Vertigo kept me from riding the past few weeks. This episode lasted days and included a trip to the ER. I was finally able to hop on bare back and walk gingerly around the ring for about 25 minutes on Friday.
Initially on the fence about having my usual Sunday lesson, I decided to do it. Worse case- it would be time in good footing with someone watching me- safer than trying to regain my balance alone.
After walking around the indoor both directions, I tried trotting. Not bad. I was mostly balanced. So why not try for third gear? (What my instructor calls canter because Jigs knows verbal queues.) Surprisingly, it was the best cantering in a long time. Still leaning left going clockwise, but less so than usual. Not bad for two out of shape old coots.
With the memory of dizzy, I focused on ahead, not down. Repeat: I DID NOT LOOK DOWN! OR BACK
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!
Summer is burning to a slow end. It is mid-August.
Jigs and I have not done much other than lessons. It’s been a season of canceled events, the most recent due to the heat and humidity July threw at us. Too hot to move. Not safe for the horses.
Lessons have continued. Slight progress has been made, but it seems the more I learn, the more I am aware of my shortcomings. I’m not an athlete. I mix up left and right. My cues are awkward. I am not quiet and talk to much to Jigs with hands, legs, and voice. A hot mess. I’ve given up on ever showing or competing seriously in versatility.
On the plus side, Jigs looks fantastic. He is lean and muscled as never before. Consistency is good for him. This summer I commissioned a painting of him that now hangs in my living room.
I am looking forward to fall and the cooler weather when we can trailer out to a few organized rides. Perhaps then my usual optimism will return.
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.
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.
My family doesn’t celebrate adult birthdays. I can’t tell you the last time I had a cake. Not that I care.
Today is my birthday. I am officially over 60.
I chose today to scan my fading photos of Freedom. The old Kodak and Polaroid snapshots don’t age as well as me. Going through them has made me a little sad and a lot grateful for the life I was given.
I try not to regret anything. It’s wasted time. That doesn’t mean we cannot learn from our failures, our mistakes. In some ways, they can be a gift if we don’t rip them open carelessly.
But there is one regret I have been unable to leave behind. It is Freedom. The hurt of having to sell him to go to college is as fresh at 61 as it was at 18. My regret is that I did not fight hard enough to convince my parents to let me keep him.
Saying Goodbye 1976
I do believe if I had not sold him, my life would be different.
Freedom was purchased by a woman who promised she would give us first right of refusal. I did visit him once, about a year after he left me. I tried to contact her again, but the number was disconnected.
Last Visit with an Old Friend
I found out years later that she had gone through a nasty divorce. Freedom and her other horse, went to auction.
He was a good-looking appaloosa, well bred, so there is a chance he landed safely. I did reach out to the Appaloosa Horse Club to try to find his new owner, but I was still listed. The paperwork was never transferred.
I don’t know what that means. I hope he found a family to cherish him the way I did. I think about him every day. He lives in my heart.
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.
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