The Year of the Horse

Authors and their Stories

• Heidi Marshall      The Black Mare
• Larry Kilham        Horses
• Lynne Zotalis        The Love that Passes All Understanding
• Mark Fleisher        And the Race is On
• Ashley Wilson        Winning
• Linda Bairstow      An Equine Blur

 

 

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The Black Mare

by Heidi Marshall

He wished again for the impossible gift. A birthday pony. A wish for sure. He knew it would never happen. His family could barely afford second time-time-around clothes for him and his sister.

He believed a pony would put an end to the nightmares that plague his nights, always ready the moment his eyes closed in sleep. Sometimes he falls down a bottomless abyss. Other nights fanged creatures chase him. Terror possessed, his legs slowly melting, he is unable to run.

On this birthday night, he kept his eyes open as long as he could, picturing a white pony, but his eyelids got heavy. He fell asleep.

The nightmares were ready. This time in a dark grove with growling sounds coming from open toothless mouths carved on the tree trunks, and bare branches like claws tearing at his skin.

But that night a black mare came, waves of moonlight sliding like water on her back. She knelt to let him grip her mane. He mounted bareback, and the nightmares eased into loveliness. Speeding silently over undulating valleys, the mare’s silky mane caressing his face, he slept.

She kept coming, until one night when he dreamt of falling into a deep ice crevice, sky closing above his head, erasing the stars. He called the mare, but she did not come. Time passed. He stopped calling her and resigned himself to the horror of his dreams, never telling anyone.

On his birthday, a night filled with moonlight and shadows, the black mare reappeared, two graceful, golden foals by her side.

Terrorized by their beauty, the nightmares fled. Never to come back.

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Horses Art by Hal West

Poem by Larry Kilham

 The horse has no remorse.

It comes to you and nuzzles

then wanders off to nibble grass to stubbles.

It joins the others and the horses run free

with pounding hooves and waving manes in equine glee.

Later, the colts are born with big searching eyes

and spring has begun its reprise.

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The Love that Passes All Understanding

Lynne Zotalis

The two horse people I know are quite nuts. Around age twelve, my personal experience with horses, actually a pony, turned ambivalence to a strong dislike for the sport. On a visit to my grandparents farm they thought a Shetland pony would be a fun activity for us. I’ve since learned how cantankerous the diminutive rascals are. Galloping across the field, hanging on for dear life, the pony barreled toward the fence. Two feet before impact, he came to a dead stop catapulting me over his head landing inches before the barbed wire. You win, I declared. No thanks.

Horse-crazy, I’ve heard coined. The people I’ve known all fit into that category, and though I haven’t known too many intimately, I can definitely recognize a common thread. Another girl, Peggy, in my junior high school that always wore a pony tail, had a curious habit. She didn’t walk, didn’t skip but galloped, on her own feet, wherever she went. Of course, we mocked her as is the wont of young teens. Committed barely comes close to describing the obsession with their equine love.

In my ignorance I never bothered to find out how powerful Peggy’s history was. Galloping girl was a Schatzlein of Schatzlein Saddle Shop! The website says, “Giddyup! One of the largest horseback riding shops in the Midwest, this locally owned, family run retailer has been outfitting Western and English riders for 106 years. You’ll find authentic apparel for the entire family and plenty of boots, belts, and buckles. Plus saddles, horseback riding equipment, and horse care products.”

The other two women I’m talking about, that I knew personally, fell head over heels in love, at a young age. Cheryl described how her dad brought her to a farm that rented ponies by the hour. Her dad died when she was only eight leaving a hole so huge that riding gave her the comfort and courage necessary to fill that humongous void. It was the most powerful memory, the connection with her dad. Understandable.

Growing up in the city gave Cheryl few chances to pursue her riding so she substituted, however meager, with horse figurines. She had at least a hundred of them, all sizes and breeds, carefully placed on a three tier book shelf. I would move one or two to tease her, or maybe also to see if she would notice. And wow, did she! Once even bursting into tears which me being the jerk that I could be, I had to hold my breathe to keep from laughing. Insensitive and brash, not to mention what a rotten friend, I didn’t realize how deeply that hurt her.

As soon as she could own a horse, now in her adulthood, living on a farm, horses were an integral part of the rest of her life, sometimes with more than one, or boarding other horses to pay for her passion. She was fearless and accomplished, learning to jump with all manner of prowess. I was impressed, totally in awe of the person I once mocked.

I had mentioned that I knew two such horse women, the other only an acquaintance, I’ll call her Lori. What I came to learn about both Cheryl and Lori, their injuries were regular and severe, with broken bones, pulled muscles, torn ligaments, concussions, you name it. Without one second of regret or second thoughts neither would dream of giving up their equestrianism.

The episode that you’d wager would have been the decider happened in Montana. Cautiously coming down an embankment the horse stumbled tumbling end over end crushing Cheryl under the twelve hundred pounds. Internal injuries, broken bones, a destroyed ankle kept her in the ICU for weeks.

Lucky to be alive, one conversation with her surgeon went like this,

“My husband rides a Harley and I sometimes ride with him.”

The surgeon said, “You can choose which one you’re going to die on, the motorcycle or the horse.”

“No contest. I’ll take the horse,” she said.

That ankle underwent numerous surgeries over the years until finally she had a total replacement.

I truly don’t understand it. I’m actually somewhat afraid of the giant animals, their power. That’s why I won’t be very sympathetic to the next accident. It will happen. Most assuredly and I hope they aren’t killed. But you know, dying, doing something you absolutely love isn’t an awful way to go.

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And the Race is On

Mark Fleisher

Riders Up!

And with that call a dozen or so small men dressed in silk mount their horses often needing a boost, walk through the paddock and onto the dirt track for the post parade. Small men, yes. But muscular for it is no easy feat to guide a thousand pound animal through a bevy of rivals all bent on capturing a leg of the Triple Crown.

Anticipation builds as Jorge, Jose, Juan, Johnny guide their steeds toward the starting gate. Often there is a recalcitrant horse, needing a push from an assistant starter into the assigned position. A few seconds tick away, the gate’s doors swing open, and the race is on. In little more than two minutes one of these thoroughbreds will wear a blanket of roses. Or Viking Mums, or White Carnations. Or two. Or in rare cases, a history-making three.

The victorious rider will undoubtedly thank God and praise his horse. The winning trainer and owners hug, scream in delight, and accept congratulations from a multitude of supporters. Jockey, trainer, and owners are in store for a big payoff. For the horse, maybe an extra ration of oats and a stud fee that’s doubled, tripled, or more.

Some in the grandstand and infield areas rip losing tickets in half, shrug their shoulders, and wait for the next race. Others head for the windows to gleefully collect their cash.

A day at the track.

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Winning

Ashley Wilson

When Abigail was eight, she cleaned off a shelf in her bedroom for where she planned to showcase all her awards, which she felt sure would be bestowed upon her in the coming years. To her chagrin, she discovered she was not a winner.

It started with rabbits.  Abigail’s dad was a scientist, who used rabbit blood for experiments, but if the grant money dried up, he would bring home the rabbit instead of putting it to sleep. Often this didn’t extend the rabbit’s life very long. Between a fox, the neighbor’s boxer, and Abigail forgetting to feed or water them, the rabbits never lived long. But if one was alive when the 4H Fair came around, Abigail would enter it in the rabbit competition. After the judging, all the other cages would have blue ribbons, but Abigail’s rabbit would have a red. One year, she tried brushing the rabbit before the fair, but this time, the judges gave out several red ribbons, and Abigail’s rabbit got white! Abigail didn’t bother to keep the red or white ribbons.

When Abigail turned nine, she became totally horse obsessed. Once a week, she would go to a riding academy. Abigail rode Moonbeam, a five-year-old roan quarter horse, who always responded to her every command. Her instructor was so impressed she suggested Abigail enter a horse show in the dressage event, where she would guide Moonbeam through a series of precision movements. Abigail practiced and practiced. A week before the show, her instructor informed her that she needed a new riding outfit – boots, britches, a polo shirt, and velvet colored coat. Knowing her parents wouldn’t spring for new clothes, Abigail asked her instructor if she knew of anyone who could sell her used clothes for the twenty dollars she had saved from her allowance. For a while it looked like Abigail was going to have to withdraw from the show, but at the last minute the instructor found a seller.

Abigail went two hours early to the horse show and discovered that the jacket’s sleeves covered her hands and the helmet fell down over her eyes. It was too late to do anything about it, so Abigail just put on the clothes, brushed Moonbeam to a shine, and carefully braided his mane. When the time came to compete, Abigail rode Moonbeam through a precise and graceful routine.  When it was over, she sat on Moonbeam in front of the judges, beaming with pride and grinning from ear to ear. She pushed the helmet back, so she could see, and heard her score announced.  She scored a 5 and came in last. Shortly after, Abigail gave up riding.

Abigail’s luck changed when she began taking Susan, the family’s Australian Shepard mix, to obedience class.  Susan thought she was the children’s nanny and went everywhere with Abigail and her sister.  She let them pretend to ride her, straddling her like a horse and going over jumps, and would pull bunnies around in a cart without hurting them. Then Abigail discovered that Susan thought obedience class was the most fun game in the world. She pranced by Abigail’s side with a huge grin whenever it was time to heel, sat when Abigail stopped, stayed when given the signal, and raced to Abigail when it was time to come. Abigail began entering obedience training classes and soon was winning first prize every time. Abigail’s previously empty shelf filled with plates, blue ribbons, and trophies. After their first year of competing,  Abigail and Susan were to compete in the New York State Fair’s Beginner competition for General Obedience!

On the day of the fair, Abigail and her sister went to ride the Giant Ferris Wheel before the competition.  Their dad stayed below with Susan on a leash. When they came down, they were late. As they hurried across the grounds, Susan was jumpy and pulled out to the side on her leash, but they ignored her and just made it to the Coliseum.  Abigail and Susan immediately joined the other beginners in the ring.  For the heeling and sitting exercises, Susan looked distressed, completely unlike herself. Then came the long stay.

Abigail made Susan lie down and then brought her hand, flat, in front of Susan’s face and said “Stay”.  She then dropped the leash and walked six feet away. Susan looked completely confused and upset.  She fidgeted.  She frowned. Then she suddenly bolted across the long row of dogs and ran out of the Coliseum.

Abigail ran after her, completely confused, shouting “Bad dog! Bad!” Her dad and sister joined her from the stands. Outside on a patch of grass, they found Susan making a huge poop.

Abigail hugged Susan and pressed her face into Susan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Susan!” said Abigail. “You’re a great dog!”

 

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  An Equine Blur

                     Linda Bairstow

Thundering, roiling freedom.—
Strength!—
Across the open grasslands.
A blur of necks and legs and tails.
A stir of dust, and snorts exhaled.
A billowing, rushing streak.
Determined.

Ghosts of horses with the herd!
From the churning air bestirred.
Merging with all strides and minds.
The wisps of mares, and stallions, foals,
Bringing lost wisdom. Freshly bold.—
Thundering!!
Trampling down their rising zombies.
Headstrong in force. Headstrong, at ease.
Keeping faith with what’s inside them.
Too deep to be known.

Horses, phantoms, young and old.
Churning up trueness, wildness, souls.
Across the plains of longing.