummies” emphasized adopting overly abundant, older rabbits. But my kids really wanted babies and were disappointed when they learned that our dog Velvet “had the shot” so she couldn’t have puppies and that we were not going to have baby horses any time soon (they had forgotten my earlier promise of their own foals to raise). I figured bunnies were easy. I read that rabbits need plenty of holding to domesticate them properly, and we were certainly all up for that. The barn would soon bustle with plenty of visitors to oblige in our weekly absences.

Bright and early the following Saturday morning we walked over to the farm and found the designated bunny stall thoughtfully located next to the tack room. Baby bunnies rank high on the cuteness pyramid, and my kids carefully held and stroked them and clapped with delight as they popped and scampered. Free-roaming their stall all day, we confined them to the hutch with blankets at night against the cold and predators. They nibbled broccoli florets and lettuce from my kids’ hands: animal heaven. Hera is the love bug and Diana more curious and athletic. Continually escaping from Jane’s arms, I sternly enforced that she sit to avoid dropping the delicate creatures. Poor Jane: it is hard to get anything right when you’re five. She’d either lose Diana or squeeze her. Out of concern, Elliot and I reprimanded more than we encouraged, exasperating Jane to tears at least three times each visit.

And on it went: Jane waiting impatiently for her turn to hold, then a little squeeze or grab, a scratch, a cautionary rebuke and tears. Elliot was old enough to instinctively learn barn behavior or at least to remember any corrections, but not Jane. Right after meeting the bunnies, we went in search of the black furball of Weatogue’s mouser-in-training, secured in the feed room with food and blankets until he established our barn as his territory. Bobbi’s friend, newly designated “Big Jane” to distinguish her from our Jane, found the kitten abandoned in a crate alongside the road. A vet saved his life, neutered and inoculated him, and Big Jane nurtured him until we were ready. She named him Ninja for the new motorcycle she received that same day.

Ninja befriended us immediately, meowing vociferously and sliding against us for pats and cuddles. Jane petted his sleek back, fascinated by his undulating tail. As she stroked it, I warned her never to pull. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, Jane ran to me in tears.

“But you are a harpy.” His quick smile showed he caught me fishing for a sympathetic ego boost. I played along with my wounded mutt look. “Only kidding,” he continued. “Look, it’s our job to protect our young. Big animals are dangerous, and little ones look like her stuffed toys that she can do whatever she wants with. It’s got to be frustrating and emotional for her not to be able to maul them with affection. Five year olds are not great at restraint.”

He could have harangued me about my excessive zeal for animals, chastised me for Jane’s cheek slash, and reminded me he didn’t bargain for bunnies and cats, let alone horses and dogs, but he didn’t. He looked handsome; his short, graying hair accented by his black and grey cashmere sweater atop snug jeans, all of him backlit by firelight emanating from an ancient hearth nestled in the smoke-mellowed pine walls of the tap room. I smiled, appreciating the comfort of our many years together.

SO, AS THE HORSES ARRIVED TWO BY TWO in the late afternoon sun of our first official day of operation, I feared they’d pale in comparison to the bunnies and the cat. Bobbi’s Angel and Toby settled in, alternately grazing and sprinting across the paddocks, and the out-to-pastures Glimmer, Katie, and the one-eyed old racehorse Theo wandered around like “what else is new?” A peaceful transition, but Bobbi’s friend Terri and her daughter Meghan stood guard in case someone decided to go crazy. You never know with horses, and my family would have been useless in an emergency. Bobbi soon returned with the last two, my horse Bandi, and Cleopatra, a pony for the kids we leased from a girl who physically outgrew her but emotionally couldn’t sell. Bandi and Cleo unloaded smoothly and immediately dropped their muzzles into the turf, munching away without so much as a casual glance around.

Elliot hung back, giving the horses some space. I held Bandi’s lead rope letting him graze while Jane danced close circles around Bobbi and Cleo. I kept a sharp eye on all eight horse hooves. Jane begged for a ride, so Bobbi boosted her up bareback on Cleo and walked around the grass. Laughing hard, Jane sparkled. We persuaded her to dismount and led the two horses into their stalls to settle.

As we congratulated ourselves on a smooth transition, Jane repeatedly hugged Bobbi’s legs. Eventually she added “I love yous” to the mix. Bobbi and I kept up our patter as she hugged back. Finally Jane squeezed tighter with louder endearments and stuck her arm straight out toward Cleo. We finally got the message: she badly wanted another ride. Jane’s manipulative ploy embarrassed me, but at least she didn’t scream and demand; it was more a sweet desperation. We protested that Cleo was tired, that Bobbi had to get the other horses in, and that soon she’d enjoy plenty of rides with a real saddle and stirrups that didn’t require looping to hold her feet. But Jane kept up her antics, smiling away until we caved. I could tell that Bobbi was channeling her own child self, the one that wailed at the end of her first ride.

We led Cleo to the indoor ring: her hooves’ echoing clip-clop a barn’s equivalent to the smell of cookies at a housewarming party. Jane would be the first to ride on the new footing, the youngest being appropriate inauguration. As they circled I saw that Cleo was, as Bobbi suspected, one special pony. In unfamiliar territory she steadily carried my precious cargo, mellow as could be. Elliot couldn’t resist a short turn too, and delighted in the novel experience of bareback. Sated, we collectively rejoiced that the horses condoned our six and a half months of preparation and that even though Jane would spill some tears, the highs would more than compensate. Already my son was talking about how the bunny day was the best of his life so far and telling all our visitors how he couldn’t wait to work at the barn in the summer.

I remembered a conversation Scott had with Elliot during a walk over to the barn one day. It stemmed from Scott’s explanation both of conservation easements, our plan for much of our land, now totaling 120 acres, and last wills and testaments, a natural segue.

“Well, I have a job to do and that pays for all this: ‘Money comes in pretty handy down here, Bub,’” Scott smiled at me as he quoted our favorite Jimmy Stewart line to the wingless angel Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life.

Later, Scott and I congratulated ourselves on getting some parenting right, despite Elliot’s plan for divvying up the spoils upon our demise. These snippets alone were worth the expense and trauma of renovating the farm, even if Elliot evolves into a NYC subway conductor rather than the naturalist I anticipated. He already harbored an innate, genuine compassion for living creatures, a developing work ethic, and a strong taste for the beauty of the land—nature in general, and Salisbury in particular. I loved him for it, and believed Jane would get there too, by degrees, and with a few more bumps, bruises, scratches and tears along the way.

BOBBI WANTED TO KEEP THE FUN COMING, so Thanksgiving weekend we arrived to meet our new miniature stallion officially named “Miller’s Red Blue-eyed Hawk.” He is a ribbon-laden cart-driving phenomenon that sounded too cute to pass up. After a tear-free cuddle with Hera, Diana and Ninja, we walked out to the pasture that held Bandi and Hawk. Originally Bobbi matched Bandi and Cleo together, but they fell too much in love, and their pining when apart indicated an attraction too strong.

Bobbi explained the head game that determines who could safely cohabitate out in the paddocks. Horses prefer buddies, but can turn enemies quickly. They are social herd animals, and we walk a fine line between complete domestication and their wild “horseness.” I liked the idea of my gelding Bandi infatuated, but my safety on board over-ruled his love life.

Carrots in hand, we found Bandi and Hawk following one another around the grassy enclosure. Hawk is adorably small: two hundred pounds of squat black and white fuzz, smaller than a Great Dane, with an oversized head, a ground-sweeping shaggy tail and a lofty mane. His luminous blue eyes beguiled us and his portliness rendered Bandi a fashion model in comparison, tall and lean. Hawk looked more like a pot-bellied pig than a horse. This Mutt and Jeff couple trotted right over, gently taking the treats we offered.

My supply to gluttonous Bandi ran out first. Elliot and Jane continued feeding Hawk. Bandi bent his head over his new buddy to check out what stash remained when up reared little Hawk, all power and might. He bit hard into the side of Bandi’s neck and hung there for what seemed an eternity. We instinctively backed away, pulling the kids from the fence. Bandi reared and squealed until Hawk released. Their alternating guttural neighs and high-pitched whinnies shattered the peaceful scene we enjoyed not one second before.

Bandi and Hawk separated only to reposition themselves butt to butt and kick out hard, both landing solid blows into each other’s shins. The ground shook under their slashing, stomping hooves. Nostrils flaring, their eyes, too, were wild, the whites glaring.

“Wow. I don’t know. I guess it was a food thing.” My heart pounded. “Jane, honey, it’s all right. Horses are like that sometimes. They are big and strong and they wrestle just like you do with Elliot, and sometimes it gets a little rough. But they’re okay, and no one was hurt.”

Later that weekend Hawk reassured me, at least as far as people were concerned. My kids crowded his stall, groomed, hugged and patted him with nary a hint of bad temper. Indeed, he was extremely affectionate, taking carrots gently without nips, and otherwise exulting in the attention. I’ll give Jane credit—she’s brave without rashness and recovers from her fears quickly and completely. Hawk and Jane bonded right away: he’s sturdy against her unintended roughness and yet petite enough for her to relate to in the human-to-horse scale ratio. They matched. Jane trusted that despite his strength and stallion pride, he’s a right pacifist around people. His job is driving, and Bobbi ordered his petite harness and wood and leather two-seat cart. We looked forward to seeing Hawk in action. Supposedly this little black-and-white ball of furry brawn can pull two adults, even uphill. After seeing him muscle Bandi around, we believed it.