My Equestrian Life, On Display

I have observed that most people with decorator shelves in their homes fill them with a variety of plants (real or fake), or the occasional objet d'art. We have a couple in our house. The one over the front door does hold a plant, but it also has a number of old-to-extremely-old family items: an antique drum, a violin, a ukelele that belonged to my grandfather, a battered bugle, a trunk plastered with travel stickers, a couple of suitcases and my dad's camera that he got in 1958. So, lots of cool stuff with great memories attached.

For the one in my bedroom, I immediately envisioned an area where I could display things pertaining to my life with horses (fortunately Hubby was okay with this plan). I started with my old saddle, which you saw in the last post, and have added many other items that are significant to me. Most people who have seen this collection don't "get" it; I imagine it just looks like a bunch of junk. I am hoping that you, dear readers, will appreciate these things a tiny bit more.

So, without further ado, here is the north end:

On the far left you will notice some little Palomino horse models. This mare and foal pair are china, and at one time were really beautiful. Unfortunately, they were played with a lot when I was little and suffered the consequences. The poor foal is standing precariously on three and 3/4 legs; after mending all four of his legs multiple times, I think Dad just gave up on one of them. So he's missing a fore from knee down. But it's okay, he can still stand up leaning against his momma and he's still adorable.

Then there's that weird-looking grey thing. That is a mask that I made out of papier mache when I was about 9 years old and was Grey the Horse for Halloween. My mom made a hood with a mane, and an excellent suit complete with tail to go with it. The outfit was a bit hit, although other kids liked to knock on the mask and ask if anyone was in there. My son wound up wearing this whole outfit one Halloween (and won a costume contest), so it's been through two generations now.

The rocking horse actually made an appearance on this blog some time ago, along with the Buck Breyer model, so I won't go into huge detail here. Here's a close-up again:

As far as the formerly-blue ribbon - well, that's a really special one, and has a great story attached. I promise I WILL get to that but it needs its own post!

Going back to the shelf, you've also already seen the boots on top of the Secretariat Breyer, and the lunchbox. The little trophy to the right of the lunchbox I won by making it to the State finals in 4-H Horse Bowl with my team. I loved being in 4-H and learned an awful lot through the program (you will hear more about it in the near future). Horse Bowl in particular was a lot of fun but very nerve-wracking. It didn't help that I was told I had to be the "nutrition expert," which meant memorizing a lot of facts and figures about Ca:Ph ratios, protein percentages, and the like. Math is not my strong suit. I would have been a lot happier in charge of anatomy or diseases but nope, the team needed help in nutrition so that's what I got. All's well that ended well - we didn't win State but got darn close!

The tall trophy peeking out from behind the lunchbox is actually not horse-related (I won the Grand Prize in a Science Fair) but it's the only place it fit. You know about my old Prix de Nations saddle already, but how about those ribbons? Well, I'm sorry to say the Champion is the one and only Championship ribbon I've ever won in a horse show, and the other is my first Reserve Championship, seen in this photo when I was 7 years old:

Aboard Little John, the best darn pony EVER.

Both of these were earned at Tricorne Farm horse shows. No other Reserves or Champions have been forthcoming YET (yes, it's been quite a drought given my current age), so these are proudly on display.

Someone might recognize that tall and furry horse model on the south end of the shelf. She's Penny, an American Girl horse owned by the Colonial girl in the series. Darn thing cost a bleeding fortune and while my daughter liked her a lot, she did not inherit the horse-obsessed gene from me so Penny is pretty well-preserved. Yours truly had a good time tacking her up when Daughter had friends coming over to play. :-)

Last but not least is the very odd-looking spotted item on the far right. You would never guess what it is in a million years - other than that it hopefully looks a bit like a horse - so I'll just tell you: it went on a totem pole. Huh? Well, one summer I volunteered as a leader for Daughter's Girl Scout summer day camp. The kids were small, so we adults pretty much had free rein on what we did and what our own little groups would be called. The overall theme of the camp was "Native American." So what is more Indian than Paint horses??? Hence, I named our group the Painted Ponies.

I had a lot of fun with this theme, none more so than when it was time to make a totem part for the camp pole. Each group was issued a plastic one-gallon ice cream bucket with holes cut in it as the base, and I built the head and neck out of foam rubber. The kids helped apply papier mache and paint the horse head when it dried. The totem parts were dropped on a broom handle and when they were lined up, I have to say the overall effect was pretty neat. Incidentally, ours won the prize for Best-Looking. :-)

So there you have it, one of my main horsey areas in the house. Oh yes, there are more! What can I say... my family are good sports about putting up with Mom's taste in decor.

Saddle Fitting - What's That?

Here's what I knew about saddle fit for both horse and rider when I bought my current one in 2000: next to nothing. For the horse, I knew it had to have wither and gullet clearance. For the rider, I knew my knee shouldn't hang over the edge of the flap, and I should be able to fit four fingers behind my butt. That's about it! As a life-long lesson student I'm afraid I never really had to think about it. When I went saddle shopping, I focused on the following, in this order:

- Price (< $1,000)
- Quality
- Fit for me
- Appearance

When I was little and riding at Tricorne Farm, I used the saddle that went with the horse or pony I was assigned to that day. I cringe when I see photos of my small self floating around in a ginormous hunk of leather on the back of some patient 16hh plodder. Bet it made my legs stronger, though!

This photo isn't quite as dramatic, as I was more like eight years old than five (my age when I started at Tricorne), but I guarantee you those leathers were wrapped at least once. I can remember them having to be wrapped two or even three times.

This is "Budweiser," a Belgian X schoolie who had to have been even taller than 16hh. I'm modeling the rubber tall boots I wore for a few years. Hot in the summer, FREEZING in the winter - it's a wonder I still have all my toes - and loose enough to go around my chicken legs twice. Have to say they really didn't look that bad, though.

When I was a teenager, I used the "in" brand borrowed from my trainer's daughter for shows. It was a Crosby Prix de Nations, of course - the must-have saddle of the 70s. I don't remember what I rode in for lessons; something that must have fit me and the two lessons horses okay. I always desperately wanted my own saddle as a kid but my parents didn't see the need. I remember watching the price of a PDN go up... and up... over the years in the Millers catalog and lamenting the fact that it was getting further out of reach by the minute (I think it hit a whole $500!). Why we didn't look for a used one, I don't know...  When I finally accumulated some of my own money I wasn't riding anymore (Sr. year of HS - story for another day) and spent it on a trip to Europe.

Now, thanks to the Internet, I am vastly more educated. I don't have my own horse, so I've still never tried to fit a horse exactly, but at least I know more about my own choice. Luckily, it wasn't half-bad: it's a 17" Dover Circuit Elite.

Not mine, but looks just like it.

The Dover catalog states this is their best-selling saddle, and they also have some quotes from trainers saying it fits a wide variety of horses. Neither of the trainers I've ridden with since acquiring the Circuit Elite have complained about it not fitting a lesson mount, thank goodness. I was glad that at my most recent barn all the horses went in a wither-relief pad (either wool or faux sheepskin) and a regular pad, so that helped, too.

I have been very happy with this saddle and it's garnered quite a few compliments. I see that Dover has upgraded the leather since my purchase; a good thing, since it took a lot of elbow grease and Lexol to break in the flaps on this one (and remove a bunch of superfluous dye). Still, I have to tell you it was made a lot better than a low-end model from Beval that I also looked at. I was not impressed with the unmatching leather on that one at all - and they were the exact same price.

When I finally do get my own horse I will be sure to have a saddle fitter out. I would have no problem replacing the Dover if that's best, as I've learned I could use something better for myself anyway (narrower, more forward flap, for starters).

If you noticed, I was talking about my "current" saddle. My first one was none other than a Crosby PDN, purchased well-used in 1988. I still remember how beyond thrilled I was when I saw it for sale on a flyer hanging up after the 4-H show at the Ohio State Fair. I couldn't believe it - my dream saddle, in my size, for $75! The ironic part was I wasn't even riding then, but I didn't care (and I also didn't really have the $75, being right out of college and living on my own). I drove two hours away to pick it up and was so excited that I actually pulled over at a rest stop to hang the thing on a guard rail and sit in it. Lord knows what passing motorists thought I was doing.

Another 11 years went by before I had the opportunity to ride in this saddle. It was now 1999, and you know where this is going... much to my dismay, flat saddles were largely gone from the H/J world. Everyone had padded knee rolls again. My rock-hard, needed-reflocking, slippery PDN was not only not in fashion, it revealed itself to be mighty uncomfortable. I had never noticed when I was a kid but I sure did as an adult! It had to go... hence the search that resulted in the Circuit Elite. I looked for a used saddle to no avail, as I would have liked something already broken in.

The longed-for Crosby is now adorning a display shelf in my bedroom. I know some people still love them, and I'm sure I could sell it to one of them or a person just starting out in English riding, but for now it's merely a decoration:

I have published glimpses of this display shelf before. Coming soon: a post where I explain everything up there! And, I told you the panels need restuffing... ugh.

Of course nowadays the most popular models are nothing less than pillowy mock-couches - I'd love to see some of these Junior riders get around a 3'6" course in that old PDN, wouldn't you? ;-)

Flying With Peter Pan

Well, hello there, if anyone's still listening! I guess my blogging muse has largely deserted me lately. That and I was gone on a college orientation/vacation trip for 10 days... had a terrific time at the Jersey Shore. Yes, that place. However, our version looks more like this than the one you see on the wretched show. I know these aren't horse-related, but please bear with me while I defend the honor of my beloved native state! You will note that there is not a Snooki in sight. :-/

Beach approach - Normandy Beach, NJ

Our beautiful Atlantic...



Getting ready for 4th of July fireworks show, held in honor of my dad who loved all things that went "BOOM!"

At any rate, a post by my friend Jessica over at Hopeful Jumpers has inspired me to, ahem, dive back into a blogging, in order to relate a couple of tales of equestrian mayhem, RiderWriter-style. Jess was able to list her recollections of almost all of her falls. I'm afraid I long since lost track of how many times I've parted company with an equine, but I know it was a least a dozen by the time I graduated from HS. In later years, it really hasn't been very many - and thank goodness for that, since God knows I sure don't bounce like I used to! At any rate, I vividly recall my two worst childhood wrecks, and also the last time I came off. I've already written about one of the kiddie incidents in this post, so I won't repeat myself, but here is the other one. This wound up going rather long so I'll put the story of the most recent fall into my next post.

*

One of my favorite lesson mounts as a kid at Tricorne Farm was the wonderful Peter Pan. Peter was a buckskin large pony, about 14hh, of indeterminate breeding. This boy was full of ponytude, but he could jump the moon. Purportedly at some time in his career someone had taken him over a VW Bug! I remember being told that story and somehow not doubting it was true. I don't really recall now why I liked Peter so much; whether it was his devil-may-care attitude, athleticism, or comfortable gaits, I'm not sure. However, I do remember the time he nearly - and I'm afraid I don't exaggerate - killed me.

I was about 10 years old, and we were on a group trail ride instead of a lesson. To get to the trails we we had to leave Tricorne by the front entrance, cross a road, and then immediately cross another road (we were right by an intersection). Then we would go straight up a small but steep hill. The initial trail forked near the top and sometimes we went one way, sometimes the other. On this particular day, our trainer had warned us that when we went up the hill we were to take the left branch of the trail, not the right, but she didn't say why. Peter and I clip-clopped across one road, across the other, started up the hill, and then.... when I tried to turn left, Peter decided he was going right. He yanked the reins out of my hands as I was leaning forward trying to grab mane and lunged upwards.

The next thing I knew, there was a tremendous blow to my chest and I was lying on the ground. A large branch had fallen directly across the trail, just high enough for Peter to fit under it but not me. I had the wind knocked completely out of me, between the branch hitting fore and the ground hitting aft. I couldn't move, and lay in stunned shock trying to figure out what had just happened. Of course the tears soon came and I know I was totally hysterical. Everything hurt. Peter, to his credit, did not go far once he'd unloaded me in his little burst of freedom, and eventually I was able to mount up and ride him back to the barn. The trail ride obviously was cancelled.

The real issue with this incident came afterwards and still haunts me. What if that branch had fallen just 8" or so farther from the ground? It would have connected with my neck, not my chest. And I'm sure I don't need to tell you if that had happened, at the very least I would not be sitting here today typing with both hands. I was very, very lucky, indeed. I know for a fact that other trail riders and foxhunters have not been so fortunate.

I still loved and rode Peter Pan after this plenty of times, including the time when he ran off again and carried me right into the road - I can't put that incident in "falling-off stories," since I stayed on, but gee whiz, I guess the guy must have really wanted to do me in!

What Parents Do For Their Kids

(Note: I apologize for my extended absence. I was gone last week on a hellish trip, and have spent this week trying to recuperate. It's also been hard to post given the fact that many photographic subjects I want to use are at home and I keep forgetting to take necessary pictures. I'll try to do better!)

You might recall me saying that my dad decided early on that all equines were "out to get him." The Shetland stepping on his foot in FL sealed the deal (good thing it wasn't a Clydesdale!). So how to explain this?

Ca. 1971/age 8 (Dad would have been 38, a mere chicken).

Yup, that's Dad on board good old Stormy, looking right at home. Well, not exactly... :-) At every Tricorne schooling show, they held a very popular class called "Adult Leadline." We students had to convince a long-suffering family member to mount up on a suitable horse and be led around the ring a couple times at a walk, while being judged. On what, I'm not quite sure. I bet if someone had put their blonde 36 DD mother up she would have won going away, but that's besides the point.

At any rate, I roped my father into doing this. How/why HE was nominated I cannot fathom: after all, it was my mother who had been the first equestrian in the family, and I must have thought she'd be a ringer. "Lookee here, MY mommy used to have her own horse, SHE knows how to ride!" Maybe it was because my father, for reasons I never determined, actually owned a pair of genuine leather jodphur boots. Maybe they were a fashion statement at some time? It certainly wasn't because he secretly played polo when I wasn't looking! For whatever reason I was only too happy to get him and his boots in the class.

The poor man must have really enjoyed my constant litany of correction. I can just hear my little know-it-all 8-year-old self:

"Now, be sure to keep your heels down. No, no, more. More than that! They need to be WAY down!"

"Sit up straight."

"Here's how you hold the reins. Keep your thumbs up. Hold your hands just over the withers here. Not that high!"

"Look ahead."

"Shorten your reins. Keep going... keep going... no, that's too short. You can't pull on his mouth!"

And so on. He must have wanted to scream.

But he/we must have done something right, because here was the result:

Go, Daddy! A nice shiny white 4th place ribbon. It took its place on my wall with all the rest of my ribbons, but I'm sure he was very proud of this highlight of his equestrian career.

I also convinced my grandfather to go in the Leadline class on another occasion:

This photo appeared in the "Red Bank Register" newspaper, a moment of fame for yours truly!

This is the whole version of the photo I showed you earlier of me and Grey. My dad's dad "Grandfather Pa" is riding here, and the proud onlooker is the owner of Tricorne Farm, Ginger Bush/Busch (not sure of spelling). I don't know if Ginger was her real first name of if it was a nickname bestowed on her due to the flaming red hair color (impressive bouffant here, no?). She was a nice lady if not a bit intimidating. I don't recall what color ribbon Pa earned, but judging from the light color it must have been 4th or 5th. Not bad for someone, who to my knowledge, had never been on a horse before.

Little aside: my grandmother thought this photo was absolutely hysterical. "He looks like "Big Chief Onatonwa up there!" I have to admit she's right - Pa did have a very aristocratic appearance and seemed to be taking it all in stride (pardon the pun). All he needed was a top hat and he could have trotted right on to the hunt field, looking like he belonged.

I'm trying to think of a time when I was persuaded to do some activity with/for my kids that could have resulted in accident or humiliation. Maybe the snorkeling in Florida? Anyway, I am still grateful to Dad and Pa for consenting to ride in these classes. Thank you for being so nice to horse-crazy me!

"Grey-Baby"

Have you heard the expression "Heart Horse?" Well, here's mine:


This is the uncreatively-named Grey, who was, of course, a grey horse*. I honestly don't know what breed he was, but I'm guessing TB. See what you think (sorry about the fabulous "conformation" shot - I took this myself with my Brownie Instamatic):

Someone, perhaps the person holding him, had taken the time to braid Grey for this particular show. He sure looked handsome. But then, I thought he looked perfect on an ordinary day.


I do not remember meeting Grey for the first time. I DO know that I immediately fell madly, blissfully in love with him. Part of the reason was my innate attraction for underdogs, the unloved, and the unwanted (I recall picking up rocks on the way home from school because I felt sorry for them - yes, tenderhearted to a fault.). Most of the other lesson students at Tricorne did not like Grey: they thought he jumped too high over the jumps. They were right, too. He did have a tendency to clear every fence by an extra foot. Maybe part of it was something I just read about on another blog, which I'd never heard before. Apparently TBs are known for giving an extra little "hitch" in the back end over fences. At any rate, you were wise to grab mane when jumping him.


Was it his lovely white eyelashes? His divinely soft and pink nose? His beautiful dapples? Was it the way he seemed to know me, even when I showed up only once a week, and recognize that someone who genuinely cared was with him? I don't know. I just remember that we were somehow bonded, and shared that special connection that occurs when a horse and rider "get it." I'm guessing most of you know exactly what I'm talking about.

That's not to say that my Grey-Baby (the nickname I bestowed upon him) was always well-mannered. We had plenty of wrestling matches when I would try to bridle him and he thought it would be fun to raise his head as high up as possible. I usually resorted to kneeling or even standing on his manger, trying desperately not to fall into his water bucket. Naughty boy!

One of my favorite memories of Grey occurred one summer when I was attending riding camp at Tricorne. He was my assigned mount for the week (woe to the instructor who tried to give me another horse), and one day we had a grooming competition. I curried and brushed and bathed and combed until that guy was GLEAMING. This took some doing because he had a lot of white! I remember leading him over to the judging area and patting him while we were waiting. My hand hit his chest... and in that moment, I found it. The most amazing, softest, velvetiest thing I had ever touched in my whole life. You know that cute little valley between their pectoral muscles? His that day felt just incredible. Still imprinted on my mind.

There is quite a bit of home movie footage of me riding Grey, who came along when I'd been at Tricorne for a few years. In the photo above I can tell by my haircut that I was at least nine (possibly my "Mom-Brady" shag, I'm afraid). Here's the only other photo I can find of him, a little earlier since it's before I cut my hair:

That's Mom in the plaid skirt. We wore/wear a lot of plaid in New Jersey.

With my eagle eyes I observe that in this photo Grey is wearing a Kimberwicke, and in the above two it's a snaffle. I wonder why they switched his bit? Anything to do with the reluctance to be bridled?

I loved Grey with every fiber of my being. I dreamed about him, doodled pictures of him, thought about him constantly and probably drew little hearts with "Grey + Me" in them all over my schoolbooks. Sounds like a typical horse-crazy girl, right? And then some human boy comes along and ruins it all? :-) Well, maybe the critical difference in being a typical horse-crazy girl and graduating to horse-crazy woman is we never lose that feeling. To this day I have the same feeling in my heart about Grey. He has never gone away. My dream horse? Big surprise - a grey TB.

Unfortunately, and it gives me such pain to write this, the real Grey did go away. To exactly where, I know not. It happened like this:


Grey had navicular. I didn't really know what that meant when I was nine, but I knew it had something to do with his hooves. Somewhere along the way, he was "nerved," and I was told about that, too. To me it was some mysterious operation. I didn't know exactly what had been done but I certainly was glad that he was still at Tricorne and able to be ridden comfortably (he must have had time off at some point, I don't remember). The summer before I turned 10, I took time off from riding; we went to the beach a lot and did family activities. When I returned to the barn that fall... no Grey.

You can imagine how I felt, running in to greet him, and finding another horse standing in his stall. A sickening feeling in my stomach. Utter panic. WHERE WAS "MY" HORSE?!?! I was pretty insecure about approaching adults, so I didn't confront the trainer directly. Instead, I asked my mother. She told me, "I'm not telling you where he is, but he's in a good place."

This was too much to deal with. I simply closed my mind to the most hideous fate I could imagine, a trip to the "glue factory," whatever that was (thank God I didn't know a thing about horse slaughter then). I chose to believe that he really was "okay," and imagined him peacefully grazing in a sunny pasture. But I always, always wondered...

Fast forward to many years later (1990 or so). My family was enjoying a retrospective of some of the zillions of slides my father had taken over the years. Along came another horse show from my childhood, with a bunch of pictures of me riding Grey. Of course I started to cry, and something prompted me - maybe the fact that I was in my late twenties, i.e. considerably older - to ask my mother, "Whatever did happen to Grey, anyway? You'd never tell me." She looked slightly taken aback and then said, "He was put to sleep and buried in the back pasture."

What?????

WHAT?!?!?

All of those years I'd worried and wondered what really happened to him and he was simply buried in the back pasture??? Why had I not been told this right away? My mom said she thought I'd be too upset. Instead, upon learning this information at such a late date, I went into total hysterics. An hour later I was still sobbing. Poor Mom. I can't blame her, really. I'm sure some day my own kids will tell me things I did/didn't do that upset them.

Here's the thing, though: I'm not sure I believe her. And I am *NOT* bringing up the subject again. Mom, if you're reading this, and you really do know anything more about Grey's demise, do not tell me. It's okay. If you said that to put me off, well, I'm going to stay put off. He will reside happily in my memory forever no matter what.


* The oddest thing happened when I cropped the first image here (I'll have the full one up soon). I realized for the very first time that the person visible in the lower left corner is most likely my dad. I know it's small and blurry but I just have a feeling... right size person, right haircut, right arm swing, right outfit - I think it's him. This means that two of the most loved, now-deceased beings in my life are both in this photo. I feel like I have been visited by a ghost! Give him a pat for me, Daddy.

Not Too Easy On The Eyes

There actually were not that many ponies in the Tricorne school horse string: most of the mounts were full-size horses. In some cases, extremely full-size:

Here I am galumphing along on Budweiser. This faithful steed was a Belgian cross of some sort, and I'm guessing he was around 17 hh. Even though I'm a bit older here than in the other photos I've shared so far, you will note that my feet still barely reach below the saddle flap (and the oversized felt pad). Didn't faze me a bit! He was a good boy and I don't remember having any trouble with him. No idea what I thought when I cantered and jumped him, though... I'm sure it felt just a wee bit different than riding Little John.

You can see the exterior of our indoor riding arena behind us on the hill. As I mentioned earlier, this building was made of concrete block and very sturdy. Yes, there were windows, but the light that managed to filter through years of accumulated dust, dirt and cobwebs was pretty weak. Gloom definitely prevailed light-wise but I generally didn't care, since I was having fun.

I like the outfit I'm wearing here, especially the rust breeches. I've read that some people are trying to revive that look in today's hunter ring and I think it would be GREAT. Raise your hand if you're sick of every hunter rider looking exactly like the next one in their dark conservative coats, Charles Owen helmets, and greige Tailored Sportsman breeches - occasionally someone will turn a wild hair and wear a - gasp! - different-colored riding shirt than what is currently considered "in," but that's about it. Seriously, I have wild fits of jealousy over saddle seat riders in their beautiful custom suits and cunning little derby hats. Why can't "we" have a little more variety? Now, I don't know about the Western ladies with their mega-bling and eyeball-searing colors, but for pete's sake, how about a little change-up, people. Too bad I'm not a 16-year-old Big Eq rider or I'd... well... I'd probably get some of those spurs with the eensy rhinestones on the sides, AND wear rust breeches, and have a couple of judges keel over in apoplectic fits.

Having said that, I don't think this look is gonna catch on any time soon:

You can't really tell from this poor quality photo, but that jacket was TANGERINE. Bright orange. And guess who made it for me with her own two hands? Right - Mom. So there was no question that I would wear it. I remember not being entirely thrilled with this choice (I think she had the material left over from some other project), but what are you going to do. Plus, it was the sartorially splendid Seventies, so I imagine I probably fit right in. ;-) Now the choker, on the other hand, I absolutely adored. This was also handmade by my clever mother and neatly embroidered with my initials. Yes, I still have it. A lovely souvenir of early riding days. (And if you're beginning to think I keep everything, you ain't seen nuthin' yet.)

A note on my boots: these were rubber tall boots. I had outgrown the jodphur look (Or had I? Stay tuned.) and needed something to ride in, so I went through a couple pairs of these. Leather boots were out of our price range and these squeaky, floppity-flop things were the best solution. At least they were waterproof! The main thing I didn't like was they were always miles too big in the calf. There's a reason some unkind people have called me "chicken legs"... I'm afraid I inherited my stick-like calves from my mother. Since I also got an extra-large helping of "horse fever" I'm not going to complain.

The horse in this photo is yet another one of Tricorne's taller equines. "Easy Does It" was an OTTB and also around 17 hh. In addition, the dear boy had a neck the length of a school bus and roared loadly with every (oversized) step. Heaven knows they must have had a special pair of custom reins made, since I can actually see some bight in them. I remember this day and this horse show. Not only was I red-faced about the tangerine jacket, but I was made to ride poor Easy, who I normally avoided. His strides were gigantic so you were thrown a mile out of the saddle on every post, the roaring from his broken wind was audible at 20', and steering felt like turning the QE II in a duck pond. Not good! However, he was a very sweet horse, and I managed to overcome these perceived handicaps and place second in whatever class we'd been in.

I'm afraid I must end on a sad note. I was riding one day towards the end of my Tricorne years (about 1974) in the outside lower ring. A truck pulling a small horse trailer went up the driveway, and a short while later started back down. From within the trailer I could hear loud, plaintive neighing. "Who's that?" asked someone in my lesson. Our trainer answered, "Umm... it's Easy." Silence. We all knew he wouldn't be coming back from wherever he was going. He was old, had always seemed rickety, and then there was that awful roaring... It was my second brush with equine mortality, as you will see, and I still don't know what they did to dispose of horses in NJ at that time. I hoped then and still hope now that Easy met a peaceful end. He deserved it.

Little Legs On Big Horses

One of my most vivid memories of early riding days at Tricorne Farm is spending a whole lot of time wrapping stirrup leathers. When your legs are too short to reach the irons on even the last hole, the simple thing to do is wrap the leathers around the top of the stirrups. If your legs are REALLY short because you're only 5 or 6 years old, you might have to wrap them two or three times. This is true especially if you've been assigned a horse instead of a pony for your weekly lesson... Who would do that, you say? Aren't small children supposed to ride small horses?

Yes, unless that small child, who thought she bounced quite well, had absolutely no compunction about such an assignment. "If I can't have Little John, I'll ride Stormy or Mister Mac or Budweiser, sure!" Never mind the painful rubbing on the legs from a wad of leather chafing there, or else the embarrassment of someone having to run for the hole punch yet again. That horse may have been large, but I was IN CHARGE:

This is me aboard a horse I'm fairly certain is Stormy, a nondescript bay grade gelding with a heart of gold. In this case there were new holes punched, since you can see the miles of extra leather hanging down. George would NOT approve!

In fact, I'm astonished at my aplomb when I look at that photo, and the home movies we have.* Was that REALLY me? How could I have been so utterly fearless? I don't remember feeling a moment's hesitation when I was really little about hopping on board any horse in the barn, no matter how tall. The fear issues I wrestle(d) with showed up later, unfortunately, but weren't and aren't related to horse size, as you'll see.

I also find it interesting that my feet scarcely reached below the saddle flap. How did those horses even feel my legs or heels? All the school horses had their own saddle, and I don't recall any thought being given to size. You took X horse/pony with his saddle, and that's what you got whether it fit you or not. Obviously, my itty-bitty rear was floating around on a sea of slick leather. It makes my hair curl just thinking about it! No wonder my grandma refused to watch when my mom dragged her to shows. If it was my kid now I'd be petrified. I bet you, though, that those too-big slippery saddles contributed quite a bit to my independence of seat and hands. :-)

Here's a photo of someone else riding Mister Mac, an Appy cross. He was a pretty tall horse with a nice white blanket:

Mr. Mac is in the foreground. Please note the wool felt saddle pad, which is what all the schoolies wore. Don't remember anyone ever getting saddle sores, either. Also, you can see the Tricorne Farm sign in the background. Wish I had a picture of just that!

I don't think I was put on this fellow very much myself, but he does figure largely in an event I well remember. I must have been about 8 or 9 at the time. When our lessons ended, sometimes we were allowed to cool out our horses by walking them around the back pasture at the stable. This was probably a couple acres in size, and had a dirt track around the circumference. One fine day a group of us were sedately ambling along (don't know who I was riding), when a terrifying event occurred: Mister Mac's saddle pad slipped. Now, most people would not think this was a terrifying event, but Mr. Mac certainly did. He took off like he had a rocket up his rear. His small rider was instantly unseated and there was widespread panic in the rest of the field. ALL of our horses ran away with us, straight towards the barn. I acted, of course, in textbook "what not to do when your horse takes off" fashion - that is to say, I screamed and flapped my arms. YAY, ME! I barely clung to the saddle as we thundered down the long side, but as soon as we careened around a corner, off I came.... luckily, landing right on the manure pile.

As I lay there bawling and wondering if I'd broken my leg - it hurt - my mother came running up. She'd witnessed the whole incident, which probably took a couple years off her life. Fortunately, nothing was hurt except my feelings. Thank goodness for a nice thick cushion of shavings and poop! :-)  I was not made to "get right back on the horse," either, but the experience did nothing to dissuade me from my equestrian ambitions. All part of the ride!

* I wish that I was a techno-whiz and knew how to get said movies from the VHS tape onto which they were transferred from Super-8, to the computer and thus onto this blog. Darn. I'm lucky I even have some of these photos, since my totally non-tech mother scanned them from the original slides. Hence the crummy quality!

The Saintly Ponies

I apologize for the delay (technical difficulties), but as promised, I'm going to talk about some of the wonderful school ponies at Tricorne Farm. Here I am with Little John, the Chincoteague Pony:

Nice straight line from bit to elbow, I like it! Toes out past the maximum angle.... THAT only got worse.
Nice outfit, too (remember this).

This was taken at a Tricorne schooling show, which they held twice a year, spring and fall. I'm so glad that they did because outside showing was not in our budget. That was competition enough for this Nervous Nellie, anyway! I had a particularly successful day here in 1971, winning a first place that came with a gorgeous trophy - still the nicest one I ever won, and on display to this day - and something else that was good enough to make me Reserve Champion (don't remember the color).

After the show, at home. My dad made me a display board with the ribbons and I took them to school for Show-n-Tell.
GREAT day!

Little John was, to put it simply, the World's Best Pony (A). Oh, I know there have been/are others out there with the same claim, but believe me when I tell you, that pony Was. Just. Amazing. Never nappy, never sour, never evil, never lame, never mean, never nippy, never anything but just an angel in a pinto coat. EVERYONE adored him. Everyone wanted to ride him, too, all the time, so I really have no idea when the poor thing ever got the day off!

I have just one memory of riding Little John, and it could be from this show, but I'm not sure. All I know is it was a Beginner Crossrails class. This consisted of trotting two times around four evenly-spaced very low fences. I distinctly remember that I knew to give LJ a good yank on the left rein just in front of Fence 3 on the circuit, because I'd watched him neatly avoid jumping that one with a couple other riders by ducking right (yes, I know I said he was the World's Best Pony, but hey, nobody's perfect! :-). We made it safely over that fence and all the rest, and I know I placed well purely because of my mad steering skillz.

The other fabulous pony of my young years (let's call him World's Best Pony B), is this very unusually-marked fellow, Captain Hook.

I have never seen another Palomino Pinto in person ...

Known to all as "Hooky," this guy is legendary to a couple generations of Monmouth County, NJ riders. Between him and Little John, they probably taught at least 500 kids the ropes of hunter seat equitation. I'm a bit puzzled as to how I was able to ride him, though; he was privately owned, and not a Tricorne school horse. In fact, he belonged to a gentleman who became the Tricorne trainer a few years later. At the time his own children were small and Hooky was boarded there, as their pony. Maybe they allowed him to be used by lesson students in lieu of some of their board? At any rate, I sure am I glad I got to ride him in that particular show, because you can see the results in my header above: a blue ribbon and a HUGE smile!

I'm so pleased to tell you that I know what became of these two phenomenal ponies. Around 1989, I had occasion to drive by the Tricorne Farm propery. It was no longer a riding stable, and I think some of the buildings were gone, but there was still pasture. And grazing there, instantly recognizable, was none other than... Little John. How I wish I had stopped to try and call him over and say hello! The dear pony had to have been ancient by then. Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, I have a photo of him with another young rider from the mid-80s:

You can see he's definitely older here, with the distinguished white eyebrows. I'm certain he lived to his mid-30s, at least. How Little John put up with so many years of little hands yanking on his mouth and little boots whacking him in the ribs, I'll never know. Maybe he knew that the millions of little kisses bestowed on his sweet nose were worth it. He surely had a piece of my heart, and still does.

In 1992, I went to see a young friend ride at a horse show in NJ. Her trainer at the time was Hooky's owner, my old trainer. I went up to him and asked with some trepidation, "What ever happened to Captain Hook?" He replied, and you could have knocked me down with a feather, "He's standing in that trailer right over there. We don't ride him any more but he still likes to come along to shows." My husband, poor man, had no idea why I had tears pouring down my face when I went around the side of that trailer and sure enough, there was my old friend.  A lot older but still the same bald-faced pony. I'm not sure how much longer he lived after that, but it gives me tremendous comfort to know Hooky was loved and cared for by the same family until the end of his days.

I'll leave you with this photo of me and my buddy. You've all heard the expression "riding off into the sunset" - if I'm doing it again some day on Little John, well, that would be my kind of heaven.

Tricorne Farm Riding School (TFRS)

My parents must have known this place was the right one to really begin my equestrian career, because my initials were "TF." It was my OWN riding school! :-)  My mom tells me they found it through an acquaintance of hers, whose daughter rode there and liked it. I sure was lucky my folks were willing to put me in lessons at all, because I've heard from a lot of women that they simply weren't allowed.

Tricorne was located about two miles from my home in suburban Holmdel, New Jersey. Yes, that's right, the land of oil refineries, strip malls and Mafia dons with itchy trigger fingers - funny that we also boasted the largest number of horses outside of the state of Texas (or so I was always told). Just to really make my point, within a five mile radius of my home were at least two other riding establishments, and once a couple of backyard horses got out and wound up running wild in our own yard. That is a great story in itself. My poor dad was doing dishes at 2:00 AM after a dinner party where spirits had been liberally poured. He thought he'd really gone 'round the bend when he heard thundering hooves and looked out the window to see equines dodging the swingset. I myself was furious when I got up the next morning and saw actual hoofprints in the yard; as far as I was concerned, it should have been "finders keepers," and I was beside myself thinking Dad could have played cowboy, lassoed one of the runaways, and I would have awoken to my personal dream of my Very Own Horse tied to a tree outside my window. ARGH!

Anyway, Tricorne was set on about 10 hilly acres. A secondary road ran across the front of the property, by the main riding arena and a couple of pastures. There was a long dirt driveway uphill to the parking area in front of the barn complex. The original barn was a huge old thing; it basically was a gigantic hayloft, on top of stalls for boarder's horses underneath it (I wish I knew when it had been built, because I bet it was historically significant). There were wings of stabling off to the left and the right. The right side was all boarders, and the left was where the school horses lived, aka "my" domain. I think there was probably room for around 35 horses altogether.

We had a really interesting indoor arena in addition to the outdoor ring. It was quite large, around 150' by 50', and constructed of cinderblocks with a "real" roof (albeit draped with thousands of dirty cobwebs). It probably would have withstood hurricane-force winds. The footing was tanbark or some other kind of brown dirt. I wound up eating plenty of it, so I know how it tasted, but I'm not sure what it was. Needless to say, there was no sprinkler system, so a bunch of horses churning around in there meant the air was absolutely FULL of dust. That's what I meant by eating it - although yes, I also hit the deck quite a few times! And forget about blowing your nose afterwards (gross).

There were pastures on all sides of the barn complex, and the large one behind the school horse barn that was their pasture also had a riding track that ran around the inside. When it was time for the schoolies to go out, they simply opened the back door and went down the aisle unclipping chains from the standing stalls. The horses would back out and crowd down the aisle to freedom. When the horses would come back in, the process would be reversed, and we all knew we'd better be out of the way when they came charging back in the barn to get to their feed. What amazed me was every one of those horses knew exactly where his stall was and would head straight for it.

If you caught that - yes, I'm afraid almost all of the school horses lived in standing stalls. There were a couple of "special" ones that were accorded box stalls, but the majority spent their indoor time in a narrow space, haltered and chained to their mangers, with another chain behind their butts. I can't remember if there were windows; if there were, I'm sure they were covered in dust and cobwebs, like everything else. Once in a while someone would slip his halter (all geldings) and we'd find him turned around, quite excited to see what was going on for a change. Now I would be shocked to find standing stalls in a barn but I guess back then it was not unusual.

Everyone at Tricorne rode Hunter/Jumper. Even if I'd wanted to ride Western, I have no idea where that would have been possible in NJ at that time. George Morris and Hunterdon up in Hunterdon County were held up as the ultimate pinnacle of hunter excellence, and even the rich kids at my barn spoke in hushed tones about the privileged youth and horses that rode/resided there. "You don't even tack up your own horse..." Nowadays, that's commonplace, but to a kid who thoroughly enjoyed her hours grooming and tacking school horses it actually didn't sound like too much fun - except when it was boiling hot or freezing cold. To this day, of course, many of the top Jr. H/J riders come out of New Jersey barns and trainers... Beacon Hill, Quiet Winter, etc. Those establishments are all in the nearby area of Colts Neck, NJ. 

Tricorne enjoyed a good reputation, but I don't think it was ever viewed as a "top-notch" stable. We had our share of wealthy boarders, but it wasn't a fancy place, and their focus was evenly divided between the boarders and the academy students. It was reasonably safe, the horses were well-fed, the facility was nice enough, and the trainers were good. They held twice-yearly academy shows. This suited me and my family just fine. I will be forever grateful for the opportunities provided to me there to ride and show without having to own my own pony or horse, and I am also forever grateful that my parents were willing to put up with and finance the "horse habit."

Now that I've described the facility, I'll get to the good part in my next post - the HORSES.

(Sorry there are no photos with this post - I have none of just the farm. But there are plenty coming with me in them!)

Fooling Around With Fakes

Aside from the Shetland featured in the last post, this was the first horse I rode:


My mother commissioned this 2 hh. brown gelding from my grandpa, who was pretty good with his hands. To tell the truth, I'm not quite sure how he wound up in my possession, since lop-eared Mr. Rocky Horse saw a lot of hours in the saddle from all three of us children. I guess my brothers deeded him to me since I'm the sole rider in the family. I was the one who spent a lot of time trying to braid his scraggly rope tail nicely, too. I loved him very much, but I really should have been more appreciative of this fine mount. Unfortunately my head was constantly being turned by the giant, lifelike - real mane and tail! - rocking horses sold by toy retailer F.A.O. Schwartz. Every time one of those catalogs would arrive, I'd drool over the photo (Note: this isn't the actual one, but looks a lot like it. I think they cost something like $150, a veritable fortune in the 60s, and still a darned expensive toy. Not to mention, it's rather large!):

I could just feel that genuine leather saddle under my butt, and longed to put my feet in the metal stirrups. Since I didn't seem to be getting anywhere in my campaign for a real pony, this would definitely have been the next-best thing (I sincerely don't remember a time when I didn't want a pony/horse, so I assume even at the tender age of under five this was being brought up). A decent alternative to the zillion-dollar Schwartz Horse would have been a spring horse, but one of those never turned up, either. I think Mom was smart enough to realize the noise would drive her nuts. Fortunately, my neighbor did have one and I spent plenty of happy times boinging around on hers: SCREECHah - SCREECHah - SCREECHah. Her mother was a saint - thanks, Mrs. H and T for putting up with that!

(This is billed in an auction as a "vintage" horse from the 60s... at least it's not "antique," or I'd REALLY feel old)

At any rate, Grandpa's rocking horse was a bit too frail for use by my children - he needs to see an equine chiropractor for an extremely loose neck joint - and now lives in lofty splendor on the display ledge in my bedroom. There are many other horses up there to keep him company (as you'll see in a later post).

[Regarding the other items in the photo: The Breyer horse is Buck, "Wild Horse Annie's" special Mustang. The doll is a Breyer rider which was given to my daughter, as they didn't exist when I was a child (much to my disgust). The weird-looking grey thing to the left is a homemade horse mask constructed as part of a Halloween costume. The now faded-to-purple blue ribbon dangling from the rocking horse reins may not look like much, but it is one that carries a special memory for me. It basically represents the culmination of my childhood equestrian activities, and was acquired at a 4-H show. But I'm getting waaaay ahead of myself here...]

Let's dial back the clock to Florida again. I'm 4 years old. My parents had made a great leap and moved down there after college, following a job opportunity for my dad with General Electric's PR department. But both their families were back in New Jersey, and they decided after a 5-year stint in the South that it was time to migrate back to the land of relatives, four seasons and snow. Good thing they did, because otherwise I would have learned to ride in FL and stayed Western, or switched to English and competed at HITS Ocala and played polo in Palm Beach and rubbed shoulders with Prince Charles and, well, that would have just been a TRAGEDY. ;-)

All I remember of the big move is being allowed to pick out my bedroom in our new house and sleeping on the floor the first night.

What I don't remember is asking to take riding lessons.... but ask I did, because I am proud to inform you that I was accepted as the official Youngest Student Ever by Tricorne Farm Riding School, in Holmdel, New Jersey, right as I was turning five years old.