Jigs came to me when he was 6. He is 21 this year. I don’t know his date of birth- he came without papers. His vet has been the same since he was 3, so his age estimate is accurate. She’s watched him grow into the stubborn pony he can be.
What I know of his history has been pieced together from different stories. A local sale barn rider bought then resold him to the woman I got him from, though I never met her (transacted the purchase through her barn manager). She bought him to be a hunter pony for her young daughter but it sounded like she was intimidated by him. He would give her a hard time and refuse to leave the barn when they would all go for a trail ride. My friends had ridden him without issue. One of the reasons I took him on trial.
He does test riders that way. I personally watched him do that with two different trainers.
While Jigs is the horse of a lifetime, I’ve found over the years if he refuses to do something, you can get him do it through negotiation. He needs to know why. Forcing him does not work. Someone remarked recently that he is like a mare in that way. Maybe.
Jigs’ split ear is his standout trait in a field of chestnuts. A while after I got him, the sale barn rider recognized him in the pasture when he was delivering hay. He remarked Chace (aka Jigs) “is a nice horse.” He added “there were papers the prior owner did not want to pay for,” but I’m skeptical. Papers can be swapped. He mentioned Jigs was well broke when he bought him.
None of it matters. He was sold to me as a green, grade quarter pony, although he sticks at 14.3. Despite lack of work, he looked fabulous the day he arrived. He holds his muscling.
Jigs February 8 2009 – First Day
Even at 21 he looks great!
Jigs April 2024
Although he enjoys napping in the sun more than he used to- then again, so do I!
Last week, I purchased a 15-minute reading at a psychic fair. Closer to 70 than 60, I figure knowing the future is somewhat irrelevant, but it was for fun and to support a local business.
The reader, who was younger than my daughters, told me my wish would come true in June or possibly October. I laughed and told her I hadn’t wished for anything.
“Not even when you blew out your birthday candles?” she asked.
“Nope. No birthday cake for me.” After awkward silence, I added “wishes are dangerous. Maybe they come true, but not as you expect… like the monkey’s paw.”
She turned over another card to change the subject.
The concept of a granted wish has rattled around my head since. What would I wish for?
World peace? But at what cost? Realistically, that likely would require a world without humans.
Live forever? I think of Sybil who asked Apollo for immortality but forgot to include eternal youth.
Immortality is overrated, but maybe fewer age-related aches and pains?
Should I wish for a new house with land for the pony and a friend for him? This close to 70, that could be a challenge. Who would help with the upkeep? I’d at least need a tractor and then learn to drive it. I can barely handle towing my trailer. This wish rolled down the alley and disappeared into the gutter.
What about winning the lottery? That requires good luck and I think it is best to have no luck at all, avoiding the flipside of the luck coin.
And of course there is the Scottish proverb, “If wishes were horses beggars would ride.” I can relate to that, but I already have my dream horse.
I am grateful for what I have. Circumstances of birth gave me family, home, food, education. I have eyes to see, ears to hear, mouth to speak, hands to do, feet to walk. I have the luxury of horses in my life.
Both the pony and I are seniors. I no longer dream of mad gallops across fields but hope for a beach lope now and then. We traverse trails, weather permitting, practice in the ring for local shows. That is enough.
I am conscious that the years in front of us are few and, like senior discounts, I intend to take advantage of them!
60 degrees at the beginning of March! Blue sky after gray rain.
I took Jigs on my daily walk.
Three miles walking strengthens partnership. Yes, I could have ridden but our usual trails are muddy from the crazy rain, and it felt good to be beside him for a change.
So, we headed down the street in a different direction than our usual route. My plan was to cut through the old pine grove, where we used to ride, to avoid backtracking.
Good idea that lacked execution; I took a wrong turn. I would say we got lost, but I suspect the red pony knew exactly where we were as he dramatically sighed a few times. The old trail was broken, and we had to bushwack to the highway to find where it picked up again. I knew these trails before loggers destroyed them. The local land trust is working to restore them.
Downed trees, mud, a brook, big trucks- Jigs didn’t hesitate. Trusty trail pony he is.
On the way back we ran into a horse and buggy. Jigs got snorty. Did he think it was Spoc? I let them go ahead of us; he wanted to follow them when we turned toward our barn. Silly boy.
We were sweating by the time we got back. Okay, maybe me more than him. He is starting to let go of winter, but his coat is still thick; he was warm- honest…
What a difference a year makes. Just because that is cliché doesn’t mean it is not true.
Last February at this time, like many of my co-workers, I was stressed about the upcoming round of “reorgs” spinning in the rumor mill. Every February, this annual event disrupted my head, my stomach, my sleep, my focus. For years, I made it to the other side.
Then last year I didn’t.
At 65, for the first time since I was a teenager, I was without a job. Dreading starting over again in a world created for youth and short term thinking, I decided to take the hit and retire early, despite being months from full retirement age.
It turned out to be the right decision.
This February is just another month, albeit with less days. My blood pressure is normal. I sleep, I eat well. I walk nearly every day. Dark winter afternoons don’t prevent me from riding.
In two months, Jigs and I have traveled 103 trail miles. Last year at this time, we only had 21; the year before, 27.
Our lifetime tracked miles are 3,731, 269 from 4,000! Fingers crossed we both stay healthy. If we do, we will crush that!
Retirement has slowed me down. This is good. My blood pressure is normal for the first time in years. There is no hurry to get things done. I get to choose what I do each day.
This morning I went to the barn to ride. The sun was warm and full. There were no clouds subduing it’s light or warmth. Ice was turning to mud. I had just cleaned my good winter riding booties, but what is a little mud when the weather is perfect?
And there was Jigs, in the field sunbathing, dozing in the February sun.
I assumed he would rise when he saw me but other than raising his head to look at me, he did not move.
I took a few photos and hung out with him. Still he didn’t get up. In fact, he closed his eyes, drooped his nose to the ground!
I decided to return his halter and lead line to the barn. When I looked back, he was stretched out flat, snoring loudly.
I am flattered he feels safe enough to sleep around me. Not long after I got him, we were at a cow clinic waiting for our run. He dozed with me on his back, left hind foot cocked. An elderly woman came up to me and said, a horse that will do that trusts you and is a treasure to own.
He is that and more.
When I was working, time was limited. I would have forced him to get up and go so I could get back to whatever task needed completion. We would both have been rushed. Now, I can be patient. There is time.
We did hit the trails later in the afternoon with some friends. It was a glorious day to ride. I am so blessed!
November is when most organized horse events stop in New England. Jigs and I participated in our last judged ride on November 5th. We placed second in our division even though my brain fell apart at the second gate, and I messed up by overthinking.
Second Place
Overthinking is one of my fatal flaws. That and my noisy hands.
Winter is the time for slow trail rides and ring work. This week I set myself a challenge- to stop and turn off my seat and legs without using reins. I struggle with keeping my hands still and interfere with Jigs doing his job. I can use the frozen months to work on this.
And I will use Winter’s pause to continue sorting the stuff my parents left behind, like photos from the 50s and 60s. I don’t know the names of many people among them, probably friends of my parents. I did recognize an old car- a Chevy Impala my father loved. I recall riding in the back seat angry my parents were taking me from the solitude of my book to visit cousins.
As their only child, there are lots of photos of me. What strikes me is how even at two or three, my mannerisms were fully formed. Here’s one of me talking to Santa with my hands, something I do today. Noisy hands.
Talking to Santa
Snapshots of forgotten moments to digitize. It seems a shame to throw away the unrecognized ones. They are someone’s memory, someone’s treasure, but there’s no space to keep them, no one to look at them.
This pruning is part of the aging process. Keep only what matters and release the rest.
The final 2023 trail challenge at Mountain Lane Farm is behind us. Last weekend, Jigs and I headed out of the barn at 6:15 in the rain. As we neared the New Hampshire state line, the rain stopped, but it stayed chilly most of the day.
We arrived in time for the walk through at 8. The two judges patiently explained what they expected at each obstacle and answered our questions. “Straightness” was the theme. Jigs and I compete in Level 2, in hand, adult ride, and open ride, so there was plenty of time after the walk through to groom and warm up as we waited for our classes.
As usual, in hand was a debacle. I am clumsy and struggle with spatial awareness. A recent DNA trait update on Ancentry.com indicates I am “Least Likely to enjoy dancing.” True. I’ve never been comfortable in my body. This spills to hand classes where I get confused and tangled up in the lead rope. Poor Jigs. He’s so forgiving. The judge noted on the scorecard how often I touched him and we finished near the bottom of the large class.
Rolling Bridge – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
Adult ride was much better. I was aware of my mistakes (all mine, not Jigs’) so my expectation of pinning was low. It was a large class with strong competitors. We completed the 360 degrees turn on the rolling bridge, but I had to back him up a few steps to avoid stepping off at 180 degrees. It cost us a point. Overall, our total score was 70.5, enough for second place! Much better than the first two challenges.
Trailhead – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
Our scores in the open ride were lower, 68.5, but enough to place first. We lost points because of my sloppiness- a half point here and there adds up.
Box – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
For me mountain trail is not about collecting points or ribbons- it’s about building communication with my horse. When I think back to where we were last year, I see improvement. And I FEEL when we are not in sync on the course. The judges’ scores mirrored what I felt on the obstacle. In the open class, I lost tempo coming down the trot hill and fumbled on the trail head turn; my scores reflected that.
Ribbons
The win for me is I recognized it on the course. A few years ago, I would have been blissfully aware. My horsemanship scores have improved. Even with my wobbles in the open class, we scored a 5!
I am thrilled with how far Jigs and I have come and look forward to next year!
I was going to write about it, but this morning, my eyes caught flashes of color- wild flowers.
In my late twenties I became obsessed with knowing all things wildflower. Horseless, I found myself walking, backroads, local trails. They were everywhere, alongside young trees in vacant lots, unworked fields, ditches. After all, New England is a forest waiting to return.
Weekends, armed with my Audubon Field Guide, I sought changing colors week to week, month to month. Ephemeral and exquisite, I was drawn to stunning sensuality.
And the poems came. I had the book title too: Learning the Latin Names of Flowers.
But life, as it does, got in the way, and the poems stopped.
Why wildflowers? What drew me to them?
Spiritual Healing
Some have forgotten
your name, but I see
your many faces
in the flowers
strewn by roadsides
and across fields.
Like the hips of young girls,
their petals sway in the breeze,
calling to the bees,
and they come.
Yet you are
a cavern fringed with Winter
and we are bears
sleeping through long nights.
In your wisdom,
you leave us
so we may come
from your dark
into your light.
for like us
you are a bear
and we your nursing cubs.
This earth is brown and green,
and when water breaks
from the sky: blue.
Like great thighs
your mountains call us
and we come.
Healing? Maybe. Or fixing failure?
As a high school freshman, I was given a September biology assignment due the last week of school. I was to collect, dry, and catalog local wildflowers throughout the year.
Too busy partying, I promptly forgot the assignment until two weeks before it was due. I tried to capture remnants of May and early June flowers, but they were not dry, and I fooled no one. I flunked the assignment and the class.
Maybe that is where the poems came from.
Since that failure, I have learned not all local flowers are wild, some escaped from gardens and wreak havoc. Loosestrife is an invasive species.
Does it matter? Magnificent and magnetic, unbound flowers call to me. Tansy, Yarrow, Lady Slippers-
Hawkweed
Remnants of Rags
Yellow tatters left behind
by a careless woman
litter the road:
Kites bound to Earth
by green string.
And Black Eyed Susan-
Rudbeckia hirta
A name more violent
than spicy mustard,
implies barmaid brawls
or beaten wives,
and though rough leaved,
a field of suffragettes
marching toward the light.
Maybe that is what we are all doing…. marching toward the light.
As I clean out the house I live in, readying it for sale, it occurs to me that humans hold onto too much. Some of the things my father saved perplexes me. Boxes and boxes of screws, electrical plates, flux, wires, ancient tools I don’t know the purpose of. There are receipts from the 1960’s for wood, concrete, and other sundries. I recall my mother and me trying to get rid of this just before his health forced him to a nursing home. When we put something in the dumpster, he would rescue it. We gave up.
Those things were his unrealized intentions.
My dad worked hard his whole life. He owned several businesses of varying degrees of success and failure. He was kind, the first to offer help, taking control in times of grief. He saved a woman’s life by going back into a building filled with noxious gas and resuscitated her.
I think this selflessness was because he experienced so much loss at a young age. His father died in front of him when he was thirteen. Accepted by an ivy league school that he could not attend for lack of money, he married my mother. And then his younger, 17 year old brother, was killed in a car accident the month before I was born.
Like all humans, my father was imperfect. He drank too much. His health failed early. Cancer, blindness, and stroke left him in a wheelchair.
This stuff we accumulate, disappointment and grief, are hard to release.
The bags of stuff I carry out of the house are the letting go, for him, of him.
My plan, if it holds, is to sell this house and move somewhere less expensive, somewhere with land for the pony- maybe two. But as my father learned, intentions are just that. They don’t always workout the way you expect.
As I sort through remnants of his life, I confront my own desire for lightness of heft, illumination, and grace.
Saturday was the second trail challenge of the 2023 Mountain Lane series. Not our best day, but we managed to pin first in Level 2 Open Riding. I was happy even though our first two runs (in hand, and adult) were rough and scores too low to ribbon.
I intended to go to a Mountain Lane Play Day to practice the course before the show, but life and high humidity interfered. Last weekend we attended a local versatility clinic. I received help with cueing the 180-degree tetter totter turn and though we didn’t get a wow in the competition, we didn’t lose points. I was a bit too handsy at the end. Rider’s fault, not horse.
There was a small Texas Two Step at the clinic. I wish I had spent more time stepping on and off from the side. I didn’t notice that nuance on the challenge course until competition day. Human error.
Clinic
Hot and humid the day of the challenge, I was pleased when competitors were told the judges would keep an eye on the warmup ring to ensure riders respected the heat. Keeping horses safe (and riders) is first priority.
In hand was a throw away class for us. My lack of body awareness created confusion for Jigs and I had to touch him with my hands, which is a big NO for competition. It did get him familiar with the idea of competing, which helped with the riding classes. I was happy we got the 360-degree turn on the rolling bridge, something we had never attempted before.
The adult riding class was rough. We lost all our points on the downhill back up, even though we practiced it well on the trail, I could not keep him straight. We lost our points on the cake box side pass too. This requires the horse to put two feet on the first layer and side pass to the middle before stepping all the way on. Losing points on these two obstacles put us out of the ribbon race.
Photo Credit: Mountain Lane Farm
Level two open was much better. We got the downhill backup, though lost two points for lack of straightness. Jigs’ side pass on the cake box was perfect! I was pleased with the run but painfully aware of our gaps. I figured we would not ribbon. I was about to load Jigs on the trailer when I heard our names called for first place!
Photo Credit Mountain Lane Farm
I enjoy these trail challenges. I want to think Jigs does too but who knows what thoughts run through his equine brain? Maybe he’s just working toward the cookie he knows is at the end of the class.
Time to go…..
Navigating a trail course is a test of partnership between horse and rider. Asking a thousand-pound animal to climb on a moving obstacle and turn requires trust between two species, one a predator and the other a flight animal. The horse must trust the rider is not putting them in danger, and the rider must trust the horse does not flip to flight mode. I feel like our partnership has grown because of these competitions. At the end, isn’t that what it is about?
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