I have loved horses as long as I have memory. My first recollection was of praying for a pony nightly and checking the garage in the morning to see if it had been delivered yet. I was about three years old then.
At that time, we lived in a rental house on Colfax Street, in or about Sacramento, CA. The house had a shed in the back in which I found a tin horse big enough for me to sit on. It was designed so that when the rider bounced on it, the tin horse crept forward. I loved it! But, as Mom explained all along, it belonged to the previous renters. Eventually, it disappeared.
My Parents tried to support my interest in horses as best they could, considering we lived in the suburbs. Mom betimes would take all three of us girls to Williamland Park to the pony rides. One time, when my father was in town, he took me to see a brand new foal. Another time, he and Mom took me to see the Greenies.
The Greenies was a group of little girls with ponies that practiced mounted drills. (I thought they were called Greenies as a satire on the Brownies. I didn’t realize until this year that they were referring to their level of horsemanship.) It looked like such fun. I wished that I could be one of them. I wished so hard that it hurt.
Figurine collections being popular back in the 50’s and early 60’s, my mom helped me collect horses. Perhaps my first collected horse was of copper. It was about 2 ½ inches high with a saddle and bridle. The reins were made of ball chain. I remember to this day what the copper horse tasted like.
On virtually every gifting occasion, I received some sort of horse ornament. At first the figurines were small, with spindly legs that broke, were glued back together, and then broke again. Eventually, I began receiving very nice ones with spindly legs that broke and were glued back together.
My cousin, Gareth Tobler, gave me a very hard-earned figurine for Christmas in about 1962. It was a crude and ugly piece. Although I knew it was the thought that counted, I appreciate it more today than when it was received.
Gareth’s horse and the rest are gone now. All that remains of my collection are two silver charms on my charm bracelet. One commemorated our trip to the Seattle World Fair in 1962. Since we were so close to the border, Mom took us to Vancouver, Canada. The ornament was of a Mountie.
After the divorce, Mom and her friend, Al Epstein, took me to see the world-famous Lipizzan Stallions at the Memorial Auditorium in Sacramento. I didn’t appreciate the significance of their performance or that they were even scheduled to appear in little ol’ Sacramento. All I recall is the liveried riders and white horses, some of their drill patterns, and their exploits of kicking with their hind legs while simultaneously jumping in place.
I don’t know how old I was when Mom arranged for me to take Western riding lessons. The teacher was poorly qualified to teach, she being only a few years older than I. The lessons amounted to glorified pony rides, with the pony master nagging, “Don’t touch the saddle horn! “Don’t touch the saddle horn!”
Every lesson was the same: I made circles around the perimeter of the corral, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, while the teacher watched—at least I assume she watched. Every so often, she would say, “Now make him jog.” (“Jog” means “slow trot.” I didn’t know that then.) And I would jolt up and down, up and down, bumpity, bumpity bump, until my teeth rattled.
Twice I brought friends to observe. On those occasions, my instructor saddled two horses. She rode one horse and my friend and I doubled up. Then we would ride along the roadside. In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
During one lesson, while I was making circles, I noticed the instructor’s snotty little brother sitting on the fence. At first he just sat there, but then he started brandishing a whip he had found. He got pretty good at cracking it and, as the horse and I passed by, he cracked it in front of me. The poor animal flew around the arena with me clinging to his back until somehow it came to a stop. The instructor’s only comment was, “Don’t touch the saddle horn! Don’t touch the saddle horn!” End of lessons.
It must have been the Christmas of my 12th or 13th year when my father gave me a horse. I received my second silver horse charm to commemorate her acquisition. We kept her on the Toblers’ seven acre ranch in Elk Grove, CA.
Nightingale was a stocky black Morgan with brown undertones and a shaved mane. She was a good beginner’s horse. She was hard to catch, but she didn’t buck, kick, stampede, or bite. She stepped on my foot a couple of times, but that was the worst of it. She moved forward when urged and stopped when required. And sometimes (very rarely), I would ask her to jog up and down, up and down, bumpity, bumpity, bump, but only for a few feet.
I don’t remember how long I had her. One day I was told she’d been sold. The Toblers said that I could ride their two new horses, but I never did.
I didn’t ride again until about 40 years later. During a visit with Blain and Jane Dahlstrom, our dear friends, we were invited to go for a trail ride with them. Steve declined, but I was more than game.
Several years later, after we were empty-nested and I was tenured at Taft College, Steve made the noble gesture and suggested that we take riding lessons. I wrote up our experience for the Taft Independent News paper. The story follows:
Riding Lessons
OK. I’ll admit it. I’m a wann’a be cowgirl. I got my first pair of cowboy boots at the age of four and wore them until I was eleven. I started saving for a pony in the first grade and owned one by the age of 12. Unfortunately, the only things I learned from my mare were that horses cannot be house trained, they do not come with seatbelts, and they are very heavy, especially when standing on one’s foot. Understandably, it was about the same time I lost interest in horses that I took up the far more fascinating sport of boy-watching.
Forty years have passed since I parted with my horse. Since then, I met and married Steven, a really great guy, and had four children who left home as soon as we could legally make them. With all the spare time we then had, we looked for a new hobby. The criteria were simple; it had to not have anything to do with ballroom dancing, backpacking, teenagers, or ice skating. Upon moving to Taft, Steven and I decided to investigate equestrianism. Thus began our seven-year search for someone that would teach the horseless how to ride. Take it from me—the market is wide open for instructors in Horseless Horsemanship.
Enter Jason Bluebaker (not his real name), a real live, honest-to-goodness cowboy. I suspected Jason was a cowboy the first time he moseyed on into my classroom. First of all, by law, only cowboys are allowed to mosey on in. Secondly, he was wearing spurs. Never mind that his legs look like a set of parentheses, the dead giveaway was when he disclosed that he was a cowboy and he gave RIDING LESSONS to the HORSE DEFICIENT! I couldn’t say, “How much?” fast enough.
Arrangements were made and I waited none too patiently for our first lesson which began promptly on Saturday at high noon. Having once actually owned a horse, I knew what to expect from riding lessons; how to watch someone saddle your horse from a safe distance, how to mount while wearing a belt buckle the size of a pie tin, and maybe some cool cowboy poses. Imagine my surprise when the curriculum included horsey hygiene and grooming, safety procedures, and preflight.
We manicured hooves, fluffed saddle blankets, moussed manes, and spritzed our steeds with scented fly repellent. We cinched, buckled and strapped on saddles, bridles, and whatever else Josh—I mean Jason (not his real name)—told us to. We checked to make sure there were two fingers of room under their belly cinches and one finger’s worth under their chin straps. We learned to measure our stirrups from our fingertips to our arm pits, and then how to double-check from our pits to our finger tips.
“Now, when walking around a horse, you got to either stay far away from the horse’s rump or get as close to it as possible in case it kicks. When you’re nice and close, they can’t get the momentum as much as if you stand a little ways off,” Jason instructed. “Oh yeah, when you’re working with ‘em, keep pushing ‘em away from the hitching rail so you don’t get trapped in case something happens.”
And sure enough, just after his deep massage, Josh’s pinto faked a fainting spell in a transparent attempt to avoid exercise. You’ve heard that horses can sense when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing? It’s all true. The other horses laughed themselves silly while Steve and I gawked at the ongoing spectacle. And, as Josh—I mean Jason—walked the horse back to the paddock, I could see the other horses pointing at Steve and me as they sneered and whispered amongst themselves.
In the meantime, Steven became more and more certain that the last thing he ever wanted to do was climb on top of a horse. But, being a manly man, he did what he was told. We finally hit the saddles as the sun was setting. Suffice it to say that Steve wasn’t having much fun. As I walked my well-coiffed mount around the arena, did figure-eights and figure-sixteens, Steve asked, “Where do the quarters go?” “How do you make this thing go?” “How do you make this thing stop!!?” and “Are we through yet?”
I think this is going to work out. I’m learning a thing or two and Josh is making good money. Two out of three of us are happy and Steven and I are still on speaking terms. Hi ho, Silver! And happy trails to us!
***Steve bought Chou-chou for me in 2009. She was an ugly, dirty little filly and he will never know how much that meant to me. Words seem inadequate. It represented a profound expression of his love. Later he admitted that he sold one of his guns for her purchase. Knowing how much his guns mean to him, I realize that it was also a sacrifice on his part.
As soon as I retired, I started taking riding lessons from Emily Zalewski, trainer of the horse-needy, par excellent. This was done in preparation for the great day when I could ride Chou-chou with confidence and style. At our first meeting, Emily asked, “What do you want to learn, Western, English, or Dressage?” “Western,” I averred.” “What do you want to learn, Western, English, or Dressage?” she inquired.
“Western,” I clearly affirmed. “So what do you want to learn, Western, English, or Dressage?” “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Western,” I meekly suggested.
I will write about my riding lessons with Emily another day—some day when I can write about my experiences without embarrassment and with a sensible humor. But not now. Maybe next year.
As for Chou-chou, when she was ready to be put under saddle, we were emphatically informed that green horses and green riders are a terrible combination. We did a reality check with Emily, the Brand Inspector, Chou-chou’s vet, the sales lady at the tack store, my needle-work group, and the mailman. They all agreed big time. I tried to think of a way of making it work, but none could be found. She was relocated to a well recommended trainer. I miss my horse.
As for Chou-chou, when she was ready to be put under saddle, we were emphatically informed that green horses and green riders are a terrible combination. We did a reality check with Emily, the Brand Inspector, Chou-chou’s vet, the sales lady at the tack store, my needle-work group, and the mailman. They all agreed big time. I tried to think of a way of making it work, but none could be found. She was relocated to a well recommended trainer. I miss my horse.
