Preface:
Each and every person who is passionate about horses most likely remembers that very instance where you become completely captivated by the essence and beauty of these creatures. Mine happened in the arms of Grandpa Lyle on a mare named Grey Lady. Hooked.
It can happen at any age, at any distance, at any place or medium. Through books, film, poetry, art, back-yard pastures, or that first lucky moment to pet, groom, or ride – you become wildly passionate about experiencing the world of horses.
This old English class story struck me that I have come full circle in the role of leading a Conservancy to preserve and share a horse park. I am here now due to another amazing horse lover whose generosity and patience with children resonated throughout my entire life.
Life has intersected in my pursuit of horses and I am often a “returning adult rider”, however, that’s ok. Horses are my grounding rod and every horse, every ride, every ground interaction adds to a closer equine understanding with the knowledge that a lifetime learning will not be enough.
Enjoy the Ride!
Story Title – Spare Time Haven
Author – Tamara Dillard
Date – 1–21-85
At the carefree age of twelve, there was one thought that connected me to the world, horses. I loved all kinds; I had no prejudice. With the aid of my bicycle, I became an avid horse-seeker, searching for the free ride.
I would find a horse with owner nearby, pat the animal, talk about its beauty, and look pleadingly at its master. If I were lucky, I’d get that ride. If not, I’d continue to pet and praise, but I’d have a downcast heart.
It was during such a pursuit that I met a gentleman who owned two ponies. I was not the first to express my great love of horseflesh to him. Through our conversing I learned that one of my best friends, in face had recently introduced herself to him.
He told me he had asked a few others, including my friend, to help with fixing up an old shed to shelter his ponies. In exchange, he would allow them to ride, as long as they asked permission first. When asked if I would like to be included, I gave an immediate, “Yes.”
I made my own way over to the small pasture surrounded by an electric wire fence. Being careful just to touch the matched set of Shetlands, I admired their honey brown colored hair with cream manes and tails. On the south end of the pasture stood the shed. Weatherbeaten gray, it sill looked intact and like a protective shelter against cold winds and rains.
When I had my first look at the ignored and unattended state of the inside though, I felt a great dismay sliding through me. Only the fact that there were others to tackle this project, that I would not be alone, helped to banish this feeling.
On the first workday when I arrived to tackle this project, I met the three girls and one boy I would be working with.
While our gentleman friend handled the carpentry, we went to work with brooms, mops, rags, and plenty of cleaning solvents. We’d take turns in dusting down the countless cobwebs or sweeping the dust layered on dirt out the door. An even less favorite chore were the windows; they were thick with grime that they could barely be seen through. The air that had sat in the shed so long was musty and thick to breathe. Contracting shar;ey with this old smell was the fresh odor of pungent wood shavings due to the new stalls being built.
Every morning when I awoke, my first thought was of when I could go over to the shed. I would plan my day out, always leaving room for this activity. I’m not sure if my Mother approved of me spending quite so much time at this haunt, but I suspect that she kept quiet due to the fact I had recently tried to bring home a pony. I could not convince her that at ten dollars, that it was the buy of a lifetime.
I’m sure though, if she had known how most of the time was spent cleaning, she would’ve felt both astonished and proud, and maybe a little bit jealous that I was not quite so enthused about such things on homeground.
Finally, as the ramp was constructed to allow the ponies access to their shed from the lower field, we began to prepare for winter. At the far end of the building, we helped each other push the new, sweet smelling bales of hay on top of one another in neat rows. In addiiton, there was a shiny, new can to put the grain in. The tack was hung up on neat, orderly hooks while the grooming tools were placed on shelves.
Slowly, the dark and dingy shed’s atmosphere had changed. Indeed, it seemed larger, for now the sun could shine through the window panes and the now spotless wooden floor was clean of any debris.
Now that the Shetlands were allowed inside, we took great pride in keeping their home clean. I also like to groom the ponies so that they would fit in with their surroundings. Often times, when I was alone, I would spend the time by brushing twigs and dirt briskly out of their thick coats and combing their manes and tails to hang straight and smooth.
It was during these quiet moment I learned most about these sturdy animals personalities. Although not always sweet and docile in nature, forgiveness was always forthcoming when these ponies were offered a carrot.
Although I still retain the hope I have yet to own a horse of my own, I was given the opportunity to experience both the responsibility and pleasure of these wonderful creatures.
