Uncertain where to go, we ended up outside the arena watching tween girls trot and canter in circles on their horses. I'd enrolled my girl in a horseback riding lesson inadvertantly, sort of backed into it while looking for a way for me to ride a horse again. After our first trail riding experience, I realized I'd thrown the little angel into a situation for which she was unprepared. And so there we were, listening to the grunts and snuffles of working horses against the backdrop of late October wind.
I asked a few people where to find our instructor and ended up back at the main barn. We found her finishing up a lesson with another little girl with pink cowgirl boots on, just like the little angel's. "Look," said the little girl. "We have pink boots." The little angel smiled in return.
The barn smelled warm and close, horsey. The horse I had as a kid lived in a converted pig barn, so I'd never really seen Black Beauty-type stalls before, with dusty fans and individual water troughs. I stared, fascinated, at such beautiful stalls while a pony snuffed and pushed its nose through the slats at me.
The instructor taught the little angel to use a curry comb, a hard brush, a soft brush, how to keep one hand on the horse's body while you brush to learn to anticipate its movements. I remember the hours I spent brushing my horse, Cutter, in that pig barn, trying to clean the mud and dust that billowed off him in clouds after he'd been rolling in the pasture. How I fussed over his forelock and tail even though he had no party to go to -- he never left our place -- we didn't even own a trailer -- but I always wanted him to look his beautiful best. He was a bay Quarter Horse, and he had the softest nose of any horse that has ever lived or ever will.
After the brushing and walking behind the horse lesson ended, the little angel mounted Pepper the Stable Riding Lesson Horse and learned to stop and start and turn all by herself. (Which, duh, I should've made sure she knew how to do before I took her TRAIL RIDING, God protects fools and children.)
I stood inside the arena staring at the horses, listening to the sounds of teenaged girls wandering in and out of their horse's stalls. One girl gave her black horse a bath because he was sweaty. My eyes widened at this level of fancy -- I would've frozen Cutter to death if I'd ever taken a hose to him in October. But so many bits of horse ownership I'd forgotten came back: changing the straw he stood on, the heady smell of ammonia where he'd peed, the scent of oats and hay that we stored in an old-school hay barn behind the hog house, the clatter of Cutter's hooves on cement when he heard me coming, how he'd gleefully race us up our long gravel driveway on days the wind changed when the school bus dumped us out at the bottom.
When it was time to go, I looked down at my girl wistfully tracing her finger up and down Pepper's neck. It had been a test, this lesson, to see if she had any interest. She vascillates between wanting to stay in ballet and quit after four years. I told her she has to stay through The Nutcracker -- people are counting on her -- but she can quit after that if she likes. She cries because she can't decide what to do, and I remember loving and hating dance. She shows no interest in team sports, despite our constant inquiries if she'd like to try soccer or t-ball or volleyball or what have you. It's not that we think she has to be athletic, but there is more to life than academics.
The instructor looked at me quizzically -- she'd agreed to do this one-off lesson, though she usually schedules four at a time. They're not cheap. My girl looked at me with pleading eyes. "Can I come back and see Pepper again?" she asked.
I smiled at her, at the instructor. "I'll talk to Daddy about it," I said. "I think so."
We walked out of the soft glow of the barn into the darkness of the parking lot, the wind whipping my girl's red hair. And I remembered the tug and pull of wanting to keep Cutter, loving him so much, but realizing with high school I wouldn't take good care of him, wouldn't spend the time, that my parents wouldn't keep him if I wasn't going to do what I'd promised to do. I remembered the day I'd realized I was going to lose him because -- whether I wanted to admit it or not -- it was my choice to slack off. But those memories of hours spent caring for him, playing with him, riding him over the hills behind our house remain, brought to the forefront every time I smell horses.
I wonder if my girl will develop a girl crush on the horses or if she'll enjoy the physical mastery of a sport or if she'll just decide she's bored by it all. It really doesn't matter to me as long as she gets good enough to go trail riding with me when the wind changes and I need to ride again.
I realize this is all about me.
The little angel and Pepper
