AS SOON AS MY SON, aka The River, could walk, he wanted to ride as well. When we lived in Los Angeles, we lived near an enormous public park crammed with kid stuff–playgrounds, train rides, a big carousel, and pony rides. We took him on a lark, thinking he wasn’t really old enough to circle around on a pony, even with the special saddle strapped around his waist to hold him in place. Judging from the expression on his face in this picture, we were wrong.
When we made the gigantic decision to uproot our family and move 2856 miles across the country (but who’s counting?), we found ourselves with an absurdly fortunate problem. The house we were working to buy came with a bonus: two barns, the oldest one originally part of a dairy farm, but converted by the time we got it into stalls for horses, the other a newer building meant as a riding space for horses.
It never occurred to me that I might live with horses. I rode them at summer camp, even toyed with taking riding lessons “for real” in college, but never went any farther. Riding, let alone keeping and caring for horses, always seemed an absurd luxury, one unlikely to be part of my family’s day-to-day life. But as we planned for this move, it seemed crazy not to ride.
We found a stable and trainer (yep, in that enormous L.A. park) and started taking lessons together every weekend. Our favorite horse was a gentle giant, a 25-year-old warmblood gelding named Trooper. We took turns (not the Rock, who not yet 2, was definitely too small to participate) and encouraged each other to develop balance and confidence. None of us advanced much, but we had fun, and loved the sweet smell of the barn, playing hide and seek with the barn cats, learning to brush and groom the giant beasts who so graciously allowed us to climb atop their backs.
After we settled down from the chaos of moving, the River asked if he could take riding lessons. (Actually, I’m pretty sure he first asked for his own horse, which sent the H off in search of a cocktail, and me into an involved explanation of why that was not going to happen, no matter what kind of buildings he saw just down the hill from his house.) Instead, I found a sweet teacher with gentle horses, and he started taking lessons. The Rock tagged along, nuzzled the pet bunnies who also lived there, and generally ignored the whole process of riding. At home, the River learned to ride his bicycle in the dirt-floored riding arena, and we kept chickens in a couple of the horse stalls. The buildings were not, perhaps, living up to their potential, but at least we hadn’t neglected them completely.
When the River’s schedule changed and we had to find him a new teacher, the Rock dutifully came along with us on Saturday mornings. The new teacher had a bigger barn, with boarding horses as well as her own, and the Rock happily fed carrots to the horses and “helped” the teenage riders who worked mucking stalls and grooming on weekends. But she never asked to get on a horse. We set her in the saddle once or twice, the teacher led her around, but she didn’t have much to say about it one way or the other. The H and I went back to our lessons, too, and secretly, I think, exhaled relief that we were not parenting a horse-crazed little girl. The River had given up asking for his own horse, and perhaps his sister would never start.
One sunny afternoon early last fall, a woman and her daughters pulled into our driveway. They knew the woman who’d owned our land before, the one who’d turned the old dairy barn into a stable, who’d built the riding arena and put up the fencing to create paddocks. Would we consider letting their family rent some stall space for the winter?
Kristen wasn’t the first person who’d approached us about using our barns. Others had called, or left notes tacked on the fence posts, or approached us through a friend or neighbor, and we talked to them all. We never felt ready to take the leap. Some wanted to run a boarding stable in our front yard: not our cup of tea. Another wanted to put some of his beautiful Black Angus cattle in our field, which was aesthetically appealing but a lot of livestock cohabitation for two non-farmers to contemplate. Something about Kristen was different. The H went to visit her barn, where she boards retired horses, and watched two of her daughters, 12 and 8, ride. Something about her, her family, and her way with horses made us say yes.
When winter came, so did Kristen and her horses, and suddenly our fields and barn came to life. Two horses and two ponies now stood out in the fields every morning, blanketed on the cold days, frolicking in the snow when the sun was out. We’d sometimes go down when we knew the family was there working, watching them clean stalls, tack up their horses, work them out when it was warm enough.
The River had stopped his lessons for the winter; it was too windy and cold at our teacher’s barn. Kristen asked if we wanted her to let him ride Zoey, a sweet ginger-colored pony, at our house one (slightly) warm afternoon, and none of us could resist. The Rock followed us all into the barn, watching as her brother adjusted his helmet and climbed into the saddle. “Can I have a turn, too?” I looked at Kristen, who shrugged a “Why not?”
I don’t know where to place the blame for what followed. Maybe sibling rivalry kicked in, or maybe Zoey, the bombproof sweet pony, was just irresistible. The Rock put on her bike helmet, since none of us had a riding helmet small enough. She didn’t have riding boots, so her rubber rain boots substituted. She sat so tall in the saddle that she looked like she’d grown 2 inches. “Do you know what to say to make Zoey move?” Kristen asked, after securing the rains and shortening the stirrups. “Walk on, Zoey,” said a tiny voice. The River watched silently as his little sister showed us all what a natural rider looks like: perfectly balanced, even riding with no hands. “Oh, you’re in trouble,” laughed Kristen.
Since that day, the kids have ridden Zoey more and more. The River is struggling with what he doesn’t yet know how to do: “It’s your fault I can’t canter, Mom! You made me stop riding this winter!” while the Rock gleefully trills, “Did you see me trot?” And I find myself torn between feeling thrilled for my daughter, who does seem to have an innate talent for riding, even at 4, and sorrow for my son, who is having the first experience he’s ever had of being bested by his younger sibling. Mind you, the Rock has had to live with this her whole life, watching her brother easily perform tasks that left her out in the cold.
The River’s frustration came to a head this week, when he stomped out of the barn. “I’m not riding today. I don’t know why, but I just don’t want to.” Meanwhile, there’s the girl who’s usually his little mimic and shadow, twirling around on Zoey’s back to touch her toes. I don’t want him to stop riding, but I also don’t know how to help him find the confidence to go on, faced with the possibility that his little sister might have found something she can do better. Will this cure him of his perfectionism, or turn into an opportunity to bash his sister? And what to do about the fact that, in spite of our early hesitation, this winter also brought us our own horse, a retired racer named Dacos? Stay tuned.
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I am sitting in a ski lodge in Taho as my patient husband takes my kids skiing. My eldest, like the River, is contunially miffed by the fact that her brother, 2.5 years younger, is not only catching up to her in most things that require coordination, but often surpassing her. “Mommy, he can’t ride the chair lift ALONE! I only did that last year!” (Actually I am kind of in agreement with her, imagining him hurling himself off for fun.) Yet, yesterday his ski school gals told me he did ride it without hurling himself and did so with great delight.
He is off his training wheels now on his bike and we just removed hers last year. She likes to re-write history and tell him she’s been riding with two wheels for years….It is so hard. He is driven to catch up and is naturally athletic like his Dad, and she then is devastated and tries to put him down at every chance. “You won’t be able to ski a blue for years,” she tells him – and yet I imagine he is just days away from racing down the blue marked slopes.
I try to tell them that everyone has different strengths. They laugh when I tell them that they are probably already better skiers than their Mom. (Which admittedly is not that hard to be.) Anyway, I don’t have any advise really about what to tell the River about the Rock…just to say my kids go through the same struggle.
miss you
Lee