Not Today

It was as if I was in a dream. I was there and then I went flying and landed in a heap on the ground. A few years ago I would have bounced right back up, caught the horse, and got back on, but not today. I lay on the ground staring up at the sky as I contemplated getting up to catch the little pain in the butt that had just launched me. I was sore, but not broken and my breath was still with me, which isn’t often the case when you hit the ground like I had just done. The clouds formed shapes above my head on a blue background; a rabbit, a dog, a person jogging; and I stayed put, staring up at the fluffy characters above me. The arena gate was closed and Hilly was busy finding grass in the center of the ring. Dealing with him could wait a few moments.

Hilly wasn’t usually a bucker; he was just feeling good after a week off. Formally, my father’s race horse, Hilly had retired from harness racing the year before and I’d started him under saddle. I thought the plan was to find him riding home, so put hours of training time into him. Under saddle he could walk, trot, canter, and even hop over some cross rails if asked. Since my grandmother had decided she was keeping him as a pet, his training had become inconsistent. I took him out only when he became bored enough to start taking down his pasture fences and my Nana didn’t even like me doing that. She said he’d earned his retirement and that he did, but by the way he spent his day destroying things out of boredom, I’d come to believe he found retirement incredibly boring.

As the clouds drifted slowly away, the sun shone brighter and I closed my eyes and rested my arm across my forehead to cast a slight shadow across my face. For the first time in my life, I just wanted to stay on the ground where the horse put me and it wasn’t because I was hurt. With my eyes still closed, I listened to Hilly grazing, to his feet stomping and his tail swishing at flies. On the other side of the fence, I could hear the breeze blowing through the tall grass in the hayfield and for a moment I allowed myself to go back.

There was a time when my life revolved around horses and riding. I was a talent in progress, a hard worker, a fearless rider. I felt as if I knew it all and was ready to take on any challenge, any discipline, and any “problem horse” that came along. Falls, disappointments, and bad days never fazed me. Back then all I needed to fix any heartbreak was a trail ride, an hour of grooming my horse, or an hour of lying in a field while my horse grazed beside me. I thought about the times I had sat on Mister loose in the stall, while I read a book. I thought about how I used to skip school to go trail riding. I remembered how much I used to love competing and had enjoyed staying up until 1am braiding my horse, just to get up again at 5am to fix whatever they’d managed to undo. I thought about the multiple hours I spent researching stallions, watching videos, comparing photos, and planning for my dream foal that would someday grow up to help me reach my goals. Almost every goal, plan, and dream I’d had for myself was once based on horses. Somewhere between Mister’s death and life’s happenings, things had become different and my unfinished goals seemed more like failed dreams.

My dream foal was now a yearling and I’d just listed him for sale. I was no longer a fearless rider; in fact I had become somewhat of a timid rider, afraid to fall, but more afraid to get back on. I no longer competed, unless I had to school a horse for a student at a small show and I didn’t enjoy preparing the horses to show. I was proud of my students and proud of my program, but just emotionally drained. Though I had a barn full of horses to ride and a riding program that was steadily growing, I sometimes felt as though I was on the verge of quitting everything horses. I lay there contemplating getting up and just putting Hilly away. Maybe today would be the day I didn’t get back on; the day I quit riding.

Suddenly, whiskers brushed my right hand, interrupting my thoughts and making me smile. I sat up quickly, grabbing Hilly’s reins before he could head off to the other end of the arena. Standing up, I dusted sand off my breeches and fixed the reins around his neck. Going to Hilly’s left side, I took the reins in my left hand up by his whither and untwisted my stirrup. Putting my left foot in the stirrup, I brought myself up and swung my right leg over. “Jesus Christ, did you fall off?!” screeched Nana from across the barn yard, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, “I wish you’d just put him away and leave him alone!”

Smiling back at her, I said as much to myself as to her, “Not today. I think today, I’ll ride”.

Tomorrow You Should Wear Breeches

My alarm was going off, but instead of waking me, it just became part of my dream. The sound of my horse's feet hitting the ground in perfect four-beat rhythm soon turned to beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.

"Where is that beeping coming from?" I asked Mister as we galloped across the field. Stirring from my dream, I remembered and sat straight up in bed. It was 6am and a start to a new day at a new job working in trade for riding lessons with Molly. I hit my alarm, leapt out of bed, and pulled on a pair of wind pants and a T-shirt. I had my own chores in the barn to take care of before heading to Molly's barn at 7:30.

I felt as if it took me forever to get stalls cleaned. I had two horses to feed, turnout, and clean stalls for. One was my beautiful chestnut Morgan/Saddlebred cross gelding, Mister and the other, my equally handsome dark bay Standardbred gelding named Star. Mister at the age of 17, was completely sound and ready for anything. Star, at the age of 14, had chronic arthritis that gave him good days and bad days. During that time, he was having few more good days than bad and spent most of his time in a pasture or being ponied beside Mister. His sound riding days were limited.

Finished with my chores, I threw a few flakes of hay and a halter into my blue LL Bean backpack, saddled up Mister, and headed to Molly's barn. I was running later then I had planned and forgot to change into riding clothes before leaving.

Upon arriving at the barn, I untacked Mister, dumped out the hay in my backpack, and turned him loose in the small paddock that Molly had shown me the previous day. Molly was already in the indoor arena with a student and called out to me to come in, take a seat, and observe. Their were two lessons going on, one on each half of the arena. Molly stood in the front end of the arena with a whip, a girl on a lovely bay Dutch Warmblood worked around her on a circle at the trot. On the other end, Molly's oldest daughter, Alison lunged a young girl on a large draft cross.

I sat towards the center of the arena taking in as much of both lessons as I could at once. My attention would soon be directed only at the lesson Molly taught as she became louder and stricter, demanding that the rider ask the horse to gradually bend and stretch first to the outside of the circle and then to the inside. "Can you see how crooked he is?!" she half yelled.

At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about. "Look at what you are doing with your hands! Look at what you are doing to his neck! Keep him moving forward! He's falling to the outside. Leg, leg, outside leg!"

Instead of using outside leg, the rider started using the reins to guide the horse back into the circle and Molly reached up and grabbed the rein, startling the horse and rider and bringing them both into a tight circle. She leaned up towards the rider, the rein still in her hand. The tone of her voice was firm as she gave directions, but her voice was barely above a whisper. I still have no idea what she said. The rider went back out on the circle and this time Molly seemed pleased with how they were going. About 10 minutes later, both lessons were finished and attention was turned to me.

Molly lead me over to the large draft cross that had been doing the lunge lesson and introduced him as John. John was a very big, very friendly 3 year old Belgium/Paint cross gelding and I would be riding him today during a short lunge lesson. With the help of a mounting block, I mounted up and began adjusting the stirrups. "You wont be needing those during this lesson", Molly stated as she moved the mounting block and put John out on the circle at the end of the lunge line.

John's walk was large and swaying. I sat perfectly straight, hands by my sides, heels down, trying my hardest to look like I belonged here. Molly asked John for a trot. His trot was large and powerful. I suddenly regretted my choice of not changing into breeches and arriving in wind pants, as I began to slide. I fought my slippery pants and remained in the saddle at a less than graceful sitting trot. "Those pants aren't really the best for riding", Alison stated.

"I was in a hurry and forgot to change" I explained still concentrating heavily on staying on.

"Posting trot", Molly announced and by some miracle, despite my slippery wind pants, I managed a posting trot. Smiling, Molly brought John into a canter. Again, I stayed on despite my wind pants.

"Knees up", Molly demanded. My heart sank, was she trying to kill me? I looked towards her with a puzzled look. "Knees up", she repeated. I was sure I was going to die.

I brought my knees up, depending only on my balance and seat to stay on at the canter. Somehow, I survived my lunge lesson, not only counter-clockwise, but clockwise too.

"Tomorrow, you should wear breeches"

Quest For A Trainer Who Would Get Me

"You rode all the way here bareback?", Molly asked with a half smile. There we stood in front of the big white farm house on the tarred driveway at 8am in the morning. I was sitting on my gleaming and muscled up gelding, in jeans and sneakers, no helmet. All Mister wore was his brown bridle with a kimberwick. I imagine we must have been quite a sight. I had just finished my chores and disappointed in everything horse show related, threw a bridle on Mister and just rode. I didn't plan to end up here, I just saw her driveway and turned up. Somewhere there was a trainer that would understand me and considering she seemed to be the most misunderstood trainer in the area, maybe she was it.

It was the day before my sixteenth birthday, the day after not making the Maine Team for the Big E. 4H had never really been my thing anyway and my goals had never matched up with the leaders ideas of what they should be. While everyone else in our group were riding pleasure bred Quarter Horses and Appaloosas, looking picture perfect in Western or like an AQHA idea of what hunters are, I was proudly riding my Morgan/Saddlebred cross hunt seat, forward, on the bit, and with his head slightly higher than 4H liked it. I was not about to force my naturally high headed, forward moving horse, into a scene from an AQHA hunter show for a pleasure class. My scores were fantastic in Equitation, I hated showmanship, so it was a little weak, and my portfolio had been thrown together in 10 minutes and over-nighted two days before the deadline. When I was talked into going to tryouts, I didn't really want to go, but once they were done, I was upset that I didn't make the team.

I looked down, a bit embarrassed. "I didn't make the Maine Big E Team. The goals 4H has for me don't really fit. I was hoping that I might be able to work in trade for lessons with you and just rode up here to ask if that was a possibility?"

About a month earlier, I had officially met Molly when she was asked to do a saddle fitting at 4H horse camp. I pulled Mister out of his stall and brought him out with my saddle to be fitted. She liked him instantly, which wasn't a reaction I got often at 4H events. "He's very nicely put together", she remarked.

While every other horse had been put right back into their stall, I kept Mister out for awhile longer because he didn't like being in the stalls at the fairgrounds and would become very upset. Molly watched us for a moment and then said, "This horse has had some rough times in his life, but he is extremely happy with her. They have a good understanding of each other." There were many eyes that rolled and that comment was turned into a joke by a few 4H members later, but I decided it was one of the nicest things I'd ever heard at 4H camp.

The next thing I knew, Molly was showing me around everywhere. She had me turn Mister out in a small paddock in the back of the barn and told me that I could put him there everyday. She introduced me to all the horses. I was told to be there at 8am the following morning for a riding lesson and then we would go over my daily chores. I rode home looking forward to the next day.

Prime's First Treat

The muscles of a well conditioned race horse rippled under a translucent red/brown coat as he came down the ramp of the shipper's trailer. Everything about this horse was picture perfect; his conformation, his condition, the way he moved. They shipped him with no leg protection and a ratty halter, typical for a trainer not wanting to give up his position training a decent horse. The shipper handed him off and I gladly led him down the isle way to the waiting stall.

That day and the days following his arrival, this horse had no personality. It was as if we had a beautiful robot standing in a stall. He ate, he pooped, he stood emotionless, uninterested. He wasn't friendly, his eyes were dull, and he had no idea what a treat was.

It was a night that my father was racing and I had fed the horses. I stood on a bucket in Mister's stall braiding his mane and talking to him incessantly about nothing. We had a show the next morning and he had been clipped, bathed, and was now in the process of being braided. I was on my second braid, still babbling away when I had this feeling I was being watched. I looked up and across the isle way. There stood Prime at his stall door watching me with interest. As I talked, his ears moved. His soft brown eyes looked sad, but curious and he moved his lower lip as if he was eating.

I climbed down from my bucket and out of the stall. Approaching him with my hand flat, I offered Prime a treat. He ducked back into his stall and hid in the corner. Disappointed, I went back to braiding and talking to Mister. Prime came back to his stall door to watch and listen to me interact with Mister. He seemed fascinated. His ears flipped back and forth and he watched my every move. His lower lip flapped and his eyes brightened. This was my first glimpse at Prime being a real horse. I finished up the braiding, gave Mister a kiss on the nose, and offered Prime another treat before closing up the barn for the night. He refused the treat and went back to hiding in his stall.

The next morning, dressed in my show clothes with sweats on over them, I entered the barn and began loading my things in the horse trailer. I was on my second armload of stuff, when my father stopped me and gesturing towards Prime's stall said, "You forgot to feed that horse last night. Not only did you not give him his grain, you forgot to toss in his hay."

I felt horrible. Forgetting that Prime didn't eat treats, I grabbed a handful of peppermints by habit and entered his stall to apologize. There he stood in his corner dully munching on hay. I stroked his muscled up neck and scratched up by his mane. Prime turned and looked at me with his big brown eyes full of curiosity and I swear they brightened just then. I offered the treats in my hand and fidgeting with them with his lower lip for a moment, he took them from me. Prime had just eaten his very first treats.

"But I Still Loved Her", The Story of Sea Star

When I was eight years old I was talked into leasing my Standardbred mare, Skater out to her former half-owner to be bred. He wanted a foal out of her sired by Direct Scooter. Skater left in January of that year and didn't return until the end of August.

During this time, I started riding lessons with a family friend that rode Grand Prix level Dressage. I was too little and too inexperienced for her Grand Prix dressage horse, but her step-sons had an old camp pony that they never rode and so my riding lessons started on Sea Star.

Sea Star's head was too big, her back too long, and her legs too short, but she had the patience of a saint and more experience than you could ever imagine. Sea Star knew all her cues, did flying lead changes, put all her heart and soul into everything she did, and she loved kids. Sea Star was an ugly pony, but I loved her.

That spring, the family friend became too busy to teach lessons and I started riding lessons at another barn. I missed Sea Star, but enjoyed riding the school pony, Dutchess. Dutchess was sweet, but I still talked incessantly about Sea Star. Show season hit and with my horse out on lease and the family friend's step-sons not being very interested in the pony, I ended up bringing Sea Star home on a free lease about mid-summer. Sea Star did have some health problems and drank a lot of water and soaked her stall. I had to strip her stall and re-bed it everyday, but I still loved her.

I rode Sea Star everyday. I could tack her up and go without anyone's help. I rode her in the paddocks, in the hay field, on the 1/2 mile track. We walked, and trotted, and cantered. We went to horse shows and on the Saddle Up For St. Jude's Trail Ride. I loved that pony.

Sea Star stayed with us through the summer, the fall, the winter. I cleaned her stall and brushed her daily. Trudged through the snow with my dad to the barn and turned her out. Sea Star's health issues didn't end with the coming of winter. Her stall still had to be stripped everyday and she had to have two clean, ice free water buckets at all times. She required a little more time and work then some other ponies, but I still loved her.

The next spring, we took care of her coggins test and vaccines. While the vet pulled her blood for the coggins, her age came up. How old was Sea Star? Hemphill's had told the family friend she was 20, but when the vet checked her teeth, he whistled loudly, looked at me, and said "This is a very old pony you got here". He then went on to say that he was positive Sea Star was older than 35, but if he had to guess, he'd guess she was possibly in her early 40s. Sea Star was a very old pony, but I still loved her.

My own horse, Skater had her foal and I spent a lot of time with them, watching the young foal grow, but I still loved the old pony. I was riding Sea Star around the track and she decided that being an old reliable pony was getting boring and that the green grass looked nice. She jumped a banking, dove for grass, and I fell off, but looking up at her from the ground, I knew I still loved her. I took Sea Star to horse camp and for the first time since I'd had her, she turned up lame. I was disappointed and had to ride another horse there, but I still loved Sea Star.

I learned to braid and braided and bathed Sea Star myself. She looked silly and gave me pathetic looks, but stood forever and never put up a fight. We showed that summer and never won, but that was OK, I still loved Sea Star. I was planning to go to the St. Jude's Trail Ride again, but then the family friend called and soon after, came and got Sea Star.

I went to the St. Judes Trail Ride with a borrowed pony named Jackson, who acted like a complete ass and I cried for the first time out of frustration with a horse. I turned back early after being run into a tree and nearly "clothes lined" off. I wanted and missed Sea Star. The family friend was called and she told us that she had sold Sea Star back to Hemphill's. I skipped school and tagged along with my dad to Hemphill's to go see Sea Star. We got there and were told that Sea Star had died only a week before during the night. It broke my heart, but to this day I still love Sea Star.