Mine, Equine

            by Clio Bernhardson-Massolo

 

            I once read in one of those dime-a-dozen chapter books formulated especially for nine-year-old girls that one could wish on white horses. From that day forward, every time I passed a stable I eagerly peered out the window of the car, and if I saw a white horse grazing in the field, I concentrated as hard as I could, and wished. I wish I could have a horse, I wish I could have a horse, I would repeat in my head, until we were out of sight of the field. Satisfied that my message had been sent to the Wish Gods via the beautiful grass-munching creature, I would sit back and start to think about what I would do if a horse were to suddenly appear in my bedroom the next morning, confused and stumbling over books, dolls, and chairs. There was never any doubt in my mind that sooner or later I would have one, that someday I would have a horse of my very own.

            Never mind that I had only the experience of a child who has read The Black Stallion; that's what libraries were for. Every weekend during the two dismal years I lived in Pennsylvania, I entertained my eight-year-old fancies by making the trip down to the local library and checking out horse related books, as many as twelve at a time. These ranged from more dime-a-dozen paperbacks to classics like Black Beauty and technical books which described the process of birthing a foal or common equine ailments.

            I started riding as I began third grade, right after my mom and I made the move to the microscopic town of Meadville, Pennsylvania from my home state of California. After seeing a tiny ad in the First District Elementary newsletter and tugging my mom's sleeve for a week or so, we finally made the trip to the small barn in the outskirts of our town. It was dusty and smelled of manure; I loved it. Mark, the mild-mannered owner of the barn who was in his early thirties, was hesitant to let me into his beginner's lesson because I was a year younger than his cut-off age of nine. In spite of this, and it must have been because of something in the way I ran up to each horse in wide-eyed awe and lovingly petted each one on the nose, he relented easily and welcomed me to his barn. I was a skinny, optimistic girl about to embark on every little girl's dream.

            My first lesson was on a tiny black and white pony named Seven Up, riding around the indoor arena in a gigantic western saddle. My hands held the reins in a loose mess, my feet dangled uselessly at the pony's sides, and Seven Up just plodded on and on. Is this what riding is? I thought more than once. But I was never disappointed by it, I was more bemused; I knew there had to be more to it than this. Little by little, over the weeks, I picked up key elements to horseback riding. Sit up, heels down, balance, hold your reins properly. So many ideas to think about! Walking, stopping, steering, and pretty soon the jarring chaos of the trot was added to the list. As I started riding new horses, I learned more about their individual characteristics. Pat was lazy and required lots and lots of encouragement (i.e. kicking like mad); Toi was tall and prone to making his own decisions if his rider was not making them. More than once he steered me into the middle of the arena and stopped solidly, as if to say, "Get off, we're done now."

            Although I only rode there for two years, that little stable in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania, I learned the basics of riding and horsemanship, along with another lesson. Mark had always made it a point to teach me that being a horse person required getting dirty, and if you weren't willing to do that, you had no business being around horses. One of his favorite sayings, which I still wholeheartedly believe, was, "You're not a real rider until you've fallen off at least seven times."

            My first step in filling that important quota came the first time I cantered. I had the command drilled into my head: put your outside leg back, sit, and kick. Just like magic, as we rounded the corner, Toi began a fantastic, rollicking canter, and I sat there feeling like a disheveled princess, a little disjointed but having a good time. Gradually, I felt myself get off balance, and start to slip to the side. Not being used to such a fast gait, I sat and wondered what to do as I began to slide sideways in slow motion. When I finally hit the ground, I was equally stunned and thrilled. Mark ran over to make sure I was okay, and then helped me back onto Toi, who was standing neutrally, to continue the lesson. As soon as it was over, I ran to my mother and, with the enthusiasm that only a fourth grader could have, gleefully cried,  "Mom! Only six more times until I'm a real rider!"

            When I got back to California, I immediately began looking for a stable to ride at, and found myself at Skyline Ranch. It was big, and there were lots of people, the polar opposite of Mark's stable. Whereas I had been used to a quiet, mellow barn where it seemed like it was always dusk inside and I was alone with the horses, Skyline was full of people riding, talking, cleaning, laughing, working. My first lesson at Skyline was like learning to ride all over again. Unlike Mark, my new teacher Judi was sharp and insistent, and much pickier. I rode a fat pinto named Sugar, who was anything but sweet. She had learned how to get away with doing minimal work from all the novices who rode her, and I was no exception. No matter how I thumped on her sides with my calves, she never went any faster, and if I rested for a second, she would stop dead. I also had the added worries of my posture, which, although I sat up straight and thrust my heels down, never seemed to get any better. Judi pointed out all these faults bluntly, but there was also something about the way she exclaimed "Super!" every time I did the exercise well that made her ruthlessness worth every exasperated holler of "Clio! You're on the wrong posting diagonal! FIX IT!"

            As I rode more at Skyline Ranch, I became better acquainted with the horses. The inexperienced riders, such as myself, had a limited selection of horses to ride, which came in all sorts of ungainly shapes and sizes. These were the older horses who had seen and done it all, and therefore weren't prone to hysterical spooking fits.

            My first favorite (they changed often) was Caine, a squat twenty-five year old gelding with a swayback resembling a deep valley between two plump brown hills. In retrospect, there wasn't much to love about him; riding him was so tiresome it felt like I  was lugging him around the arena. However, there must have been something about the way he lipped carrot chunks from my palm and stood calmly as I braided his mane that made me adore him. The polar opposite of Caine was Clyde, the horse with a face like a camel that the entire stable dreaded riding because of his clumsy gaits and his nasty habit of nipping you on the rear when you were tightening his girth. Shorty was a bright chestnut with high white socks who could've made a brilliant show pony were it not for his unfortunate trademark of bucking while cantering, and Kokomo was a sweetheart who wouldn't harm a fly, but wouldn't win any beauty pageants either. These horses, plus a few more, made up my first couple of years of riding at Skyline Ranch.

            As I rode more, I graduated to more advanced horses. First came Yo, a timid bird in the body of a great big horse, who was constantly wary of such terrifying threats as the wind and his shadow. Mona came onto the scene a bit later with her high-speed antics, but with such a lovable personality, I couldn't bring myself to get mad. However, the horse that had the most impact on me by far was The Filly, whose title signified exactly what she was; a young, female horse. She was delicate; she had a wide forehead with large, intelligent eyes, which tapered down to a velvety nose, which would flare every time someone came near so she could catch their scent. Her coat was dark and rich, and her mane cascaded long over her neck, as opposed to all the other horses who had shorter manes for the purpose of neatness. In terms of appearance, she would have been a mount fit for any goddess.

            I began riding The Filly around the same time I was learning how to jump. Judi put me on her one day and didn't take me off her for six months. We were both young; I was overconfident and she was under-confident, which was apparent the first time we jumped. We hadn't been paired together for long, and were just getting used to each other's quirks. The entire lesson she had been squirmy and hypersensitive under my seat, not solid and unresponsive like the other school-horses I was used to kicking. Judi set up some small jumps for the class to trot over, and I volunteered to go first. I picked up the trot and confidently made a beeline for the first jump, not noticing The Filly's nervous pace and her alert, wary ears. A few feet from the jump I stood in my stirrups, assuming the jumping position and expecting her to jump it. However, instead of the weightless exhilaration of jumping with a horse under you, all I felt was the sudden backwards jerk as she skidded back on her heels an inch away from the red and white striped poles, and I went flying into the jump shoulder first.

            After that, I didn't take anything with The Filly for granted. It seemed to me that she was always directly contradicting herself. One moment she'd affectionately nudge my neck as I groomed her coat, the next moment she'd storm around her stall as though I was deeply offending her by invading her personal space.

            She wasn't anything like the other horses I was used to. Our lessons always began with me chasing her around the small indoor arena for fifteen minutes in order to get her excess energy out. Occasionally she got so wild I feared for the safety of the wooden ban because of the sparks coming out from beneath her hooves as they struck the coarse sand that padded the ring. By that time I had had my fair share of unruly, ill-tempered, uncooperative horses that acted more like obstinate mules than dignified equines. Although The Filly definitely had her share of disagreeable qualities, they were due more to her insecurities than to her disregard for her rider. Her habit of dislodging me from her back while jumping became an recurring theme in our lessons, but this was because of her irrational fear of jumps and not because she was secretly amused at the thought of tricking me constantly.

            As I kept riding her we seemed to reach a mutual understanding. I learned to ride her awkward, wiggly gaits, and as a result she felt more comfortable with me. Instead of bullying her around as I was so used to having to do with the other horses, I sought a deeper level of communication with her. I would send her mild requests,  and she would respond through the feel of her gait, the position of her ears, the curve of her neck. I also learned how to jump with her, not ahead of her, so as to be able to guide her over a jump she was deathly afraid of. The only reason we were able to learn so much from each other was because we were so different.

            No one told me when she left. I arrived at the stable on a chilly day, one which would have made The Filly feel even bouncier and more energetic than usual. I rounded the corner that would lead to her stall and peered over the edge, only to find it occupied by a small white pony. It looked up at me, blinked, and turned its head back to the hay it had been chewing. I anxiously made my way to Judi's office, where I tentatively stepped in to ask her if The Filly had been moved to a different stall.

            "Her owner moved her to Utah. She's going to be a broodmare." She looked at me for a second, and then her gaze softened as she saw my expression turn to one of dismay. However, she offered no words of condolence. "Go get Yo ready, he needs to be ridden today."

            My beloved mare had been sent away to produce babies for the rest of her life. I felt betrayed, as though everything we had worked for had been for nothing, because now she wouldn't need the confidence I had built up in her. My entire body was desensitized as I walked down the barn aisle to Yo's stall. My fingers slipped on his halter, his saddle and bridle were foreign in my hands after having had used The Filly's tack for so long.

            During the lesson, I couldn't help but think about The Filly and about how strange Yo felt, how solid and predictable this once flighty gelding seemed. Even as he sharply veered away at the last minute from the jump we were heading towards, I found myself correcting him and communicating with him in a way I wouldn't have been able to before, and coaxing him into jumping it.