Saturday, May 9, 2020

Equestrians


“Say hello to George,” Mr. Rafferty, the chief trainer at Paddington Stables told me. George was enormous, a tall brown gelding with one ear that flopped over like a cocker spaniel. He was fitted with the classic English saddle. I had specifically told my mother I wanted a western saddle, either in gold or silver, like the ones Roy Rogers and Gene Autry used on their horses.

“Hello, George,” I said to the horse. He totally ignored me.

“You and George are going to be great friends,” Mr. Rafferty told me confidently. “He’s one of our friendliest mounts.” I reached out to pet the animal.

“Don’t touch him!” Mr. Rafferty hissed. “He doesn’t like that.”

He doesn’t like to be touched? How was I going to get up in the saddle without touching him? I voiced my concern to Mr. Rafferty.

“Oh, we’ll get you up on him, Laddie. Don’t you be worrying about that.”

My sister Mary Ann was standing with Buck, Mr. Rafferty’s assistant, on the other side of the ring next to her horse, Miss Grumble. Miss Grumble looked even bigger than George. I hoped the mare was more tolerant about being touched. Mary Ann was a toucher. She petted everything and everybody. She even petted dogs while they were growling at her.




This is not my sister Mary Ann or Miss Grumble.

Without warning, Mr. Rafferty reached down and lifted me up in one smooth move and placed me in the saddle. George moved nervously from side to side, blowing air out of his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. Mr. Rafferty inserted my boots in the stirrups, one by one, carefully moving around the front of the horse to get to my other leg. He told me to take hold of the reins.

“Don’t pull on the reins or slap George on the neck with them!” he said. Yeah, right. Friendly George doesn’t like being touched, I thought.

Mr. Rafferty was speaking softly into George’s ear, feeding him a lump of sugar, calling him “Old Fella.” When he thought he’d won the horse’s confidence, he took hold of a short piece of rope attached to the bit and began to lead George and me around the ring.

“Here we go,” he said as if we were about to embark on some great odyssey. The whole thing seemed ridiculous—me sitting on George’s back, passive, helpless, walking around this dark, dreary ring of dirt. Was this horseback riding? Was this supposed to be fun? 




I've never seen a white horse in this bar, but Dylan Thomas and Jack Kerouac used to drink there.

As near as I can remember, the whole horseback-riding adventure was my mother’s idea, a misdirected attempt by her to prepare her children for a rapid ascent up the social ladder. She never said anything to me personally about it, but it was rumored that Mom had been a devoted equestrian herself in earlier days. Looking back now, I doubt that there’s any truth in that. The one time I recall her coming with us to the stables, she seemed anything but comfortable around the horses. Mary Ann and Miss Grumble and George and I were walking around the ring, side by side, when Miss Grumble turned her head and leaned over and nipped me on my leg. My mother was furious. In the scene that followed, she cross-examined Mr. Rafferty about the culinary habits of his four-legged friends.

“Why did that animal bite young Edward’s leg?” she demanded. “I thought horses were vegetarians.”

Eventually, Mary Ann and I and the four other children in our class were taken out of the stables and across Parkside Avenue into Brooklyn's Prospect Park.

Crossing the avenue was a harrowing experience for both horse and rider. We would bunch up at the light, waiting for it to turn green, then dash across before the traffic started up again. When I say “dash,” I don’t mean we galloped or cantered or even broke into a trot. Dashing for George meant walking just a little bit faster. (Did I mention that George was a somewhat elderly horse?) Nevertheless, for me, crossing Parkside Avenue was always a heart-rending dash, with the sound of horse-shoed hoofs clattering on asphalt mixed with the growl of idling engines and blaring horns. I didn’t like any of it and neither did George.

Finally, somehow, we would make it into the park. Buck would be in the lead atop Lightning, a spirited pinto no one else could ride. Once or twice, Mr. Rafferty himself came along as our chaperone. On those rare occasions, he would ride the stable’s only Arabian, Ali Baba, a glossy-black stallion who liked to shake his head from side to side as if he was saying no to all of Mr. Rafferty commands.

Once we were in the park, the situation improved, at least temporarily. Our family’s equestrian activities were reserved for spring and summer, and the fresh, green foliage of the park helped to lift our spirits. It wasn’t exactly Big Sky Country or the Red River Valley, but Prospect Park was the closest thing to them that Brooklyn kids knew. So we walked our horses along the path, beginning to relax, becoming one with our mounts and the great outdoors, almost enjoying ourselves. Almost.

We couldn’t actually see the Prospect Park Zoo from the riding path, but when we were downwind, the horses could smell the animals. And they didn’t like what they smelled. As far as their olfactory glands could tell, George and the other horses knew that there were predators—wolves, lions, tigers, and bears—over there just behind the trees, ready to pounce. So every time the horses would reach a certain point in the ride when the wind was right (or wrong), they spooked.

Most of them just turned around and headed back to the stables, and there was little we junior riders could do about it. This was when Buck would earn his pay, riding ahead of the herd, or pack, or whatever you call a bunch of scared horses, and corralling the escaping mounts, turning them back around on the path. George had a somewhat different reaction to the wild animal threat he perceived. He would roll.

Looking back, I see the logic in George’s behavior. As slow as he was, he must have figured he didn’t need any extra weight on his back while he was fleeing from a wild horse-meat eating predator. Fortunately for me, it took George a good long time to get down on his knees and roll over, so I was always able to get out of the saddle and clear of him without being hurt.

The first time George rolled on me, we were walking along the path alongside Miss Grumble and Mary Ann. I turned to see how my sister was doing, and instead of her face, I found myself staring at one of her boots. It took me a second to figure out what was happening. Buck yelled, “Rooney, quick! Get off that horse!”

I slipped my feet out of the stirrups and swung around and jumped clear. I ran twenty feet away from George and turned to see him on his back, thrashing around in a cloud of dust. He struggled to his feet and immediately set off in the direction of the stables, with Buck in hot pursuit.

I don’t think George was trying to hurt me with his rolling routine, and after the second time he rolled, I was ready for him. In fact, I began to look forward to George’s zoo rolls. Looking back now, I see them as my favorite part of the entire equestrian experience.



This is not my sister Mary Ann either. It's Queen Victoria.

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