Topic 52: The Character of Horses

Carol:

Galahad and the General

 We live in a “planned community” grandly named “Equestrian Estates.” I suppose we originally thought of someday owning a horse, “for the kids.” But, for about 15 years we watched our neighbor laboring in his stall, pitching hay, raking up the muck and grooming his two horses.  He never rode them, and they never left their stall. It didn’t take long to realize we weren’t really horse people, whatever that means. Not that I don’t like the idea of horses. They touch some romantic spot inside me that evokes images of Black Beauty, full of graceful speed and freedom.

Crawley countryside, 2002.

The autumn of 2002 we flew into Gatwick Airport to visit Megan, who was studying  at the University of Sussex. We spent our first night at the Little Foxes Bed and Breakfast in Crawley, a short ride from the airport. Marc and I woke up very early and headed out to explore the quiet roads behind the hotel, enjoying the crisp, cool air and solitude. Suddenly, through a break in the hedgerows, we saw an open field with a large, stone house in the distance, and grazing nearby a…. unicorn? That’s what it looked like as its hot breath hit the cold air and turned to mist swirling up around its head. The horse began to slowly move in our direction. Five, ten minutes, and there he was, leaning over the fence. Marc stepped up for one quick velvet touch of the magical creature before we meandered on. I like to think its name was Galahad.

"Galahad" and Marc, 2002.

Sonoita countryside, 2010

Yesterday morning I woke up at the Walker Guest Ranch in southern Arizona  outside the little town of Sonoita. My friends Anne, Glady and I had found our way here the night before to the home of Glady’s niece Jody in total darkness  along a dirt road edged by trees. Much to my surprise, when I stepped outside on another clear, crisp autumn morning, I saw not  trees but an unobstructed vista of far-off mountains to the west and east.  A short walk from the main house stood a large barn with stalls, sheep and… horses. I grabbed my camera and headed for the stall where a large, gray horse stood quietly against the fence. As I got closer, I saw the beads braided into his mane. And, suddenly, there he was leaning over the fence, another magical creature. I was too timid to reach for his muzzle.

 I somewhat impolitely pumped the family over breakfast about the horse. He is owned by the Walkers’ daughter’s mother-in-law. He is actually called a  “blue,” (google “blue roan”). He is a stud horse, but he was imprinted right after birth (google “horses and imprinting”), so he is very gentle and friendly to people.  I could have touched that velvet coat. Oh, and his name is General. 

General, 2010

I don’t really know anything about topic #52 (google “horses AND character” if you’re curious). I do know this. Horses are kind of like boats. They stir up images of speed, grace and freedom. But, they require money and hard labor for their upkeep. I like the idea of horses.  I love the idea of horses, so long as they belong to somebody else.
 

Megan:

I can always tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that, my art is not above the ordinary.  ~Mark Twain

Some people are horse people, like some people are dog or cat people. I once spent 4 days riding through the hills in central Arizona, and it was pretty much the most fun I’ve ever had, but I wouldn’t say I’m particularly fond of horses. I think horses look melancholy (why the long face? Heh heh). I don’t know much about them except that they were indigenous to the Americas, died out and were reintroduced by the Spanish. The reason I know that is because two prisoners once asked me to settle a bet they had on the evolution and origin of horses. I told them “they were sort of both right“ but I’m not sure what came of the bet.

My early experiences with horses were negative. When I was in Girl Scouts, we travelled down near Bisbee to stay on a ranch and ride some horses. At some point during the trip I was accused of lying to the leader about something and was not allowed to ride after that. I had not lied, but it turned into such a production that by the end I was starting to think maybe I had done something wrong. For a long time after that whenever something bad would happen I would think  I had done it, and just couldn’t remember.

Another time, a neighbor had seen me talking to his horse (I was telling it my joke) and asked me to feed it while he was on vacation. He told me to break off a sheet of hay about thickness of the width of a hand. It occurred to neither of us that I was 10 and he was old and our hands were different sizes. So the horse lost 100 pounds while he was gone and he called to yell at me about it when he got back, and a couple weeks later the horse died. There was probably something else wrong with it, but I blamed myself. 

When I was 17, I had a friend who had two horses that she wanted to sell, Sassy and Cletus. I rode Sassy, who was actually my friend's horse, but it was nicer than Cletus, who belonged to her mother. Sassy was a wild mustang, which I thought was totally awesome (mostly because the cars were really cool). But then my friend said that it was not exactly a selling point, and asked me to stop telling people that the horse used to be wild. Anyway, they needed to be exercised into shape before being sold, so we spent Spring Break wandering through the back of Yarnell Hill exploring the abandoned mines and I learned some valuable lessons.  The first is, if you are female, you should definitely wear a bra while riding a horse. And the second: if the horse gets spooked and takes off at a dead run, you should NOT scream and let go of the reins. That encourages the horse to keep going. 

Me and Sassy, 1999.