I am finally settled back in Michigan and schooling has been going famously. Jenny has been graciously letting me help with her pretty mare, Tonka, so I have been spending afternoons and evenings riding one mare and then another.
Oxbow is almost exactly the way I left it. Which is eerie for me.
Remember, it was a pole barn; 30 acres and a chain-linked fence when Kim and I first began back in 2005 so over the years when we established it, I shed pieces of my old skins all over the place.
My dad's filing cabinet from Kelly Office Machines,
my childhood plastic ponies with their little wooden barn,
the first polo wraps I ever owned (which was well before I owned a horse,
the huge barn doors with the logo Casey painted that first fall every evening while the sun went down and Tom and I had a beer and discussed figures.
And all of those things are still there. Except for myself and the figures and Casey. Of course, when you have gone from a place and then return, it is not so much the discovery of the things you left behind that is unsettling as it is the life that has gone on around them. The fact that the office is swept and the bridles are hung. Who does that? It is no longer me.
But Oxbow is still there. And red and expansive and awkwardly offering itself.
Jenny and I meet up. We discuss our goals ("...I feel like when I compared this week's videos to last week's videos, I benefited from lifting up more...so today, I am going to try to find consistency through that..."), prepare Skye or Tonka or Angus, and ride in shifts. We use the camera she bought when we first moved to Maryland and tape one another. We capture still frames, ride to music, ride to silence.
We comfortably accuse each other of every visible mistake.
We sweat.
We are always thinking: Forward. Straight. Forward. Refresh. Open Up. Relax. Forward. Straight.
And our bodies are sore from- believe it or not- the rigorous relaxation required to allow the horse- and it is with good intention. Misguided premises still join us for a circle or two until we slow down, feel the horse, ingest and regurgitate the process.
She doesn't ride Skye; I don't ride Angus.
Each horse is the absolute best at something.
Each has her or his physical shortcoming.
At the end of each ride, there is no exchange of money. We walk our pretty ponies over to pick out some apples and then slowly break everything down until it is all put away. Neat and ready to tick-on; its gears as steady as when we left it for Maryland in 2007.
Seeing Oxbow this way reminded me that the Horse World, as it is dubbed, is not a Place. It is what you do with horses in your life.
I used to think that the center of the Horse World was a place. A concrete location. Like Karlruh, Germany or Lexington, Kentucky. But it is not. Horse World in the distilled sense is your network of horses and horse people around you and the the horsemanship tools you use to navigate this network is the key to the impact that you have on and in the coveted childhood utopia of the Horse World. It does not matter where you are, just what you do.
Showing posts with label horses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horses. Show all posts
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Monday, September 29, 2008
Running Behind
As it turns out, I did not get back to the farm on time. I rolled up the finally smooth driveway at 4:02. It is that strange time of year when we are between routines. It is not yet time to have the horses out all day (the flies are still too nasty) or in all night (the lows are still quite warm). Since it had been raining for so many days in a row, the horses were now all still out in the bright, shining sun. Including James, the chestnut gelding I needed for my now running behind four pm lesson.
I noted that Jessica had already intercepted my student and procured a saddle, so I grabbed a halter and headed directly for the field.
To head into the pony field is to enter another world. It's huge and rolling, and enclosed by one of those dreamy real wood fences that just follows the curve of the land. The pasture itself is reams of spongy orchard grass, it looks as rich as spinach. Perfectly conformed, party colored Shetland and welsh ponies dot the hillside and search out clover under the trees. The clouds overhead have ceased moving whatsoever and are frozen overhead like great blimps.
James is easy to spot. He's the only horse in the pony field. He wants nothing to do with me. Each time I approach, he shows me his flank and pins his ears. I crouch down in the grass. I use this technique to diffuse the threat so that he will let me approach or to increase curiosity so he will look to see what I found, and when all fails I pick some clover and offer it to him like I had a yummy treat all along (and bank on the fact that he won't put it it together and realize it's the same clover to which he already has full access). The clover I pick this time turns out to have four leaves. I resolve to catch James and get this lesson started. The pony field still seems enchanted the whole way back but James and I both know we're soon to be far from it.
The lesson went fine. It was straightforward. All of them were, really. Rhonda is an athletic young entrepreneur with two kids and not a lot of time to herself. She sweats it out on horseback two hours a week and runs the most prestigious landscaping company in Annapolis the rest of the time. My next lesson was a semi-private with two middle-schoolers. They both sneak in extra laps if cantering whenever I have to duck out to answer the phone or grab a crop. I have to promise them the moon in order to keep their attention. Next week they are bringing tennis shoes and vaulting. I told them I'd scrounge up a surcingle and teach them how to stand on a horse.
Erin showed up in the middle of the evening. She had finished all of her homework and had earned her fourteen year old self some barn time. She was still wearing her blue jeans and dangly earrings from school but had zipped her half-chaps on overtop paddock boots. I really wished I could tell her to just go for a hack. If wanting was having, she'd be off like a shot through the fields on Prinz or Harry. I set her to work tacking horses for lessons and being generally helpful. I remember how it felt to not take riding for granted. I used to think I'd simply die if I didn't have a horse. Nothing could replace it. Not ice skating, not Christmas, not puppies. Not being around the barn day in and day out, wishing one of these horses were yours.
"Figure out exactly what it would cost," my mother had stated when I told her I wanted to bring home Red Wing, "Take an interest in the dog. Groom him every morning before school. Do that for a year and I'll know you can take care of an animal. Get a job. Get A's and B's. Show me you can make time and save money."
I imagine she meant it to make me realize I was in no way ready for a horse, but I took everything she said in earnest. I called dozens of stables and asked my prepared questions. I set appointments to look at the places I thought I'd like best. Many stable owners were put off by such questions from a fourteen year old and figured I was wasting their time. But one offered me a job, and a few shorts months later, I had permission to bring home my first horse. That was the best fall. I never even bought a saddle, just rode him bareback all over the place.
At the end of the night tonight, I come up from the outdoor exhausted. I had walked down instead of driving and my ankle felt like silly putty. Erin was waiting in the office. Her parents, she said, were thinking of buying Prinz. But they would need to know exactly what it would cost and how she expected to manage his care. I pulled out a blank piece of paper and began writing down everything I know. About trying to convince your parents that there is anything practical, safe, or even sane about buying their fourteen year old daughter a horse. It felt good to make that sort of list. A list convered in expenses but really not touching on the cost. It makes what I do everyday seem light and easy and fresh and idyllic all over again. Erin takes the note and carefully folds it in her pocket. She is off to groom the dog and go to bed, I guess.
James is back in the pony field eating clover. I am back in my living room with Casey. Lessons are through. The air is still dry. Some things come just in time.
I noted that Jessica had already intercepted my student and procured a saddle, so I grabbed a halter and headed directly for the field.
To head into the pony field is to enter another world. It's huge and rolling, and enclosed by one of those dreamy real wood fences that just follows the curve of the land. The pasture itself is reams of spongy orchard grass, it looks as rich as spinach. Perfectly conformed, party colored Shetland and welsh ponies dot the hillside and search out clover under the trees. The clouds overhead have ceased moving whatsoever and are frozen overhead like great blimps.
James is easy to spot. He's the only horse in the pony field. He wants nothing to do with me. Each time I approach, he shows me his flank and pins his ears. I crouch down in the grass. I use this technique to diffuse the threat so that he will let me approach or to increase curiosity so he will look to see what I found, and when all fails I pick some clover and offer it to him like I had a yummy treat all along (and bank on the fact that he won't put it it together and realize it's the same clover to which he already has full access). The clover I pick this time turns out to have four leaves. I resolve to catch James and get this lesson started. The pony field still seems enchanted the whole way back but James and I both know we're soon to be far from it.
The lesson went fine. It was straightforward. All of them were, really. Rhonda is an athletic young entrepreneur with two kids and not a lot of time to herself. She sweats it out on horseback two hours a week and runs the most prestigious landscaping company in Annapolis the rest of the time. My next lesson was a semi-private with two middle-schoolers. They both sneak in extra laps if cantering whenever I have to duck out to answer the phone or grab a crop. I have to promise them the moon in order to keep their attention. Next week they are bringing tennis shoes and vaulting. I told them I'd scrounge up a surcingle and teach them how to stand on a horse.
Erin showed up in the middle of the evening. She had finished all of her homework and had earned her fourteen year old self some barn time. She was still wearing her blue jeans and dangly earrings from school but had zipped her half-chaps on overtop paddock boots. I really wished I could tell her to just go for a hack. If wanting was having, she'd be off like a shot through the fields on Prinz or Harry. I set her to work tacking horses for lessons and being generally helpful. I remember how it felt to not take riding for granted. I used to think I'd simply die if I didn't have a horse. Nothing could replace it. Not ice skating, not Christmas, not puppies. Not being around the barn day in and day out, wishing one of these horses were yours.
"Figure out exactly what it would cost," my mother had stated when I told her I wanted to bring home Red Wing, "Take an interest in the dog. Groom him every morning before school. Do that for a year and I'll know you can take care of an animal. Get a job. Get A's and B's. Show me you can make time and save money."
I imagine she meant it to make me realize I was in no way ready for a horse, but I took everything she said in earnest. I called dozens of stables and asked my prepared questions. I set appointments to look at the places I thought I'd like best. Many stable owners were put off by such questions from a fourteen year old and figured I was wasting their time. But one offered me a job, and a few shorts months later, I had permission to bring home my first horse. That was the best fall. I never even bought a saddle, just rode him bareback all over the place.
At the end of the night tonight, I come up from the outdoor exhausted. I had walked down instead of driving and my ankle felt like silly putty. Erin was waiting in the office. Her parents, she said, were thinking of buying Prinz. But they would need to know exactly what it would cost and how she expected to manage his care. I pulled out a blank piece of paper and began writing down everything I know. About trying to convince your parents that there is anything practical, safe, or even sane about buying their fourteen year old daughter a horse. It felt good to make that sort of list. A list convered in expenses but really not touching on the cost. It makes what I do everyday seem light and easy and fresh and idyllic all over again. Erin takes the note and carefully folds it in her pocket. She is off to groom the dog and go to bed, I guess.
James is back in the pony field eating clover. I am back in my living room with Casey. Lessons are through. The air is still dry. Some things come just in time.
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