by Roxanne Bok
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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eating Dirt
IT STRUCK ME AS SOON AS I ENTERED THE BARN: a sense of unease, a frazzled energy, a whiff of panic. Bobbi is never anxious around horses, at least not noticeably, but there she stood, next to Willy in the cross ties, her hair matted down from the sweat of a recently removed helmet and a flush in her face. Elliot gave me a “Hi, Mom,” and a weak smile. Then I noticed that Bobbi was putting on Willy’s bridle, signaling she was behind schedule.
Cleo had a sore tendon from mixing it up in the fields with her buddies, so the plan was for the kids to ride Willy at one o’clock, Jane first then El, while Scott and I lunched at The White Hart. I would ride at two, preferring to ride without the kids around. I worried about their horseplay: nothing like Jane in tears from some barn-related mishap to raise my hackles. I h
ad to keep my cool, especially today. Eight weeks had passed since I had been in the saddle. Various ailments were to blame. On spring break vacation in Anguilla I had whiplashed my vertebrae showing Elliot how to dive from a springy board, not unlike the one I grew up with and which, no doubt, duped me into believing I was eight years old again. I had also nursed an endless cold, courtesy of my germ magnets Elliot and Jane back at school, and had undergone a nasty surgery to correct a long-deviated septum. To be honest, I had welcomed the break. I thought I loved riding, and I wanted to master this horse business, but the learning, the Bandicoot, and the horse farm in general had drained me nearly dry.
Since my first fall in summer, I had been dumped again in our own indoor ring over the winter. Bandi shied at the door during a trot, twisted left and bolted while I flew right, pretty much a rerun of my first airborne performance. I landed delicately, though the footing is never as soft as one wishes, and immediately I got back on. It traumatized me less than the first time, but not by much. Now I have had eight weeks of not riding to dwell on it.
But the beautiful early spring day meant an outdoor lesson—no spooky doors in sight.
“We’re running a little late,” Bobbi said nervously as she finished tacking up Willy.
“Oh.” I said, disappointed because I had rushed through lunch, much to Scott’s annoyance. “Did your morning lessons run long?”
“Not really, but Nancy wanted to finish up with a ride in the field, so Angel and I went with her. I hated to cut her short because she is such a great boarder.”
This was true. Our very first customer, Nancy had been unfailingly excited about the barn, complimentary even in the midst of the ongoing construction. She and Bobbi had succeeded so much with Chase that they were on the lookout for another horse. One owner with multiple horses is ideal business-wise—reduced traffic on the road, fewer personalities to deal with, less human congestion on the property. Although technically a for-profit enterprise, we wanted to preserve the atmosphere of our own personal space and keep it low-key for people we liked. Breaking even would be enough, but hemorrhaging money forever was still a possibility if we didn’t keep our business heads. Nancy had recently acquired enough skill and nerve to canter Chase out in the open field as opposed to the ring. I envied her progress and was thrilled on her behalf when Bobbi boasted about her cantering around our large hay field, not once but twice without stopping. I wouldn’t have begrudged her the extra time either.
“We also had a little accident with Janie,” Bobbi continued.
I heard Jane cry “Mommy” in distress from the tack room.
“What happened?” I asked, blanketing the sparks in my brain.
“Angel stepped on her foot,” Elliot reported.
“I think she’s fine,” Bobbi added. “She’ll be bruised, but she’s moving everything, and we’ve put Cleo’s leg icepack on her.”
I jogged to the tack room, where Jane burst back into tears upon hearing my voice. Above the din, Jane’s sitter Marie quickly assured me she’d been up and laughing a minute before. Timing is tricky for parents, and it’s not uncommon for kids to re-fall apart when their safe emotional outlet appears.
“Poor Janie,” I took her onto my lap and kissed her head. “Did Angel step on your little hoof? Let me take a look.”
Marie had just gotten Jane’s riding boots back on, hoping to encourage her to ride and take her mind off the pain. But the boot seemed tight, and I removed it to view the damage. The swelling was minimal, and Marie pronounced the bones sound. But Jane gained a fresh sympathetic audience and couldn’t rally—it certainly must have hurt. We all recounted our episodes under the hooves of horses, but besides her tiny, more vulnerable feet, she also lacked her usual resilience due to a stomach virus she had weathered only two days before.
We prescribed rest and with an exaggerated groan I hoisted her up for a piggy back ride to the car. Homeward bound she brightened at the prospect of elevating and icing her foot in front of Dumbo and Madeline videos. Poor Jane: so often in tears at the barn. That her kinship with the animals made up for the occasional maiming amazed me. I gave her credit for savoring the fun and forgetting the injuries. Like her father and brother, and decidedly unlike her mother, she is a glass-half-full kind of gal.
I stayed behind to watch Elliot ride and to ready Bandi for my belated lesson. Pausing ringside, I saw Elliot comfortably confident on Willie who he had ridden only once before.
“Whoa, Elliot! Slow down that trot,” Bobbi instructed. “Willie’s turbocharged today.”
Bobbi later told me she found Elliot’s ride hair-raising due to Willy’s uncharacteristic burst of energy.
“I noticed he was getting a little stiff, so I put him on glucosamine. With this supplement they advise upping his grain some, so Willie is raring to go. I’ll have to cut him back.”
Grain is a “hot” food and pumps the horses up with an energy boost, a caffeine kick of sorts. There is no end to tinkering with a horse’s diet, including natural supplements that calm, some of which we had given Bandi. He didn’t spook less, but he grouched less during grooming and tolerated cuddles better.
Elliot itched to canter Willy. It went well, if a bit fast, and Willie’s big canter surprised Elliot after Cleo’s delicate stride, illustrating that no two horses ride alike. Later, Bobbi rethought her decision to let him go for it. After Janie’s encounter with Angel’s hoof and her recent first fall, not to mention my own wobbles, Bobbi needed a break from the Bok family having adventures.
Finally my turn, I rode Bandi out to the larger ring while Elliot finished up in the adjacent dressage arena. While Bobbi, Elliot and Willy headed indoors to untack, I practiced my trotting and circles, alone and without trouble. Starting solo was risky after such a long break, but a bike ride with Scott beckoned, and I was striving to keep our relationship intact, temporarily filibustering Scott’s objections to my time sink of a new pursuit.
My skills rusty, I nevertheless enjoyed Bandi again. I re-appreciated his familiar trot and even canter. Keeping him energized required steady effort, and the work strengthened my legs and kept me focused and accurate with my commands. Bobbi had recently suggested I try spurs and a whip for my lazy boy, but I was determined to muscle my will through my body to get what I wanted from him. Bobbi could do it, so it wasn’t impossible. I tired quickly, but it felt a purer form of horsemanship. And I was still somewhat idealistic.
On a short break between canters, Margaret Ann strode into the ring. A horsewoman we knew from Riga Meadow, she also sold tack and gifts and dropped by to firm up plans for her kiosk at our upcoming June show.
“Hi, Margaret Ann,” I greeted. “I’m almost done, maybe ten minutes, and then Bobbi’s all yours.”
“All right, take your time. I’ll just sit on the bench here if you don’t mind.”
“You might get a face full of dust, but you’re welcome to it.” Thanks to Kenny, our ring drained almost too well, requiring copious watering in dry weather.
A teak bench divided the two rings. Margaret Ann settled down and I confidently resumed my trot, playing to my impromptu audience.
“Energize that trot before asking for the canter,” Bobbi instructed. “Get him paying attention. Now sit the trot tall and left leg asks for the canter.”
I had trouble keeping my butt heavy in the saddle against the trot. Only in attempting this motion did I realize how natural posting is. But if the horse feels you posting he should not, and generally will not, pick up the canter unless he is particularly generous. My usual methods of cheating included standing a little in the stirrups to keep my bouncing cheeks off the saddle altogether or leaning forward and pushing the reins forward—“Giddy-up, cowgirl” Bobbi generally joked—to make up for my weak seat. Against type, Bandi picked now to show off a too lively trot when I needed him to slow down. He’s a wily character.
“Remember, the hands don’t make him go, your seat and legs do. You and Elliot do exactly the same thing—flap your
arms to get him to go. Yee-haw!” She chicken-winged her own elbows dramatically. “This cowboy stuff won’t work. Organize yourself again, slow down the trot—not too slow—sit tall, hands give the reins slightly forward but quiet, and ask him again.”
This time I managed it and cantered down the long side of the ring. As I approached the bench and Margaret Ann, Bandi startled, stopped short and simultaneously jumped sharply to the center of the ring away from Margaret Ann, whose entrance and presence he had distinctly noted and who we had already passed at a trot several times. She had not appeared out of thin air, nor had she been transformed into a horse-eating monster. Off I flew landing with a thud flat on my back just under Bandi’s left shoulder. He didn’t bolt this time and high-stepped to avoid trampling me while I scrambled out of his way up onto my feet. Bobbi ran over.
“Are you okay?”
I considered.
“Yes. I think I’m fine.”
Unhurt, but mad. I grabbed a hold of Bandi’s reins and shook his face. “Bandi! What is the matter with you? Stupid horse; don’t you dare do that again.”
Brushing myself off, I asked Bobbi, “Where did I go wrong?”
“Not your fault. I saw him get the hairy eyeball, but he was too quick for me to warn you. He didn’t really spin, but jumped to the side. I thought you were going to stick it at first, but then sometimes it’s better to bail.”