by Roxanne Bok
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 extre
mes 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?
But Jane was truly frightened of Cody. Is she a girl who doesn’t get it? I bided my time and wondered. Several weeks later, and after we all got to know Bandi better, I retested both kids.
“Elliot, would you like to have a lesson on Bandi?”
“Sure, when?”
“How about tomorrow? After mine?”
“Okay.”
“Jane, would you like to have a ride on Bandi?” I casually added.
“Yes.”
The next day set a perfect stage: a bossy blue August sky lending a purplish green clarity to the hills that can make a person weep. The Taconic range of mountains hazed away from Riga Meadow’s flat pastures, while the gray barns, nearer, sizzled in the heat. Grazing horses half-heartedly swished their tails against slow flies, both creatures spoiled and lethargic with late summer warmth and abundant food. I tacked up Bandi, expecting to show Elliot and Jane what I had learned, but after feeding Bandi some carrots, their waning attention scooted them off to investigate neighboring stalls and otherwise horse around.
I led Bandi from the dim closet of the stable to the sun-drenched path toward the outdoor ring. With Bobbi waiting, I got right to it, wanting to warm up and settle Bandi before the kids grew impatient. I had hoped they’d show some interest in seeing their mother ride, but appropriately self-centered, they used the time to fight with one another and make mischief on the fences, eventually requiring my sharp rebuke from my mount. Elliot slunk off to a hay bale to read his book, while Jane remained to keep up a steady patter.
“Mama, is it my turn yet?”
“Not yet, Janie. Soon.”
Ten seconds later, “Is it my turn now?”
“Not yet, Jane. Try to be patient.”
Twenty seconds later, “When is it going to be my turn?”
She climbed on the fence again, opening and closing the gate. With each bang Bandi’s ears twitched and his head jerked around.
After my distracted thirty minutes, I spied my good-natured son still absorbed in his book, and flipped Jane to number one for take-off. Up she went, tentative, but game. We wrapped the leathers short enough for Jane’s feet to reach the stirrups with her squealing whenever Bandi shifted his weight. Bobbi placed Jane’s fingers properly around the reins.
“Sit up straight now, Janie, like a soldier.”
“Like this?” Jane joked, going stiff as a board.
“Exactly. Now we’re going to walk around.”
Bobbi maintained a loose grip on the lead line as they giggled and chatted. Bandi acted the protector, and Jane was rigid, not with fear, but delight. After a few rounds, Bobbi gingerly hoisted herself onto the saddle behind Jane, and they rode around together.
“Do you want to trot, Jane?” Bobbi asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay, here we go.”
Bobbi eased into a slow trot, and Jane did her best to stay on her seat. She cracked herself up by dramatically emphasizing the reverberations in her voice as she bounced along to Bandi’s swaying butt. They transitioned between walk and trot a few times before Bobbi halted.
“Whoa, Bandi,” Bobbi commanded.
“Whoa, Bandi,” Jane imitated.
“Do you like it, Jane?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Let’s keep going.”
“Well, it’s Elliot’s turn now.”
“I want another turn.”
Bobbi completed another small circle.
“It’s time to get down now, so Elliot can have a turn.”
“NO!”
I had never seen her so adamant. By the time I pried her from the saddle she had dissolved herself in anger, bordering on a tantrum, a weapon she’d only ever engaged twice before. Embarrassed in front of Bobbi who doesn’t have kids, I feared she would judge mine spoiled, ill-behaved brats. I wanted her to like them: soon she’d be teaching all of us.
“Oh-oh,” Bobbi said. “That’s what happened the first time I got off a horse and look what happened to me.”
We laughed, and Jane pulled
herself together. Elliot rode serenely, and Bandi behaved beautifully. Three of us were on board. We would have to see about Scott.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Bandi Diaries
BARN LIFE WAS TRANSFORMING ME. I had fallen hard that first horsey summer into a polarized relationship: I loved my horse, hated my riding. With so much to learn, I was both daunted and intoxicated by a challenge antithetical to my daily life as mother and spouse. Horsekeeping and riding is intellectual, emotional and physical, requiring extreme concentration, calm wits and no small dose of bravery. Between Mommy brain and genetics, I lacked all three.
My immediate challenge was steering. I was warned that tugging on the reins, my first inclination, should be my last resort. Ideally, the lower legs and ultimately the “seat” (this complex misnomer includes the abdomen, lower back, pelvis, glutei and thighs; in short, everything from the lowest rib to the knee), are all; experienced horses sense direction requests by subtle weight shifts emanating from my eyes and head through to my butt in the saddle. This “connection” was that simple and yet frustratingly elusive. When I trotted toward a turn Bobbi would repeatedly mantra:
“Look where you want to go, about three paces ahead. Use your right lower leg to tell him to turn left, and position your left leg as a post around which you want his body to bend. Loosen your thighs.”
My legs felt tragically connected to my upper body: right and left refused to operate independently and when I engaged them my arms pulled on the reins. Afraid of losing my balance I gripped my thighs to steady myself and Bandi stopped, as I had just issued the “halt” command. Why is this so complicated? Can’t I just tug on the left rein to go left? I trotted on again, and Bandi cut the corner courtesy of my weak inside lower leg. My “posting” strung along like a wet noodle, and my strenuous leg commands didn’t faze Bandi, so, compensating, I brought up both my hands and crossed them to the right of Bandi’s maned neck, an intuitive but misguided attempt to drag him out to the rail.