I am beginning to wonder: How many apples can a big horse munch if a big horse has access to apples? I know there is a limit. I am already giving each horse about six apples a day, a couple at a time, slicing them up so that the smaller fruit doesn’t get caught in the esophagus. I just hope Little Rose Chapel will protect these apples, keep them cool and safe. If not and they rot, I might take it personally, as if I were the fallen apple with a bad blemish. Please forgive me for being such a greedy gatherer. But maybe it’s not so terrible to hoard such bounty when it’s not for me but for my hungry horses.
Rocket in Motion
Swarm
Barranca and Rocket are both saddled up, waiting in their stalls when my cousin Helen arrives from Colrain where she has a summer house. I am happy to go out in the late afternoon as the heat of the day is diminishing, and it is lovely riding through the forest into the golden late light. Rocket keeps breaking into a trot to keep up with Barranca but, Helen agrees, he has a wonderful canter.
Helen and I have been riding companions for as long as I can remember. Growing up together on Oconomowoc Lake, one year apart, we were like sisters. Sometimes, competition would flare up between us, and we would have a knockdown, drag-out fight over something as stupid as a plastic pad of fake butter, but for the most part we were daily companions.
Firstborn daughters, we both had difficult mothers, though Helen’s mom fit in, for she was the daughter of my grandfather’s roommate at Princeton and his best friend—Dr. Wilder Penfield, a renowned brain surgeon, while my mother’s father, Mordecai Giffin Sheftall, worked on the railroad in the Deep South.
Aunt Priscilla was highly organized and had charts for chores that had to be completed before Helen could come out and play. Sometimes, wanting my cousin to be set free so we could head to the barn, I would come up into their loft apartment and help her sweep. Aunt Priscilla told me that if I couldn’t do a job happily and nicely, it was best not to do it at all.
At other times, I was left waiting on the lawn while Helen had her enforced reading time after lunch. I had little interest in books at that age—there was far too much to do. I couldn’t help her read, so I just had to wait, and then wait some more— then off we’d go to the family farm where we’d visit the old head gardener, Krietz. He was going blind, so we’d sneak one of his Chesterfield cigarettes while he was offering us butterscotch, the one kind of candy I didn’t like.
Aunt Priscilla was hard on Helen, just as my mother was on me, but perhaps for different reasons. Helen’s younger sister, Caroline, appeared to be the favorite—she was quite beautiful and did everything perfectly, while Helen and I were considered the black sheep of the family. I was amazed that Helen would dare steal a silver dollar from her mother’s wallet. She got kicked out of school for smoking, and developed a reputation with a few “townie” guys. Helen was brazen enough to bring marijuana seeds back from Kenya on one of our family trips. She put the contraband in her camera case and planted the seeds in our grandmother’s garden. One of Gramma’s Garden Club ladies identified the plants. When Lyle Downs, the new gardener, was informed, he said he thought they were some sort of tomato plant (though he knew perfectly well what they were).
Even though Helen was one year younger, she was always more daring. She liked to initiate games of strip poker, which horrified me with my undeveloped body. But she was always comfortable in her skin. I didn’t even like anyone watching me brush my teeth.
There aren’t many people with whom you can share your whole childhood history, who have witnessed the upsets and family gatherings over the years. Together we shared our passion for horses. Our memory banks were full of similar information, including the songs that Gramma taught us, sung in rounds—“Make new friends, but keep the old, new are silver but the old are gold.”
In the middle of the night we have a thunderstorm, but the morning is bright, windy, and clear. I am riding Peanut today, and Helen is riding Rocket. We unload on Baldwin Hill and pass through numerous fields, one yielding to the next. This hilltop land is so expansive and well-maintained. Mature trees stand between each section, serving as windbreaks in the winter.
“There’s something nice about farmland up high on a hill, isn’t there? You feel as if you’re closer to the sky,” Helen says. We spot a flock of Canada geese as we take a little path to the side where burrs stick to my pants and Peanut’s blanket. I busy myself, plucking them off. Autumn is surely coming— as burrs stick and birds migrate.
Moving along the path, Peanut suddenly leans down, aggravated, and then seems frantic. Helen yells out, “Bees!” I turn and see Rocket dancing up and down as the bees swarm up all around us. I try to maneuver Peanut away from the path, out into the field, turning to see that Rocket is bucking and rearing. Helen doesn’t know what to do. I jump down and yell at her, “Get Off!”
“I don’t think I can!” she screams.
Rocket is going up on his rear legs, trying to get away. I rush over and grab his reins and tell her to bail—she does, hitting the ground with an audible thud. Then, I dash both horses out into the field. Helen comes after, huffing and puffing. I take off my flannel shirt and swing it around my head to discourage the last few lingering bees.
We lead the horses further away and wait to catch our breath before attempting to mount again. I decide to ride Rocket now, in case he is too worked up. The bees have disappeared and we are safe. Neither Helen nor I got stung, and Bali managed to stay away from the swarm altogether, unfazed by the attack.
Calm before the Storm
Round Pond
Perhaps because of the solemnity of the day, September eleventh, the air seems particularly still, as blue and clear as it was nine years ago when the world was left in shock by the attacks on the World Trade Center.
I saddle up Barranca and decide to take him out alone, heading along the top of the ridge, planning to take a new path down toward Round Pond. Riding through the sarsaparillas, a tunnel of grey opens to a chartreuse splash at the end.
Soon, the new path disappears into unmarked woodland, but we continue bushwhacking along. No one has been down here in a long time, and there are lots of branches to break. We reach a treacherous slide of rocks, but with a little urging, Barranca makes it over. I keep expecting to spot a glimpse of the pond, but all I see is palomino-colored bracken, the magnificent forest dressed up in green and gold.
Finally, I spot a bit of blue through the leaves and know we are almost there. I feel a definite thrill, riding this new trail for the first time. I’m inside the moment, and Barranca is all fired up. When we hit the dirt road at water level, we canter to the end of the lake where there is a manmade dam. Standing there, looking out over the pond, I hear someone shooting a gun, target practice, getting ready for hunting season, no doubt, and it is disturbing. Guns, ammunition, explosions, crashes, towers collapsing—why is there so much destruction when peace can surround us?
By the time I get home, Barranca is covered with pine needles. As my feet hit the solid earth, I feel grounded, as if I have somehow absorbed my horse’s sure-footedness and a powerful surge of energy moves through me, passing into my core.
Cape Cod
Riding by the Sea
Saltwater Farm in Chatham, Massachusetts, is a funky little stable, but the horses are all in good shape. I will be riding a chestnut mare named Roxy. Vicci and her boyfriend load up all three horses, and we follow them over to the seashore.
It is a windy morning and quite a bit cooler, but the sun is shining and the horses are familiar with the sand and the sea. Today is the first legal day for riding on the beach so I lucked out. We take a trail on the land side of the dunes to warm the horses up and Roxy seems quite manageable.
Reaching the lighthouse at the end of the trail, we head over to the beach where Vicci tells me, “When the tide is out, you can ride all the way out on the sandbar to that buoy.” But the tide is not radically in or out, just somewhere in between. She walks her horse into the lapping shallow
s, and I follow. The horses seem to enjoy the cooling effect of the water. Then, we ride back onto the hard-packed sand, and Vicci suggests a canter. I’m game. They say how Roxy has a nice, slow, plodding canter, but once we take off, it is more like a racing gallop. Not familiar with this horse, I’m a bit apprehensive—I don’t know if she might shy or buck, but I lean forward, standing up slightly in my stirrups as she races the others. Finally, I rein her in, exhilarated to be riding by the sea.
Dunes
For the next stretch, I suggest that I go ahead so that it doesn’t turn into a contest of speed. At a slower pace, this mare is much more comfortable. I feel relaxed and confident now, but then we see a windsurfer up ahead. I am astounded when he leaps off a wave and soars into the air at least ten-feet high. The handheld sail is moving him along at about thirty miles per hour, and as we head back to our destination, it looks like he is shooting right at us—maybe he’s thinking of coming into shore. We wave to alert him and steer the horses back towards the dunes. Isn’t he looking? Or maybe he doesn’t care about spooking three large horses. He continues to fly in our direction, and the horses are skittish, as well they should be! But then, he leaps into the air again and swings off in another direction.
Daphne and Kevin
Columbus Day Weekend
My niece, Daphne, and her fiancé, Kevin Crowe, arrive on Saturday morning with their Springer Spaniel, Sawyer—a beautiful puppy with perfect, symmetrical markings on his face. Bali and Cello are eager to play with him, and he is ecstatic to have free run, splashing in the rock garden pool, exploring the horse pasture. In fact, he is quite entranced by the horses, as if he thinks they are enormous dogs.
After lunch, we put Sawyer in his crate and saddle up the horses. Daphne is a great rider. I know she can handle Rocket’s little quirks, and Kevin surprises us by being very competent. I take them down to Long Pond to see the autumnal splendor reflected in the water, and then up we go to the top of the ridge, cantering through the pine forest. Daphne’s long golden hair is held back in a ponytail, and she is relaxed in the saddle even though Rocket has already given a couple of bucks.
The next morning, Daphne and I ride alone together. She is happy to have Barranca today. I work with Peanut, who seems to have lost his natural four-beat gait—partly a problem of having so many different riders over the course of the summer. The euonymus is just beginning to turn a pale pink color, but soon the low-growing bushes will dazzle these woods with candy-apple red.
Daphne is a reserved young woman with amazing intellect, happily in love with her fiancé, Kevin. She tells me that she knew she would marry him when he sat with Grandma on the porch one afternoon, reading Life’s Little Instruction Book out loud to her, with Grandma commenting all along the way. “I thought, if he’s patient enough for that activity, he’ll be able to put up with me.”
Daphne is also a “family planner.” I have told her how that can be a thankless task. Still, we seem to persist in being the Little Red Hens with a bunch of Chicken Littles around us.
Always one of Grandma’s favorites, I know Daphne had a very different experience of my mother than I did. When Mom was descending into Alzheimer’s, she called Grandma every day to check on her.
“You know growing up,” Daphne admitted, “I hated anything that was a salad sandwich…chicken salad, tuna salad, ham salad, egg salad…but those were Grandma’s favorites, so I would DESPERATELY try to avoid having lunch with her out at the lake. Eventually, I learned to negotiate for a hot dog before accepting an invitation.”
Daphne recalled how much Grandma loved to lie out on her plastic white and yellow chaise in the garden of Broadoaks, hiking up her housedress to tan her legs, how she would swim every afternoon along the lakeshore in her rubber cap and old-fashioned suit, then rest on the raft or dock. “And boy did she love those Kiltie milkshakes!”
“And chocolate,” I added. “She was crazy for chocolate.”
At one of our big Thanksgivings dinners in Patagonia, she hoarded all the chocolates that were being passed out by our Swiss friends—guarding them in her lap like a small child before gobbling them up.
“I remember Grandma always doing her nails,” Daphne said. At the end of her life it became an obsession. “And her buzzing around in that golf cart. She really loved that golf cart.”
One week when Grandma was in town, the grandchildren found the hidden key in a dresser drawer and took the golf cart for a spin. They ended up crashing it into a tree, denting the fender. Though they had the damage repaired, Grandma knew there was something different. “This cart doesn’t drive like it used to.”
Daphne used to work in Grandma’s garden every afternoon, picking fresh vegetables with her for dinner. “One day, Abigail and I decided to be industrious, and we had a vegetable stand out by Sawyer Road.” All went well until Grandma returned and saw them hawking her produce by the side of the road without having asked permission!
But Daphne’s favorite part of the summer week was Sunday evening, sitting with Grandma and Popi out on the porch, while they watched 60 Minutes, their favorite show. They would each enjoy a glass of white wine and Daphne would create a cheese plate for everyone to enjoy. “I felt so loved and supported by both of them,” she said wistfully.
I think of how lucky we were to have a summer place that had been in the family for generations. Now my cousins were putting together a scrapbook of all the horses from the family farm, with photographs dating back to our grandparents day: Stories of the mischievous Bunko; Busytown with his rocking horse canter; Eagle, the horse Gramma bought for me, shipping him all the way home from Montana; Sharif, my grandfather’s prize-winning jumper; the ponies—Lady and Texas; and who could forget that chestnut, Frisky, the nasty mare who would pin her ears back and chase us across the pasture.
“Do you remember how Grandma used to wear those wonderful Mexican house dresses all around the house during the summer? Now my Mom is wearing those exact same dresses around Broadoaks!”
Daphne’s parents purchased the family home from Cia and me, and they have done extensive renovations. Daphne pitched in every weekend she was there, doing endless chores without complaint.
There were stories that the house was haunted—Daphne and her cousin had seen an apparition moving through the dining room, and others had heard furniture shoved around at night. Years ago, my sister had experienced disturbing spirits in her third floor bedroom, and it had been pivotal in her conversion to Christianity. You couldn’t pay me to sleep alone in that house, but the ghost never bothered my mother.
Daphne recalled Grandma’s visits to their ranch in Montana and how she loved nothing more than to go float-boating down the Madison River. “I’m not sure if she did any fishing, but she loved floating downriver, taking in the beautiful scenery.”
During Daphne’s last visit to see Grandma in Arizona, she was swimming in the pool while Grandma sat out on the deck watching her. “When I climbed out of the pool, Grandma commented, ‘You have very nice legs…just so you know…you got those from me!’” We had to laugh over that one.
“I remember when Grandma called me one evening to tell me that she had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s,” Daphne recalled, not laughing now, serious, sad. I could tell that she missed her Grandma. “I was living in New York at the time and had just gotten home from work. She was so upset, crying on the phone. She said that she wanted to be the one to let me know. She told me that she loved me, and she wanted to be sure to tell me how much she loved me before she might not remember anymore.
“But mainly I remember how happy Grandma and Popi were most of the time, especially when they were just by themselves. They were always holding hands, or he’d have his arm around her shoulder. On my visits to Arizona I would find them lying in bed together, holding hands, talking and laughing. I think they really loved each other.”
In the Paddock
Euonymus Woods
There are only a couple of more weeks before Peanut is
shipped out West. I hope the transition is not too hard on him. At least he won’t have to suffer a cold Berkshire winter with his thin skin. But now I am beginning to wonder why I have not heard from the horse transport people.
I go online and am horrified when I discover a string of testaments from people who claim Cornerstone Equine Transport ripped them off, scam artists! I have already sent off a certified check for over $600, half-payment, but now when I try to find the Cornerstone website, it no longer exists. I try calling their toll-free number and leave messages on all four bogus extensions, wondering if anyone will ever get back to me.
After a frantic morning of phone calls, trying to arrange for another driver, I am beside myself, scattered and distracted, trying to get ready for my upcoming trip to India. Putting one’s faith and trust in some unknown hauler is a big deal when it comes to the health and safety of a precious animal. I feel vulnerable, ripped off, but mostly angry at myself for being so careless—why did I not get references? What I really need right now is a good, long ride to regain my equilibrium.
Barranca seems slowed by his thickening coat, but he is still my willing boy. As we ride into the euonymus woods, the whole lower portion of the forest is now painted a bright pink-red that spreads over the woodland floor like a luxurious comforter.
What Did I Do?
Bliss on Barranca
Indian summer must be the most beautiful time of year— delightful to have this humid warmth with the rust and burnt-gold leaves still waving. Everything is so perfect on this seventy-degree day it makes me want to stall time and stay right here, suspended.
Riding Barranca Page 14