Summer Lovin'

I arrived home yesterday after a great riding lesson caked in a sticky film of dust and sweat with a ball of frizzy hair piled on my head and I couldn't have been happier.  There's something about this summer that is just so perfect and satisfying that I never want it to end.  I would liken it to that delicious moment when you sink your teeth into a ripe peach.



Holding the plump orb of a summer peach in your hand, its soft warm skin kissed with the red, yellow and orange blaze of the sun,  you pierce the delicate fruit and release succulent nectar which drizzles to your chin in golden rivulets of syrupy splendor.  My summer has been a lot like that simple but fulfilling pleasure.

This year, I decided not to overbook the kids with activities or other obligations and, with the exception of one week of writer's camp for my daughter, we have spent hours of quality time together.  We're nearing the end of July and I've only heard the dreaded "I'm bored" three times (yes, I'm keeping track).  Instead, the three of us have been playing, enjoying the local pool and getting together with good friends.  At the end of the day, we fall into bed exhausted but looking forward to what adventure the next day has in store for us.

We've also discovered three very nice girls who like to babysit.  What a lucky strike!  Not only will the girls babysit while I go for a ride, but my husband and I have actually been able to enjoy a kid-free meal or two at some of our favorite local restaurants.

Did I mention riding?  Oh, yes, the riding.  Romero, formerly known as Wassachusetts, has been an absolute dream these past few weeks.  One of the finest moments of this summer was the successful trail ride this past Monday.   In fairness to my horse, I've only taken him on a true trail ride - walking the turn out fields after a lesson hardly counts - a handful of times and that was last summer.   With the support of three other women riders and their trail steady horses, Wassachusetts and I rode through the woods, under low branches and into a large open field without incident.  I focused on supporting him with my lower leg while letting the reins hang loose, which, trust me, took some doing on my part since it felt completely and utterly counter-intuitive.

As we made our way through the wooded trails,  I noticed just how reactive my horse was to my body language.  When I got anxious, he would start to arch his neck and jig, but as soon as I relaxed my lower back and hips, the tension in his muscles would almost automatically dissipate.  I also noticed that if I took any hold at all on his mouth or face, he would get nervous and stop focusing on having a rider on his back, but putting a loop in the reins and hugged his sides with my lower leg, made him a happy trail horse again.

When we got back to the barn, I was absolutely ecstatic.  I have no poker face - nor do I try to have one - especially when it comes to riding.  I was beaming that sunny July afternoon, gratefully indulging in one of those delightful, ripe peach moments.

Crazy Cool

It was long overdue, but Wassachusetts finally has a new (and enormously improved) horse show name. For those of you not familiar with this bizarre naming ritual, take note: Horse people are an odd sort when it comes to choosing a name for their mounts, and when it came to dubbing Wassachusetts with his own fancy-schmancy show name, well, honestly, I had an easier time naming my children.

Initially, I was happy to keep the name Wassachusetts.  The name was so strange and awkward that it gave me a little giggle every time someone was forced to say it.  At our second horse show, the announcer stumbled over the name like she had a mouthful of marbles; it seriously lightened my mood and alleviated my bad case of nerves as I entered the show ring.

What I hated was that each time Wassachusetts was muttered either at a show or in casual conversation at the barn, I found that I was the only one who got a kick out of my horse's eccentric appellation.

For months, I played the name game with friends.  We tried names with literary or personal meaning and even tried to find witty or funny names, but nothing seemed to stand out.  Finally, I gave thought to Wassachuett's personality.  There is no doubt that he is a very masculine horse with his own independent thoughts about how things should be done.  I coupled this seed of thought with my personal preference to find him a name buried in some great work of literature.  Then it occurred to me. Whose writing would best represent my manly horse?  Why, Ernest Hemingway, of course.

Ernest Hemingway

It didn't take long for a name to come bubbling up from Papa's great body of work.  I'd finally found a name worthy of my fantastic beast.  From here on out, he would be known in the show ring as Romero.  Now, if you happen to be a little disappointed in my choice, hold your horses - pun intended - before forming a final opinion.

In "The Sun Also Rises," Hemingway introduces the reader to a young bullfighter named Pedro Romero.  He is confident, dignified and unwavering in his dedication to the art of bullfighting, just as I like to think that my newly dubbed, four-legged Romero will be committed to his job as a hunter-jumper.  Oh yes, and two other attributes that my Romero and Hemingway's hero share:  They are both strong- willed and handsome.

Curious to know more about Hemingway's character, I lost myself in a trail of Googled information on the novel, bullfighting and even stumbled across a short bio and picture of a famous matador named Pedro Romero from Ronda, Spain.

Pedro Romero
1754-1839

The bullfighter's swoony, debonaire gaze captured by the painter is how I would picture Hemingway's hero and, in turn, is the human face I might put to Romero-the-Horse.

So, good-bye Wassachusetts and hello Romero.  Ole!

Hot Damn

Just as I was nearly convinced that Wassachusetts and I were destined to part ways,  things started to come back together again.  After a ride or two with my trainer's daughter, Wassachusetts started to become more confident in his approach to jumping and I started to dig deep and have more faith in my abilities as a rider - a GOOD rider - and began to trust Wassachusetts again.

On Sunday, we hopped a ride with a fellow boarder and headed to our first show since the spring.  Maybe it was the our renewed relationship with one another or maybe it was the ungodly heat and humidity, but neither Wassachusetts nor I were in the least bit nervous when we got to the show grounds.  I'm the first to admit that I am an anxious, high-strung type of person and Wassachusetts is...well, a young, sometimes feisty, off the track thoroughbred.  'Nuff said.

But this time around, you would have thought we were a seasoned horse show team.  The loud speaker, slamming Port-O-Potty doors and general horse show hubbub never phased us a bit.  My pulse stayed steady as we waited on deck to enter the ring and my heart didn't race when we approached our first fence.

After our first over fences class, the 90 plus degree weather got to me.  Bundled up in tall leather boots, a long-sleeved shirt that buttons at the neck, a show jacked and breeches made my body sweat like a 500 pound fat man in a sauna.  We sought shelter under some scraggly trees, but it was too late.  Sweat dripped from the tip of my nose and drizzled down my back.  Then, I started to get dizzy.

"Oh, great," I thought to myself.  "I'll be 'that girl who passed out at the horse show.' "  And who wants to be her?  Not me!

I took my helmet off to seek some relief and, in typical fashion, fellow boarders helped by carrying cold cups of water to those of us who were showing and holding horses or jackets in an effort to help us keep cool.  The horses were offered a bucked of water, which they gratefully slurped from to satiate their own thirst.  After what seemed like an eternity, each of us filtered back to the main ring to finish our second over fences class and then, at long last, completed the division with the under saddle class.

Wassachusetts was soft in the bridle and responsive to my aids in his over fences classes and wonderful in the hack. We left that day with a pink and a white ribbon (a very nice color combination, according to my excited 7-year old daughter, who promptly squirreled her prizes away).  Better than any prize was the feeling that Wassachusetts and I have conquered a difficult period in our training together and had a better than satisfactory day at a very hot horse show.

The Chapter That Almost Wasn't

After what seems like forever, I decided to write a new blog entry.  I haven't been remiss in my updates because of my busy schedule or for lack of material.  Instead, I've been hesitating over my keyboard trying to decide how to narrow down the long list of topics swirling around in my head, and the one topic I keep coming back to would be the final chapter for this particular blog.

My sweet, smart and sometimes overly-opinionated Wassachusetts was giving me more training issues than I'd bargained for when I initially settled my mind on buying a young, green thoroughbred with a racing history.  Over the past two and a half years, I've run out of patience with the high-intensity rides and his explosive tendencies.  I've lost my courage and have a hard time trying to reestablish my trust in him.  Anyone who knows horses, knows that this is a lethal combination that can potentially ruin both horse and rider.

During one recent lesson, my wise-and-all-knowing trainer instructed me to push Wassachusetts forward and into the bridle, therefore preventing his ability to bolt or carry-on like a semi-wild orangutan, but as I laid my leg on his side and felt him tighten his back muscles and surge forward, I decided I'd had it with this horse.  I pulled him up and announced that I was not going to be run away with today.  No way, no how!

I was more frustrated and angry with myself than with the horse.  Quite frankly, I was downright pissed at myself for not having the stones to ride through his tantrums and nonsense.  Wasn't I a better rider than that?  Apparently not.

By the end of the day, I convinced myself of a lot of things like: I need a smaller horse since my 5'3" frame seems lost and overwhelmed on a 16.2-hand horse; I need a quieter horse that would be less of a challenge; I need to sell this horse. It was this last thought that really stuck.

I filled my trainer's daughter in on my concerns and had her agree to do a few training rides on Wassachusetts.  Much to my ego's relief, she agreed that he was not a particularly easy horse to ride.  This sentiment was echoed by my trainer that not everyone could ride my sometimes fiery beast and that, in short, she had every confidence that I possessed the necessary skills to manage his training highs and lows.  While I still have my doubts, I caved on my decision to sell and - literally- got back on the horse.

It's hard to tell what will happen over the next few months, but thanks to the 90 degree heat and humidity, Wassachusetts has been that quiet, responsive horse I was pining for.  Will he stay this way?  Of course not.  But I can't help but wonder, if I slog through these tough times, will I have that nice, well-trained, quiet horse in a few years?  I guess I'll just have to take it one chapter at a time.

He's A Hot Mess

Have I mentioned that Wassachusetts was once employed as a race horse?  His less than illustrious career began and ended at Suffolk Downs in Massachusetts.  With 8 starts, which included 1 win, 1 place and 1 lousy show to his credit, Wassachusetts retired in 2007 with earnings teetering on $10,000.  And while he may not have been fast enough to make it on the race track, he's more than fast enough for me.

Wassachusetts

As recently as last week, Wassachusetts reverted back to some of his old ways, but I can hardly blame him.  With the introduction of the beautiful spring weather and riding outdoors, Wassachusetts is nearly beside himself with joy and, quite frankly, a little anxiety.  There's nothing like trying to ride a fresh, young thoroughbred in a big outdoor arena on a cool and slightly windy spring day.  Boy, it seems like there have been a lot of those days lately.

After two episodes of being run away with - which, by the way, simultaneously invokes feelings of terror and exhilaration - my trainer suggested that her daughter do a training ride on my wild pony.   Now, my trainer's daughter is not only a gifted rider, but she also loves the challenge of a hot horse and more often than not, can pin point issues and either fix the problem or give the animal's rider insight into how to approach  and ride through various issues.  I also love the fact that she's empathetic to the rider's concerns and reactions to certain behaviors exhibited by their horses or ponies.  Case in point, I absolutely do not have one ounce of appreciation for Wassachusett's running off with me like a naughty pony taking advantage of a small child.  

A day or two later, I sat with my trainer's daughter to discuss her findings and recommendations.  Apparently, Wassachusetts took it upon himself to bolt during their ride leaving me feeling a slightly relieved because I no longer felt it was something I was or wasn't doing to insight his bad behavior and frustrated because here we were revisiting a vice that I was certain he had outgrown.

So, like any other problem or tribulation in life, you just have to push through it, and, in this case, I mean it quite literally.  When Wassachusetts digs in and takes flight, I need to fight my natural urge to clutch on the reins, trying to muscle him into stopping and opt, instead, to urge him forward with the hope that it will eventually click in his brain that this is not a fun exercise for him, rather it's exhausting and ultimately unsatisfying because sprinting off doesn't allow him to be in control of what we're doing.

Hopefully, Wassachusetts and I will remain patient with one another and quickly nix this bolting issue because it sure would be nice to start horse showing again sometime soon!

Dang it!

For weeks and months on end, Wassachusetts has been a superstar.  Everything from his ground manners to his ability under saddle have improved tenfold since I bought him in October of 2009.  I haven't been run away with for at least nine months and it's a rare occasion that my lovely pony decides to crow hop or throw a buck after a fence.  In my mind, Wassachusetts had made great strides and  had become a horse of a different color.  Maybe, just maybe, he had outgrown the title of Green Horse.

Alas, that all changed during our lesson yesterday morning.  Our flat work was fine, but when the jumping portion of our session started...well, let's just say, Wassachusetts had a fine case of Spring Fever.

His head went up like a periscope and he felt like a live wire under the saddle with a lump in his back that would rival any camel's hump.  It was bad news.   Here's a little visual of what it felt like to me:

After whispering a long list of four-lettered sweet nothings into my darling horse's ear, I apologized to my trainer for letting her down and massaged my aching pride.  Not to be completely undone by our performance, Wassachusetts and I will try again today with a lesson at 4pm.  Here's hoping for less drama and better results!

One Last Gift

I won't lie. It's been a long, dark, cold winter that has left me feeling down.  I find that the older I get, the more I need the light and warmth of that bright, fiery star in our sky.  Without the sun, I sink into a funk so deep and thick that after a few weeks, I skulk away from the living to mope around, drink a lot of red wine and hibernate until the winter thaw.

At the barn, it's all about layering for people and horses.  My standard dress is long underwear, fleece breeches, two cotton shirts, a wool sweater and my Horseware down jacket. Wassachusetts opts for his heavy Rambo blanket and on really cold days, a sheet under the blanket.  But even then, sometimes it's not enough.  A gray sky and biting wind isn't conducive to enjoying the outdoor experience and there was more than one day when Wassachusetts and I just gave up and didn't bother working too hard in the freezing cold indoor arena.

Beyond the barn, there were other factors contributing to my serious case of the winter doledrums.  Generally speaking, I live in a decent, upper middle to upper class area of the world.  I have a nice home and a comfortable lifestyle in a suburban residential area where the schools are good and a few conscientious people have had the common sense to preserve huge tracts of rolling landscape for those of us with a propensity for open spaces to enjoy for generations to come.

But while the landscape is breathtaking, I found myself feeling suffocated and trapped by my surroundings.  As I've mentioned, my children are very young and the shuttling between schools and activities narrowed my world to a 10 mile radius where I saw the same people and practiced the same routine day after day, month after month.

Then there are the pustulent pockets of queen bees and wannabes who slither around gossiping and criticizing everything from the hem of your jean to the shade of your lipgloss (as if a busy mom has time to slather lipgloss on her face just to go to the grocery store!).   Thankfully, I have a small group of intelligent, funny and balanced friends who help me muddle through some of the more trying times but, like me, they have small children and busy lives which leaves us very little time to spend together.

A few weeks ago, the father of one of my husband's childhood friends passed away.  My husband and I arranged for childcare and - after picking another of my husband's high school friends up from the local train station - made the seven and a half hour drive to the funeral in West Virginia.

I noticed that the further we got from the Pennsylvania boarder, the clearer my thoughts became and the more I felt like myself again.  I surrounded myself in the backseat with a stack of The New Yorker magazines that I never seem to be able to get to during the week and carried on conversations that ranged from parenting, music and books to career choices and current events.

The next morning, we arrived at the church to mourn with and lend comfort to a tight knit family of special people who had lost their father, a quiet, educated man who was a respected doctor and surgeon.  Friends and family spoke with love and gentle revery of this remarkable man who dedicated himself to  family and country, to healing people, to feeding an insatiable desire for knowledge and to sharing that knowledge in a egoless way with whomever seemed interested.

It was a day filled with tears, friendship, love and wonderful storytelling, of grandmothers recounting their days of attending formal dances in one breath and revealing wild days of piloting small airplanes over the great plains in the next breath.  Old friends clustered together recalling the lost secrets of young adulthood when they smoked pot, went on first dates, drove dangerously and took their first tentative swigs of alcohol.  The reception room, filled with artists, war veterans, doctors, lawyers, educators, and travelers, vibrated with life and powerful, positive energy.  It was as if someone had opened a window and let a blast of fresh air and light into my existence.

Returning home early the next morning, I felt at peace and was grateful for the little bit of distance and enormous amount of perspective I gained from having 48 hours away from the stagnant clutter of my life.  I've vowed to cut the crap and scale back on my intake of negative thoughts and to fill my life with people who care about more than the color of someone's eye make up or who got caught wearing sweatpants in public.  I'm once again inspired to be creative and adventure seeking, even if that adventure takes place in my own backyard.

Of Love and Letting Go

Before there was Wassachusetts there was Isaac.

I bought Isaac in the spring of 2001 as a three, just coming four, -year old.   I remember when the barn owner first brought him to the farm that winter as a prospective trail horse for her husband.  My first impression was: "Wow, that is one heck of an ugly horse!"

He was the equine version of Baby Hughie with a head far too tiny in proportion to his barrel-bellied body.  When he trotted across the field, you almost wanted to avert your eyes because he looked so awkward, and his front legs paddled so much that they took on the appearance of hoofed egg-beaters.

His canter wasn't much better; in fact, it looked even worse.  It was a series of gyrations that somehow managed to propel his mismatched body in a forward, and slightly sideways, direction.  But he seemed like a nice enough guy who would probably do beautifully as a husband horse.

From the start, Isaac proved himself to be a willing mount.  The day he was broke, the barn owner saddled him and laid across his back to help him adjust to the feeling of a rider's weight.  He stood patiently waiting for what might come next.  The woman, sensing his ease with the situation, gave it a whirl and sat upright in the saddle; then, basically moseyed calmly down the driveway.  Periodically, the barn owner would relate glowing reports of how nicely he was progressing under saddle both in the ring and over small jumps.  I even passed the woman with her husband aboard Isaac out on a trail ride one afternoon.

Meanwhile, I was coming to the end of my lease on a lovely little mare named Laroo and looking to purchase a horse of my own.  I was not, however, in the least bit interested in Isaac and never even considered him until that fated day when the barn owner asked if I wanted to try him, indicating that she would not pressure me to buy him or hold a grudge if I decided he wasn't the horse for me.

Isaac

From the first ride, I felt a connection with that horse.  He wasn't an easy horse to ride by any means, but there was something about him that made him special and worth the extra effort.  In the early years, he liked to crow-hop after popping himself over a fence, tossing me out of the saddle more times than I care to remember, and the hula-hooping motion of his canter caused me unspeakable back pain.  Not to mention, Isaac is, without a doubt, the spookiest horse I have ever encountered.  I remember riding him in a lesson one late afternoon and as the sun came up behind us, Isaac startled and then sidestepped his own shadow.  Even my then trainer could only shake his head and laugh.

But for all of his faults and shortcomings, that horse has an indescribable kindness about him.  He knows all of my secrets, all of my joys and all of my pains.  He was that understanding friend who on the worst of the worst days, I could seek out, bury my face in his neck and have a good cry.

He grew out of his ugly duckling phase and blossomed into a handsome horse who learned quickly and loved to jump.  We horse showed and won ribbons; we horse showed and didn't win ribbons.  But it never mattered because through thick and thin we had each other.

About a year and a half ago, Isaac started to struggle.  His joints seemed stiff and he had trouble navigating over jumps.  During our lessons, he started to crash through or stop at fences - something he'd never done before.

At about the time it was suggested that Isaac was not going to be the horse to help me reach my horse showing goals, a friend of mine expressed interest in him and, after careful consideration on my part, we reached an agreement and off he went to live with his new family.  But even though I visited and managed to ride him a few times, I was left heartbroken and feeling like I'd made a terrible mistake.

The sting of losing my friend dissipated over time and with my focus fixed on Wassachusetts, I finally felt at peace with the decision to re-home Isaac.  Then, last month, my friend emailed me to explain that, due to some life changes, she needed to let Isaac go.  I immediately offered to take him back and set to work finding him a home.

Through the course of talking to friends and friends of friends, I found a nearly ideal situation on a private estate where I could keep Isaac, put him back to work and eventually lease him to someone.  A good friend of mine offered to trailer him to his new - and I need to stress temporary - home.  I say temporary because there is no possible way I can support and maintain two horses.   The majority of my time and effort goes to raising my kids and being with my family with any "me" time going towards working with Wassachusetts.  End of story.  But here's where it gets sticky.

I spent a little time in the field with Isaac today.  When I came to the fence, he walked down to greet me. He licked my jacket, just like he'd done for the past decade, and nuzzled my face.  We talked for a bit and he lowered his eye to within a few inches of mine.  Then he turned and walked a few feet away before lowering his head to graze, but his gaze never left mine.  All of the stress I'd been feeling about taking on a second horse lifted, leaving me space to appreciate and savor this brief and somewhat bittersweet reunion with my old friend.  After all was said and done, I realized that this is no second horse.  This is my friend, my companion, my Isaac.

It's not about the ribbons...or is it?

After much primping and preening, Wassachusetts and I made our 2011 horse show debut.  Granted, it was a local show with very few horses and riders in attendance, but we were undaunted and arrived ready to put in our best effort.

The day was chilly with a brisk wind blowing over the horse show grounds, which made my mind start to convulse with the thought that Wassachusetts might be overly excited and a bit of a handful.  Coming off the trailer, he looked more like a race horse than a hunter-jumper destined for the show ring.  With nostrils flared and ears pricked forward, he pranced down the trailer ramp to survey the area with shining, alert eyes.  Even though he didn't look like a seasoned show horse, I was captured for just a few moments by his striking beauty.

As we approached the outdoor schooling ring, my nerves start to tingle and anxiety levels rose.  Would he be ridable or would we embarrass ourselves with antics?  That's one more tricky thing about working with a green horse:  You never know what you're going to get.  In a text earlier that day, my trainer assured me that he would be fine, and, in typical fashion, she was right.

I got a leg up from a friend and off we went to warm up.  Wassachusetts was calm and relaxed as if he were a tried and true veteran of the horse show scene.  Next, we headed to the indoor where the show was taking place and I swear he had a swagger to his walk.  He was owning the day.

I started to unclench my tightened muscles and took a few deep breaths, but it was entering that indoor that cinched it for me.  Inside the building were my trainer and a handful of the best boarders and riders that I could ever hope to share a barn with.

No kidding.  The riders at my barn and their families are some of the finest people I have had the fortune to meet in life, let alone in the horse world.  While they are serious about their riding and are very competitive in the show ring, they're also the ones dusting your boots, shining your horse's feet and cheering for you on the rail.  No one could ask for a better support system.

Perhaps the icing on my horse show cake that day was that a very good friend of mine, who also happens to ride, showed up to offer her support and an extra hand when I needed one.  She held Wassachusetts while I learned my courses, adjusted tack throughout the day and kept my mind clear of nerves and focused on my riding.

It was a long day with two divisions and a total of 7 classes.  By the time we entered the ring for our fourth class over fences, my legs felt like pudding and Wassachusetts was all out of giddy-up-and-go.  We were whooped.

Yes, whooped but so satisfied with the day that I could have - if I'd had a shred of energy left - crowed from the rafters.  Wassachusetts and I managed to put in a respectable day.  Were we perfect?  No.  There was plenty of rider error and the marks of an inexperienced, young horse all over the day.  Regardless, we'd managed to get a ribbon in every class, including a fancy reserve champion ribbon in our second division.

But it's not about the ribbons...that is, unless you're one of my kids.

It was nearly their bedtime when I stumbled home ready for something to eat and a nice glass of red wine.  There was plenty of fanfare when I walked through the door as we smothered one another in hugs and kisses; then came the big question.

"What did you bring us?"  they both cried out while ogling the blue Nike bag I carry to horse shows.

I gave them the go-ahead and with a gush of sheer joy, they unzipped the bag and dug around for the ribbons.  Streaks of colored satin whipped around the room.  My son danced around the kitchen holding a blue ribbon in one hand while clipping a sunshiny-yellow ribbon to the front of his shirt.  My daughter, after careful consideration, opted for a pink and white combination to add to her collection of baubles and potential crafting supplies.

Within 24 hours, the rest of the ribbons were spirited away.  No doubt they'll surface again to be cut and pasted to colored construction paper or maybe used as a prop during some game or creative playtime.

So, do the ribbons matter?  Yes.  Yes, they do.

All Dressed Up

There is nothing that pleases me more than a shedding horse.  Yes, it's a nuisance to be covered in horse hair, hair that seems to penetrate all forms of clothing and makes even your tongue feel a little fuzzy by the end of a good grooming.  I'm thankful that my horse is a bay and not some lighter color.  It makes the horse hair less obvious when it coats the inside of your car.  But the reason a shedding horse makes me absolutely giddy is because its a sure sign that spring, with its promises of renewal, rebirth and warmer temperatures, is just around the corner.

Who needs Puxatony Phil when you have a horse?  Wassachusetts started to slough his winter coat sometime at the end of February, which was, in my mind, a sure sign that spring was coming early this year.  Currying with feverish abandon, I willed spring to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of a desolate winter, rationalizing that the more hair I could coax off of his body, the sooner the sun would start to shine, flowers bloom and temperatures to rise.

During our lesson last week, my phenomenal trainer instructed me to have Wassachusetts's legs clipped to get rid of his "Clydesdale" look.  It was true.  Although I'd been pushing for spring's early birth, I'd been neglecting my spring cleaning.

That day, Wassachusetts got his first bath since October.  Snow white soap suds almost instantly turned earthen brown as I scrubbed and massaged the cleaning agent into his fur, further loosening gobs of winter hair, dander and other creepy crawlies that might have been lurking under his blankets all winter long.  Meanwhile, Wassachusetts was absorbed in the moment and took bath time as an opportunity to rub and scratch up against the sponge relieving all of those terrible itchy, shedding spots.

The next day, we started to tackle the great bush of unruly mane that had been allowed to sprout and grow in every direction - thanks to numerous cowlicks sprinkled up the poor beast's neck - over the cold winter months.  All was fine and good until I reached his pole area.  Wassachusetts cast a semi-wild eye in my direction daring me to start yanking hair.  We came to mutual understanding: I would pull tiny bits and then massage the area before pulling the next few strands of hair.  Again, I was reminded to remain patient and also respectful of my horse.

Last but not least was taking on the "Clydesdale" in my thoroughbred.  Here's a sampling:

My self-confidence was wavering at the thought of sheering off his leg hair.  I didn't want to give him a noticeably bad hair cut that would make him look less than the proud and regal animal that he is.  Fortunately, my good friend at the barn is the premiere in-house horse clipper.  Without a second thought, she took her sharpened blades and reformed Wassachusetts in short time.  The end result transformed him from work horse to refined riding steed:

I'm feeling the effects of spring as well.  Butterflies the size of angry pterodactyls have taken refuge in my stomach.  It is with great trepidation that I tell you our first horse show of the season will be tomorrow.   And, while we wouldn't turn down any good luck wishes, I remind myself that we've worked hard all winter and have come so far in a short amount of time.  Getting to a horse show - regardless of the results - is another goal on our list.  We're dressed for the part and ready to go!

A Matter of Trust

I have two beautiful, smart, funny children.  They have changed my entire world in good and not so good ways, but I can’t imagine my life without them.  For me, it was the right choice to leave my corporate job so I could give myself over to raising my kids full time. 

I take the job - which, by the way, is the hardest job I have ever had in my entire life - of raising my two small people very seriously.  I may laugh, joke and tease along the way, but that’s the only way I know how to release tension and dissipate my stress because truth be told, I have no idea what I’m doing.  No one hands you an instruction manual in the delivery room nor does anyone provide you with a fail proof, step-by-step instruction booklet on how to raise a well-adjusted, happy child with a follow up pamphlet illustrating how to mold and form the perfect adult.  It’s all guesswork.  You do the best you can and trust that you’re doing the right thing by your children.

Trust. 

Trust is a funny thing.  You trust your gut.  You might even trust your instincts.  You put your trust in other people and in yourself.  Some people have trust issues, mostly deeply rooted in past experiences.  Life is complicated and while some people at my age complain about their “baggage,” I, at the ripe old age of 42, have lived long enough to have accumulated a complete set of personalized luggage. 

Having Wassachusetts in my life has been a learning experience in so many ways that I can’t exclude how he has taught me to trust.

Thinking about what we ask of our horses and what these animals are willing to do for us is nothing short of awe inspiring.  We trot, canter and sometimes gallop our horses towards obstacles assuming that they will leap high enough and with such balance as to clear said obstacle and carry the rider safely to the other side.  It’s really quite unnatural.  In the wild, they might be forced to jump a downed tree or hop across a creek, but more often than not, your horse is going to look for a way around an obstacle.

Yet, here is Wassachusetts.  He’s always game for something new even if that means leaping over an odd configuration of painted poles and flower boxes spilling over with dusty, Dollar Store flowers. 

Turning on the forehand or haunches can’t be comfortable for a horse or feel “right” but he does it – or at least tries.  He always tries.

A year ago, Wassachusetts and I had trouble getting over a jump lined with fake poinsettias in foil-encased pots.  The foil made a horrendous noise as the horse approached the jump, spraying grit onto the foil.  I couldn’t blame him for stopping and I certainly couldn’t blame him for wildly leaping over the jump from a standstill with such force that we cleared that jump with what felt like three feet to spare and throwing himself into hyper-drive on the other side in a concentrated effort to escape the dangers lurking in, under and around that jump.

While I couldn’t blame him for reacting the way he did, I also couldn’t help the way I became defensive and nervous the next time we came around to that jump. 

“You have to trust him,” my trainer advised.

And she was right.  I had to trust him the way that Wassachusetts was willing to trust me.   While it wasn’t pretty, we managed to get over that jump the next time we came around to it.  That horse, all 1200 pounds of him, trusted that I wouldn’t steer him wrong or put him in any type of perilous situation.  Wassachusetts also has a lot of self-confidence.  The combination of that trust and self-confidence has taken us a long way. 

Wassachusetts has so much faith in himself – he’s a very brave horse and very rarely spooks away from objects or sounds – that I’ve learned to trust him.  And with that trusting relationship has come a burst of self-confidence for me.  I no longer question my riding ability or get nervous when my trainer puts the jumps up.  It’s a great feeling.

I carry this new-found trust and confidence in myself forward from my life with horses to my life as a mom.  I trust that I’m raising my kids to the best of my ability.  And even when I might falter, I’m teaching them that life isn’t perfect.  No, it’s far from perfect: it’s messy and complicated and vast and wonderful and full of extraordinary adventures.  Life is going to be what you make of it. 

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

There are few things that can disturb domestic bliss like having a bad neighbor.  An inconsiderate neighbor can aggravate one to the point of distraction.  I know this from first hand experience and now so does Wassachusetts.

Recently, Wassachusetts was forced to pick up sticks and move to a new stall in a different aisle of the barn.  He had been living in a stall nestled between his best buddy and field mate, an older, gray pony named Calvin:  The Good Neighbor.  The Good Neighbor might occasionally poke his nose over the dividing wall to say hello but otherwise kept to himself and his own business.

On the other side was a big, bay imported youngster named Chico:  The Bad Neighbor.  Over the past year, Wassachusetts and Chico bonded like schoolboys.  They were both young and green with a lot of energy but always seemed to have a calming effect on one another.   

I started to see indications of their dissolving friendship one afternoon while riding with Chico's owner.  We were standing in the middle of the ring exchanging a few words when I felt Wassachusetts’s body become tense and defensive, then his ears shot back and his nose jutted out as he pushed an intimidating look towards Chico.  In retort, Chico snaked his head at Wassachusetts and made a sudden move towards us.  Nothing happened, but the other rider and I quickly steered our horses back to the track. 

As the weather got colder, the two horses constantly teased and bickered with each other over the dividing wall separating their stalls.  The wooden slats were set apart in such a way that the horses could easily peek at each other between the boards.  I would sometime laugh at Chico as he would eyeball me adjusting blankets or giving Wassachusetts treats.  But that same eyeballing would throw Wassachusetts into an angry tantrum.

Within weeks, the behavior had escalated from charging at each other to the two horses rising on their hind legs up the side of the wall with mouths open, teeth bared and finally to rearing and lunging with such force that the wall would rattle and shake when their 1200 pound bodies launched against it.

One evening as I was setting up a grooming area, Wassachusetts flattened his ears against his head (a rare look for a horse with a reputation for being laid-back in the barn) and landed a powerful kick to his automatic watering trough, cracking the PVC piping.  I heard the soft hiss of water spraying and quickly rushed to turn the valve off.  I knew it was time to say something to my trainer.  

Yet, there stood Wassachusetts.  The moment had come and gone and he was once again calm and relaxed, quietly munching on hay.  He’d said his peace and  gone on with his life.  Unlike people, horses don’t waste time worrying about why a relationship doesn’t work out and they don’t hold grudges.   Wassachusetts simply acted like “it is what it is and life goes on.” 

Later that night, my trainer and I talked about the situation and explored the possibility of moving one of the horses to a different stall.  My biggest concern was that one of the horses could injure themselves if a board were to break, which would be particularly unfortunate if it were to happen in the middle of the night when no one was around (my thoughts were streaming a video of blood and gore – yes, this is the type of hysteria developed in the adult mind – well, at least mine and the other adult riders I know). 

The following day, Wassachusetts was moved to a new stall in the next aisle.  Even though it was located very close to our old stall, it still felt like we were moving to a new neighborhood. 

Our new stall is located in the back corner of the barn with only one shared wall.  Wassachusetts’s new neighbor is a sassy palomino pony with a thick neck and spiky mane.  So far, the two have shown little interest in one another, choosing to keep to themselves rather than interfere in their neighbor’s business.

I like that I can go into Wassachusetts’s stall and adjust a blanket strap without fear of being smushed against the dividing wall and that my horse doesn’t wear such a sour look on his face anymore. 

And the dividing wall?  Well it’s just perfect.  The boards are sturdy and fitted tightly together with no room for peek holes.  So, live and let live.  And if you can’t do that, get a good fence.  They really do make good neighbors.

Getting Acquainted

Bringing Wassachusetts home that crisp October day was, in my mind, a chance for new beginnings and an opportunity to have something just for me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love being with my children and am grateful for having a wonderful family, but I was starting to feel a certain, unexplainable void in my life. 

I wasn’t sure what was causing me to feel unfulfilled.  Maybe it was the solitary feeling that seems to come with staying at home full time with little interaction with other adults or maybe it was the sobering thought of being in my 40s.  Regardless, I was losing a sense of my self-identity and it needed to be stopped.  

I thought about how taking on green horse would be a fantastic project where I would learn to be a better rider and after some hard work and perseverance, the end product of a well-trained horse would be a tangible reward.

Wassachusetts unloaded from the trailer that day like a pro and I proudly led my new horse to the barn ready to make those visions become a reality.  This was going to be great.  I could just feel it!

Yeah.  Well, not so fast.

Not only was Wassachusetts spastic over fences, but I soon discovered that he was a bolter and an occasional bucker.  I could logically understand the horse taking off after stinging his toes on a rail he’d pulled down or getting excited on the backside of a jump and letting out a little buck.   What I wasn’t prepared for was his spontaneous bolting or the times he would arch his back, tuck and wag his head like a mental patient then throw out a buck or threatening crow hop.  It was more than this 42-year old mother of two could take!  I’m nobody’s hero and, quite frankly, his behavior made me feel intimidated and afraid.

Deflated and feeling like a failure, I started to wonder how quickly I could sell him.

Amidst my whining and gnashing of teeth, in rode the cavalry.  My trainer, in her infinite wisdom, lent me helpful advice and the patience of a saint as Wassachusetts and I would careen around the ring at mock speed, the whites of his eyes flashing by in a virtual blur while his rider –that’s me - tried to curl up in the fetal position.   Over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears I would hear my trainer tell me to sit up or urge him forward or sometimes even a “Whee!” when there just wasn’t anything else to say. 

More than once, I had visions of abandoning riding and taking up tennis.  I also envisioned the huge glass of wine I would need at dinnertime later that night!

My trainer’s daughter, a woman I admire for her natural riding ability and fearlessness on horseback, picked up the reins – literally – and became Wassachusett’s private tutor. 

Surging forward and leaping upward, he would fight and test his new schoolmarm who would have none of his nonsense.  She took him to task each time until he begrudgingly submitted to her leadership.   She and her mother worked with him then worked with me.  

Most days, I tried to wear my big girl pants to ride, but there were times when I couldn’t hide my fear.  I was bitterly disappointed in myself for not being braver, for not being a better rider, for not having a bigger wallet to buy a more appropriate horse. 

Whine Whine Whine

Soon, the trees shed their flame-colored leaves and the gray skies of winter hung heavily over the farm.   My anxiety level started to rise as my trainer and her daughter packed up a few clients and headed to the horse shows in Florida. 

I’ll skip the winter – even though at the time it felt like it would never end.  In short, with the help of another sympathetic adult rider and a few sporadic visits home by my trainer, Wassachusetts and I muddled through the long cold season.   

With the spring thaw came the return of my snowbird trainer and her daughter.  Wassachusetts was a train wreck and I was a nervous wreck.   There were many days when he was just too much horse, and I would dismount with a lump in my throat and trudge back to the barn.

The summer was a little better but in spite of the ninety-degree weather, that horse of mine would find the energy to gallop with reckless abandon around the ring.  I found a little comfort in the fact that he would do this with the trainer’s daughter on occasion as well.  At least I didn’t have to take it personally.

By the end of the summer, I’d become more accustom to his bolting and was able to ride through a few episodes without feeling the need to vomit.  His brain didn’t switch off and go to the “dark place” as often, and he seemed to be more willing to face bigger training challenges.  One of our first big breakthroughs was jumping an oxer.  It wasn’t pretty, but he was brave and leapt over the questioningly positioned configuration of rails with little hesitation.

Not unlike giving birth, I’ve forgotten a lot of the pain and suffering that went into that first year of work.  I can tell you that Wassachusetts has blossomed into the horse I originally thought I was buying and, with the support of my trainer and her daughter – a dream team of immeasurable value – Wassachusetts and I debuted at our first horse show where not only did we put in a solid performance that we could be proud of, but we beat horses with better pedigrees and more training.

He hasn’t bucked or bolted for two months, and that’s saying something.  He’s also started jumping higher than I ever expected him to be capable.  He is attentive and really tries to complete whatever task or new exercise is presented to him. 

As we came to trust one another more, Wassachusetts started, slowly and cautiously, to let his personality poke through.  He’s proven himself to be smart and confident but also kind.  I could feel his anger and frustration subside this past fall.  He wasn’t nearly as, let’s say, opinionated in his efforts.  There’s no more rearing or head wagging when he gets frustrated or doesn’t want to perform a certain task like engaging from behind. 

We’ve both learned a lot over the past 16 months.  I’ve learned to be more patient with not only the horse but with myself.  It had been at least ten years since I’d worked with a green horse.  A lot had changed in my life over the past decade ranging from my home life to motherhood and other responsibilities, stresses and obligations that come with adulthood.  I also had changed physically.  I wasn’t going to be able to ride like I did when I was younger. 

Wassachusetts was being asked to change his way of thinking, too.  He had been trained to run so it seemed that whenever thing got difficult, confusing or scary, he escaped to his happy “go to” place and ran…and ran…and ran some more.   He also needed time for his muscles to develop in his back, hind-end, and neck for him to do his new job. 

 We stopped judging one another.  I had to stop thinking he wasn’t ever going to be as good as the warmbloods and other “fancier” horses and he had to stop thinking of me as a pushover.   Suddenly, I started to trust him more and, in turn, I was riding better.

But perhaps the most valuable lesson that first year was to give myself a break.  There were days when something was going on with the kids or I had too many things on my mind and I simply wasn’t focused enough to ride a green horse.  There were other days when Wassachusetts was in a foul mood – yes, even horses have bad days – so I needed to learn to slow down, breath and reevaluate the day’s lesson. 

Being at the barn strips me of my role as “mother” and “wife” and lets me just be “me.”  It’s the moment during the day when I remember who I am outside of those roles and, with a better sense of self, I can go home and be a better mom and wife.  The midlife crisis looms large, but I remind myself that a younger me would have been oblivious to the life lessons that have presented themselves during this time I’ve had working with Wassachusetts.  

My work with Wassachusetts is far from over.  No doubt I will have to remind myself of these earlier lessons as new experiences are layered on top of them.  But I think this just may be the ride of a lifetime.

The Start of a Bumpy Ride

 Before anyone asks, let me explain.  Wassachusetts is not a place or a thing – and forgive me those of you who are sticklers for grammar – but he is a who.  More accurately, he is a seven-year old, 16.2hh, bay Thoroughbred racetrack flunky.  At the tender age of five, this lovely athlete was at the end of his racing career having run eight times with one win (first place), one place (second place) and one show (third place).  Somehow Wassachusetts made his way from Massachusetts to a big hunter/jumper barn in Pennsylvania, where it would be explained to me that, while there wasn’t anything “wrong” with him, per se, he just didn’t “fit in with the program.”  More on that in a minute.

Meanwhile, I’d hit the wall and started to sink into the dregs of a mid-life crisis.   It had been nearly seven years since I’d quit my job at a Fortune 500 Company to stay at home to raise my kids and a year and a half since my freelance writing job with a regional magazine dissolved when the publication went belly up in the summer of 2009.  I laid down my pen in frustration after getting zero interest from magazine publishers I had queried for work and decided to hunker down and busy myself with childrearing while waiting – and hoping - for other opportunities to present themselves.

In a turn of events, I found myself shopping for a new horse last fall.  I have been riding almost all of my life.  My passion for and relationship with my horses has carried me through some of the best and darkest times of my life.

So, with a little talent and even less cash, I optimistically started searching for my next ride.  I was looking for something that not only fit my budget but that would be competitive at local horse shows.   Based on experience, I knew I’d be looking at an animal in a pretty plain wrapper, nothing fancy - imports from places like Germany or Holland, which are all the rage in the world of hunter/jumpers, would be out of the question – and with minimal training since, generally speaking, the more experience and training a horse has, the higher its price tag. 

My search soon became frustrating as I learned that to fill even that very basic order would cost me a tidy bundle and that the amount of cash I had to work with was laughable at best.

Luckily, I live in Pennsylvania: Land of the Retired Thoroughbred.  They were easy to come by and most would suit my budget but they were not necessarily the breed of choice for the hunter ring.

“Bah!”  I thought to myself, certain that I would unearth  a diamond in the rough that might not be fancy enough to do any rated shows (I’m not delusional, after all) but that would certainly pull a few decent ribbons at local shows.

After looking at a few horses, my search led me to a trainer who had a “cute” little Thoroughbred for sale.  When I arrived, the trainer led me through a barn brimming with gorgeous warmbloods with glossy coats and regal carriage.   I stood, star struck, as a groom led a muscled gray gelding down the barn aisle.  This horse had real presence and proudly sauntered down to his stall like a king.   A few of the impeccably dressed owners greeted me with smiles and friendly hellos as I was led to Walter’s stall, which, by the way, was situated in the last aisle in the very back corner of the barn. 

The washed up and rejected Walter peered at me through the bars of his stall. On the ground, he was polite and waited to be tacked up but was pretty devoid of any personality.  He wasn’t much of a ride.   His trot was jarring with his two front legs stabbing at the ground like two sewing machine needles. Jumping him was even less impressive as he lurched blindly over one fence and zigzagged down to the second fence which he launched himself over with room to spare leaving me clinging to the saddle with the tips of my knee caps.  He obviously didn’t have much training as a hunter, but I was anxious to buy something and start working towards horse showing.

A few dollars later, he was mine.  And so, our travels together have begun.