Horsekeeping (24 page)

“Tack” is a familiar word but not a tangible I had ever thought much about. Defined in the OED as “a thing for fastening one thing to another, or fastening things together,” it was originally a nautical term. In the horse world it morphed from “tackle” especially designating saddle, bridle and all the bits and pieces that fasten horse to rider. Logically, tack is kept in a “tack room,” one of the most pleasurable places to linger in most barns. Stocked with soaped, oiled, and well-crafted luscious
leather equipment, this horseless room is a prideful, cozy place in the thriving barn, often furnished with sofas and carpets and decorated with photos, ribbons and trophies that boast riders' exploits and horses' great moments. I was beginning to see how hard-earned wins are and thus justly celebrated. A tack room is also one of the few climate controlled areas in barns, mainly to protect the expensive leather, and offers precious refuge in New England where the air is usually too cold, too hot, or too wet.

In its broad assortment, tack, for me, was an unexpected pleasure. Ralph Lauren hit the bull's eye glamorizing his style with the horsey Polo image—beautifully polished equipment and purpose-driven, tailored, hardy, tight-fitting clothing combine to suggest aristocracy, tradition, leisure, wealth and dedication: the sport of kings. Having heretofore lacked the confidence to pull off the street version and wear the fashion label “Chaps”
sans
horse, Bandi entitled me to legitimately immerse both of us in all things equine—the real deal.

When horses trade hands, they come mostly naked except for the oldest, driest leather or cheapest nylon halter and most threadbare lead rope the seller could excavate from the dregs of her moldiest tack trunk; surprising, given that horses need a wide-ranging wardrobe pretty specific to them in size. Plus, their names tend to be emblazoned on everything, for vanity but also to keep these expensive items in the possession of their rightful owners and in their barn home (a well-run barn has a place for everything and everything in its place) so as to be at hand when needed: searching for your girth cuts into precious and expensive lesson time. Nevertheless, horse people are loath to part with any of their tack no matter how personalized to the horse they have sent on, hopefully, to greener pastures. Bobbi taught me the trick of putting my name on most things, rather than my horse's, in case of an early tragedy or a short-lived love affair.

Bandi arrived customarily empty-hoofed, so both he and I needed everything. In her infinite wisdom, Bobbi organized a trip to the
saddlery store. It was time to return all things borrowed and set ourselves up right. I always wondered who bought kitschy key chains, jewelry, toothbrushes and underwear horse-motifed beyond reason, and now I knew. I went at that tack shop like a robin at a worm: socks to saddle, supplements to “stud muffins” (Bandi's favorite treat—maybe he relives his stallion days), fly spray to stirrups, chaps to curry comb. Orgy best describes my first saddlery experience, rivaling the frenzy of the “shop” that took place in the nine months before I gave birth to my first child. But a baby is an abstemious monk compared to a horse. Many necessities are required—saddle, bridle, leathers, stirrups, saddle pads, girth, halter, lead rope, grooming tote, brushes, combs, shampoos, conditioners, blankets of varying thicknesses and warmth, polo wraps, bell boots, half-chaps, breeches, boots; and then so much more that was simply fun—cartooned mugs of horses riding people for the tack room, stirrup decorated ankle socks, toys that “neigh” for Jane, wicking two-tone shirts for Elliot, bridle bit necklaces and horseshoe earrings, a wild mustang printed scarf, horse head bookends—all new, clean, shiny and full of possibility, adventure and yes, fashion. It is not unlike setting up house upon marriage or moving to a new place: that guiltless, mandatory refitting that deeply satisfies those with a domestic bent. The biographer Percy Lubbock noted what Henry James said about “housekee-perish” Edith Wharton: “[n]o one fully knows our Edith who hasn't seen her in the act of creating a habitation for herself.” A dedicated horse person as well, I'd bet good money that Wharton appreciated tack, perhaps was “horsekeeperish ” too, let's say. She maintained an exquisite carriage house at the Mount, the estate in the Berkshires she bought in 1901 and designed herself.

With a first horse, you start from scratch, and it's an experience that does not intersect or synergize with any other. Every bit of tack and rider apparel has a distinct practical purpose, often complex in arrangement. The puzzle of a bridle, for instance, falls into place once you understand the way the metal bit in the toothless area of the horse's mouth connects to
the head stall and to the reins, onward through to the rider's soft hands, loose elbows, erect back, strong core, steady seat and long legs (one can dream). A foreign language, tack's meaning needs translation and then several personal and experiential applications for all of its secrets to unfold. Fluency comes with regular use. Beauty resides in tack's practicality, produced by thousands of years of specific adaptation of horse and rider in harmony: an ancient knowledge passed down hand to hoof in leather and metal.

Bobbi and I pondered, compared and stacked the check-out counter with fragrant, gleaming tack, unscarred leather in hues ranging from deep black to golden tan, miming the varied color of horses. We mused how best to highlight Bandi's chestnut coat and mane and laid his wardrobe as a new bride collects her
trousseau
. We indulged as only two animal lovers can anthropomorphically carry one another away without embarrassment about their mutual, excessive zeal for equines. The grooming tote and its contents held many wonders. I discovered that a curry comb is not toothed but rather a rubber mitt with little prickly knobs all over it, and how the varied size and stiffness of a brush cleans and polishes body, face, tail and mane. I chose colorful heart-shaped sponges that Janie would appreciate, magnolia-scented shampoo, the tortuous looking hoof pick, and a scraper to squeegee the water off of him like a wet window. I purchased Showsheen spray to coax that extra shine from Bandi's tail and mane, and selected everything in our farm's colors of brown, cream and, my favorite, green. I indulged in a stunning black saddle pad trimmed in gold braid that I imagined would set off Bandi's reddish highlights luminously. Glucosamine, worming agents, fly masks, saddle soap and leather conditioner, more sponges, riding pants and shirts, half-chaps and paddock boots, riding gloves and a crop rounded out the mountain that hid the increasingly friendly salesperson.

An inveterate shopper, my enthusiasm did not end at the tack store. I soon discovered whole new landscapes of mail order to conquer, and the bible of the horse shopping world, the Dover Saddlery catalog, is as
thick as a Sears. When Bobbi first sent me one, I paged through, pausing on the fashion accessories that I could relate to, but skipped through the technical pages of bridle bits, straps, vitamins, performance enhancers and the like; but now, armed with a little knowledge, I found myself reading the fine print on even these. The
piece de resistance
was Bandi's tack box, a furniture-quality trunk made of mahogany and designed to house everything that didn't hang or reside in the tote, with a lift-out wooden grooming tote to replace a plastic one.

Little did I know that Bobbi had ordered a handmade, stained and shellacked wooden tote as a gift to celebrate my first horse. Plastic is sensible for some things, but as with children's toys, its convenience lacks wood's heft and better-with-age patina. Some people now use vinyl saddles and nylon girths that can be hosed off, thus erasing hours of tack conditioning from an already colossal time-sink, but Bobbi and I agreed that the feel of wood and the smell of leather is worth the time, price and effort. We did not rebuild a wooden barn just to fill it with synthetic substitutes. Snobby perhaps, but traditional, high-maintenance tack enhances the whole sensual experience, one that an enterprising son of a house painter from the Bronx, Ralph Rueben Lifshitz, translated into a ready-to-wear fortune. Even cost- and time-conscious Scott agreed. Nostalgia for the more elegant past inhabits many of us.

My tack trunk, complete with oval brass plate boasting “Bok” in script, would take four to six weeks to arrive, as would the special order protective cover, in cotton/nylon green with cream trim and again “Bok” embroidered in cream thread. The mahogany trunk's treasure chest look sang to the young girl still stubbornly rattling around my drying bones, and its design specificity also satisfied my passion for order. Well-run barns require ship-shape tidiness with ergonomically designed racks for the curves of the saddles, name-labeled hooks for bridles, shelves for blankets, feed rooms for, well, feed, supplements and no mice, and trunks and boxes for everything else. So much stuff for one horse multiplies with more, and Sharpie Rub-A-Dub markers are imperative for
me to know my own. I labeled everything to avoid interrupting a busy Bobbi to ask yet again, “Is this my bridle?” I looked forward to setting up our wood-paneled tack room, the one area of the barn that needed little work and sported some nice old touches like the horseshoe hooks to hold bridles, crops and helmets. I happily day-dreamed a full tack room, wall-to-wall with equipment, a floor spread with creased, dusty boots and the trophy case filling up with the accomplishments of ourselves and our customers. Horse/house/barn-keeping all rolled up in one new microcosmic world.

Bobbi and I ran out of steam at the saddlery, and as it was the middle of an exceptionally hot and humid summer, we put off choosing the assortment of blankets and rain sheets for autumn. I signed the credit card bill averting my eyes from the total, and we heaved all the loot into the roomy trunk of my insulted Saab convertible that before had held nothing more strenuous than a tennis racket or two. We planned a riding date to try the saddles I borrowed, having chosen a few via the wooden “horse” they use to rough out sizing. I favored one, mainly on looks, but Bobbi sagely insisted I actually test drive them on my horse before committing. There are size and “twist” considerations (I am still unclear about the latter even after several explanations), but also the forward tilt and cushiness of both seat and knee pads.

Despite our whirlwind spree, we only scratched the surface. From wound care and digestive management to tail clippers, mane braiders and hoof oil, I foresaw years of new territory ahead. In the end, some items fit Bandi improperly, and I shuttled to the store to exchange several, including the bridle. Bandi's head is a weird combination of a “horse” and the smaller “cob” sizes, requiring a much more expensive “choice'”

Buying tack is one thing, learning to use and maintain it is quite another. To my surprise, the time-consuming grooming of a horse and keeping of the tack rivals the riding in “tactile” pleasures. On a riding day I wake up and wriggle myself into stretchy, shape-conforming, high-waisted breeches (bloated days aren't so fun), snug elasticized shirt (no
hiding my muffin top here either), cushioned argyle socks and comfortably broken-in paddock boots, all purposefully tailored for movement and getting dirty. Though I never had one until now, a uniformed job always appealed to my sartorial deficiency. I comb my hair into two low pigtails and pin down strays, not overly fussing, for a helmet will soon plaster all, short and long, to my sweaty head.

Once the kids are breakfasted, dropped at camp and the day's schedule aligned, my drive to the farm is light and free, especially in the fresh of the morning with The Beatles blaring
Good Day, Sunshine
; my time alone—what the pundits term “Mommy time”—and what a fun way to exercise. As I crunch onto the gravel driveway, I encounter a few early riders out in the field, but just the sight of the sun-kissed farm is enough to have me offering gratitude to the power—God or science—that created fields, mountains and horses to inspire people to make barns, pastures and paddocks.

Retrieving my half-chaps from the back of my dusty car, I struggle, bent over and stiff, to zipper them on. I gather up a few sweet molasses and grain stud muffins from my stash in the muddy trunk, for now my mobile tack box until our farm is ready, and slap my barn hat on my head against the bright sun. I stride out to Bandi's paddock and call to him—“Baaaannnndiii; hey handsome. Hi, Bandi.” He has begun to recognize me as carrot and stud muffin dispenser, and if I am lucky he'll whinny or blow through his nostrils in greeting as he saunters over. I give him ample treats, perfectly willing to buy his love. A stud muffin results in a strenuous licking exercise that long outlasts the actual morsel. It's funny to watch, peculiar to him, and I pat his forelock, rub his ears and give him a kiss on his soft muzzle. He smells like chewed grass and dewy earth.

We walk slowly to the barn, against the work to come, and he feigns an itchy leg or pesky belly fly to sneak his face down into the fluffy grass. But I am on to him now, keeping our heads up and our direction steady. “Oh, no you don't, Bandi. I'm not that green anymore.” His improved manners
match my increasing confidence and ability. Once gracefully into the stall, I remove the lead line and step outside, hooking the canvas stall guard across the opening. Bandi checks his grain bucket in case dinner came early, grunts in disappointment, takes a consolation drink or sometimes a pee. Business done, he sticks his head out into the aisle looking for me and more treats. He watches attentively as I lug saddle, saddle pad, girth, tack box, helmet, crop, bridle and a five-pound bag of carrots from the stall-converted mini-tack room to his stall. It takes two trips, and Bandi grumps if I make the first pass without initiating the carrot feed. Occasionally, he'll give me a nip—teeth to shirt or lightly on skin—to remind me of my treat covenant. He is gluttonous, but affectionate, too.

I arrange my materials. I hoist the saddle, pad and girth onto the rack that handily swings up on the wall outside the stall. I drop the tack box on the floor, its scrape on the concrete echoing down the tunneled aisle. I hang my crop on the hook of the stall guard in plain sight, but still I almost always forget it. Draping the bridle on the bridle hook, I unlatch its complicated figure eight resting position that Bobbi requires for tangle-free neatness. Initially, I despaired at the sight of the bridle as all those straps and buckles made it, and even the simpler halter, all but impossible to configure. But after several weeks I've mastered both the figure eight and the positioning of at least my own familiar bridle and halter correctly on and off my horse's head.