Horsekeeping (28 page)

“That's not fair and you know it. My career pays for all of this. I'd love to have the leisure time you have, but the real world doesn't work that way.” Scott calmly wiped his throat with a towel.

I fumed and sputtered—“wait a minute: you know you love your work”—but he ignored me.

“Plus, I spend more time with you and the kids than most other fathers with big jobs that I know. You say so yourself, and you have to admit that we don't do half the things together we used to do. I've been pretty good about that.”

“Yeah, right,” I protested. “You give me the silent treatment all weekend, and if I'm late, forget it, I'm punished.” I turned on the shower. “And you never spend any time at the barn. The other non-riding husbands and fathers are there more than you, watching their kids, helping their wives . . . and it's
your
barn.”

“I do not punish you. That's your guilty imagination.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is–,” we were getting nowhere.

“I can't help it if we live in New York all week and that the riding can't take place during the hours I have more time. Does that mean I shouldn't do it? Does your schedule always have to come first?”

My anger looked back at me from the bathroom mirror. I was filthy, bedraggled, old, and stuck. But Freya Stark's words bolstered my fighting spirit: “Absence is one of the most useful ingredients of family life; and to do it rightly is an art like any other.”

“No, but what do you expect me to do, quit my job?”

“No. Let's just forget this whole farm thing. Sell the fucking lot or plow it under as hay for all I care. It's not worth this torture.” I tugged off my sweaty riding pants, got tangled up and almost fell.

“That's not what either of us wants and you know it. Let's just calm down–” he put his hands on my quaking shoulders, but I shook him off.

“The kids and I have entered whole-heartedly into this adventure and you haven't. Is that our fault?” I shoved my hairy, smelly clothes into the laundry basket.

“Let's not bring the kids into it. But does it have to be an all or nothing pursuit? Can't you take it easy?”

“You just don't get it, do you?” I escaped into the steam of the shower, slamming the glass door against any rejoinder. I didn't get it either, but I was cornered. I was scared to ride, but more scared to quit. If I did eventually decide to curtail riding, I wasn't going to admit that to him. I'd ride, crash even, for spite if I had to.

We had planned a dinner out, but unable to converse civilly I suggested we see a movie first. As much as I did not relish the idea of spending the night with my husband, I also didn't want to deal with the kids. I needed to escape from everything and hold off thinking about the show until I relaxed. A vacant romantic comedy did the trick, and Scott and I carefully stayed off-subject through dinner, but I didn't sleep much that night, wondering if the farm was both too dangerous and ruining my
marriage, and whether to put Jane up on Bandi. Bobbi, a very experienced horsewoman, would have a good hold on Bandi, but who would be holding on to Jane? If speedy Bandi decided to spook, it's a long way down. Would quashing Jane's excitement be responsible parenting or over-protection? Her four-year-old friend Toby, the boy she planned to marry, was scheduled in the same event, and I did not relish her likely fury at not being allowed to “show with Toby.” Do horses
really
take especial care of kids or is that our stupid wishful thinking?

Six a.m. finally rolled around. I slipped on my pressed, white collared shirt, tailored dark green blazer and struggled into my stiff, new show boots that I neglected, as Bobbi recommended, to break in around the house. I gathered my expensive, state of the art GPA helmet (the only one in the store that fit my small head—it cost an astonishing $400), and my black net show gloves.

“Don't dressage riders wear white gloves?” I asked Bobbi.

“Well, white is the tradition but they draw attention to your hands. If you wear white, your hands better be good.”

I paused in the mirror to smooth my lapels. I looked good but felt an imposter.
I could still pull out
, I coached myself, and dug deep for courage. I came up empty.

 

 

THE BARN WAS DECEPTIVELY PEACEFUL AT 7:30 am. By the time I had Bandi tacked up at 8:00 the scene morphed into a three-ringed circus—people, horses, trailers everywhere; cars parking; dogs barking; announcements broadcasting with that feedback squeal; mounted riders and trainers conferring and practicing in every direction. Stomach acid climbed my throat. Later, the on-call farrier Hilary would tell me I had looked green. Now, atop Bandi, trotting around the open field, I grew petrified when I needed to be loose and calming to my horse. Confident riders cantered toward, past, around, behind, shouting “Outside” or “Jumping” or “Right” or “On your Left.” Amidst such a free for all,
my unease cascaded from my head through my queasy gut and thumping seat bones into my increasingly agitated horse.

Bobbi had warned me that some horses find it harder to show at their own barn. It's easier for them to face complete novelty than their home upended. We suspected this largely contributed to Bandi's uncharacteristic jitters the day before. Again, small comfort: I wasn't in a position to calm his nerves like the more experienced riders who physically and psychologically control their beasts, and I knew, because so many people have told me, that Bandi—a veritable four-legged tuning fork to my invisible, cacophonous frequencies—could sense every firing of nervous energy racing though my body. I remembered what Mary had suggested on my first, stiff-as-a-plank trail ride with Bandi:

“Press your tongue up against the roof of your mouth. It's an acupuncture pressure point that relaxes the nervous system.”

It worked a little then, but now I figured I needed a jackhammer to pulse out my anxiety. Entering the ring I managed to steer clear of the dozen or so other riders, who, thankfully, were no longer allowed to practice their jumping. We were ordered out and the show got underway. My event was third: a little breathing space but not too long a wait. For thirty minutes I hung around, trotting tentatively through the maze of riders whenever Bandi, restless, tossed his head and pranced. He seemed mad.

“Would you like me to canter him around to settle him a little?” Bobbi exuded enough calm for all three of us.

“Would you mind? It's a little crowded out there.” I hopped down.
Sweet relief
.

“Your steering is fine,” she said, reading my mind. “But I can burn off some of his energy.” Off she confidently trotted into the chaos.

This helped Bandi, but with my feet on
terra firma
I seriously considered scratching. I hated my cowardice so I tried to hold on. If I quit now, the next show would seem that much harder, and this was about as much “hard” as I could take.

Showtime. I remounted and walked through the gate into the ring under a crowd of about sixty spectators. Bobbi's last words to me were “Breathe.” I smiled because my yoga instructor repeats the same advice when I'm laboring through revolved side-angle pose. I fell in line to walk around the ring. Except for the occasional bark, child protest or distant loud speaker announcement from the jump field, all was hushed, or perhaps I just went inward with concentration. Throughout my ride, I maintained my personal space by circling to the middle. I redirected focus to my form—back straight and centered, thumbs up and elbows loose, heels down with legs along the girth. The judge commanded the posting trot and then a transition to walk as we changed direction for more of the same. This ordered procession contrasted favorably to the chaotic warm-up outside the ring, and the horses all calmly rose to the occasion. Bandi moved at ease beneath me.

Then, astonishingly, it was all over.

That's it? Did it last even five minutes?
My confidence just knocking at my opening door, we lined up as directed, awaiting the results.

I assessed our ride. We hadn't ridden our best. Typically lazy, or, in rider parlance “slow to my leg,” I had to nag too rhythmically to keep his motor going. We cut a few corners, but getting respectably through was enough. Bandi stood proud, still and alert, poised like he'd been there, done that, many a time. These equines are so like us—anxiety first, concentration on the task at hand, and then calm. Glancing outward, I saw Bobbi with a thumbs-up, and I spotted Scott, Elliot and Jane meandering across the field from the parking area. They had just missed my ride. I caught Scott's eye with a little wave. He pointed me out to the kids and they tore over.
They got here just in time to see me lose,
I thought, but the sight of them so excited was heartening.

I watched Janie smiling and waving, both kids hanging over the fence as they announced the third and second place winners. Janie gave me a pumping double thumbs-up.

“And in first place, Roxanne Bok riding ‘Steal the Show'.”

Can't be,
I thought.
Eight fairly experienced entrants, and I took the blue?

I choked up from the emotion of the last eighteen hours, but refocused on getting out of the ring without incident.

“Yea, Mommy!” Jane hopped up and down. “You won. You won!”

“Congratulations, Roxanne,” Bobbi said, not overly excited.

Scott smiled at me, and I teared up again.

In disbelief, I seriously considered it might have been rigged as reward for my falling off the day before.

“Did I really ride well?” Bandi stood calm and wise as Yoda now that we were done.

“Yes. There is no doubt about it: you were the most elegant out there.” She was serious in her brief analysis of the other riders.

“I guess what they say is true: bad practices lead to the best showings,” I concluded, as we collectively retreated to the barn. And that was the end of the celebratory gloating, because everyone dispersed to ready for the next rides. Exhilarated but already drained by 9:15 a.m., I noted there was plenty of show left.

Having just missed my event, the kids and Scott now had to wait several hours for Jane's turn. Watching riders and horses you don't know is the kind of drudgery that tests and proves familial love. Shows are deadly boring unless you ride yourself or have a vested interest in a horse or rider, and then their bit of glory is over in a flash. Not to mention all the down time, getting horses and riders in and out of the rings, re-grooming the footings, righting the knocked-over jumps and checking their heights, tallying up points, awarding ribbons, making announcements, giving the judges breaks. It's lethal unless you're gaga about equines.

Around 11:00 a.m. Bobbi rode her Toby in the hunter pace and won the blue. We justly celebrated for a few seconds. Jane's turn finally came, after much moaning and groaning and snack diversions, at 1:00. Scott and Elliot whined less but were equally restless. The sun beat down upon our hatless heads. We all traipsed into the relatively dark barn to get Bandi, who had been resting in his stall, tacked up again. Jane's spitfire
excitement made all tasks more difficult. She and her friend Toby giggled and tore around. “Stop running, guys,” I repeated. She tended to scream and run when hyped, two things that don't go down well with horses. My relief at my own success was short-lived: I began to fret about a revved-up Jane on Bandi.

Out again into the airy brightness, we lifted Jane into the saddle. Spotlighted by the sun, she shone. At this point Toby the boy, hit the wall in a tantrum. He had been waiting since the early morning for his moment too, but his lesson horse was still occupied elsewhere. We marched away listening to his pitifully loud, crying complaint. I felt guilty having our own horse when most kids rent, borrow or share.

Bobbi triple-looped the stirrups, and I laughed at Jane's short legs in full straddle but still barely reaching down Bandi's broad sides. Nevertheless, she kept her proud, erect posture, held the reins with thumbs up and hands down, and flashed a genuine, movie star smile. With the mountains and green pastures in the background Jane starred in her own real-life
National Velvet.
She was all head up there with that big black helmet and found it hilarious that her feet kept escaping the stirrups. Bobbi walked her around the grass, stopping to engage admirers, and led her into the ring. Four more riders followed. Except for the now pacified Toby, they were obviously experienced, and the two younger girls boasted jackets and hair ribbons that matched those in their horses' manes. They were unequivocally adorable; Jane on the other hand, in her white tee-shirt and sneakers, looked the cowgirl in comparison.
I could have done fancy
, I thought. It never occurred to me that this was also a runway, though I should have guessed from the glossy catalogs. Their little Ariat-footed boots urging their horses on, steadily the two fashion plates posted to the trot, even wild-man Toby, to my surprise. Jane trotted once in front of the judges, but then strenuously gesticulated to Bobbi that once was enough, and on the next pass they just walked. Outclassed and under-trained, Jane still had fun. Most importantly, Bandi behaved.

There was one last worrisome detail Jane warned me about before the show.

“Mama, I'm going to win the pink ribbon.”

“But Jane, blue is first place, and all the colors are good.”

“Nope. Only pink.”

She was determined. I didn't know what place pink was, but of course the odds were against her.

These littlest entrants lined up. Jane waved furiously at us, nearly knocking herself off her mount as they awarded all the ribbons. They announced her name first and an ecstatic Jane shouted “I won!” The judge held out the green ribbon to which Jane shook her head furiously. Bobbi quick-talked, and Jane was handed the pink. Bobbi was quite right—pink is fifth and green sixth. Sometimes things just work out. All the other riders also “won,” with one of the snazzy girls taking the blue.