Horsekeeping (34 page)

Boisterous Hawk wasn't all that easy to handle, and I despaired I'd ever figure out the tack on my own. I thought this, at least, would be manageable right off the bat. But I appreciated his spunk: Hawkster was eager to show us his stuff, proud even. Surprisingly strong, when he shifted into forward it required nearly all my strength to hold him, but after a few more adjustments we sat ready for take-off. Elliot and Scott were at a hockey game, so Jane and I pioneered the maiden voyage. The cart comfortably seats two full-sized adults so Bobbi and I squeezed Jane between us covering our legs with a horse blanket to bind us together. Bobbi gently flicked the long driving whip above Hawk's muscular back. With a jerk he walked up the driveway, and we turned onto the road.

“This is fun,” Jane squealed. “Can we go faster?”

“Trot on, Hawk,” Bobbi commanded, and flicked the whip again. Hawk gathered himself into a nice steady trot. We couldn't help but giggle. Hawk didn't realize his size: he took his work seriously, unaware that he mimicked a coin-operated child's ride only with a linear forward motion. His teacup, barefooted hooves quaintly echoed a delicate clip-clop, clip-clop, along beautiful Weatogue Road. We waved at our neighbors, their curious faces pressed up against their windows, and traced the curves of the Housatonic River, sluggish brown with impending winter. A Currier and Ives scene freed from its frame, we rolled along marveling at the enhanced perspective courtesy of the slower pace, more open and relaxed than by car. A clarity of vision: the cut of individual leaves rather than a blur of green, the swifter current and eddies of the river, the very air unfiltered by windshield glass, the breeze frostier on our cheeks. Hawk genially accepted the few cars that passed us, each driver slowing with a double-take and lots of pointing, followed by enthusiastic waves and smiles.

As we approached some boulders on our right, Hawk quick-timed an about face and bolted for home. Bobbi jumped out the side and grabbed the reins near his mouth to set him back on course. It seems Hawk takes exception to large grey rocks, a prolific species in New England's glacier-dragged landscape. George habitually claimed our lawn grows them, and I suppose it does: long-buried, it's hard to begrudge ancient stones their patient exhumation to the surface air and light. We urged Hawk past his granite peril and continued on to disabuse him of the notion that he was in charge: the two-leggeds would dictate the terms of the ride. An hour later, cold but exhilarated, we tapped into the barn and heaped praise on our studly little stallion as we un-tethered him from his work.

I guessed driving would be a favorite pursuit around the farm and sure enough, by the next spring my kids and I would be directing Hawk around our hay fields, with Elliot entrusted with the reins. We found Hawk's canter comical, not in the least frightening, and we all laughed as we went. He still spooked at rocks, but we learned to jump out and give him courage.

Over those fall weekends at the farm we immersed ourselves in the language of animals and the rhythms of the barn. Scott entered into the spirit and found he appealed to the barn cats. Black-and-white “Smudge,” Meghan's latest rescue, wove herself in and around Scott's denimed calves, purring for attention. Petting and talking to her, Scott rallied above his usual miming the motions of animal connection. I surreptitiously watched the two of them and hoped Scott had awakened to the many pleasures proffered by four-footed creatures.

Our top barn cat, Ninja, grew stand-offish with everyone, but liked to bring Bobbi heads or haunches of the mice he'd scored and happily berthed in the fake fur house I bought him for Christmas. In keeping with our black-and-white theme, Meghan toted home another stray (one of the hazards of her job at the local animal shelter), and dapper Tuxedo, who resembled an aging Elvis, became our very own king of Weatogue Stables. We couldn't accurately calculate his antiquity, but his spine
sagged and his hind legs splayed, and he cowboy-swaggered like John Wayne into the sunset. “Bag o' bones” was no metaphor once you'd met Tux. Extremely affectionate, “old man” appreciated his cushy accommodations—Meghan claimed rescues are indeed grateful—and scored big with the kids. His seniority earned him sleeping rights in Meghan's cottage, anywhere he desired, usually in bed or next to her Boxer. Tuxedo's hearing was shot, his fur slick, his back too boney and his skin flaky, and Meghan had lain awake in fear of his occasional wheezing in the dead of night, but so far he's righted himself by morning. He had finally hit upon some good digs and wasn't departing without a fight. We knew his ninth life with us was precious and that when he'd die I'd miss checking for his low, slow frame as I backed my car out of the parking lot.

Balancing the age spectrum at the farm, the youngster bunnies grew so each week we noticed the difference. Out of rabbit spunk they would nip at us, and we anticipated the ritual spaying in hopes of better manners by dimming their nesting instinct. Their health also benefits and we'd avoid a bunny farm, though we still believed both Hera and Diana were female. The kids handled the bunnies and cats more adeptly each week and fawned over pony Cleo who turned out to be one terrific teacher. Jane soon rode her unaided around the ring, weaving haphazardly (she steered like her mother) and steadfastly refusing to trot, or “bounce.” Elliot picked up the canter very easily on this tolerant mare, and both kids learned tack and groomed with increasing ability. Hoof-picking was a favorite task, one privilege of youth being a robust spine. Patient Cleo kept each hoof aloft while Elliot and Jane clumsily chipped out every piece of packed dirt, manure, stones and mud. It was wonderful to see them work and ride.

The clothes and equipment were piling up. Jane's little brown barn boots brought smiles, as did her miniature breeches, black velvet hat and hot pink gloves. I rashly purchased Elliot a set of full chaps in black suede, very cool, but installing him into them exhausted us such that we never attempted it again. I couldn't argue since he sticks to the saddle
pretty well without the extra help. They look good hanging in the tack room under his helmet, however, and I imagine an older Jane might be more willing to suffer for fashion. I've further indulged myself too, with all styles of breeches, insulated winter boots, lined black gloves and tan and beige crocheted airy ones, and a black velvet helmet as an alternative to my matte-finish one reinforced with titanium. I spotted a clunky silver charm bracelet hanging a horseshoe, a four leaf clover, a hoof pick, a bucket, a bridle, a helmet, a stirrup, and a first prize ribbon, and I found a matching, more delicate one for Jane for Christmas.

The week before Thanksgiving found us content with the way things were going. Our first boarder enjoyed the barn and Bobbi's instruction, and word spread about Weatogue Stables. As the place grew into itself, I began to get my nerve back about Bandi. After riding the kids' pony Cleo once, I realized that size and familiarity were important. An embarrassing but instructive debut, I found her smaller size made me more rather than less precarious, and my top-heaviness ushered me gratefully back to my wide-bodied Bandicoot. His fuller mass below balanced my height, and I immediately felt at home again. I realized how far Bandi and I had come together, how accustomed I'd grown to his bouncy trot and smooth, forward canter. Maybe he was the right horse after all, and I vowed again to seal our deal.

Evening became my favorite time at the barn, when the horses are brought in from a full day out in the fields to be fed, re-blanketed, checked over for injury or ailment, and bedded down for the night. Bobbi mentioned the magical hours between four o'clock to seven, and on occasion over the fall weeks I'd sneak down and spend an hour or two helping to muck out and feed, dispense carrots, and listen to Bobbi and Meghan talk about the day and each horse's regular habits or, just as often, his or her newly presented physical or emotional quirk. With dusk falling, the hungry horses' impatient whinnying and chortling for food first erupts in frenzied munching and neighborly sniping as feed
buckets are brought out and distributed quickly down the line, eventually resolving in a contented peace.

Satiated horses nod their heads and doze, root around their woody shavings, make half-hearted faces at their neighbors, breathe and sigh more heavily and deeply. Any remaining restlessness shifts to a hushed repose when human and animal work is done for another day. Horse Shavasana—relaxed and alert at once, self-contained with an egoless, calm mind. At these bewitching hours, a working barn maximizes its microcosmic spellbound aspect: a world so specific to itself, shiplike in its protected enclosure of care, camaraderie and knowledge linking human to human and to beast. I relaxed into its hold like I have never done anywhere else.

In twilight I stepped into Bandi's stall and fed him carrots one by one. The dew already chilled the aisles, but Bandi's cozy bedroom retained his radiating warmth. Together we leaned against the wooden side wall. He leaned tired, probably from fight-playing with Hawk, and soon he settled his heavy head on my shoulder. I stroked his face and massaged his neck at the withers. He fell asleep. I breathed deep to match his pace and slow my heartbeat. We sank into lethargy. I marveled at his trust: almost asleep on my feet, I was non-threatening—accepted. His head relaxed heavier. Both of us relieved from steady watchfulness, we rested calmly about fifteen minutes. Our exquisite interlude was over in a flash. Next door, Chase loudly kicked his wall, bringing ever watchful Bandi to that Quarter Horse-quick attention. I jumped cleanly out of his way, just.

I knew then the exquisite privilege of horses, what I now perceive when another horse person's eyes catch my sympathetic reflection: the shared experience of having entered the sanctum sanctorum of horse space, a slim cross-shadowing of us with “other.” They let us co-opt their freedom in captivity. They need and we supply; we need and they supply. Traced to 3,500 B.C., the connection transcends species boundaries, similar to what I imagine bound Jane Goodall to her chimps.

But the evening heralds darkness, too. That December as fall crisped
into white winter, we peacefully mucked, party planned and chatted to and about horses. The usual day's end routine. Our neighbor John Bottass wandered in. I was always happy to see him. An early supporter of our venture, he had also helped Bobbi with some crucial, couldn't-wait haying. I knew I could count on his help in a pinch. We all shook hands in greeting. I immediately noticed John's pale aspect.

“This is my sister, Ann,” John said. “I told her all about the barn and wanted to show her around.”

“By all means; show away.” I swept my arm wide, liking the authentic feeling of farmerly camaraderie.

“You guys really did a wonderful thing for our town by fixing up this old place. It looks just great,” he said as his eyes watered.

“John, how's your grandson?”

John's son Danny also lives on our road, working with John on the farm. Danny's fourteen-year-old son Daniel had been fighting brain cancer for several years. On Memorial Day, Danny and his family missed our annual party because Daniel spiked a high fever. They headed to Hartford Hospital instead. Danny was once again in the thick of a miserable treatment.

“Daniel passed the day before yesterday. He just couldn't make it,” John said, maintaining control with difficulty, his pain filling the large barn.

“Oh, John, I'm
so
sorry,” Bobbi and I echoed simultaneously. Tears sprang to our eyes, and I thought hard about what to say. But what words are there? The death of a child is the worst possible thing. The magical hour fell as fairy dust revealing that dusky melancholy that can petrify even the bravest, philosophically or religiously secure souls.

“Oh John, it's so very, very unfair,” I said. “How is Danny?”

“Oh, he's not so good. Even though you think you're prepared, when it happens you really aren't.”

“How about you, John?”

“Well, it's hard; see, Daniel was the one who wanted to be a farmer and take over the place after me. He had a knack for it and a love of the land. He even wanted to get us back into dairy farming again.” John's words
quavered, and I've never seen him be anything but strong and tough, often bordering on belligerent. Now his long, sagging body and ruddy complexion belied a permanent inner sadness. He looked ten years older.

My tears leaked as I repeated the paltry platitudes of brotherly sorrow, thoughts for, and offers of help to his family. I later wrote to Danny and his wife that our beautiful Canaan valley would always remind us of Daniel and sent a donation to the hospital in his honor, but my ineffectiveness scared me.
Please God don't take a child from me,
I selfishly begged. But there is no soothing balm, nothing to be said or done, no protection; we cower naked, soft flesh open to smiting. John, Danny and his family will suffer forever, this I know all too well from my mother's early death. We say the bankrupt words, send the checks, go to the memorials, give a prayer of thanks for our own kids' current, dubious safety, invoke a silent, psychic talisman by vowing to appreciate “the important things in life,” but the death of a child, even more than that of a young mother, makes you doubt horses, love, the beauty of nature, any safety you think you've cobbled together, God, everything—a sickening sip of nihilism.