I have had a job of some sort ever since I was 14. Even the summer I took off to finish my master’s thesis, I wrote a weekly column for a local ad paper. (Remember those? It was the 80s after all). What to fill time with?
But I will be busy over the next months. I’m overwhelmed at how busy. First to arrange expenses to fit a lower income. This means getting the house ready for sale and finding another in a less expensive community, preferably with acreage. To do that means another go around sorting 60 years of stuff accumulated by my parents. My dad NEVER threw anything away. There are some things I don’t love, but could not let go the first time because my mother loved them.
But the best part will be riding during the work week. I admit all the Facebook and Instagram photos of others riding weekdays make me jealous. Now I will take my own weekday photos!
February’s pattern is snow and more snow with a few warmish (in the upper 20s low 30s) days between. Footing on the trails is decent. We know where water pools into ice beneath it and are careful- maybe too careful.
Last weekend Jigs and I even managed some extended loping behind my friend and her wonderful mustang. Loping is rare for me on these trails. Without the snow they are rocky and uneven with tree roots.
At 3 plus 60, I have become a cautious rider, almost fearful. I do not canter unless sure of the footing. I no longer ride on the road when alone.
Today Jigs was full of exuberance. He wanted to run when I wanted to jog. My hesitation was a buzz kill. It nearly came to a rare argument.
I feel bad.
Feel bad that I did not give him a chance to stretch out.
Feel bad that I slowed my friend down.
Feel bad not to be that little girl who could fly without consequence.
There is no cure for aging. We shrink. Our bodies lose flexibility. Our bones get brittle. We no longer bounce, even with snow on the ground.
My January 1st ritual every year is to remove Jigs’ ribbons above his stall. It is how I refocus on new goals, new challenges. It is mid-February and they are still up. 2019 was a tough year. I lost my mother. The ribbons are a reminder there were positive moments. I really need to take them down.
Last Sunday was The Bay State Trail Riders Association’s annual meeting and banquet. I’d almost forgotten Jigs and I had won the Judged Pleasure Ride and qualified for a year end award. To my delight, the award was a beautiful riding skirt that matches my saddle!
I was so excited; I drove from the banquet right to the barn to try it out!
Riding Skirt
It is perfect.
I don’t know what 2020 will bring, maybe a few more ribbons, maybe myriad meandering trail rides. And when the weather is wet and cold, I will be wearing a lovely turquoise riding skirt!
I’ve always been that bizarre little girl who obsesses about horses. I am convinced it is genetic.
It’s weird because the horse stories in my family are not positive. My mother used to tell me about my grandmother, Concepcion Morales Martin. She grew up in the Cuban mountains near the city of Cienfuegos. When she was a young girl, her father would bring produce to the local city. One time, the colt of the horse that pulled the cart kicked her. She was in a coma for days. When my great grandfather returned from his trip, he made a pledge to the virgin in the local church- his daughter’s life for a gold hat.
My grandmother woke from her coma. The hat was presented to the Virgin.
My grandmother once told me she was upset because while she was “sleeping,” her sisters got first pick of the parasols that her father brought back from the city. She said she was left with the “ugly one.”
My mother heard the story and was terrified of horses.
And then there was me.
It was an obsession. I remember riding the spring horse aggressively in the spare bedroom. I just knew, even at the age of 3, I belonged on a horse.
I grew up pretending I was one. Summers were spent at my grandmother’s. I would run in the woods- a wild horse. When I found The Black Stallion books, I was hooked. Margarite Henry was another favorite. My first ride was on a pony owned by a friend of my parents. I stayed on as we crossed the lawn. Past the driveway, I fell off. I wanted to get back on but was told “no”.
My mother was afraid. My father was afraid. Eventually I got to play with a neighbor’s pony. I fell off Princess more than I stayed on; I hid my falls from my parents. I got a lesson at a local stable, but when the barn sour horse ran home with me, my father said no more.
One Summer the plan was to send me to horse camp. My parents decided to install an inground pool instead. They said they could not afford both. I never recovered from the disappointment.
After a detour down the wrong path, my parent finally allowed me to get my own horse at 15- a yearling. I know, green rider, green horse, bad idea, but for Freedom and me, it worked.
I never should have agree to sell him to attend college. Selling Freedom is my one regret in life.
In my 60’s, I am still that obsessed child. This time I have Jigs. He is all I could have wanted. He keeps me sane.
For years. I blamed my mother for not sending me to horse camp. I never learned proper riding techniques. Shortly before her death, she admitted to me that the pool was a ruse. My father was afraid I would be hurt at horse camp. She wanted me to go.
The death of my mother this April has been hard. I am a loner, but for Jigs. He grounds me. He keeps me connected to my barn friends. He is my life saver.
I have never been comfortable with having my photo taken but when a friend, who is a talented photographer and fellow barn rat, offered to take some photos of Jigs, I thought, it might be fun, so why not?
The pictures are stunning. Bethani captured quiet moments between Jigs and me.
The past two weeks have been incredibly difficult. My mother passed away on April 3. The death certificate lists the time at 1:34 AM, but it was earlier because it took the nurse 45 minutes to come. It’s funny how details like that stick in your mind.
My mother’s congestive heart failure had worsened; she refused treatment. At 85, she was tired. Her world had shrunken. She missed my father and all who passed before. She wanted to stay home and was terrified she would end up in a nursing home. I could not allow that.
Hospice was invoked on Monday; she was gone barely into Wednesday. She was not alone. We were all there.
Since then I have been consumed by the things that have to happen when someone dies- Wake, funeral, finances, taxes. There is still more to do.
My girls and Jigs have kept me sane. Everyone has been so kind.
My eldest did the remembrance at the funeral. I just couldn’t do it. It was beautiful and she captured our best memories.
The house feels empty. I have been staying here almost 15 years- since my father got sick.
Taking care of my mother was the core focus the past few years. I’m not sure what will happen next. It is all changed now. I guess my life will settle into a new pattern. I will adjust, but I will always miss her.
End of December is the time for retrospectives of the year. A lot of the bloggers I follow have posted theirs already. One stated that blogs are old school and announced she is moving to other venues, pod casts, on line classrooms, for a fee. The free blog will remain, but I wonder for how long. Everyone must make a living. I get that.
Rather than looking back, I am looking toward 2019. Disclaimer-despite my fondness for Tarot, I am not clairvoyant. Expectations may or may not be realized. There will be hardships. There will be moments of joy. My hope is joy will out weight hardships.
And what are my expectations?
I expect to laugh and cry with those I love. I expect to continue preparing for retirement. I expect to ride Jigs down new trails. I expect to attend horse events, lessons, cow sorting, versatility, maybe a show if I get brave. I expect to win a few ribbons. Maybe.
Missing are my wished-for things: economic stability, a truck, Jigs at home with me, a finished book of poetry, 40 years in the making.
On January first, I will take down the ribbons Jigs won in 2018 and put away the memories of our successes, near successes, and yes, failures.
The space above his stall will be empty- a proverbial blank slate- a space for realized possibilities that will become 2019.
I still feel like that horse crazy girl the other kids made fun of- the girl who galloped through the playground pretending to be a wild horse.
I still feel like the horse crazy girl whose parents wouldn’t, couldn’t understand.
I still feel like the horse crazy girl who cried for weeks because her parents chose a swimming pool over horse camp.
I still feel like the horse crazy girl who fell off the borrowed, nasty pony mare every day, without loosing faith. The mare who taught persistence and how to ride bareback because there was no saddle.
I still feel like the horse crazy girl who loved an appaloosa yearling- love a first sight in the bowels of a horse trader’s barn. The little horse who saved my life.
I still feel like the horse crazy girl who had to accept college over heart’s desire.
I still feel like the horse crazy middle-aged girl who loved Pepperoni. Who bought Pepperoni even though he had uveitis . Pepper who taught me everything- Pepper who taught me that love means letting go.
Pepper
I still feel like the middle-aged grieving girl who walked around a corner that fateful February and found the red pony- the red pony with the “here I am, what took you so long” look.
I still feel like the middle-aged woman who was stunned to win a saddle because her red pony really was the best horse that day- we were just having fun.
I still feel like the middle-aged woman who stresses about how work and family keep her from the red pony. The woman who dropped 26 pounds for her pony’s sake.
I am the one day from 60-year-old woman whose red pony threw half a flake of hay on her, as if to share his dinner- birthday eve gift.
My non-horse friends think I am a pony obsessed lunatic. They could be right. I am rather fond of my pony. He is wonderful. I could not ask for a better partner- equine or human.
Today we loaded up my grandson’s bike into my Jeep, Jigs in the trailer and headed over to Upton State Forest to ride/bike. Upton State has a mix of trails but I figured if we stayed on the gravel roads, my grandson would be able to ride comfortably.
Before we left, I told Jigs, “your job is to keep the boy in front of you.” He took that literally. It was fine downhill when we had to trot to keep up. It wasn’t so bad on the flats, well, except for when my grandson did serpentines. Jigs followed right behind him, doing his own serpentines. This horse hates serpentines.
The issue was uphill. What goes down must go up and for bikes, not so easy. Jigs really wanted to stay behind him.
I did not.
I wanted to lope up the trail.
It took a lot of leg. When Jigs got beside the bike, he broke into a trot again and tried to swing behind the bike. More leg to push him straight. More leg to lope.
We stopped at the top to wait for the boy. The whole time Jigs was watching for him. When the bike came around the bend, Jigs sighed deeply.
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