The next morning, I was up bright and early to care for Nickers. As I entered the barn, he, living up to his name, nickered at me and poked his head over the stall door. Already he had improved, as though recognizing that he was in a better place.
Dale had me bring him out to the cross-ties, which are two leads attached to the stable walls, holding the horse in between and providing limited movement. That morning it was my job to groom him, clean his hooves, and do what I could to see what he could and could not tolerate. Much to my joy, he seemed to enjoy his grooming, made no aggressive moves, and although he remained a bit skittish, he warmed to me quickly and cooporated when he understood what I was asking of him. I was a bit clumsy in my movements, but Nickers was forgiving and even playful.
The crossties we were using had a lot of give, and as I lifted his front hoof, he nuzzled the back of my jacket, which lifted it, allowing a cool breeze to enter...and tickled me! As it was, since I didn't want to drop his hoof and reinforce bad behavior or haabits, I cleaned his hoof while giggling at his mischief.
Nickers was a friendly boy, but remained fearful of Dale, who, trained as a Farrier, was responsible for floating (filing) his teeth and trimming his hooves. Yet we got through this chore, then it was time for me to go to school. As my activities had made it impossible for me to catch the bus, Dale had agreed to drive me in that day.
"So what do you think of him?" I asked as I jumped into his old Ford Ranger.
"Well..." The engine started with a rumble and he gave it some gas, then switched on the defroster. "He's been neglected, that's for sure, but with a little TLC he'll be a good horse for you." Dale twisted in his seat as he backed the truck up and paused, concentrating until we were on the two-lane that ran past the farm.
"He's an Arabian, though, and they're high-strung animals. It seems he's got a sweet temperment, but right now he's on a 'honeymoon' of sorts. Be on your guard." Dale paused, concentrating on the icy roads, but glanced at me sideways. "You know he can't be ridden for awhile..."
I nodded. "I know. I don't care about riding him." I was lying. I'd always wanted an Arabian, but I wasn't stupid...this horse was so thin, and I knew he couldn't be ridden, so it was easier for me to prepare to never ride him. But then what was he good for?
Dale was silent, leaving me to stew in my lie, but then began speaking of what we would need to do. The biggest part of his training would be to get him used to being around people again, and then, perhaps, we'd see what he could do.
I told Dale about Silver, Mom's story, and he allowed that, while such a scenario was possible, it was unlikely. Nickers was in rough shape, but he wasn't critical. We would save Nickers.
That day in school, although tired, I was walking on air. I had a horse!
Immediately after school, I changed and rushed to the barn to see my horse. Dale had let him out to roam around the paddock closest to the barn, but he still saw me coming and trotted to the rail, greeting me with his trademark nicker.
I reached up to rubbed his forehead, realizing that although he needed attention, I had to focus on my studies. Dale came out of the barn and joined me at the fence. This time Nickers did not shy away, although he was not not yet ready to greet Dale with the same enthusiasm.
We spoke of what was to come; Dale was insistent that I focus on my homework. While Nickers needed attention, he felt that my education was mor important. My guess was that Mom had called and laid down the law.
"He's looking good." I jumped, then turned to see Sharon Bryski who had joined us. She stood looking at Nickers critically, her head cocked to the side. "I've been watching him; he's been a show horse." She shook her head, muttering to herself about the "throwaway culture" that spares no expense only to turn treasure into glue.
I said nothing as Sharon came to lean on the fence. Nickers, curious, carefully approached and, leaning towards her, snuffed a bit and then turned his attention back to me. Sharon handed me a treat which I passed on to him. As he happily munched away at the horse biscuit, Sharon explained that, indeed, Mom had called, and wanted to be certain there was no problem with the horse staying at their farm.
"Kaya, I'm not going to lie; it's expensive to keep a horse. It's not Dale's job to look after various rescues, but at the same time, I think we all are in agreement that this little guy needs help. You did the right thing, and we're all for rewarding the right thing." She paused, gazing into the other pastures. "Nickers has a home here as long as he needs it, and we need your help to take care of him. During the week, you have to focus on school. I have asked your mother to keep us abrest...if your grades fall, something will have to be done. We can take care of Nickers....but you have to help as you can. We have odd jobs that need to be done, and if you're going to work at the Dubai's ranch, you'll need to know how to clean stalls. We can teach you that...on your own horse."
I stared at her, surprised. The Dubai's (as we commonly called the local Arab Oil-Baron farm) were a competitor to them, and apparently Mom had revealed my "career goals."
Sharon smirked, raising her eyebrow as she glanced at me sideways. "Yeah, I know all about it. Back in the day, we'd be trying to lure you away...but now...." She sighed. "We're struggling. Dale needs help as it is. We can take Nickers, and he'll likely be a great stable-mate to some of our horses. For now, I'm only going to ask you help with him as you can. Get good grades, work hard, and we'll let you work off Nicker's board. It's the least we can do."
I didn't know what to say. Mom had warned me about the cost of board, and as it was, they weren't asking for anything but responsibility. I knew all about that.
"Thank you." What else could I say?
"Kaya, I used to be just like you, but my family already had horses. We already had this land. I can't imagine what it would be like to grow up pining after the horses with no ability to be close to them. You are blessed, both to be living surrounded by horses, and because your Mom understands you. We can provide the land, and the barn, and the feed...as long as you meet us half-way. Deal?"
I agree, we shook on it, and then continued to stand companionably at the fence. Nickers, although a bit intimidated by all the people loved the attention and stood, turning from one to another and back to me, begging treats and pats. I knew he had a good home here, and, understanding that, I relaxed in great relief. Yeah, I had to go to school, but in the meantime, my new friend could live in comfort.
***
As it was, winter passed into spring, and while the Bryski's focused on training their horses for the upcoming meet at Canterbury, I spent the lengthening days with Nickers. He had fattened greatly, had warmed up to people in general, and had proven himself not only to be a clown, but a gifted saddle horse. We had been careful with Nickers; I spent may hours with the longe line, putting Nickers through his paces under different types of saddles. He never objected. Finally, it was time to climb aboard. Mom was there, watching nervously as Dale held his head and I climbed aboard. For a moment, Nickers stood, still as a statue. I was ready for anything, trying to remember how to do the emergency dismount should he truly object to my weight.
Finally, though, he relaxed, turned his head, and nuzzled my toe. Let's go!
So it was.
Mom forbid me to ride alone, and Dale agreed, so our rides were limited to the training arena and home pastures for the time being. Dale promised that, eventually, we'd go further, but not without an escort. As he needed to take some of the stable ponies out for rides now and then, he tried to hold off until after school or weeks so I could go with him on Nickers. Sharon and Bob also liked a friendly jaunt when they could, and as the weather warmed, in spite of the business in getting ready for the summer racing season, we all went out on trail rides together, renewing our spirits, rejuvenating our souls...and training our mounts.
Already Nickers was proving himself to be a stable horse, occasionally showing his Arabian blood, but for the most part, was a surprisingly calming presence for some of the more fractious horses in the stable. Trinity Creek wasn't a large farm, but they had need of stable ponies and as summer came, I gave my blessing to the Bryski's to take Nickers to the track with their other horses. It broke my heart to do it, but as that was the summer I turned 16, I also realized that, as I'd be working at the Dubai's, I had no time for Nickers. He'd be happy at the track, and Mom said I could go on weekends if I could get a ride there and back.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Chapter Five
Dale drove me home that night, and by the time we arrived, the lights were on in the house. Mom was home. I was terrified. Dale gave me a sympathetic wink and then was off, leaving me standing at the roadside in front of my house, knowing I had to face the Wrath of Mom alone.
I already knew what she was going to say. How was I going to pay for this, because SHE sure as HELL was not going to spend a penny on "that animal" as long as she was working so hard just to feed me and pay our bills. My head was so far into the clouds already, what was I thinking bringing a horse home, never mind the fact that I didn't really bring him home. How could I possibly know how to take care of a horse, and a neglected one at that? Was I aware of the problems he could have, both medical and behavioral? And never mind the vet bills...how was I going to pay for board, because, yessiree Lady, YOU are responsible for this horse, not ME and don't come cryin' to me for help with ANYTHING with regard to this creature. I warned you once, I warned you twice, and now your reckless, heedless, stupid decisions have written checks you don't even have an account to cash. And-what-do-you-have-to-say-for-yourself-Kaya-Marie-O'Brien!
All this went through my head. I knew what she was going to say; I knew her lectures, I'd listened to many, and I knew her accusations, her concerns, and her demands even before I darkened the door. And now I've gone and rescued a horse.
It never occurred to me, at that time, that I had a defense that was very simple, and that, in fact, Mom might want to hear it before she lit into me. It never occurred to me that Mom had a soft side, because I so rarely saw it.
It's not that I didn't think Mom loved me; no. If nothing else, I knew, even in the depths of my anger, that even deeper within my heart I knew she did what she did and said what she said out of love. And so that night I expected the worst, the sharpest section of her hard edge to come out, because, really...I knew I had acted foolishly and only the grace of God in the form of a friendly horselover had come to my aid.
So I walked in, having no sense of how disheveled I appeared. I tried to be nonchalant, but Mom was having nothing of it.
"Where have you been?" She was at the sink, pouring pasta into a strainer, the steam rising.
I cringed guiltily; I was supposed to have the spaghetti ready by the time she got home. I'd forgotten. Dale would have sent me home immediately if he knew I was supposed to prepare dinner for Mom, even given the situation. He would have managed.
"Um...over the hill..." I was taking my boots off, heading down the hallway to my room to change, needing to wash up before going into the kitchen. Mom would not find my appearance to be acceptable at the dinner table.
But she didn't let me get all the way down the hallway before calling me again.
"Yeah...you come here. You'll be under the hill in a second unless you give me a really good reason why you weren't home writing your paper like you were supposed to be." She was wiping her hands on her apron; that's why I was supposed to cook dinner, because she had to work and would be handling food all night. It was part of our agreement...I was supposed to cook so her time off could be spent sleeping and being a Mom rather than working.
I was already crying out of guilt alone, but stopped in my tracks. This conversation was going to happen on her time, not mine.
I turned and walked back towards the kitchen until I could see her silhouette against the light over the stove. Her expression was unreadable as I approached and stood before her, shaking, smelling like a barn. Mom didn't seem to care.
She waited for me to speak; I knew this routine, and couldn't even meet her eyes.
"Mom...I have to tell you about Nickers..."
"Tell me about Nickers." She lit a cigarette and stood, leaning in the doorway, seeming to provide a barrier between the barn I carried in my clothing to the scent of homemade spaghetti sauce that wafted, still cooking on the kitench stove.
"Well...I told you about him...he was a neglected horse...." I paused, thinking she already knew the end to this story.
"Go on." She exhaled, waving the smoke away from me. She knew I hated that she smoked. The hard edge had left her voice.
"Well...he's at Trinity Creek tonight...because of me...because he's...mine." I stopped there, looking at the floor, terrified to see her expression. Terrified of the lecture that was coming. Not wanting to hear her voice raised in anger, to add stress to her life. Mom worked so hard, and now she'd work harder, even if she said she wouldn't, because that's how Mom was. She'd argue, but really, she'd see that what was done was done...and I would watch her suffer for it and be forced to give up what I wanted. Because I couldn't do this to her. And even if she didn't want ME to feel guilty, she'd make me feel it anyway. She often called herself a "Jewish Mother" although I never understood why. That night maybe I understood a little more...but not at that moment. At that time, I waited for the guilt trip.
She said nothing, simply stared at me, inhaling and exhaling, the cigarette a brief glow of embers in the shadows of the hallway, the smoke unseen but wafting around us, enveloping us in that cloud that always seemed present since I'd hit my teenage years.
I couldn't look her in the eye. Mom hated horses, as far as I knew, but I never knew why. Yeah, she thought they were beautiful, but only from afar. She indulged my love of them to a certain degree, making her displeasure known at every turn.
Mom finished her cigarette and turned away. "Get changed. We'll talk about this over dinner."
I stood there, shocked. Where was the lecture? Was she so angry that she couldn't even speak? How long was I going to be grounded? Obediently I turned and went to my room to change, trying not to cry. I could not give her the satisfaction.
By the time I got into the kitchen, Mom already had dinner on the table and was dousing her pasta with sauce. I went to the fridge to get the milk, and poured a glass for us both before being seated across from her.
There was silence while we both ate, the only sound being that of the AM radio station Mom liked so much. We heard the news and the weather, and then Paul Harvey came on to tell us "...the REST of the story."
But we never got to Paul Harvey's ending, because Mom wanted to know about my story. She knew about the neglected horse in the field behind the forest that separated our house from the neighboring lands. She knew I, along with everyone else in the area, used the deer run as a trail and it was as good as a highway for the neighborhood kids and local horse owners.
So all I did was give her more information, described his condition, and the conversations I'd had with the local horsemen. She nodeed all the while, softening. I was surprised...where was the lecture? Even as I explained what Dale and I had done that night with the little Bay and what was ahead of us, Mom just nodded her approval.
Finally the tale was done, and I sat in miserable silence, still expecting the worst.
Dinner was done, and we sat in the kitchen, both silently, I waiting, Mom...contemplating while she inhaled yet another stick of nicotine. She didn't look at me and didn't speak, but her expression was one I didn't feel I could interrupt. Even fearing to move, I could not remain where I was, so began to clear the table and bring the dishes to the sink.
When I had finished washing dishes and putting the food away, Mom was again ready to speak and gestured for me to sit down again. I did so, bracing myself.
"I loved horses when I was your age, and, being that we lived on a farm, we had lots of horses around us. They were all treated well, much like the horses down the road that belong to the Sheiks from Dubai." She paused, inhaling deeply, and exhaled a stream of smoke before continuing. "I never had a horse of my own, exactly, but had them at my disposal, any time I wanted. Ownership never really occurred to me, because it wasn't necessary."
She finished off her cigarette and tosssed it into the ashtray before lighting another. I watched the hypnotic ritual, the only one I'd ever known with such intimacy, and tried to ignore Mom's cough. She tried again.
"Ownership wasn't necessary to us...we didn't own our horses, but really worked for and with them. And because we, and everyone around us, knew how to take care of animals, I became very attuned to those who were suffering. I couldn't bear to see an animal suffer." She took a deep breath, this time leaving staring out over my shoulder into the livingroom and through the front window, seemingly through the darkness of the winter night that lay outside.
"Where we lived, there was a pasture and a barn set aside for people who paid to board their horses, and every so often, a new horse or so would appear in the pasture. Usually the new owner would become known, because most showed up on weekends or other days off to ride. They had to come to the tack room to get their stuff, or contact the Manager for help contacting a farrier or a vet, if they were new to the area. So we got to know all the owners pretty quick.
"But sometimes...no one would ever show up. All the horses were fed out of troughs and via hay bales and salt licks, every day, right on schedule. They had a herd mentality, those whose owners could not afford to keep them in a stall overnight, and so sometimes it took awhile before we realized there were extra horses. But the farm owners made sure there was enough feed; they always accounted for "losses" of some sort, and I learned a lot about horse and herd behavior by hanging out at this pasture during the week, just watching them.
"I was also often the first to spot a 'stowaway', and always told my Dad. Not because I was afraid that the farm owner was being ripped off; rather, that the animal had no one to love him. I befriended all the lost animals at that farm. It didn't matter if they were horses, dogs, cats, goats, or snakes."
I looked up at her, surprised by this last admission. Mom was smiling, her dark Irish eyes snapping in good humor through her reminiscence. Her laugh was nearly a giggle as she caught my expression. "Oh, yes...I didn't mind the snakes, so long as they didn't catch me by surprise!"
I smiled, relieved Mom wasn't angry. Her stories were always wonderful, but I missed hearing them, and it had been so long since I'd seen her smile like that.
Mom continued, "One of the horses dumped there we called 'Silver' for he looked so liked the Lone Ranger's horse, even in his wretched state. I used to go to him every day, and the treats or food I had for him fell out of my hand. One day, one of the boarders found me trying to feed Silver, and I was crying. He returned to the barn and came back to me with a feed bag, helping the horse eat. But even he could see the problem...the horse was wasted away. He couldn't get sufficient nutrition because he was too far gone. This horse needed a vet. Other boarders tried to help, too, and finally, everyone, from the richest to the poorest, pooled their money and called the vet."
She paused again; this time, I saw tears brimming in her eyes. She blinked them away quickly before continuing. This time, she inhaled deeply of her cigarette and exhaled heavily, watching the smoke swirl away from her. Mom turned away for a moment, looking for a match, which she used to light a Glade candle in the center of the table.
"The Vet came out and did what he could. Boarders put together a schedule to care for this horse at all hours, making sure someone was there to provide medication at the weeist hours of the morning. People gave up time from work, time from their families, to care for this horse. They pooled for the money for a stall in the barn, and the farm owner himself actually donated a huge chunk for the medical bills and discounted the stall fee. He charged nothing for regular board."
She paused again, needing a break. I still didn't speak. It had been a long time since Mom had spoken like this...and from the look in her eyes she was not present in our kitchen, but was in that pasture with Silver, with those people, helping a horse survive.
"Silver rallied for awhile; he began to fill out, the brightness came to his eyes, he was interested in life...but it was too late. No matter what we did, his neglect was too extreme; he'd been starved for too long. The Boarders had a meeting among them; for all practical purposes, this was THEIR horse. The Farm owners attended, because he was on their land, and they, too, had tried to help. But nothing could be done. The all realized that it was time; and in the end, no one had to pay for the last vet visit; the Farm absorbed that cost. I was there the day the Vet came, and he let me stay. The farm owners were there, some of the boarders, but they let me stand, then kneel at Silver's head...they let me hold onto him until he was gone..."
Mom stood and walked out to the garage.
I got up, knowing what she was saying, knowing why she was leaving, wiping tears from my eyes. My Silver was Nickers...
Mom came back with a frayed blue halter in her hands. She held it so that the tarnished metal nameplate was visible to me.
"Silver".
I took the halter in my hands and rubbed my thumb against the surface of the nameplate. Silver.
Mom stood there, tears gleaming, but blinked back. She was strong, as always. It was I who was crying.
She spoke first. "One of the boarders had this made when I began feeding the horse. When I started out, he laughed at me. His own horse was old, he was retired himself, and I thought him unsentimental. But he was the one to bring the feedbag, and one day, he gave me this." She indicated the nameplate on the haltar. "He was the one to rally the troops, he was the one to organize everything, and Silver was wearing this when he died. Everyone saw him as my horse at that point...and so they gave me his haltar. I swore I would never witness such an agonizing death. I would never suffer such abuse."
I was still holding the haltar, and instead of "Silver" I was reading "Nickers".
Mom had passed on a trait to me; I was just as emotional as she, when given the opportunity. I'd never really seen her cry, nor did I that day, but I knew the tears were there; they were silent, but present, but it was my tears that fell.
When she next spoke, her tone was gentle.
"I know why you did what you did today. I know why you took the haltar and the horse and I would have done the same thing. The Bryski's are good people; do what Dale tells you to do, do what Bob and Sharon tell you to do, and learn from it. Nickers is your horse now."
Finally, it was time for me to speak. "You're...you're not mad?"
Mom looked at me, smiling.
"No, Honey, I'm not mad at you. How can I be mad? You're just like me! I just hope your actions save Nickers. But I expect you to live up to your agreement with Dale. I'll speak to the Bryski's if you need me to, but somehow, I think your own actions will do more than any of my words."
Silence descended upon the kitchen, and when Mom left for work, I remained, holding Silver's haltar.
I already knew what she was going to say. How was I going to pay for this, because SHE sure as HELL was not going to spend a penny on "that animal" as long as she was working so hard just to feed me and pay our bills. My head was so far into the clouds already, what was I thinking bringing a horse home, never mind the fact that I didn't really bring him home. How could I possibly know how to take care of a horse, and a neglected one at that? Was I aware of the problems he could have, both medical and behavioral? And never mind the vet bills...how was I going to pay for board, because, yessiree Lady, YOU are responsible for this horse, not ME and don't come cryin' to me for help with ANYTHING with regard to this creature. I warned you once, I warned you twice, and now your reckless, heedless, stupid decisions have written checks you don't even have an account to cash. And-what-do-you-have-to-say-for-yourself-Kaya-Marie-O'Brien!
All this went through my head. I knew what she was going to say; I knew her lectures, I'd listened to many, and I knew her accusations, her concerns, and her demands even before I darkened the door. And now I've gone and rescued a horse.
It never occurred to me, at that time, that I had a defense that was very simple, and that, in fact, Mom might want to hear it before she lit into me. It never occurred to me that Mom had a soft side, because I so rarely saw it.
It's not that I didn't think Mom loved me; no. If nothing else, I knew, even in the depths of my anger, that even deeper within my heart I knew she did what she did and said what she said out of love. And so that night I expected the worst, the sharpest section of her hard edge to come out, because, really...I knew I had acted foolishly and only the grace of God in the form of a friendly horselover had come to my aid.
So I walked in, having no sense of how disheveled I appeared. I tried to be nonchalant, but Mom was having nothing of it.
"Where have you been?" She was at the sink, pouring pasta into a strainer, the steam rising.
I cringed guiltily; I was supposed to have the spaghetti ready by the time she got home. I'd forgotten. Dale would have sent me home immediately if he knew I was supposed to prepare dinner for Mom, even given the situation. He would have managed.
"Um...over the hill..." I was taking my boots off, heading down the hallway to my room to change, needing to wash up before going into the kitchen. Mom would not find my appearance to be acceptable at the dinner table.
But she didn't let me get all the way down the hallway before calling me again.
"Yeah...you come here. You'll be under the hill in a second unless you give me a really good reason why you weren't home writing your paper like you were supposed to be." She was wiping her hands on her apron; that's why I was supposed to cook dinner, because she had to work and would be handling food all night. It was part of our agreement...I was supposed to cook so her time off could be spent sleeping and being a Mom rather than working.
I was already crying out of guilt alone, but stopped in my tracks. This conversation was going to happen on her time, not mine.
I turned and walked back towards the kitchen until I could see her silhouette against the light over the stove. Her expression was unreadable as I approached and stood before her, shaking, smelling like a barn. Mom didn't seem to care.
She waited for me to speak; I knew this routine, and couldn't even meet her eyes.
"Mom...I have to tell you about Nickers..."
"Tell me about Nickers." She lit a cigarette and stood, leaning in the doorway, seeming to provide a barrier between the barn I carried in my clothing to the scent of homemade spaghetti sauce that wafted, still cooking on the kitench stove.
"Well...I told you about him...he was a neglected horse...." I paused, thinking she already knew the end to this story.
"Go on." She exhaled, waving the smoke away from me. She knew I hated that she smoked. The hard edge had left her voice.
"Well...he's at Trinity Creek tonight...because of me...because he's...mine." I stopped there, looking at the floor, terrified to see her expression. Terrified of the lecture that was coming. Not wanting to hear her voice raised in anger, to add stress to her life. Mom worked so hard, and now she'd work harder, even if she said she wouldn't, because that's how Mom was. She'd argue, but really, she'd see that what was done was done...and I would watch her suffer for it and be forced to give up what I wanted. Because I couldn't do this to her. And even if she didn't want ME to feel guilty, she'd make me feel it anyway. She often called herself a "Jewish Mother" although I never understood why. That night maybe I understood a little more...but not at that moment. At that time, I waited for the guilt trip.
She said nothing, simply stared at me, inhaling and exhaling, the cigarette a brief glow of embers in the shadows of the hallway, the smoke unseen but wafting around us, enveloping us in that cloud that always seemed present since I'd hit my teenage years.
I couldn't look her in the eye. Mom hated horses, as far as I knew, but I never knew why. Yeah, she thought they were beautiful, but only from afar. She indulged my love of them to a certain degree, making her displeasure known at every turn.
Mom finished her cigarette and turned away. "Get changed. We'll talk about this over dinner."
I stood there, shocked. Where was the lecture? Was she so angry that she couldn't even speak? How long was I going to be grounded? Obediently I turned and went to my room to change, trying not to cry. I could not give her the satisfaction.
By the time I got into the kitchen, Mom already had dinner on the table and was dousing her pasta with sauce. I went to the fridge to get the milk, and poured a glass for us both before being seated across from her.
There was silence while we both ate, the only sound being that of the AM radio station Mom liked so much. We heard the news and the weather, and then Paul Harvey came on to tell us "...the REST of the story."
But we never got to Paul Harvey's ending, because Mom wanted to know about my story. She knew about the neglected horse in the field behind the forest that separated our house from the neighboring lands. She knew I, along with everyone else in the area, used the deer run as a trail and it was as good as a highway for the neighborhood kids and local horse owners.
So all I did was give her more information, described his condition, and the conversations I'd had with the local horsemen. She nodeed all the while, softening. I was surprised...where was the lecture? Even as I explained what Dale and I had done that night with the little Bay and what was ahead of us, Mom just nodded her approval.
Finally the tale was done, and I sat in miserable silence, still expecting the worst.
Dinner was done, and we sat in the kitchen, both silently, I waiting, Mom...contemplating while she inhaled yet another stick of nicotine. She didn't look at me and didn't speak, but her expression was one I didn't feel I could interrupt. Even fearing to move, I could not remain where I was, so began to clear the table and bring the dishes to the sink.
When I had finished washing dishes and putting the food away, Mom was again ready to speak and gestured for me to sit down again. I did so, bracing myself.
"I loved horses when I was your age, and, being that we lived on a farm, we had lots of horses around us. They were all treated well, much like the horses down the road that belong to the Sheiks from Dubai." She paused, inhaling deeply, and exhaled a stream of smoke before continuing. "I never had a horse of my own, exactly, but had them at my disposal, any time I wanted. Ownership never really occurred to me, because it wasn't necessary."
She finished off her cigarette and tosssed it into the ashtray before lighting another. I watched the hypnotic ritual, the only one I'd ever known with such intimacy, and tried to ignore Mom's cough. She tried again.
"Ownership wasn't necessary to us...we didn't own our horses, but really worked for and with them. And because we, and everyone around us, knew how to take care of animals, I became very attuned to those who were suffering. I couldn't bear to see an animal suffer." She took a deep breath, this time leaving staring out over my shoulder into the livingroom and through the front window, seemingly through the darkness of the winter night that lay outside.
"Where we lived, there was a pasture and a barn set aside for people who paid to board their horses, and every so often, a new horse or so would appear in the pasture. Usually the new owner would become known, because most showed up on weekends or other days off to ride. They had to come to the tack room to get their stuff, or contact the Manager for help contacting a farrier or a vet, if they were new to the area. So we got to know all the owners pretty quick.
"But sometimes...no one would ever show up. All the horses were fed out of troughs and via hay bales and salt licks, every day, right on schedule. They had a herd mentality, those whose owners could not afford to keep them in a stall overnight, and so sometimes it took awhile before we realized there were extra horses. But the farm owners made sure there was enough feed; they always accounted for "losses" of some sort, and I learned a lot about horse and herd behavior by hanging out at this pasture during the week, just watching them.
"I was also often the first to spot a 'stowaway', and always told my Dad. Not because I was afraid that the farm owner was being ripped off; rather, that the animal had no one to love him. I befriended all the lost animals at that farm. It didn't matter if they were horses, dogs, cats, goats, or snakes."
I looked up at her, surprised by this last admission. Mom was smiling, her dark Irish eyes snapping in good humor through her reminiscence. Her laugh was nearly a giggle as she caught my expression. "Oh, yes...I didn't mind the snakes, so long as they didn't catch me by surprise!"
I smiled, relieved Mom wasn't angry. Her stories were always wonderful, but I missed hearing them, and it had been so long since I'd seen her smile like that.
Mom continued, "One of the horses dumped there we called 'Silver' for he looked so liked the Lone Ranger's horse, even in his wretched state. I used to go to him every day, and the treats or food I had for him fell out of my hand. One day, one of the boarders found me trying to feed Silver, and I was crying. He returned to the barn and came back to me with a feed bag, helping the horse eat. But even he could see the problem...the horse was wasted away. He couldn't get sufficient nutrition because he was too far gone. This horse needed a vet. Other boarders tried to help, too, and finally, everyone, from the richest to the poorest, pooled their money and called the vet."
She paused again; this time, I saw tears brimming in her eyes. She blinked them away quickly before continuing. This time, she inhaled deeply of her cigarette and exhaled heavily, watching the smoke swirl away from her. Mom turned away for a moment, looking for a match, which she used to light a Glade candle in the center of the table.
"The Vet came out and did what he could. Boarders put together a schedule to care for this horse at all hours, making sure someone was there to provide medication at the weeist hours of the morning. People gave up time from work, time from their families, to care for this horse. They pooled for the money for a stall in the barn, and the farm owner himself actually donated a huge chunk for the medical bills and discounted the stall fee. He charged nothing for regular board."
She paused again, needing a break. I still didn't speak. It had been a long time since Mom had spoken like this...and from the look in her eyes she was not present in our kitchen, but was in that pasture with Silver, with those people, helping a horse survive.
"Silver rallied for awhile; he began to fill out, the brightness came to his eyes, he was interested in life...but it was too late. No matter what we did, his neglect was too extreme; he'd been starved for too long. The Boarders had a meeting among them; for all practical purposes, this was THEIR horse. The Farm owners attended, because he was on their land, and they, too, had tried to help. But nothing could be done. The all realized that it was time; and in the end, no one had to pay for the last vet visit; the Farm absorbed that cost. I was there the day the Vet came, and he let me stay. The farm owners were there, some of the boarders, but they let me stand, then kneel at Silver's head...they let me hold onto him until he was gone..."
Mom stood and walked out to the garage.
I got up, knowing what she was saying, knowing why she was leaving, wiping tears from my eyes. My Silver was Nickers...
Mom came back with a frayed blue halter in her hands. She held it so that the tarnished metal nameplate was visible to me.
"Silver".
I took the halter in my hands and rubbed my thumb against the surface of the nameplate. Silver.
Mom stood there, tears gleaming, but blinked back. She was strong, as always. It was I who was crying.
She spoke first. "One of the boarders had this made when I began feeding the horse. When I started out, he laughed at me. His own horse was old, he was retired himself, and I thought him unsentimental. But he was the one to bring the feedbag, and one day, he gave me this." She indicated the nameplate on the haltar. "He was the one to rally the troops, he was the one to organize everything, and Silver was wearing this when he died. Everyone saw him as my horse at that point...and so they gave me his haltar. I swore I would never witness such an agonizing death. I would never suffer such abuse."
I was still holding the haltar, and instead of "Silver" I was reading "Nickers".
Mom had passed on a trait to me; I was just as emotional as she, when given the opportunity. I'd never really seen her cry, nor did I that day, but I knew the tears were there; they were silent, but present, but it was my tears that fell.
When she next spoke, her tone was gentle.
"I know why you did what you did today. I know why you took the haltar and the horse and I would have done the same thing. The Bryski's are good people; do what Dale tells you to do, do what Bob and Sharon tell you to do, and learn from it. Nickers is your horse now."
Finally, it was time for me to speak. "You're...you're not mad?"
Mom looked at me, smiling.
"No, Honey, I'm not mad at you. How can I be mad? You're just like me! I just hope your actions save Nickers. But I expect you to live up to your agreement with Dale. I'll speak to the Bryski's if you need me to, but somehow, I think your own actions will do more than any of my words."
Silence descended upon the kitchen, and when Mom left for work, I remained, holding Silver's haltar.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Chapter Four
Like any memoir, great phases of time get skipped when not much of note occurs. Although it seems that some of the events about to be described are unrelated, I assure you they are important to the story and what became of me.
*
So the summer passed into fall, and on into winter, but no matter what the weather, when feeling contemplative, I sought refuge at the pasture fence where the boarded horses grazed. One little bay in particular caught my eye. Although other horses were visited by their “people”, the little bay never seemed to have anyone. Dale and Jacque, knowing I was familiar with all the horses in our area, often gave me treats to pass on to the horses that caught my eye, and often I would take the treats to the little Bay.
I had noticed that the Bay appeared to be very thin. Over time his condition did not improve but I didn’t know who owned the pasture or who owned the horse. When I told Dale about him, he gave me a little grain and explained how to assess the horses’ condition…and admonished me to report his condition to him.
Obediently I brought the grain to the horse, and unabashedly entered the field, hoping that the other horses wouldn’t get wind of what I carried. As always, the Bay was separated from the remainder of the herd in his weakness and watched me with interest. Up until this point, I had done no more than scratch his forehead over the fence and feed him random treats. Carefully, used to the temperamental Thoroughbreds, I approached, ready to run for cover if he showed any aggression….or if another horse did. But he nickered in greeting and gladly stuck his head into the borrowed feedbag I held. While he ate, I observed how thin he really was, how his neck was sunken in, and when I was able, I walked around him, running my hands along the furrows in his back, stroking his bony ribs and eyeballing the distance between his side and the point of his hipbone.
I had watched as the grain fell out of his mouth, how carefully he chewed and how ravenously. His hooves were overgrown and chipped, and I nearly cried at the listlessness in his eyes. He appeared to be a purebred Arabian, his breeding obvious even under the neglect. The little Bay had the wide-set eyes, high arch to his neck, flat croup, concave face, small muzzle, small ears….he HAD to be purebred, or nearly so. Who could just abandon this sweet creature to starve in a frozen Minnesota tundra?
As I turned to go, blinking back tears, I heard footsteps behind me and saw the Bay’s stricken shadow standing in relief against the trampled snow. He was trying to follow me!
I turned and lifted my hand, but the Bay was quicker…he met my hand with his forehead and rubbed in an up-and-down motion, starved as much for affection as he was for good food.
I was about to turn to go again when a sharp voice called my attention. A man was entering the gate, demanding that I stand where I was. Obediently, shaking both in surprise and fear, I stood, afraid that I was in trouble and would not have the opportunity to see this beautiful horse ever again.
The man stomped up to me, startling the Bay, who backed away with widened eyes and high steps, ready to flee, then trotted a little further, choosing to watch at a safe distance.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Is that your horse??”
“..I..uh..” I stuttered, not sure how to respond.
“Just start with your name.”
He stood impatiently while I explained that my name was Kaya, I didn’t own the horse but only wanted to help him. I held up the feed bag and told him that my friends had given me the feed for him.
The man interrupted my halting explanation. “So what, you think I don’t feed my horses? Look around you, they’re fine! So’s this one…he’s only old. Nothing wrong with him.”
“I…I…didn’t mean to say…I just really like this horse and he didn’t seem to have anyone…”
The man suddenly softened. “Well, I guess no harm done. I don’t know who owns this horse..he was left here with a couple of others and he won’t let me close to him. Whoever dropped him off owes me money for board, but I don’t think they’re coming back. I’m gonna just keep the others..they’re healthy enough, but this one is likely too old for any good work. You wanna buy him?”
I gulped, taken aback. “I don’t have any money…I can’t afford to pay for board…”
The man appraised the little gelding again, standing silently. I was afraid to speak.
“Well, he’ll probably bring some money from the dog food factory…guess I should bring him to auction before he gets any worse. He’s not worth the cost of the vet’s gas to come out and see him.” He paused, then brought his attention back to me. “If you want him, you can have ‘im. He’ll need some vettin’…I guess you can save me the aggravation of having to catch his sorry ass, drag him to the ring and wait for him to be sold.”
I stared at him silently, shocked, unable to speak.
“So? You want him or is he dog food?”
“..I..uh…I don’t have anywhere to keep him..I don’t have a halter…”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you a couple days to get him out of here. If he’s still here by..say…Friday, I’ll be removing him myself. Deal?”
“But…how much..?”
“Darlin’, you just got yourself a free horse. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
I turned on my heel and headed out of the pasture, not sure how to feel or what to do. If I didn’t come back for the horse he would go to auction. But if I did come back for him…what would I do with him, how would I pay for him?
The man’s voice echoed again across the field.
“Hey, KID! Wait a minute!”
I turned, thinking that now he was going to demand some money of me. Or ban me from the property and call the police to charge me with trespassing. But I walked back towards him anyway, really thinking I had nothing to lose.
“Listen, I got an old halter, was about to throw it out, but if you want you can take it. It won’t last long, but you should be able to get him somewhere with it. I just don’t wanna waste any more time on this guy. Wait here…I’ll go get it. Then just get him off my property now. I don’t care what you do with him.”
I only nodded, then turned to my little Bay, who stood watching from afar. I didn’t try to approach, choosing instead to wait for the man to return with the tack. I figured that if he came back as blustery as before, the Bay would associate his loud voice with me, and I’d never be able to catch him again. So both the Bay and I waited, silently, looking at each other, just waiting.
I shivered in the Minnesota cold. Snow was on the breeze. A storm was coming. Mom was gonna kill me.
The man wasn’t gone long as the barn was adjoining the pasture. He limped back to me and handed over an old red, frayed nylon halter and lead rope that had seen better days. I feared it would literally fall apart in my hands.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Good luck with that old gluepot.” He turned and walked away, silently in the winter afternoon, the snow crunching under his boots. I watched him go, stunned, the reality of this hitting me. Soon, there was nothing but the wind to feel, and the sound of winter crows dive-bombing for whatever could be scavenged in that barren pasture.
Carefully I approached the Bay with the halter in my hands, hardly believing what I was doing. He stood there, alert, head high, but allowed me to buckle the halter without complaint. When I started to move toward the gate, he came along somewhat willingly, only hesitating a little as I lead him carefully around the ice patches in the pasture which had been his lonely prison.
I walked her new charge through the ditches alongside the roadway in the approaching twilight, not having any idea what to do or where to go. I didn’t want to presume anyone’s help, but wondered if maybe I could find him a temporary home while seeking a more permanent solution. Or, if worst came to worst, turned him over to Hooved Rescue.
It was only about a mile to Trinity Creek, via the road, which was the only place I thought this mess may be tolerated. And even as I fought this internal struggle silently, all the while my little Bay tagged along, seeming to trust that I could lead him to somewhere better.
These thoughts so engrossed me that I did not hear the car pulling up alongside me or the voice cautiously asking where I was headed. It was my new horse who had to bring me back to the real world, in his panic at hearing an unknown voice.
I looked up, holding tightly to the frayed lead, surprised to see that Dale had stopped and leaned across the seat of his pickup, calling to me through the window.
“Whatcha got there? This the horse? I thought you were going to just tell me about him…no need to drag him all the way home!”
I smiled, tears suddenly brimming. “I’m sorry…I didn’t really plan this. The ranch owner gave him to me…said it would be cheaper than bringing him to auction to be sold as dog food.”
Dale nodded. ‘He’s in rough shape. You were right. What do you intend to do with him?”
I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. The tears fell down my cheeks, unchecked “I don’t know! But I couldn’t let him die…I couldn’t refuse to take him! I don’t even know how old he is, or what he really needs!”
I turned and buried my head in the Arabian’s mane, feeling the deep furrow in his neck which should have been filled with muscle. And yet he stood, seemingly not alarmed, seeming to understand.
By then, Dale had gotten out of the truck and was standing on the roadside with us. “There, now, don’t cry Honey. I think we can help you out…but you leave it to me, you hear? This farm’s a business, not a charity…so let’s see if we can work something out. Do you have a backup plan?”
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “I figured I could call Hooved Rescue and see if they’ll take him.”
“Well, you just bring him on back to the farm and we’ll see what kind of condition he’s in for real. You OK getting him there?”
I nodded, too grateful for his understanding to be able to speak. So we walked onward, suddenly with a place to go, suddenly hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this could work out.
It wasn’t long until we were back at the farm, and already Dale had a stall ready and waiting for its new occupant.
The Bay hesitated, then lured by the smell of fresh grain and water, walked in and found his meal. I unhooked the lead and let him be, carefully closing the stall door behind him. Outside it was rapidly getting dark, but it didn’t matter…Mom wouldn’t care where I was. She was working.
While I watched him eat, Dale joined me and we stood together in silence while he tried to get a feel for the poor gelding’s condition. His critical eye saw the grain falling from the horses’ mouth and the meager meat on his bones. The horses’ eyes were listless but yet, he showed signs of life and interest in his surroundings. There were signs of training and familiarity with stalls and people. This is something he had noted at the roadside.
When he had finished Dale asked me to go into the stall and lead him out to the cross-ties. Upon opening the stall door the Bay raised his head and nickered, rubbing his forehead once again on my arm. I took the time to stroke his neck and scratch his ears before snapping on the lead, wanting him to associate good things with the training implements.
He was cautious, alert, and held his head high but allowed me lead him through the barn. Dale approached slowly, used to dealing with skittish animals, but when he reached for his head to scratch him he pulled away, showing the whites of his eyes.
“I really need to get a look at those teeth…clearly they need some care or he wouldn’t be so thin. Kaya, do you think you can give this a try? He seems to trust you and this is as good a time as any for you to learn. I could force the issue, but that’s really not a good idea.”
He told me how to open his mouth to show his teeth. Dale was surprised by what he was able to see; this horse was not as old as he appeared, making his condition that much more shocking.
“Well…tomorrow I’ll look to his feet and we’ll get his teeth done. I’m going to need you to be here morning and evening after school to take care of him. Morning you’ll clean his stall out and be in charge of his special diet. No more grain…I think a nice mash for morning. This guy needs some nutrition. He also needs to get used to being handled. You’ll need to spend a lot of time working with him, but I think he’ll be a good horse for you. Maybe a bit of a handful but we can help you with that.”
“You mean I can keep him here? But what about board? What about feed? I don’t have a job, I can’t pay…”
“Well, I think maybe we can work something out. You leave the Bryski’s to me…I think they’ll be ok with this, but you have to prove you’re woman enough to do what needs to be done.”
All I could do was agree…this was the chance of a lifetime, and even if Mom was gonna kill me…THIS WAS SO WORTH IT! So I started to walk away and my new friend poked his head over the stall door and called to me again. When I turned, he raised his upper lip in a trembling movement. Unable to resist, I returned to him, promising to come back in the morning. .
Dale stood back appraising all of this. “What do you plan to call him?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I think I’ll name him ‘Nickers’ because that’s what he does every time he sees me!”
Dale chuckled. “Well, I think you got a winner there. Now…let’s go see the missus…she’s the one we have to convince. But remember…I’ll do the talking.”
*
So the summer passed into fall, and on into winter, but no matter what the weather, when feeling contemplative, I sought refuge at the pasture fence where the boarded horses grazed. One little bay in particular caught my eye. Although other horses were visited by their “people”, the little bay never seemed to have anyone. Dale and Jacque, knowing I was familiar with all the horses in our area, often gave me treats to pass on to the horses that caught my eye, and often I would take the treats to the little Bay.
I had noticed that the Bay appeared to be very thin. Over time his condition did not improve but I didn’t know who owned the pasture or who owned the horse. When I told Dale about him, he gave me a little grain and explained how to assess the horses’ condition…and admonished me to report his condition to him.
Obediently I brought the grain to the horse, and unabashedly entered the field, hoping that the other horses wouldn’t get wind of what I carried. As always, the Bay was separated from the remainder of the herd in his weakness and watched me with interest. Up until this point, I had done no more than scratch his forehead over the fence and feed him random treats. Carefully, used to the temperamental Thoroughbreds, I approached, ready to run for cover if he showed any aggression….or if another horse did. But he nickered in greeting and gladly stuck his head into the borrowed feedbag I held. While he ate, I observed how thin he really was, how his neck was sunken in, and when I was able, I walked around him, running my hands along the furrows in his back, stroking his bony ribs and eyeballing the distance between his side and the point of his hipbone.
I had watched as the grain fell out of his mouth, how carefully he chewed and how ravenously. His hooves were overgrown and chipped, and I nearly cried at the listlessness in his eyes. He appeared to be a purebred Arabian, his breeding obvious even under the neglect. The little Bay had the wide-set eyes, high arch to his neck, flat croup, concave face, small muzzle, small ears….he HAD to be purebred, or nearly so. Who could just abandon this sweet creature to starve in a frozen Minnesota tundra?
As I turned to go, blinking back tears, I heard footsteps behind me and saw the Bay’s stricken shadow standing in relief against the trampled snow. He was trying to follow me!
I turned and lifted my hand, but the Bay was quicker…he met my hand with his forehead and rubbed in an up-and-down motion, starved as much for affection as he was for good food.
I was about to turn to go again when a sharp voice called my attention. A man was entering the gate, demanding that I stand where I was. Obediently, shaking both in surprise and fear, I stood, afraid that I was in trouble and would not have the opportunity to see this beautiful horse ever again.
The man stomped up to me, startling the Bay, who backed away with widened eyes and high steps, ready to flee, then trotted a little further, choosing to watch at a safe distance.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Is that your horse??”
“..I..uh..” I stuttered, not sure how to respond.
“Just start with your name.”
He stood impatiently while I explained that my name was Kaya, I didn’t own the horse but only wanted to help him. I held up the feed bag and told him that my friends had given me the feed for him.
The man interrupted my halting explanation. “So what, you think I don’t feed my horses? Look around you, they’re fine! So’s this one…he’s only old. Nothing wrong with him.”
“I…I…didn’t mean to say…I just really like this horse and he didn’t seem to have anyone…”
The man suddenly softened. “Well, I guess no harm done. I don’t know who owns this horse..he was left here with a couple of others and he won’t let me close to him. Whoever dropped him off owes me money for board, but I don’t think they’re coming back. I’m gonna just keep the others..they’re healthy enough, but this one is likely too old for any good work. You wanna buy him?”
I gulped, taken aback. “I don’t have any money…I can’t afford to pay for board…”
The man appraised the little gelding again, standing silently. I was afraid to speak.
“Well, he’ll probably bring some money from the dog food factory…guess I should bring him to auction before he gets any worse. He’s not worth the cost of the vet’s gas to come out and see him.” He paused, then brought his attention back to me. “If you want him, you can have ‘im. He’ll need some vettin’…I guess you can save me the aggravation of having to catch his sorry ass, drag him to the ring and wait for him to be sold.”
I stared at him silently, shocked, unable to speak.
“So? You want him or is he dog food?”
“..I..uh…I don’t have anywhere to keep him..I don’t have a halter…”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you a couple days to get him out of here. If he’s still here by..say…Friday, I’ll be removing him myself. Deal?”
“But…how much..?”
“Darlin’, you just got yourself a free horse. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
I turned on my heel and headed out of the pasture, not sure how to feel or what to do. If I didn’t come back for the horse he would go to auction. But if I did come back for him…what would I do with him, how would I pay for him?
The man’s voice echoed again across the field.
“Hey, KID! Wait a minute!”
I turned, thinking that now he was going to demand some money of me. Or ban me from the property and call the police to charge me with trespassing. But I walked back towards him anyway, really thinking I had nothing to lose.
“Listen, I got an old halter, was about to throw it out, but if you want you can take it. It won’t last long, but you should be able to get him somewhere with it. I just don’t wanna waste any more time on this guy. Wait here…I’ll go get it. Then just get him off my property now. I don’t care what you do with him.”
I only nodded, then turned to my little Bay, who stood watching from afar. I didn’t try to approach, choosing instead to wait for the man to return with the tack. I figured that if he came back as blustery as before, the Bay would associate his loud voice with me, and I’d never be able to catch him again. So both the Bay and I waited, silently, looking at each other, just waiting.
I shivered in the Minnesota cold. Snow was on the breeze. A storm was coming. Mom was gonna kill me.
The man wasn’t gone long as the barn was adjoining the pasture. He limped back to me and handed over an old red, frayed nylon halter and lead rope that had seen better days. I feared it would literally fall apart in my hands.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Good luck with that old gluepot.” He turned and walked away, silently in the winter afternoon, the snow crunching under his boots. I watched him go, stunned, the reality of this hitting me. Soon, there was nothing but the wind to feel, and the sound of winter crows dive-bombing for whatever could be scavenged in that barren pasture.
Carefully I approached the Bay with the halter in my hands, hardly believing what I was doing. He stood there, alert, head high, but allowed me to buckle the halter without complaint. When I started to move toward the gate, he came along somewhat willingly, only hesitating a little as I lead him carefully around the ice patches in the pasture which had been his lonely prison.
I walked her new charge through the ditches alongside the roadway in the approaching twilight, not having any idea what to do or where to go. I didn’t want to presume anyone’s help, but wondered if maybe I could find him a temporary home while seeking a more permanent solution. Or, if worst came to worst, turned him over to Hooved Rescue.
It was only about a mile to Trinity Creek, via the road, which was the only place I thought this mess may be tolerated. And even as I fought this internal struggle silently, all the while my little Bay tagged along, seeming to trust that I could lead him to somewhere better.
These thoughts so engrossed me that I did not hear the car pulling up alongside me or the voice cautiously asking where I was headed. It was my new horse who had to bring me back to the real world, in his panic at hearing an unknown voice.
I looked up, holding tightly to the frayed lead, surprised to see that Dale had stopped and leaned across the seat of his pickup, calling to me through the window.
“Whatcha got there? This the horse? I thought you were going to just tell me about him…no need to drag him all the way home!”
I smiled, tears suddenly brimming. “I’m sorry…I didn’t really plan this. The ranch owner gave him to me…said it would be cheaper than bringing him to auction to be sold as dog food.”
Dale nodded. ‘He’s in rough shape. You were right. What do you intend to do with him?”
I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. The tears fell down my cheeks, unchecked “I don’t know! But I couldn’t let him die…I couldn’t refuse to take him! I don’t even know how old he is, or what he really needs!”
I turned and buried my head in the Arabian’s mane, feeling the deep furrow in his neck which should have been filled with muscle. And yet he stood, seemingly not alarmed, seeming to understand.
By then, Dale had gotten out of the truck and was standing on the roadside with us. “There, now, don’t cry Honey. I think we can help you out…but you leave it to me, you hear? This farm’s a business, not a charity…so let’s see if we can work something out. Do you have a backup plan?”
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “I figured I could call Hooved Rescue and see if they’ll take him.”
“Well, you just bring him on back to the farm and we’ll see what kind of condition he’s in for real. You OK getting him there?”
I nodded, too grateful for his understanding to be able to speak. So we walked onward, suddenly with a place to go, suddenly hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this could work out.
It wasn’t long until we were back at the farm, and already Dale had a stall ready and waiting for its new occupant.
The Bay hesitated, then lured by the smell of fresh grain and water, walked in and found his meal. I unhooked the lead and let him be, carefully closing the stall door behind him. Outside it was rapidly getting dark, but it didn’t matter…Mom wouldn’t care where I was. She was working.
While I watched him eat, Dale joined me and we stood together in silence while he tried to get a feel for the poor gelding’s condition. His critical eye saw the grain falling from the horses’ mouth and the meager meat on his bones. The horses’ eyes were listless but yet, he showed signs of life and interest in his surroundings. There were signs of training and familiarity with stalls and people. This is something he had noted at the roadside.
When he had finished Dale asked me to go into the stall and lead him out to the cross-ties. Upon opening the stall door the Bay raised his head and nickered, rubbing his forehead once again on my arm. I took the time to stroke his neck and scratch his ears before snapping on the lead, wanting him to associate good things with the training implements.
He was cautious, alert, and held his head high but allowed me lead him through the barn. Dale approached slowly, used to dealing with skittish animals, but when he reached for his head to scratch him he pulled away, showing the whites of his eyes.
“I really need to get a look at those teeth…clearly they need some care or he wouldn’t be so thin. Kaya, do you think you can give this a try? He seems to trust you and this is as good a time as any for you to learn. I could force the issue, but that’s really not a good idea.”
He told me how to open his mouth to show his teeth. Dale was surprised by what he was able to see; this horse was not as old as he appeared, making his condition that much more shocking.
“Well…tomorrow I’ll look to his feet and we’ll get his teeth done. I’m going to need you to be here morning and evening after school to take care of him. Morning you’ll clean his stall out and be in charge of his special diet. No more grain…I think a nice mash for morning. This guy needs some nutrition. He also needs to get used to being handled. You’ll need to spend a lot of time working with him, but I think he’ll be a good horse for you. Maybe a bit of a handful but we can help you with that.”
“You mean I can keep him here? But what about board? What about feed? I don’t have a job, I can’t pay…”
“Well, I think maybe we can work something out. You leave the Bryski’s to me…I think they’ll be ok with this, but you have to prove you’re woman enough to do what needs to be done.”
All I could do was agree…this was the chance of a lifetime, and even if Mom was gonna kill me…THIS WAS SO WORTH IT! So I started to walk away and my new friend poked his head over the stall door and called to me again. When I turned, he raised his upper lip in a trembling movement. Unable to resist, I returned to him, promising to come back in the morning. .
Dale stood back appraising all of this. “What do you plan to call him?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I think I’ll name him ‘Nickers’ because that’s what he does every time he sees me!”
Dale chuckled. “Well, I think you got a winner there. Now…let’s go see the missus…she’s the one we have to convince. But remember…I’ll do the talking.”
Chapter Three
That evening I took a walk. Even though the summer heat was unbearable, I couldn't stand being in that dingy house any longer, so walked the lonely country roads. It wouldn't be long before I could start working at the farm. But until then....what?
The path I took was another one very familar to me; one that crossed abandoned farm fields and had come to be a sort of "unofficial" trail of sorts in what passed as our neighborhood. Via this path, and across the gravel road, I came to another farm, this one where people boarded their horses, and as no one was around, they didn't mind that I stood for hours gazing at the animals grazing so contentedly. And just down the road a little further was another farm; this one smaller, dingier, in need of a lot of maintenance, but which housed some of the most beautiful equines I'd ever seen.
Their manager, Dale, saw me coming that day. The horses were gone for the season; they were racing at Canterbury for the summer, and only a green colt too young to race, and his stable buddy, a palomino gelding, remained.
"Looking for work?" Dale was just climbing down the ladder he'd been using as he repaired some broken boards around the old haymow.
I shook my head, too hot and uncomfortable to speak. So often, I didn't come by Trinity Creek Farms; they were a long hike by the road, and some of the year the makeshift farmland "trail" was simply impassable. But they were good people, like most in the area, and, like everyone else, indulged me in my love for horses.
But they didn't have the setup like the Sheik from Dubai, and even I, an ignorant kid, could see they were really struggling. I could see that this farm used to be something great; but over time, it was falling apart. Given the competetion from the Oil Barons from the Middle East, prices were going up, Stud Fees were going up...and they didn't have the winning purses to continue. They, like a lot of American racing families, were being slowly phased out. At the same time, though, they had spirit, they were forging ahead with what they had, and even if they weren't going to be a part of it, they were champions for American racing and proud contributors to the Horsemen's Association. This farm was not going away without a fight, no matter how hard the times they had fallen upon.
Dale was one of their two employees; it was he and a groom named Paco who ran the farm and wore many hats. And one of those hats was, apparently, to tolerate annoying neighborhood children.
I was grateful for his solicitude, however, as I settled onto a hay bale in the shade of the barn, sipping some bottled water from the mini-fridge in the tack room. Dale took a moment for a break, too, obviously happy to get out of the formidable late-summer sun.
We sat in companionable silence for awhile, sipping water, listening to the locusts chorus in the trees, waving away the ever-preset flies.
Finally Dale stood up and fished around in his pocket for something. He approached me with something in his hand. I put my own hand out as he placed a penny in it. Staring at it uncomprehendingly, I asked, "What's this for?"
"Your thoughts."
Dale sat down again, this time busying himself with a bridle that needed repair.
"Ha. You're like my Mom."
"So? Spill." He went about his work, silently, waiting.
Between the haze and now the expectant silence, I could do nothing but obey. Dale was nothing if not an ally.
"Mom won't let me be a jockey until I turn 18!"
"Is that all?"
I stared at him. He HAD to understand!
Dale glanced up from his work. "Ridin's dangerous business. You could get killed. Seems to me your Mom is bein' a Mom."
I had nothing to say to that; we both knew he was right. I tried to formulate an argument, but already I knew there was nothing I could say to prove Dale wrong in his statement.
He knew it, too, so he continued. "Will she let you work over at the Dubai's farm as a groom like you planned?"
I nodded. "She told me it would 'give me a good work ethic'".
"Well, she's right. There's nothin' on this earth that builds work ethic, or character, more so than working on a farm. It pays what you scoop, that's a downside, so those who do it for a long time do it because they love it. They can get factory jobs that pay more and give perks on the side. There's no perks on a farm. It's back-breaking work, and if you do decide to ride...well, that might be literal, young lady." He glanced at me sidewise to be sure I got his meaning. All of it. Including the sidewise part of it.
"I know." I could say no more. My life was not really under my control, and I was happy Mom would even let me work around the horses. At that time, I didn't understand that I wasn't immortal so the idea of injury, death, or dismemberment was completely outside my radar. Never mind the offenses to morality I may experience.
We chatted until the sun hung low on the horizon then I scampered home, patting the noses of the friendly boarder horses on the way, dreaming of the day I would have my own.
The path I took was another one very familar to me; one that crossed abandoned farm fields and had come to be a sort of "unofficial" trail of sorts in what passed as our neighborhood. Via this path, and across the gravel road, I came to another farm, this one where people boarded their horses, and as no one was around, they didn't mind that I stood for hours gazing at the animals grazing so contentedly. And just down the road a little further was another farm; this one smaller, dingier, in need of a lot of maintenance, but which housed some of the most beautiful equines I'd ever seen.
Their manager, Dale, saw me coming that day. The horses were gone for the season; they were racing at Canterbury for the summer, and only a green colt too young to race, and his stable buddy, a palomino gelding, remained.
"Looking for work?" Dale was just climbing down the ladder he'd been using as he repaired some broken boards around the old haymow.
I shook my head, too hot and uncomfortable to speak. So often, I didn't come by Trinity Creek Farms; they were a long hike by the road, and some of the year the makeshift farmland "trail" was simply impassable. But they were good people, like most in the area, and, like everyone else, indulged me in my love for horses.
But they didn't have the setup like the Sheik from Dubai, and even I, an ignorant kid, could see they were really struggling. I could see that this farm used to be something great; but over time, it was falling apart. Given the competetion from the Oil Barons from the Middle East, prices were going up, Stud Fees were going up...and they didn't have the winning purses to continue. They, like a lot of American racing families, were being slowly phased out. At the same time, though, they had spirit, they were forging ahead with what they had, and even if they weren't going to be a part of it, they were champions for American racing and proud contributors to the Horsemen's Association. This farm was not going away without a fight, no matter how hard the times they had fallen upon.
Dale was one of their two employees; it was he and a groom named Paco who ran the farm and wore many hats. And one of those hats was, apparently, to tolerate annoying neighborhood children.
I was grateful for his solicitude, however, as I settled onto a hay bale in the shade of the barn, sipping some bottled water from the mini-fridge in the tack room. Dale took a moment for a break, too, obviously happy to get out of the formidable late-summer sun.
We sat in companionable silence for awhile, sipping water, listening to the locusts chorus in the trees, waving away the ever-preset flies.
Finally Dale stood up and fished around in his pocket for something. He approached me with something in his hand. I put my own hand out as he placed a penny in it. Staring at it uncomprehendingly, I asked, "What's this for?"
"Your thoughts."
Dale sat down again, this time busying himself with a bridle that needed repair.
"Ha. You're like my Mom."
"So? Spill." He went about his work, silently, waiting.
Between the haze and now the expectant silence, I could do nothing but obey. Dale was nothing if not an ally.
"Mom won't let me be a jockey until I turn 18!"
"Is that all?"
I stared at him. He HAD to understand!
Dale glanced up from his work. "Ridin's dangerous business. You could get killed. Seems to me your Mom is bein' a Mom."
I had nothing to say to that; we both knew he was right. I tried to formulate an argument, but already I knew there was nothing I could say to prove Dale wrong in his statement.
He knew it, too, so he continued. "Will she let you work over at the Dubai's farm as a groom like you planned?"
I nodded. "She told me it would 'give me a good work ethic'".
"Well, she's right. There's nothin' on this earth that builds work ethic, or character, more so than working on a farm. It pays what you scoop, that's a downside, so those who do it for a long time do it because they love it. They can get factory jobs that pay more and give perks on the side. There's no perks on a farm. It's back-breaking work, and if you do decide to ride...well, that might be literal, young lady." He glanced at me sidewise to be sure I got his meaning. All of it. Including the sidewise part of it.
"I know." I could say no more. My life was not really under my control, and I was happy Mom would even let me work around the horses. At that time, I didn't understand that I wasn't immortal so the idea of injury, death, or dismemberment was completely outside my radar. Never mind the offenses to morality I may experience.
We chatted until the sun hung low on the horizon then I scampered home, patting the noses of the friendly boarder horses on the way, dreaming of the day I would have my own.
Chapter Two
I was at the gate, bright and early next morning, and Jacque, true to his word, was there to meet me and escort me on his daily rounds. It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship, and my entry into the world of horseracing.
I had already been enamored, having absolutely devoured the series by Walter Farley, Marguerite Henry, and even "Black Beauty" by Anna Sewell. To be walking in the world that created these books was a staggering idea and served only to feed my already-active imagination.
My Mom knew where I was going, and her concern was only that I was not "pestering" the people at the farm. At that point, she really thought that this was only a passing phase, and as I grew older, that I would move on to other things.
But time proved her to be wrong...my love of horses and racing grew deeper and deeper, and through my contacts at the farm, I became very knowledgable, and my childhood dream of becoming a jockey appeared to be nearly tangible.
I remember sitting down at the kitchen table one Sunday morning after Mass. I must have been about 14 or 15 or so, and in those years I was quite given to the typical teenage passion of messing with the parents when they could least handle it.
Mom was still in her waitress uniform from the previous night; she'd only stopped by home to pick me up to go to church, and afterwards she made breakfast. It was maybe the only family tradition we had...a big breakfast on Sunday morning.
It was a hot, humid morning and the fog was still hanging over the low lying areas. We didn't have air conditioning in those years; Mom couldn't afford it, and when you go without out it, you tend to accept the disconfort of your state. So it was on that morning. Even the fan in the window did nothing but blow the hot air around, not changing its stagnant properties one iota.
I was setting the table when Mom asked me what my plans were for the day. Was I still going over to "that horse farm"?
"Mom, they said that when I'm old enough, they'll give me a job. I'm guaranteed to have a job."
Mom lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, settling into her chair with a grunt. "Doing what? Cleaning stalls?"
"Well..yeah...to start out."
She handed me her plate and I placed a couple blueberry pancakes on it, then served a couple to myself before sitting down again. I reached for the syrup and watched idly while it flowed like molasses over the pat of butter, down the sides, flooding the plate.
"Honey, is that what you want to do with your life? Clean shit up?"
"Mom, that's not all. I'll hotwalk the horses when they're done with their morning workouts, I'll work as a groom, and I'll even get to spend the meet down at Canturbury! Board is part of the deal..."
Mom snuffed out her cigarette in a hurry. "You're going to WHAT!? No, nuh -uh, you are NOT going down to Canturbury to live among all those...men." This she said with a note of disgust. "Do you know what happens to young girls who live on their own? I didn't raise you in a barn and you certainly are NOT going to go live in one while I'm still alive!"
"Mom! If I don't do this, then I'll never be a jockey! I have to work my way up, and get to know other trainers so they can hire me to work their horses!"
"Yeah, that's not all they'll be asking you to 'work'. No daughter of mine is going to be a jockey. I've worked so hard so that you don't have to live like THIS," she said, indicating our shabby little rented house. "You have so much potential...you're a bright girl. Why would you throw it all away just to ride a few horses? Honey, this is dangerous work, you could be killed. It's a very hard life."
"I know, Mom. But I wanna do it anyway."
She sighed, heavily, lighting another cigarette. She didn't seem interestd in her pancakes, and chose that moment to change the subject. "I just can't eat in this weather."
While Mom smoked, I shoveled food into my mouth, sullenly thinking about my response to her next objection. I wasn't surprised by Mom's reaction, not really, but I was surprised by the fact that she didn't understand me.
After awhile, Mom smushed her butt into the overflowing ashtray, pushed her chair back and brushed her hair away from her sweaty forehead. She pointed at me, warning, "We will continue this discussion later, but mind you now...I will NOT allow you to go out to the track. If you want to work at the farm until you graduate, that's just fine. It's a decent job and it'll give you a good work ethic. I grew up on a farm and I think you're blessed to be able to spend so much time on one. But you WILL go to college, and you WILL get your degree. I didn't have that opportunity and I will not stand by to watch you throw away your future."
She walked away, tired as always after her night shifts, leaving me to clean up the remains of our brunch. I angrily sloshed the water around the sink and slammed cupboard doors after putting the dishes away. That afternoon I did not go to the farm; the people I wanted to talk to were already at the track for the day's races, so I curled up in the easy chair in the livingroom and read about Man O'War.
But I could not get the mostly one-sided discussion out of my head...I had not considered that I would not be allowed to go to Canturbury. In fact, I had accepted it a a given that it was simply going to happen. It was where I belonged, whether Mom realized it or not. How to make that happen? How could I ensure her that I'd be perfectly safe?
I could not wait until I was 18 to go to the track...I needed Mom's blessing, and there was no way she was going to allow it. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became, with the type of petulant self-righteous anger only a teenager can conjure. In the end, I determined I'd quit school and run away from home.
But in the back of my mind, I could not help but ask...was that the RIGHT thing to do?
The decision could wait; for now, I was content with my books, with my contacts, and with the proximity of the horses just down the road. Deep in thought, I nodded off, dreaming of prancing racers, the breeze of the box fan in the window becoming the wind at 40 mph, the sound of the motor, the roar of the crowd...
I had already been enamored, having absolutely devoured the series by Walter Farley, Marguerite Henry, and even "Black Beauty" by Anna Sewell. To be walking in the world that created these books was a staggering idea and served only to feed my already-active imagination.
My Mom knew where I was going, and her concern was only that I was not "pestering" the people at the farm. At that point, she really thought that this was only a passing phase, and as I grew older, that I would move on to other things.
But time proved her to be wrong...my love of horses and racing grew deeper and deeper, and through my contacts at the farm, I became very knowledgable, and my childhood dream of becoming a jockey appeared to be nearly tangible.
I remember sitting down at the kitchen table one Sunday morning after Mass. I must have been about 14 or 15 or so, and in those years I was quite given to the typical teenage passion of messing with the parents when they could least handle it.
Mom was still in her waitress uniform from the previous night; she'd only stopped by home to pick me up to go to church, and afterwards she made breakfast. It was maybe the only family tradition we had...a big breakfast on Sunday morning.
It was a hot, humid morning and the fog was still hanging over the low lying areas. We didn't have air conditioning in those years; Mom couldn't afford it, and when you go without out it, you tend to accept the disconfort of your state. So it was on that morning. Even the fan in the window did nothing but blow the hot air around, not changing its stagnant properties one iota.
I was setting the table when Mom asked me what my plans were for the day. Was I still going over to "that horse farm"?
"Mom, they said that when I'm old enough, they'll give me a job. I'm guaranteed to have a job."
Mom lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, settling into her chair with a grunt. "Doing what? Cleaning stalls?"
"Well..yeah...to start out."
She handed me her plate and I placed a couple blueberry pancakes on it, then served a couple to myself before sitting down again. I reached for the syrup and watched idly while it flowed like molasses over the pat of butter, down the sides, flooding the plate.
"Honey, is that what you want to do with your life? Clean shit up?"
"Mom, that's not all. I'll hotwalk the horses when they're done with their morning workouts, I'll work as a groom, and I'll even get to spend the meet down at Canturbury! Board is part of the deal..."
Mom snuffed out her cigarette in a hurry. "You're going to WHAT!? No, nuh -uh, you are NOT going down to Canturbury to live among all those...men." This she said with a note of disgust. "Do you know what happens to young girls who live on their own? I didn't raise you in a barn and you certainly are NOT going to go live in one while I'm still alive!"
"Mom! If I don't do this, then I'll never be a jockey! I have to work my way up, and get to know other trainers so they can hire me to work their horses!"
"Yeah, that's not all they'll be asking you to 'work'. No daughter of mine is going to be a jockey. I've worked so hard so that you don't have to live like THIS," she said, indicating our shabby little rented house. "You have so much potential...you're a bright girl. Why would you throw it all away just to ride a few horses? Honey, this is dangerous work, you could be killed. It's a very hard life."
"I know, Mom. But I wanna do it anyway."
She sighed, heavily, lighting another cigarette. She didn't seem interestd in her pancakes, and chose that moment to change the subject. "I just can't eat in this weather."
While Mom smoked, I shoveled food into my mouth, sullenly thinking about my response to her next objection. I wasn't surprised by Mom's reaction, not really, but I was surprised by the fact that she didn't understand me.
After awhile, Mom smushed her butt into the overflowing ashtray, pushed her chair back and brushed her hair away from her sweaty forehead. She pointed at me, warning, "We will continue this discussion later, but mind you now...I will NOT allow you to go out to the track. If you want to work at the farm until you graduate, that's just fine. It's a decent job and it'll give you a good work ethic. I grew up on a farm and I think you're blessed to be able to spend so much time on one. But you WILL go to college, and you WILL get your degree. I didn't have that opportunity and I will not stand by to watch you throw away your future."
She walked away, tired as always after her night shifts, leaving me to clean up the remains of our brunch. I angrily sloshed the water around the sink and slammed cupboard doors after putting the dishes away. That afternoon I did not go to the farm; the people I wanted to talk to were already at the track for the day's races, so I curled up in the easy chair in the livingroom and read about Man O'War.
But I could not get the mostly one-sided discussion out of my head...I had not considered that I would not be allowed to go to Canturbury. In fact, I had accepted it a a given that it was simply going to happen. It was where I belonged, whether Mom realized it or not. How to make that happen? How could I ensure her that I'd be perfectly safe?
I could not wait until I was 18 to go to the track...I needed Mom's blessing, and there was no way she was going to allow it. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became, with the type of petulant self-righteous anger only a teenager can conjure. In the end, I determined I'd quit school and run away from home.
But in the back of my mind, I could not help but ask...was that the RIGHT thing to do?
The decision could wait; for now, I was content with my books, with my contacts, and with the proximity of the horses just down the road. Deep in thought, I nodded off, dreaming of prancing racers, the breeze of the box fan in the window becoming the wind at 40 mph, the sound of the motor, the roar of the crowd...
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