CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Spring
EVERYBODY WAS SHEDDING. The stiff and soft brushes overflowed with hair after a single swipe down a neck or across a haunch. We discovered which horses tolerated the sucking whine of the industrial sized vacuum, the only tool up to the job of grooming these giant hair balls.
“It’s still so cold, why are they already shedding so much?” I asked Bobbi as I sucked Bandi a hickey with the nozzle. It “popped” as I pulled it off, and he jumped.
“It’s the light. As soon as the days get longer, the horses’ hair gets shorter.”
“No kidding,” I replied, resting my aching arms.
In vain I sloughed off Willie’s hair, which turned my dirt-hiding navy turtleneck into a white mink. The clogged brush was useless after only two strokes.
“You’ll have to vacuum me off before I head home.”
All those flying protein strands offended my own rather meticulous grooming, but the plague blew through within a couple of weeks. By May the horses molted sleek and thinner, some of them seal-skin smooth and shiny. Bandi was looking good—fit and toned, but still out of sorts. Bobbi called his previous trainer.
“He’s probably bored,” Stacey reminded. “Have you taken him hunter pacing or to some jumper shows? He really needs that.”
So Bobbi, Meghan and I rolled him over to an event in Millbrook for his own entertainment, and he and Meghan performed well across the jumps. This, and the approaching summer set him right again, more like his old self. It became clear that he is an outdoor, over the fences kind of guy, not fancy or refined. He grew more affectionate, so we concluded he had decided to trust us and truly settle in.
The thawing ground sported islands of newly planted grass, and a relieved Scott fast-forwarded to wider swathes of green overtaking the recalcitrant mud and ice. We awaited the elusive three consecutive dry days to enable our AWOL fencer to paint our still raw posts and rails. Elliot jumped and cantered Cleo but my son remained content to snub the show circuit, much to Bobbi’s dismay.
“He looks so good up there,” she sighed, shaking her head. “He’d be great in competition, and Cleo is such a good, safe ride.”
Maybe we were wasting a perfectly good pony, but secretly I rejoiced. Riding was his leisure pursuit, his non-competitive respite from NYC academic and sport life: he was in it for the sheer enjoyment of camaraderie between boy and beast. Jane broke through to trotting, enjoyed it, and even got the hang of posting. While she trotted still tethered to a longe line, she freely wandered the indoor ring at a walk and took pride in her earned independence.
Spring fever gripped us all, and in unison with the beasts we shed our layers of silk long johns, polar fleece and down. Finally the outdoor arena was complete, and the weather beckoned us hibernating, squinting New Englanders out into the light. One seemingly perfect day, I snapped the ritual photo of Jane’s plein-aire debut on Cleo and, content that all was well in hand, ducked back inside to tack up Bandi for my own lesson afterwards. Soon enough, Bobbi and Jane walked into the barn, Jane atop Cleo, in tears.
“We have something very exciting to tell you, Mommy,” Bobbi said in a chipper voice.
“Oh, and that is?”
“Janie is now a real rider.” Bobbi snuck me an “it’s OK” wink.
“I want to tell Mommy,” Jane said through slowing tears.
“What happened, Boo-boo?”
“Cleo jumped and I fell off, all the way to the ground.” She pointed down, indignant.
“Wow. That must have been something. Are you okay?” To deescalate her tension, I managed measured tones.
“It hurt my back,” she emphasized, out to get some sympathy from spine-addled me. But I miserly mask any hysteria so my kids don’t turn into hypochondriacal worriers like me (all parents devise cockamamie strategies to prevent their own phobias infecting the next generation). And I know plenty of cry-baby, body-nervous kids so I am hyper-vigilant against it. According to the gotcha rules of reverse-reverse psychology I will surely now produce one. So, I downplayed Jane’s fall like an Oscar winner, but my internal sirens were rapid firing—bad parent, bad parent, bad, bad parent—spotlighting my billboard-sized headline “AM I PUTTING MY KIDS UNNECESSARILY AT RISK?”
My thoughts rushed on. Boy, Bobbi certainly takes everything casually. Is this a virtue or a fault? Come to think of it I’ve never seen her upset or angry—is she on drugs? She talks awfully fast sometimes. Does she really know what she’s doing? We’re all landing in the dirt. Does she value her life as much as we do ours? Have I not seen her clearly because she fuels my dream? An equine addict, have I miscast the horse dealer my friend? Sometimes she is slow to get things done around the farm. She has even ignored Scott’s direction and hired another part-time worker. . . .
Bobbi sensed my wild-eyed inner turmoil and haltered my bolting brain.
“I’m not completely sure what scared Cleo, but she went, ‘oh-oh—monsters!’ and hustled forward a few paces, and Janie lost her balance. It would have been hard for her to stay on.” We both looked at Jane who was beginning to enjoy the drama. Bobbi continued: “She fell pretty flat, and she wanted to come tell you right away. I asked her if she wanted to walk in, or ride Cleo. She chose to ride.”
“Oh, Janie, you are very brave. Remember when it happened to Mommy on Bandi?”
She nodded slowly, perking up.
“Now we’re both members of the riding club. It happens to all of us, even Bobbi, but we get better at riding, and falling, all the time.” I prayed it was true and swallowed my rising distrust of horses, Bobbi, myself.
Soon she was happy again, and by the next week back on Cleo without any thought of her fall. I noted well the beauty of children: natural little yogis, they don’t dwell on the past. I wish I could bottle their carefree psyches; no wonder we rail at old age. Jane rarely mentioned her mishap, except to brag a bigger injury against her brother’s hockey bruises, but it reminded Bobbi and me that Jane was only five. I reiterated our safety first policy and our vow to proceed slowly against Jane’s capability of learning quickly. My motto for us all was: “There’s no rush.”
Unscathed by what could have, and indeed had happened in a flash, Jane re-trusted her safety to Cleo and Bobbi. Cleo’s startle surprised us, but it can happen to the rock steadiest of horses, and goes with the territory. Plus it was spring, and several of the horses had gotten exuberant. We later figured out that Cleo reliably hops a few steps when prompted to trot with a whip on a longe line, but not off-longe. It’s a subtle quirk, but enough to have unseated a tiny novice. I rethought Bobbi’s nonchalant reaction to Jane’s first tumble and realized there was no sense in all of us panicking nervous hen-style. Maybe the words “you have to break a few eggs in order to make an omelet” are a poor choice, but either I’d have to reconcile myself to the unsettling music or get off this carousel. Unlike us, Bobbi’s seen it all, possessing perspective fore and aft of our maiden voyage. Her calm expertise counter-balanced our newbie theatrics. I aimed to take her experienced lead, but nevertheless anticipated some renewed soul-searching that night in bed.
Sure enough, as I lay rehashing the day’s events, I recalled Bobbi’s uncharacteristic agitation one winter day when Jane ran and slid across some iced-over puddles. I tossed a few perfunctory “careful”s when she got especially daring, but Bobbi twitched like a bird, unable to concentrate on our conversation.
“I can’t bear to watch her. She might fall.”
“Bobbi. She’s only three feet tall and on the ground.”
“I know, I know, but it’s so slippery.”
“It’s very funny, Bobbi, that you’re less worried about Jane four feet off the ground on the back of a thousand pound animal that doesn’t speak English, but you freak out about a little ice. I mean, how far can she fall? She’s an ice-skater for Pete’s sake.”
We both cracked up.
I realized that perceived risk is just that, and perception is skewed across our own personal graphs. Bobbi knows horses and what they are apt to do, and what kids can handle on horseback. She trusts from seasoned, first-hand experience that people who learn to ride fall and are mostly fine. She understands horses with a sensory awareness that gives her confidence and a sense of control that I lack regarding horses in general and in particular, if not icy patches and playgrounds. I shouldn’t allow my unease about kid horseplay to circumscribe Elliot’s and Jane’s opportunities and experiences in the caring hands of an expert. I would trust them to Bobbi in this arena, taking the obvious, reasonable precautions, and let my kids map out their own comfort zones.
WE STARED DOWN New England’s always disappointingly delayed spring, riding outside when we could. Once the snow melted, we drove the cart with Hawk through our fields instead of along the road. What a feeling, parting the awakening hayfields with nary a car in sight. Soon, Elliot and Jane were driving themselves with Meghan and me following on foot alongside, then farther and farther behind. We belly laughed when little Hawk cantered for all he was worth, his mini hooves pounding a puny thunder on the still hard ground, the cart meandering leisurely despite his dedicated effort. My healthy, happy kids bonding with an animal against a backdrop of plump seed heads waving in the fertile fields, and trees, young and old, about to burst into leaf evoked deep gratefulness and contentment. If I had died then, I would have said I had truly lived.
By early June we mowed a path around the perimeter of the fields so Hawk and the horses could trail with ease. I enticed Scott into a drive with Hawk; the kids and Bobbi following along behind.
“Look Bobbi, Mommy and Daddy are so romantic. They really love each other—maybe they’ll kiss.” So we did.
Jane gets it, I thought! The moment was not lost on this five-year-old. The scene echoed her fairy tales come to life, with Scott and me the prince and princess. I enjoyed the role; as a teenager she’ll probably paint me the mean old crone.
Scott didn’t relax in the cart, perhaps aware of his extra weight for Hawk who seems too small to be so strong. Irrationally, I also held myself up to lighten the load. I pondered whether Scott would ever ride. I had stocked up on gear just in case: an oversize Charles Owen velvet helmet, size twelve black Ariat riding boots (not quite as cute as Jane’s), and an extra-large pair of gloves lay quietly in my tack trunk against that special day, be it this summer or when our kids depart for college. I decided not to nag. Riding desire can’t be foisted upon you.
Two other events sprang us into summer. First, we gelded Hawk. Taking some of the testosterone, or “starch” as I referred to it, out of him should render him more agreeable and safer among the other horses. We didn’t want him perpetually alone in the paddock. Few horses like the solitary life of a stallion, or, at least we don’t like it for them unless they’re meant to breed. Instinctively herd and pack animals, horses are happier in groups, especially familiar ones. When one of their paddock mates is taken into the barn before them, they fuss, neighing and calling to each other “Where you going? Come back, come back. . . .” Often, when one horse is to be ridden, we take his or her buddy in too, just to avoid upset. Bobbi, Meghan and Brandy systematically bring the horses from the fields in ordered groupings so that no one is left out there alone.
Doctor Kay arrived on castration day, spiffy in his bowtie as usual, a WASP mohel preparing an equine bris. He has been vetting in the area fifty years, his practice changing with the times from dairy cows to horses. He adeptly tranquilized Hawk. Bobbi sat on the little stallion’s neck, who mostly slept through the procedure that Bobbi admitted was not particularly pleasant to witness.
“At one point Doctor Kay said ‘Just where did those testicles get to?’” Bobbi told me later. “He just flung them across the stall, and we scooped them up at the end.”
“Oh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
But my sarcasm was disingenuous. I envied Bobbi experiencing every aspect of a working farm, even the gory bits.
The second event glinted as a sure sign of spring’s renewal. After months of chorusing “poor George,” our unlucky caretaker caught a break. Since the fire George had spent half the winter without any heat, mostly sleeping in his car, and the entire year without plumbing. A lone port-a-john stood in the yard, and he showered at friends’ and occasionally at our place. It had been a rough year, but he adamantly refused to find other, even temporary accommodations while Ursula painstakingly sorted out whether to rebuild.
One early May morning, he found us in our driveway amidst the blowsy pink and white magnolia petals, late as usual for church.
“Guess what?” he said, excited and oblivious to our flustered hustling of the kids into their car seats.
“What George? We’re kind of in a hurry.”
He started to cry.
“What happened, George?” I was worried now.
“I won a car.”
“What? . . . How? Where?”
Tears streaming down his cheeks, he shook.
“At the Mohegan Sun. I won it at the slot machine.”
“You’re kidding, George! A real car?” Scott and I traded our “is this George story legit?” glance. “That’s great. Congratulations.”
“Eighteen dollars and fifty cents. That’s what I spent. The bells went off and people went nuts. They had to call security because I got swarmed. Everybody wanted to touch me for luck.”
“Wow. I didn’t know you could win a car at a slot machine,” I said.
“It’s a real race car, and worth about forty thousand dollars. I’m gonna’ keep it, though I should sell it.”
“What color?”
“Red, bright red.”
“Of course. Well after the year you’ve had you deserve it. Drive it in good health.” We were well and truly amazed.
And what a car. A low-slung performance speed machine, it was totally impractical for New England’s winter ice and bulbous roads. But George sported that car like a trophy girlfriend, reveling in the attention it generated at racetracks and car shows despite his run-ins with troopers. He considered selling it under the burden of double insurance payments (we paid him generously but never really knew how he got on), but couldn’t part with his glamorous new toy. The excitement never wore off, and what a story he had to tell.
