Horsekeeping (21 page)

Horses are herd animals, and they communicate vocally and bodily. Wherever they are, they whinny and neigh greetings and warnings to each other and keep a watchful eye, tracking each others' comings and goings, shadowing their buddies. Their ears and lips “speak” two additional dialects. Flat back ears and meaningful nips show displeasure across the paddock fences, despite electric dissuaders. Inside, a horse startles, upset or angry, and disturbs the peace—her loud cries echoing against the worn wood. An impatient kick that bends the thick stall wall, restless neighing and pacing is soothed or rebuked by a human voice, a minor test of wills, and all settle again. I watched one trainer force an irate, anxious-for-his-dinner horse back out of his box stall, re-entering six times until his barging gave way to a tiptoed, mannered grace. Being dragged around by a horse is a losing game: we must teach them consideration of puny us.

Barn visuals and procedures addicted my human pleasure receptors—the long, narrow, dimming aisles that end in large squares of light where the double doors stand open to blazing summer glare; the sun and shade of the in and out that test our apertures; the dust that floats in the trapezoidal slants of illumination cut from skylights and barred stall windows; activity and rest that ebb and flow in gentle cycles. Stalls are mucked out and animals fed to a regular schedule, with clean bedding and hay snacks delivered by wheelbarrow or a pair of strong arms. Everyday, an industrial barn vacuum sucks the long aisles clear of wayward hay, shavings, hair and dirt, but it is a losing game. The filling of water buckets can't be hurried, but the feed tray can be rolled along more quickly to pacify the hungry. The staff moves at a calm, steady pace to conserve energy and keep to the horses' schedules. There is no getting ahead of this work, no benefit to rushing. It is relentless.

But step outside into the light: the enclosed stalls and barn aisles spring open to vast pasture, fenced and open, with, if you are fortunate, views of hills and rivers, a few pretty houses and a big open sky. Posts and boards recede and overlap, wavering in the heat's haze. Distant horses quietly graze, and nearer ones work under their riders, both deep in concentration. Exuberant riders, scared riders, exhausted riders, sweaty, dusty riders, thankful riders, frustrated riders. Same goes for the horses. It is magical.

Horse people share an immediate animal bond born of barn time. At Riga Meadow, where Bandi temporarily resided, the gamut ran from little kids in pony club, to youthful riders working as stable hands to earn their rides, on to many oldsters returning to their childhood passions after a mid-life of work and family care. I admire their dedication, especially the “mature” ones. When I first saw Mrs. Hackshorn, in breeches, boots, clutching a crop and a helmet, I never imagined that she rode. At a walk she pitched forward nearly ninety degrees, and sideways forty-five. Her head, arthritically locked, was cocked in line with her tilt such that her full body revolved to shift her view. That she moved at all challenged the laws of gravity. I figured she was a horsewoman once, but now playacted the part, wandering the barn to keep a feel of what once made her happy.

One stifling day I stopped at the entrance to the indoor ring, yelling “DOOR,” as is the custom for admission, to see who was riding.

“Is that the old lady I often see around here?” I whispered to the stable girls ardently watching.

“Yes.”

“I can't believe it. How old is she?”

“Ninety-four.”

I watched Mrs. Hackshorn walk, then trot around the ring. Scolding the horse all the while, she suffered no nonsense. Barn manager and trainer Linda gave her pointers, always respectful, and still with an eye toward improving her riding. In no way did she humor her.

“I see I get no extra credit for taking up riding at forty-six,” I said to Linda later.

“Mrs. Hackshorn is amazing and gives all of us aging riders hope.”

We sighed, imagining ourselves ancient and crooked.

“I really hope that I'm still on at her age, or even close to it.”

“Me too. She's an inspiration.”

“Does she canter?”

“Yup.”

“Wow.”

A barn family is an oasis. Most of us do not know much about each other, maybe a little snippet here and there, and other family members are rarely present. Riding talk and action are all-consuming: horse needs crowd out chit-chat. Home life is separate—a proverbial million miles away. We sparingly share our outside sorrows and sagas with each other, and cannot dwell on them long. The barn is a place to forget, to work and canter our troubles away. But some tragedies crack the code. One boarder at our farm unexpectedly lost her teenage son with Down's Syndrome to pneumonia. We all deeply mourned for Pat who lost her sweet, sweet boy. I sent a heartfelt note, but refrained from open expressions of sympathy at the barn. Words are inept, and I hoped to keep that time and place where her children rarely ventured pure and free as possible. Illogical of course, because you cannot outrun that kind of grief, but maybe the barn “space” allows brief respite. Another friend who boarded at Riga Meadow also lost a child, a grown daughter to suicide. I sensed that for her, too, the barn is that rare place for a pause in the pain, the broken human wrapped in bubble-wrap, for an hour or two, against the hard world.

That Elliot's friend Max was nervous around the horses made sense for a city boy, but the feel for barn life is not something you can necessarily acquire through exposure, like a taste for beer or oysters, at least not in the deepest sense. Elliot turned barn rat right from the start (though less in our under-construction barn devoid of horses) and so too, for the most part, did Jane.

Jane was four when the farm became ours. Like Elliot and me she loved animals unconditionally, but our exposure had been limited to dogs, zoo visits and backyard interlopers. Eager to ride, she also fully realized the height from which she could fall. But she happily romped around the barn, feeding carrots to the horses, while I policed her around the hazards.

“Jane! Don't run. Remember, horses like
caaallllmmm
.”

“Jane! Don't go in that stall without a grown-up.”

“Jane! Remember to hold your hand flat so you don't get bitten.”

“Jane! Don't crawl between that horse's legs.”

“Jane! Don't clomp around the hayloft. Angel's in her stall and it spooks her.”

“Jane! Be careful on that ladder.”

But to a five year old, running is imperative. And, even her flattest hand can be mistaken for a carrot. And, the cool, cave-dark loft invites exploration of mice bones and secret spaces. I pretty much knew she would bond to horses—the percentage of horsey girls is pretty high among those regularly conditioned. Scott and I even debated where it might lead.

“Do you think the horse thing will be good for Jane?” I asked.

“I guess. That is, if we can steer clear of the fancy show circuit.”

It is a big “if.” We know people, rich and not so, who spend much of their disposable incomes on top horses and their free time at horse events. One family's sixth grader is released from her private school every Friday to fly down to Palm Beach to compete. It is a life, not a hobby, and wears thin in a hurry for the non-riding parents and siblings.

“Do you think we can control it to a sane level? Maintain it as a pastime rather than a passion?” I asked.

“I don't know. It's pretty laid back around here, at least. It certainly isn't the Hamptons, Bedford, or even Millbrook. . . . so maybe. I don't relish weekends traveling the East Coast with a horse in tow. Hockey is bad enough—the early mornings, the long trips. . . .”

“. . . the freezing cold and the sweaty equipment in that awkward, stinking bag,” I finished. “I know what you mean, though. I hope she can just enjoy it, like Elliot. But she might be really good at it, in fact with her strength and balance she'll probably be great at it, and girls are different about riding.”

“Maybe having our own farm will reduce the perk factor and she'll take it for granted rather than as a novelty she'll yearn to maximize. You know, how rationing Skittles makes her crave more, but give her the whole bag and she rarely finishes them.”

“I thought we always worried about our kids taking their privileges for granted?”

“Maybe in this one case it can work for us and undercut an overly-serious dedication.”

“The upside is pretty compelling, though. Maybe her love and care of farm animals will balance a grow-up-too-fast, urban life.” I always plugged the benefits of beasts to Scott whenever I could to atone for all the times our dog peed on the carpet, had diarrhea in Elliot's bed, or begged food. “And think of her confidence: after all, if you can coerce a thousand-pound animal to dance and jump, go and whoa, what
can't
you do?”

He gave me the “poor mutt” look.

I winked. “And it will keep her away from boys.”

“Now you're talking.”

“Are you maligning your own gender?”

“Definitely. And with good reason.”

I thought about the girls I had met around barns. They consistently presented wholesome and refreshingly naïve, not jaded, materialistic and boy crazy. And parents of riding girls have confirmed my impressions. A few deeply regretted that their teenagers traded horses for valley-girl pleasures, heavy metal, and love, never turning back, but more found their girls put off serious dating until their late teens. One parent worried about her late-blooming daughter with nary a date until her twenties. Eventually, the single girl married a NYC cop. He was part of
the equine division; she first saw him tall in the saddle patrolling Central Park. I liked the romance of this story, and the virgin maiden aspect especially appealed to the dad, if not the husband, in Scott. A horse-crazy daughter seemed a decent hedge against the awful extremes of, say, a drug-addled Goth, or a runaway, pregnant teen. Not that I lack confidence in my parenting skills or anything.

So, we never saw it coming.

In June we paid another visit to the Billingsly farm. We toured a veritable paradise of critters—two donkeys named Hoot and Holler (Ken is a trader), ducks, and peacocks (though four ran away to the wild side), not to mention the horses.

“Where's Elliot?”

We found him in the henhouse determined to catch one of the skittish birds. Feathers were flying. Nimble Tammy crouched and sprang to impress us on her first try and handed a beautiful multi-colored hen to my thrilled son. The time flew by and the overly ambitious family trail ride scaled back to both kids having a quick spin on the Icelandic named Cody. Elliot bounced to the double-time trot the breed is known for, with good sport Tammy running alongside.

Icelandics are small, steady and fun to ride, but their gaits are hardly elegant: horse and rider resemble fast-forwarded cartoon characters. Tammy agreed they give you a good laugh, and except for the jangling, touted their safety. On our drive home Elliot confessed his renewed appreciation for the smoother trot of the warm-bloods, and when I broached the idea of reliable Icelandics for our farm, Bobbi looked at me like I couldn't possibly be serious, shook her head and shot me down. “No, Quarter Horses are the way to go.”

It was Jane's turn on Cody. I lifted her up to the saddle.

“I don't want to.” She had a death grip on my neck.

“What do you mean, Janie? You love horses,” I said rhetorically as I struggled to hold her noncompliant body aloft.

“I don't want to!” More adamant, she wriggled away.

“Janie, Cody is a nice horse and Tammy will be right there with you. Elliot had a fun time,” I said, conscious of having told Tammy that my brave Jane adored horses.

“Don't be afraid, Janie,” urged Keira and her brother Andrew.

“Yeah, Janie, you should try it,” Elliot piled on, the six against one tuning her radar to manipulation.

Scott helped me wrangle her fighting form onto the saddle, both of us sure she would rise to the occasion. Instead she panicked, kicking to get off and cried, hard. Her agitation did not abate, not even after we gave up. Shaken to her core, we beat a hasty retreat to our car and home. A change of scene helped her switch gears, but I feared she was ruined for horses, in the manner of “the bad dog experience that makes you afraid for life.”
Great; and now we owned a horse farm.
My crafting of a family hobby unglued in three minutes. First they were bored by the construction of our farm, then Elliot showed little interest in Bandi, and now Jane was scarred for life. Come to think of it, Scott's enthusiasm leached at any mention of Bobbi and me finding him a horse. He would cut us off with a quick “There's no rush.” Plainly, I'd been forcing my horse fascination on my family.

I had anticipated that my guys might resist the animal scene, but I had counted on Jane. Why is it that females especially love horses and all that goes with it, the riding and the competition, the caring, grooming, feeding, the barn life? Men, Europeans in particular, eventually take their share of medals and ribbons at the upper echelons of English saddle horse trials, but you don't see many boys hanging around East Coast barns in the United States. Is it a power thing? Do girls in a paternalistic society empower themselves by controlling these large brutes? Do they practice adult loss and mourning when a horse goes lame, crazy or sick, as they invariably do? Despite these hardships, do girls value freedom from the
Sturm und Drang
of adolescence, home conflicts, schoolyards rivalries, the malls and back alleys of teenagerdom? I would love to spare my daughter all that plus sexually transmitted diseases,
eating disorders, vanity, and guy-induced submissive feminine behavior if I could. I would choose to protect her longer from any cruel, destructive rites of passage. I would rather her heart be broken by horses first and humans later. Or is the connection simply that the “nature” of horse speaks best to the “nature” of girl?