China Doll

This is Fancy Charlie with one of Liz's advanced students. Certainly not me.

I arrived a little bit late for my riding lesson on Thursday afternoon. Just bad management of my own time, which I pay for. My instructor, Liz, said someone would be waiting for a lesson on Terra at the top of the hour, so I should tack up Fancy Charlie, who is a retired racehorse.

Charlie is 16.2 hands high, a big guy, and as gentle as a kitten. I'd ridden him twice before, and I like him a lot. He's not quite as fine-tuned as Terra, but he is more responsive and has a faster pace. There is a bit of thrill in that, even at my beginner level.

My friend, Debby, came along with me to watch the lesson, so I knew with her help we could get Charlie ready to go quickly and I wouldn't lose very much of my instruction time. Debby is a friend of twenty years. She has been riding English for at least that long, the best expert I know. She prefers thoroughbred horses, like Charlie, so she admired him instantly.

I put on my helmet and we walked the big horse into the indoor arena. It's very nice. A full-sized venue, it is well-lit and has several inches of washed sand as flooring. It's as safe a place as you're going to find for learning all styles of riding, including gaits and jumping.

Liz announced that we'd be working on balance in the saddle this day. We did a quick recap of the skills I've learned up to this point: transitions from walk to trot, sitting trot to posting trot, changing diagonals, leg yields, etc. Then she said, "Take your feet out of the stirrips and we'll do transitions without them."

I did fine with in a walk, then she sent me to trot and I began sliding around in that shiny English saddle. "I'm going to fall!" I said to her, pulling Charlie to a stop. Liz said I would not fall if I allowed my legs to hang straight down, my feet would become anchors.

Liz is the boss, and I sent Charlie into a slow trot, determined to keep my legs straight and long. And I began to slip sideways in the saddle... and the world tilted, spun and came to an abrupt halt. Charlie did a little hop to the left so he wouldn't step on me, then he stood still.

I landed butt first followed by my shoulders and head. The helmet is a good thing. Oh, the pain! Oh man did I hurt! The two women, Liz and Debby came walking over to where I lay in the sand.

"Wriggle your fingers," said Liz, "Now wriggle your toes." I did as instructed. "Can you sit up?"

No, I told her, I want to be still for awhile. I'm dizzy. I'm seeing stars, and I know what that is.

"Adrenalin," said Liz. "But you have to stand up as soon as you feel that you can." She and Debby each took an arm and got me to my feet. There was so much pain in my lower back, it made me feel angry and frustrated. A woman of my advanced age has no business falling from such a height. That's for kids.

"This dirt smells like poo poo," I said to Liz.

She replied with a bit of sarcasm, "Would you like me to get you an air freshener?"

On my feet now, they helped me to take steps. "You're alright. I could see you landed just the way you should," said Debby. And she stayed with me while Liz went to get Charlie. She brought the horse to the mounting block.

"Now get back on," she said. And Debby agreed. I had to get back on Charlie immediately. "It's about your muscles," said Liz, "You'll heal better if you stretch them a bit right away."

Before I went up the steps, I put my arms around Charlie's neck and rubbed his face. "I'm not mad at you, Charlie. You didn't do anything wrong." He nuzzled me and put his head on my shoulder. He was concerned about me, and I found that to be amazing and touching.

And I didn't let myself think, but I put my foot in the stirrip and mounted up. Liz had me walk, then trot and walk again for maybe ten minutes. It's a psychological thing, she told me then. You have to get back on while you're still in shock so as it lifts you remember being safe on the horse. If you don't do it immediately, chances are you won't ride again after your first fall. And it's good for Charlie, too, he needs to know he didn't hurt you.

"Ok. Now you can get down and walk Charlie to the cross ties for untacking." After dismounting, I fondled Charlie again, telling him he's a good guy and we're still friends. His big soft eyes looked me over. His coat was soft and fuzzy as the cold weather has thickened it, and he smelled good. Like a horse.

It's dumb to wear jeans with an English saddle. I've ordered proper riding breeches with a full seat so I won't slide like that again.

I couldn't wait to get home and tell my cowgirl friend, Heidi. I said yeah, I'm ok. I'm in bed after taking four ibuprofen. John brought me tea. It really hurts and I'm surprised I'm not in a hospital.

"The weather's great tomorrow," said Heidi, "Want to ride Ginger through the woods? I can take Skip."

"Give me a week to heal up," I replied, "Give an old lady a break."

"China Doll," said Heidi, laughing at me.

There are worse nicknames, I suppose.

Love of Horses

When I look at horses, I think of the relationship between man and nature, and stewardship.

God, or the Intelligent Designer, built all creatures so that their genes could be modified through select breeding. There are wild creatures which have evolved to meet their environments, that survival of the fittest and best. And there are domestic animals that have been bred to serve mankind. The earliest of these were herd animals for meat and working animals for pulling and moving.

A good farmer has respect for the animals that help him work. And the animals, having descended from hundreds or thousands of years of living and working alongside the farmer, are programed to trust and depend on the farmer's good care. This separates the domestic animal from the wild animal. Wild animals, of course, do not like to be looked at or touched by other species because that usually means they'll be eaten.

A farmer always has horses. A horse can pull a plow or a wagon, take a rider across all terrain, and move a stockman around to contain his herds.

Imagine a human being and a horse, and the interdependence. The farmer feeds and cares for the horse. The horse earns it's hay. If the horse is sick, the farmer nurses the animal. A kind of love grows between the farmer and the horse.

In modern times, while horses still do real work, there are also hobbiests who keep horses for the simple enjoyment of their beauty and heart. We can ride them around in show rings, race them around barrels, harness them to wagons in parades.

I recently began English riding lessons. It was sort of on a whim... Let's see, I should pick a hobby of some sort, and I can try this one on without a big investment of cash. $35 an hour is cheap and I can quit anytime I decide this is not for me.

I have to admit my first impression was it's a lot of trouble to wade through mud to catch the horse, and she smells kinda strong while I'm grooming her before tacking up. It's hard digging the stuff out of her hooves (they don't watch where they step), and all these straps for the saddle and bridle are complicated. But the horse, Terra, put up with my fumblings with quiet patience. And she carried me around with the quiet wisdom of a high-quality lesson horse.

It's when she puts her head on my shoulder as I'm leading her that she hooks my heart. And when I am riding her in the arena and she senses that my balance and organization are in sync and she powers up. Like, "You've got it, Denise! Let's have some fun now!"

Terra is half Belgian draft horse and half Thoroughbred. This makes a fine English ride because the style demands a flexible skeleton. Lighter horses do not have the strength in their joints for the fancy stepping and bending exhibited in dressage and other English disciplines.

I'm looking at a Friesian horse that my trainer, Liz, just bought as a project. The Friesian is a light draft horse, most commonly used for pulling carriages, but now gaining interest in dressage. They are sometimes called Black Belgians. Usually glossy black, they have thick frizzy manes, large feet and long, graceful necks with smallish finely-featured heads. These are descended from the war horses of the Middle Ages, stout enough to carry a knight into battle. Romantic, huh? You can see them in movies such as Ladyhawk, The Mask of Zorro, and The Clash of the Titans.

I do think the draft horses are the most beautiful of all the breeds. They are probably the most intelligent and docile of the species. So breeding them with lighter weight types make superb riding horse. This Freisian seems to be the best of both worlds, as I study it. I'm no where near ready to make a purchase, though. It's way too early on my learning curve. I'm watching very closely, just the same.

There is a video that gets circulated every year around the time of the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center. It was made by Budweiser and features their Clydesdale draft horses. I've seen members of this team at state fairs since I was a little girl, and they have always awed me. I'll set the link here to the 9-11 ad. It never fails to move me deeply. The beauty of the horses, the skill of the drivers and trainers, the draped wagon... and the simplicity and sincerity of the message.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zXZX2sXHYI&feature=related

The love of horses. The man knows the horse. The horse knows nature. And nature knows God. I can't think of a better way to describe what I feel when I'm looking into Terra's eyes.

That this love comes to me at a very trying time in my life proves that He is watching and caring for me.

Terra

Here is Terra all tacked-up. She's sleepy because I took my time with the curry comb and got her all relaxed. She was plenty alert at lesson time, though.

Terra is a seventeen year old Belgian/Thoroughbred cross retired dressage horse. She's about 15.2 hands high, for those of you who like to know those things. That mean's she's not so tall, but that drafthorse in her parentage makes her a little stout and very strong. She is a beautiful copper red color with a white blaze on her face.

I meet with Terra and my instructor, Liz, every Thursday afternoon at Gunderson Farm.

Liz bought her several years ago for a lesson horse. I found Liz through an ad, simply called her up and made an appointment for the first lesson. It was easy to do, and that's because of the way Liz takes charge.

I told her about the lessons in Western style I'd had in childhood, and she told me she teaches both English and Western. "But I admit I lean toward English because I have dressage students and I'm advanced there." Ok, then, bring on the English.

She's in her early thirties, I'd guess. A big girl with the fair complexion, blonde hair and blue eyes of the Scandinavian Gunderson clan. She comes complete with the cheerful high energy and strong will that the Nordic people are known for. Beautiful smile.

I've had six lessons so far. The first were very difficult for me because the English saddle is very small. I didn't feel the sense of balance and security of a Western saddle, which is bigger and deeper. Perched up there on that broad horse, I thought I might fall off! And you don't hold the reins in one hand and steer assertively, you hold the reins in both hands, centered at the top of the saddle, and you steer mostly with your legs, only guiding with the rein, left hand and right hand. There is very subtle direction to the horse in English style. It's almost like the power steering of an automobile. So different from the assertive kicking and yanking of the Western style (that's a bit of a crude comparison, but it's about right). This made for a somewhat confused Terra while I was getting used to that.

"What are you trying to tell me?" she seemed to say, looking sideways up at me, "I'll just stand still while you get organized up there."

Liz constantly correcting my hands and my posture. Tighten the rein, lower your hands, lift your gaze away from the horse, now look up and ahead because that straightens your shoulders. Heels down. Squeeze her middle, you're too far back and she thinks you want her to slow down.

Gee whiz. And then Liz attached a long lead to Terra's bridle and also produced a long whip. This is called lounging. She said I was going to "sit a trot." So I did, while Terra and I went in tetherered circles around Liz inside the arena.

I was barely hanging on, but couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling up. Oh this is fun, it is funny, it's unbelievably busy. Think! Feet, hands, back, gaze, sit high and firm.

Go to walk, now to trot, go to walk, now to trot. This is called transitioning, I was informed. And it did get easier somehow.

"You have a relaxed horse now," Liz told me. "She has her ears forward and her eyes are half closed like a horse does when she's enjoying her work."

The next week Liz said I was going to "post a trot," and this is the damnedist thing I've ever tried to coordinate. The lounge line was gone. The feet of the horse go one, two, three, four and you sort of stand in the stirrips on two and four. Kinda like getting out of a deep chair, that's moving underneath you. And the floor is moving, too.

Oh, it seems like I'm never going to get that coordination down. Poor Terra, I thought. I hope my erratic bouncing isn't hurting her back.

"There it is, Denise! You've got it!" Now Liz was laughing, too.

Startled, I lost it.

"No, that's ok. It's like that. And it's a big deal because the more you do it, your muscles will remember. Muscle memory, you won't even have to think."

And last week we did it again. I got all the way down the rail of the arena maintaining that post before I lost it. And got it back.

Liz really doesn't give me any choice. I do what she tells me to do.

"You are beautiful, Denise, just beautiful!"

Really? And, after I dismounted and walked Terra to un-tack and put her away, the silly creature put her head on my shoulder. She almost knocked me over.

"Why is she doing that?" I asked Liz.

"She likes you." I got a lump in my throat.

Liz went on to tell me that I'm learning fast. "You sit very well. You are learning at a faster than average rate, and I'm enjoying teaching you. Now, you don't learn as fast as a 20 year old, but that's only because the older you are the slower muscle memory is. Don't compare yourself to my younger students. I hope you don't take that wrong, because for an older person you're doing quite well."

She looked carefully at me. "Are you satisfied with what you're learning? Do you feel like you want to continue with this?"

"Oh, yes." I said.