Gallop by Gallop, an equine literary magazine

Spring 2021

contents

Dear Readers: I could pontificate about my vision for an equine literary magazine, or I could just show you this:

fiction

A Horse is a Horse by Len Kruger Elise by Julie Maidment 24 Horse Girl by Carrie Seim 56 Commander Speaks by Jody Jaffe

Venn diagrams are the haiku of math. They are elegant, powerful, and fast, much like the great, but sadly underused, Thoroughbred. Horses have driven the human need to create art since the first cave person picked up a piece of charcoal and drew on a wall. What compels us to make art? What compels us to love horses almost to the point of addiction (at least in my case)? I don’t have the answer to the first question. And I’ve been exploring the second question most of my adult life, through three novels and many columns I’ve written for The Chronicle of the Horse. Yet, I’m still no closer to the answer except to know I can’t envision a life without horses. Gallop marries my two grand passions: horses and words. I’ve been talking about creating an equine literary magazine for many years. But it took a pandemic and a year of lock-down to motivate me. It was either start a magazine or continue baking. I’d already perfected the sticky bun and figured out how to make rye bread almost as good as Greenberg's Bakery in Overbrook Park where I grew up — both of which had bumped me up in breeches from 28 to 30. I wasn’t about to go into the 2021 horse show year in 32s. If you’ve read any of my Chron columns, you know my husband, John Muncie, had been dubbed “The Saint” by the entire ER staff at our local hospital. They were awed by his bottomless patience when I was rushed there after being spun off a horse, hitting my head and losing my short-term memory. Every time I asked the same question — “Is my horse OK?” — he answered like it was the first, not the 25th, time I’d asked. He has proven his sainthood once again because he embraced my vision and has been my co-editor in this venture. And he’s not even close to horse addicted. He likes to pet them, on occasion. Gallop is not a how-to magazine you read to learn things. Gallop is a feel-to, think-to, dream-to magazine that celebrates the unparalleled generosity, beauty and magnificence of horses. I will have accomplished my goal if you read or see something in Gallop that moves you or sings to your soul; something that makes you love horses more — if that is even possible; makes you want to run to the barn and rub your cheek against a velvet muzzle; or just makes you thankful that horses are part of your life. This is our first issue and I couldn’t be more proud of the content. We hope to continue this dream of mine — the marriage of horses and art — in more issues. So I’m looking for short stories, poems, essays, photographs and art. Please send submissions, comments, suggestions to readgallop@gmail.com. Happy trails,

essay

About The Cover by John Muncie 4 Horses and Heartbreak by Lettie Teague Favorite Horse Books 36 Harness Racing by Alan Richman 70

memoir

Last Tango by Ann Telnaes 16 Doctor of Confidence by John Muncie 30 MM, Golda and Me by Joan Marans Dim 42 Death of Horse by Anne Sagalyn 46 Breaking Even by Cathi Stoler 52

reviews Peristroka in Paris by Noelle Maxwell Unreined by JoAnn Grose 68

poetry

Giant by Samantha Johnson 7 Four Horsewomen by Cary Jane Sparks The Painting by Susan Ludvigson 20 It matters by Mary Ellena Ward 28 Amadeo by Kevin McIlvoy 48 Red Mare by Courtney Lane 54 Up Up and Away by Samantha Johnson Longeing by Katie Kelley 63 Horse Haiku by Patricia Michael 65 The Squall by Mary Ellena Ward 74

artists staff Editor: Jody Jaffe Assistant Editor: John Muncie Graphics Editor: Job Zheng Copy Editor: Catherine Mayhew

Laura Harris Isabel Kurek Peggy Judy Wayne Salge Ben Shepard Carla Golembe

11 15 21 40 60 66

contents

Dear Readers: I could pontificate about my vision for an equine literary magazine, or I could just show you this:

fiction

A Horse is a Horse by Len Kruger Elise by Julie Maidment 24 Horse Girl by Carrie Seim 56 Commander Speaks by Jody Jaffe

essay

About The Cover by John Muncie 4 Horses and Heartbreak by Lettie Teague Favorite Horse Books 36 Harness Racing by Alan Richman 70

memoir

Last Tango by Ann Telnaes 16 Doctor of Confidence by John Muncie 30 MM, Golda and Me by Joan Marans Dim 42 Death of Horse by Anne Sagalyn 46 Breaking Even by Cathi Stoler 52

reviews Peristroka in Paris by Noelle Maxwell Unreined by JoAnn Grose 68

poetry

artists staff Editor: Jody Jaffe Assistant Editor: John Muncie Graphics Editor: Job Zheng Copy Editor: Catherine Mayhew

Laura Harris Isabel Kurek Peggy Judy Wayne Salge Ben Shepard Carla Golembe

11 15 21 40 60 66

About the cover:

The Mystery of the Flying Horse

Right

By John Muncie Do galloping horses fly? It was a controversy for generations; technically a question of “unsupported transit.” But on June 19, 1878, the world got the answer: Yes, they do. The men behind this moment in horse history – and inspiration for the cover design of Gallop magazine’s premier issue -- were railroad tycoon Leland Stanford and photographer Eadweard Muybridge. Their histories (separate and entwined) involved merchants, murder, and moving pictures. In 1852, Stanford, a 28-year-old lawyer, moved to California, where he made a fortune in merchandise and mining supplies. Then he turned to trains. In 1861, he became president of the Central Pacific Railroad and later helped build rail lines all over the Southwest. Soon after, he added governor, senator and founder of Stanford University to his resume. Muybridge’s journey was more tortured. He came to the U.S. from England at age 20 and sold books in San Francisco just after the Gold Rush. But on a trip back to his home country, he suffered a severe head injury that may have affected his mental stability and certainly affected his career. After he returned to the U.S. five years later, he had become a disheveled, itinerant photographer who became known for pictures of Yosemite and other Western locales. Muybridge was married by then, but his back-country work kept him away from home for weeks at a time. Time that his wife – 21 years younger – seems to have spent in the arms of another man. When Muybridge found out about the affair he went to the cabin of the lothario, Harry Larkyns, and knocked on his door. “I have a message from my wife, take it,” Muybridge said when Larkyns appeared, then shot him dead. At trial, Muybridge was acquitted, but not because of his lawyer’s attempt to plead insanity. The mostly married, all-male jury figured it was justifiable homicide. After all, Muybridge was just defending his honor. Aside from making millions, Stanford’s passion was racing and racehorses and at his 8,000-acre estate -- what would become the Stanford University campus, south of San Francisco -- he bred both trotters and Thoroughbreds. A betting man, Stanford wanted to improve his horses’ chances at the track. It was this goal that brought Stanford, “unsupported transit,” and Muybridge together. Even though horses were the world’s most important transport mode -- carrying people to finish lines, to markets, and to war -- nobody knew exactly how they moved. When they galloped, did all four legs leave the ground simultaneously? Were they momentarily “unsupported”? And, if they did, when in their gait were they flying? Horses run too fast for the human eye to discern.

Wrong

""Derby in Epsom" by Theodore Gericault Courtesy of Wikipedia

About the cover:

The Mystery of the Flying Horse

Right

Wrong

""Derby in Epsom" by Theodore Gericault Courtesy of Wikipedia

So Stanford, thinking to get a leg up on the competition, hired Muybridge to get the answer photographically. Shutter speeds were slow in those days, but Muybridge came up with a combination of multiple cameras, mechanical shutters, and trip wires laid across a track to freeze a horse in mid-stride. After Muybridge worked out the kinks, Stanford invited the local press to his estate to watch the experiment. And when trainer Gilbert Domm rode Thoroughbred Sallie Gardner past 12 cameras, history was made. Muybridge’s instantly famous photos showed all four of Sallie’s feet off the ground at the same time. It also showed that galloping horses never have their legs completely splayed out front and back. In just a few seconds, Sallie had refuted centuries of horse-race paintings. Sorry Degas, sorry Gericault, that’s not how horses run. Two years after Sallie’s gallop, Muybridge invented the zoopraxiscope -- a device that involved transferring versions of his photos or illustrations onto glass discs which, when spun and illuminated created the illusion of movement -- the precursor to motion pictures. Muybridge went on to produce other stop-motion studies including naked boys playing leapfrog, ballet dancers, baseball players, and boxers. Now they’re just historic curiosities. But his horses – including a later sequence that we’ve used on Gallop’s cover – will never be forgotten. Not only are they etched onto our cultural memory they’re now etched into living cells. In 2016, Harvard scientists encoded into the DNA of a bacterial colony the digitized information of five of Muybridge’s photographs. Now, deep in the double helix of living E. coli, Sallie Gardner gallops along forever.

Yin and yang is your essence Strength seeps out of your body Yet loving fills your soul Your presence dominates But kindness glistens in your eyes Window to the soul

The Giant By Samantha Johnson

Selfless, not helpless Many call you a tame beast, but A tame beast is not what you are Your strength could overpower many men You are a kind beast How do you Control Tame Overpower The fire inside? Raw instinct Oh, how I wish you could Teach me your ways Of power And Of control Why do you choose compassion, When you have The strength of destruction? It’s a rarity Such balance is hard to find Your kind has been serving Since the beginning When the world was one And your toes were two And yet you’re content When will be the day That you ask for something In return? Surely simple sugar Cubes are not enough. Let me repay you.

Photo by Laura Harris

Yin and yang is your essence Strength seeps out of your body Yet loving fills your soul Your presence dominates But kindness glistens in your eyes Window to the soul

The Giant By Samantha Johnson

Photo by Laura Harris

You were a child. You loved to watch a show called “Mister Ed,” a situation comedy running on the CBS television network from 1961 to 1966. “Mister Ed” told the story of an architect named Wilbur Post; his talking horse, Mr. Ed; and Wilbur’s wife, Carol. In that order. You loved Mr. Ed. He was funny. He was sassy. He was sneaky. What kid wouldn’t want to own a talking horse who could surf at Waikiki, fly cargo planes, phone in racing tips to the Pimlico Racetrack, play baseball with the Los Angeles Dodgers, and speak English with a French accent while wearing a beret? Now you are an adult. You have questions. You recall Mr. Ed’s first-ever words in Episode One. Wilbur stands in Mr. Ed’s stable. Dewy-eyed and nostalgic, Wilbur yearns for his lost childhood. The sadness is palpable. 8

"I remember when I was a boy,” Wilbur says, wistfully. “I remember when I was a pony,” the horse replies, and Wilbur’s world is forever transformed. Putting aside the inconvenient truth that ponies do not grow up to be horses, you recognize Wilbur’s longing for pre-adolescence. You question whether Wilbur is emotionally ready for an adult relationship with a woman. There is an elephant in the room, or if you like, a horse in the stable: The Marriage. Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Post and a horse named “Ed” request the pleasure of your attention to a three-way union fraught with issues, to a marriage with enough dysfunction to fuel decades of couple's therapy. Or in this case, interspecies throuple’s therapy.

What must it be like for Carol? She is a newlywed. She has married an older man and starts a life with him in the San Fernando Valley. There is a barn in the backyard of her new house. There is a horse in the stable. The horse talks to her husband. They finish each other’s sentences and exchange meaningful glances. Every night, Wilbur comes to bed stinking of horse, his heart still beating in that stable, his fingers still thrilling to the touch of a soft silky mane.

Years later — after the inevitable divorce — Carol looks back on the early Sixties. She remembers it all. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The Bay of Pigs. The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. How Wilbur whispered the name of another woman in his sleep and Wilbur told her it was the name of a female horse that Mr. Ed wanted him to buy for the barn. How Wilbur bought her a hi-fi set for their anniversary, and because she was insulted by the unromantic nature of the gift, she went home to her 9

mother and Mr. Ed became a surrogate wife to Wilbur by cooking his meals. How she once found a hideous abstract portrait of herself in the barn which she said made her look like “a chubby freak,” and which Mr. Ed painted because he — the horse!— wanted to leave his mark on the world. How can she ever forget the words she uttered — more in sorrow than in anger — to her neighbor, Kay Addison, on that summer’s day in 1961? “Sometimes I feel like I’d get more attention from Wilbur if I grew a tail.” Fifty years later, what is it that you see and hear on the television screen? Is it a man conversing with a horse, or a man conversing with himself? Perhaps the images on the screen are refracted through the cracked prism of Wilbur’s mind. What if — in the saddest of realities — he is in a mental health care facility, staring out a window at the bare tree branches, listening to the laugh track in his head, and imagining a horse that talks and hits inside-the-park home runs off of Sandy Koufax? And just how wide is that chasm between perception and reality? You are haunted by Episode 53, “Ed Gets Amnesia,” in which a bucket of carrots falls on Mr. Ed’s head. He now believes that he is human and that Wilbur is a horse. By what criteria does Mr. Ed base his belief that he is a man? In his pre-amnesia state, he had already articulated thoughts and feelings in an unmistakably human way. Does he now believe that men have four legs and live in stables and eat hay? Do horses now live in split-level houses and wear pants and have wives? What does it truly mean to be a man, and what does it mean to be a horse?

But, really — you tell yourself — it is just a television show. You do some research. Mr. Ed was a Palomino gelding, born in 1949. His real name was Bamboo Harvester. He ate twenty pounds of hay and drank a gallon of sweet tea each day. He passed away in 1970. The news was not released to the press because the children watching “Mister Ed” reruns would have been deeply saddened if they knew their beloved horse was dead. You too are deeply saddened. You are in the latter third of life, galloping towards the sunset. Mr. Ed has been dead for a half century. You are in your bedroom. You hear noises from downstairs, a floor creaking, furniture scraping. You pad down the steps in a striped nightcap and bathrobe, clutching a baseball bat. You shiver, chilled by a cold wind smelling of fresh horse manure. "Ed?” you say, scarcely believing. “Is that you?” Creepy low moaning. Wilbur . . . Wilbur . . . You see an apparition, a sheet over a horse’s head, slits with the ears poking through. Mr. Ed is suspended in the air, floating, a pasted cut-out, luminescent gray on a dark matted background. Your eyes widen in fright, you fall backwards into a bucket of paint, feel it soak through to your underwear. The laugh track roars. But it is only a dream. You awaken and run down to the barn, into the stable. Your Mr. Ed awaits. You share a carrot together. “Best friends forever?” you ask. And Mr. Ed will give you the answer that you’ll endorse. Of course. Of course.

Len Kruger lives in Washington, D.C. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals including Zoetrope-All Story, The Barcelona Review, and Gargoyle. Most recently, he has a flash fiction piece in the anthology, This is What America Looks Like: Fiction and Poetry from DC, Maryland, and Virginia, published in February 2021 by The Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Photos by Laura Harris

Photo of Mr. Ed courtesy of Wikipedia 10

The Four Horsewomen of the Rebirth After the Apocalypse by Cary Jane Sparks The First Horsewoman: Healing

The Second Horsewoman: Cooperation

This is what they told me: Wash the horse.

There are stalls on both sides of the aisle. When a sleepy hand opens the door to the feed room, every horse is alert. You come out, the wheelbarrow full of feed bags, and turn to the row of long, longing faces, ears back or forward. Someone neighs. Someone kicks the wall.

Do you know how hard it is to keep a white horse clean? As soon as he walks out of the stable…well, where isn’t there either mud or dust? But no one cared about mud on his hooves or dust on his flank. They saw his beauty and came around. I rode without a saddle; left the bow and arrows back at the barn. I wore the tiara, though. Wouldn’t you?

You can’t reach every stall at once. Someone has to be first. Someone has to wait the longest. The laws belong to physics. Until no sound but horses chewing. After breakfast, turn-out. This side of the aisle; that side. Your friend shows up; now two horses can go at once. You open the gate, go through, turn them toward you and step back out before unclipping the lead. So that when they turn and kick up with pleasure, a hoof doesn’t hit your head.

“Can I pet your horse?” Of course you can, dear one. Everyone can touch him; he doesn’t mind. He’s a therapy animal. He goes everywhere. I told them: All animals are therapy animals. And all plants are therapy plants. Walk next to them. Smell them. Watch the deer bounce, the herds of giraffe and buffalo, the trees breathing in the wind. Lie flat on the ground and spread your arms and legs as wide as they will go so you can see the birds and clouds and weather. Feel the pain in your heart; call it out. Trust the breeze to lift it and take it away, a little at a time. The breeze will heal you. The animals and plants will heal you. The person next to you will heal you. And you will heal the ones after. 12

Collage by by Jody Jaffe

Let them graze, let them play, let them pair up, back to front, with each other’s tail to chase the flies from their face. Then they are happy, relaxed. Later you can ride out on the red mare, your friend on the bay. Horse and pine aromas, forest sounds, the firm but giving ground.

The Four Horsewomen of the Rebirth After the Apocalypse by Cary Jane Sparks The First Horsewoman: Healing

The Second Horsewoman: Cooperation

This is what they told me: Wash the horse.

Collage by by Jody Jaffe

The Third Horsewoman: Nourishment

The Fourth Horsewoman: Creativity

Wherever I ride the black horse, plants grow. Tomatoes and artichokes, peppers and broccoli, rhubarb. When we jump a fence, vines wrap the posts and rails, teeming with peas and beans and berries. We canter through the damp forest; mushrooms spring up from his hoofprints. The sand arena where we school turns into a garden of potatoes, parsnips, carrots, yam; encircled by trees ripe with apples, plums, cherries, pecans, and almonds.

A riddle: I am the greatest power on earth, yet some don’t see me. Their eyes follow my horse, her golden body and her white mane and tail, and think she trots by without a rider. Where am I?

Alfalfa, timothy, and clover shoot up in the fields where the black horse walks and grazes. People come and cut it down, feed it to other horses, and they become like the black horse. Horses have always fed our souls. Should it surprise us—in this rebirth after the apocalypse—when they give us the plants that nourish our bodies?

My palomino and I fit into the smallest crevice; into an atom. We expand into the night sky. We pass through your body. You think a thought you never thought before. You try a new herb in the soup. You find a better way to organize your files. You dream a new song and wake up singing. You smash plates and arrange the pieces into mosaics. When you get tired of hearing about the end of the world, you write about what happens after. You’re welcome. Answer to the riddle: I’m right here. If you can’t see me, it’s only because fear is standing between us. But don’t worry about that. My allies on horseback will heal you, aid you, and nourish you. We will all be whole and we will gallop on our horses, dance in our thoughts, bake a cake, give flowers to our loved ones, swim in the clear pond at the end of the road. We will kick up our heels, graze, swish the flies and the hurts from each other, lie down in the afternoon sun for a nap, and wake up to walk with our friends under the bright moon and sparkling stars.

Cary Jane Sparks is the author of Incensed: The Novel and (writing as Summer Ann Sparks) Close Contact: A Horse Country Romance. She directs an international breathwork training program, and has ridden and shown in the hunter/jumper world since age nine.

Photo by Isabel Kurek 15

The Third Horsewoman: Nourishment

The Fourth Horsewoman: Creativity

A riddle: I am the greatest power on earth, yet some don’t see me. Their eyes follow my horse, her golden body and her white mane and tail, and think she trots by without a rider. Where am I?

Photo by Isabel Kurek 15

Last Tango in Glasgow Rio and Trilby are spending their sunset years together at Finally Farm in Glasgow, Va. They are both over 30 years old and they are inseparable. They move across the rolling hills like two figure skaters stitched together by invisible thread. Ann Telnaes imagines a day in their life. Trilby is Ann's horse, but it was Rio, whose fan club is legendary, who gave her the confidence to jump again. *** Ann Telnaes is the Washington Post’s online cartoonist. She won the Pulitzer Prize in 2001 for her print cartoons and the National Cartoonists Society’s Reuben for Outstanding Cartoonist of the Year in 2016.

Horses and Heartbreak (Or why is every children’s horse book a four-handkerchief tale?)

By Lettie Teague Every great horse story is a tale intended to leave its readers in tears. Whether it’s a gallant racehorse that breaks down but finishes the race on three legs or a pony that gets tangled up in barbed wire and almost dies, the theme is consistent: with horses, love is almost inevitably accompanied by suffering and loss. This seems to be particularly true of horses in children’s books. Like all horse-crazed young girls, I grew up on a steady diet of equine-based narratives whose heroes and heroines were either people who loved horses or the horses themselves (I preferred the latter, of course). But I never stopped to wonder -- until recently -- why was there so much sadness? Was it intentional or mere coincidence that hearts were bruised or broken over and over again? I put the question to famed author and illustrator Emily McCully, who wrote Wonder Horse: The True Story of the World’s Smartest Horse as well as many other children’s books (including Caldecott Medal winner, Mirette on the High Wire). Ms. McCully, whose book was mostly happy (except for the chapter in which Beautiful Jim Key’s beloved mother, the mare Lauretta, dies) speculated that stories of loss helped children deal with real life loss. “Maybe if you put it in the context of all animal books, where it's far more acceptable for children to encounter sadness and tragedy, to exercise their feelings without being terrified,” she wrote in an email. It was certainly true that while I mourned the death of Black Gold or the suffering of Beauty in Black Beauty I was focused on them and not myself and my frequently lonely childhood. My father had uprooted our family over and over again when I was growing up – and horses, fictional and otherwise, were one of the constants in my life. My own real-life sadness was often suffused with my sadness over a (fictional) horse. I identified with the children in the books who loved and lost their horses too -- like Peter Lundy and his horse, Domingo, the eponymous hero of Marguerite Henry’s book, San Domingo, The Medicine Hat Stallion. Although her best-known book, Misty of Chincoteague, is mostly happy, Ms. Henry’s horse-centric books for children were littered with loss -- for both the children and horses. Peter Lundy loses Domingo 18

-- not once but twice -- the first time when his unaccountably cruel father gives Domingo to the Pony Express and later when Peter finds Domingo, only to lose him again when he is killed by a bullet as he and Peter try to escape an Indian ambush. The story of Peter Lundy is both fact and fiction -- as Ms. Henry often blended fiction and fact in her historical narratives. Mary O’Hara, on the other hand, gave her story of the real-life pony who inspired My Friend Flicka a twist -- saving her life at the end of the book. In reality, the filly that got tangled up in barbed wire at Ms. O’Hara’s Wyoming Ranch could not be saved. In the book, not only does Flicka survive, but so does the boy who loves her – though they both nearly die. In her autobiography, Flicka’s Friend, Ms. O’Hara recalled that some found My Friend Flicka overly sentimental when she was shopping the story among editors in New York, but her wise agent, Sidney Lambert, recognized it for the future (and almost instant) best-seller it would become – a successor to Black Beauty, Ms. Lambert said. Black Beauty was an almost instant best-seller as well and while it’s considered a children’s book today, it wasn’t necessarily written for children, according to its author, Anna Selwell. She’d written the book in the hope of enlightening people as to the cruelty done to horses in her day and thought the book might make their plight better understood. But it became a children’s book perhaps because it is written in the voices of the horses themselves. They horses speak directly to one another of the kind treatment they receive and also, and more commonly, of their terrible suffering. Sir Oliver, the wise and kind older horse, whose tail had been painfully docked, talks to the younger horses, including Beauty, of how he was sacrificed for fashion. Beauty knows some kindness, but he endures a mostly terrible life. However, as with Flicka, his story has a happy ending. “My troubles are over, and I am finally home” says Beauty in a line that I’m sure has made millions of children cry. Perhaps that’s because it’s not only what a horse but also what every child longs to feel: safe and at home. The loss and the sadness, and the longed-for happy ending, is finally our own.

Illustration from Black Beauty courtesy of Wikipedia.

Lettie Teague is the wine columnist for The Wall Street Journal and the author of Wine in Words, Educating Peter and the co-author and cartoonist of Fear of Wine. She has won three James Beard awards and has owned several horses over the years. Her horse Alice, a six-year-old Appendix mare, is sometimes known as Perfect Alice and sometimes just Alice. 19

Horses and Heartbreak (Or why is every children’s horse book a four-handkerchief tale?)

Illustration from Black Beauty courtesy of Wikipedia.

The Painting By Susan Ludvigson It isn't at all like the scrolling colors I saw under a lamp, patterns that made me yearn to repeat them. When will I Iearn to trust the hand, the body, locking intention in a closet. It's like riding a favorite horse becoming one with him, muscles and heart in alignment. It's letting that horse meander through woods toward a pond as I look for cattails, stumble on orchids.

Blu Hors by Peggy Judy

Poet Susan Ludvigson is professor emeritus of English at Winthrop University in Rock Hill, South Carolina. She is the author of ten collections of poetry; her books include Northern Lights (1981), The Swimmer (1982), The Beautiful Noon of No Shadow (1986), To Find the Gold (1990), Everything Winged Must Be Dreaming (1993), Trinity (1996), Sweet Confluence: New and Selected Poems (2000), and Escaping the House of Certainty (2006).

Blu Hors by Peggy Judy

Born to be an Artist Peggy Judy says she was born to be an artist. So smitten by the natural beauty of her native Colorado, she painted and drew throughout her high school and college years. After graduating from Colorado State University in 1982 with a Bachleor of Fine Arts and a concentration in illustration, she began her professional career as an illustrator. In 1988, she married an equine vet, which she says allowed her to meld her two passions: art and horses. Peggy’s work has been categorized as Contemporary Western. Drawing and draftsmanship is the skeleton of her work, she says, but the color, shapes, and lines take the subject beyond the usual. For her, negative space is as important to the balance of each piece as the positive space. She’s won numerous painting awards and has been included in a variety of exhibitions, including at The Rockwell Museum of Western Art in New York.

Purple Shadows

On The Run

Drew the Short Straw

Purple Shadows

On The Run

Drew the Short Straw

Elise

by Julie Maidment She slowed in front of Cameo’s stall. The shavings were smooth. The water bucket was upside down. There was no hay in the corner. Cameo was not here.

Elise stopped inside the barn aisle. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust. It was Thursday, her riding lesson day. “Hi Elise!” Dana smiled and clipped cross-ties onto the halter of a small chestnut gelding. Elise rubbed her eyes and shook her arms. Stiff kneed, she walked down the aisle toward her instructor. The horse standing in the aisle was light brown. The horse was not Cameo. Cameo was red-brown with a black mane and tail. She had a white blaze and four black stockings. She had white socks on her front legs. “Cameo died?” Dana’s smile turned down. Elise’s parents must have prepared her. Elise brought her shoulders up, twisted her face, and rolled her head, her helmet tipped back, chin strap dangling. Dana knew to let her be. Through the open arena door she saw Elise’s mother inside the parked Audi holding her phone and taking a sip from a Starbucks cup. Dana lowered her gaze. “Cameo died. I’m sorry.” Elise never made eye contact. 24

Dana had not been told anything specific about Elise’s disability. She taught at a Big Lesson Barn smack in the middle of the burbs. Students learned to walk, trot, and canter and grin for a selfie to show off their schooling show ribbon. A few kept on with lessons and once in a while a student like Elise found their way here instead of enrolling in a therapeutic riding program. Elise rode Cameo once a week. Elise stood next to the chestnut, tapping the close contact saddle with her fingertips. This was not Cameo’s saddle. She tilted her chin, her eyes finding Cameo’s empty stall. Her fingers slid down the skirt of the saddle leaving glide marks in the Murphy’s Oil Soap. Dana looked down at Elise’s helmet, smudged with fingerprints. “You’re riding Oliver today. He was Cameo’s friend.” Dana told Elise to adjust her helmet and fasten her chinstrap. She glanced outside. Elise’s mother turned the page of a paperback. Mouth set in a line, Dana unclipped the cross ties and removed the halter she had placed over Oliver’s bridle. She left it askew on a nearby hook.

Elise followed Dana and Oliver to the indoor arena. She was careful to stay back. The length of a box stall she had been told. A box stall is twelve feet. She slowed in front of Cameo’s stall. The shavings were smooth. The water bucket was upside down. There was no hay in the corner. Cameo was not here. Inside the arena Dana pulled down the stirrups. Elise was her last student today. In about an hour she would leave and drive to another barn to teach students showing this weekend. There were a few last-minute items to pack in the trailer and she wanted to stop at the grocery store for plums and grapes. She couldn’t remember if her picnic cooler was in the basement or the garage. She added ice to her grocery list. Elise picked her feet high, stepping from the concrete aisle onto the arena footing. In this way, she walked to Oliver’s left side. She bent her knee for Dana’s leg up. Elise positioned her fingers and thumbs on the correct color of the rainbow reins. Her feet dangled, bumping the stirrup treads. She leaned to the left, her eyes moving over the saddle. This was not Cameo’s saddle. She wiggled her feet. 25

Elise

by Julie Maidment She slowed in front of Cameo’s stall. The shavings were smooth. The water bucket was upside down. There was no hay in the corner. Cameo was not here.

Dana checked the stirrup length and slid Elise’s feet to the inside branches. “Put your heels down, Elise.” Oliver’s nose nudged Dana’s hand. “Sit straight.” She smiled up at Elise noting the time on the wall clock. “Are you ready to roll?” “Okay.” Elise’s voice thin with her chin pointed at the rafters to loosen the chinstrap. Dana reminded Elise to look at Oliver’s ears. She led the gelding along the rail, staying by her student’s side, letting Elise habituate her body with the horse’s motion. Most lessons started this way: “Thumbs up, Elise.” Animated, Elise would faithfully repeat Dana’s instructions one by one. My thumbs are up. My chin is up. My eyes are up. My heels are DOWN. Because that is the way Dana said it. Usually Elise would chat about different things, her tight helmet, the lumpy socks inside her paddock boots, the spot on her breeches, or a book she liked. Dana began today’s lesson. “Thumbs up, Elise.” “Oliver doesn’t walk like Cameo.” “He walks like Oliver. Chin up.” “Okay.” When Dana told Elise to put her eyes up, Elise looked across the ring. " Eyes straight ahead Elise. Look between Oliver’s ears.” “Okay.” They circled the arena. Clouds passed over the skylight panels. Elise squinted. It was harder to see Cameo’s stall. It made her want to stand in her stirrups but Dana hadn’t told her to yet. Dana began the exercises. Arms up. Arms straight out. Arm circles. Touch your helmet. Elise wasn’t focusing. Dana debated if they should move on to their next exercise but Elise had come so far. “Time for twopoint position!” At Oliver’s side she supported Elise’s foot. Oliver plodded on. Her seat too high, her spine convex, Elise pushed her chin out, neck taut, teeth clenched, bent on looking ahead. She held two-point position thirty seconds longer than last time. With a hand on Elise’s lower back, Dana helped ease her back into the saddle, giving her student a proud smile. “That was incredible, Elise! You are Awe! Some!” Elise’s tongue pressed against her lower lip. She slanted her face toward Cameo’s stall. Cameo’s mane was easier to hold. Dana ran through her list. Teach. Grocery store. Don’t forget ice. She pulled back on the lead rope bringing Oliver to a halt. “How about giving Oliver a pat on the neck, Elise?” 26

Elise thought a moment. The fingers of her left hand hooked the right rein. She gave Oliver a pat with her right hand and curled that hand back around the right rein. She cocked her head left and right to check that both hands were in the correct position and holding the same color. “Perfect!” Dana gave Elise a thumbs up. Dana remembered hosing out her cooler last night. It sat upside down on the deck. She told Elise they were going to ride in the opposite direction and walked the horse in a half circle. Elise’s head swiveled to keep Cameo’s stall in sight. Dana said it was time to trot. Elise straightened and stiffened. Cameo’s mane brushed her hands when she held the neck strap for posting. She pretended they were flying. She looked down at Oliver’s short mane as Dana checked her feet placement in the stirrups. Dana clucked to Oliver, easily jogging along. Elise pursed her lips, sometimes hovering above the saddle for two beats, sometimes slapping it too hard, never quite with the motion, and as soon as Dana slowed to a walk she turned her head. “Whew! It’s turned into a hot day!” Dana halted Oliver and raised her face to Elise. “Good job!” Elise had her face toward Cameo’s stall. Dana saw Elise’s mom putting on lipstick. Bending down, she palmed Oliver’s chest and between his front legs. He was barely warm. “Quiz time! What do you call all that hair growing out of Oliver’s neck?” No answer. “Elise?” “Mane. Oliver’s is a different color than Cameo’s.” Dana barely heard her. She let it go and tapped the pommel. “What do you call this?” Oliver stretched out his neck and snorted. “Elise?” Elise stared at Cameo’s stall. “Did you forget?” Elise nodded. “Uh-huh.” Dana followed Elise’s gaze to Cameo’s empty stall, the mare’s nameplate still fixed to her door. Last Monday, when it was all over, the dust from the vet’s truck still hanging in the air, Dana walked behind the barn carrying a tarp. The long shadows of poplars already shrouding Cameo’s inert body. Dana knelt and unfolded the tarp over the sweet little mare, careful not to look in her eyes. A car door slammed. Elise’s mother stood rigid and tall next to her sedan. She shook her hair back and peered inside the barn under the shade of her hand. Dana led Oliver to the rail opposite Cameo’s stall. “Elise, would you like to talk about Cameo?"

Julie Maidment, a school bus driver in southeastern Minnesota, has been a horse trainer/riding instructor for many years. "I did teach a special needs student like Elise at an otherwise typical lesson barn. The only horse she rode in her lessons was put down after a bad colic. The only part of the lesson I remember is the student looking at the horse’s stall over and over throughout the lesson. It finally dawned on me that our lesson should have been about her processing the horse being gone and given time to grieve. Except for Elise’s posting, the story is all fiction. Even though lesson details elude me, it had a profound effect on me. I have never forgotten 'Elise.'"

Is your horse your partner? Partner: Either of two persons who dance together. Dance: A series of rhythmic and patterned bodily movements. Or are you your horse’s master? Master: An owner especially of a slave or animal. Slave: One that is subservient to a dominating influence. It matters.

Partners cooperate. (Associate for mutual benefit) Masters dominate. (Exert supreme determining or guiding influence) Partners communicate. (Transmit thought or feeling so that it is understood) Masters dictate. (Speak or act domineeringly) It matters.

Is your horse supple? (Readily adaptable or responsive to new situations) Willing? (Prompt to act or respond) Soaring? (Rising to majestic stature) You are a partner. Is your horse stiff? (Lacking in ease or grace) Evasive? (Avoiding performance) Stubborn? (Difficult to handle, manage, or treat) You are a slave driver. It matters.

i t m a t t e r s

Horses are sociable (Inclined to seek or enjoy companionship) They converse with each other and with us. Do you listen? (Hear with thoughtful attention) Do you hear your horse murmur? (Soft or gentle utterance) Shout? (Utter in a loud voice) Scream? (Protest violently) It matters.

Mastery (Art or performance of consummate skill) Requires: Rhythm, Cooperation, Communication, Listening, Partnership. It matters.

By Mary Ellena Ward 29

i t m a t t e r s

Mastery (Art or performance of consummate skill) Requires: Rhythm, Cooperation, Communication, Listening, Partnership. It matters.

By Mary Ellena Ward 29

The Doctor of Confidence By John Muncie Woody Wade, a bright chestnut Thoroughbred, was unflappable, cool, the hep-cat in a jazz band. He made every rider better.

Jody came running from our front pasture toward the house shouting something. I was up in my office with the sliding door closed and could barely hear her. What ever it was, it wasn’t good. It was a bright sharp morning in early winter and Jody was layered up. As she ran, her top jacket streamed out behind her. A scene from a nearly silent movie. I tore downstairs in my bathrobe and met her at the porch. “Woody’s dead!” she said in anguish, a voice full of tears. “He’s lying out in the field. I can’t look. You go see.” Fortunately, this part of the story has a happy ending. But before I get to it, I want to tell you something about Woody. Woody was not our horse; he was on loan from Diane Wade, a horsewoman in the D.C. area who rode Woody to success at the biggest horse shows all over the East Coast. When Woody got to a less-competitive age, she semi-retired him at trainer Peter Foley’s place outside Middleburg. Several years ago, Jody had a hard fall that badly shook both her cranium and her confidence. She needed a calm, respectful, easy horse to sooth her nerves and bring her back. That was Woody to a T. Peter offered him up and it worked out for everybody. Jody got what she called “The Doctor of Confidence,” Woody got a job and a big pasture, and Diane got the satisfaction of knowing that 30

SAS Equine Photography

Woody had a Jewish grandmother type attending to his every need. The Doctor of Confidence was unflappable; he was cool; he was the hepcat wearing shades, playing bass with the jazz combo. Once, while Woody was curing Jody of the horse-riding yips, they were at a show in the big indoor arena at Lexington’s Virginia Horse Center. It was a large field, maybe 20 horses. Waiting to go into the ring, 19 of them were heads up, prancing, pacing, eyes wide, ears flicking. Not Woody. He looked like a guy on a Barcalounger. His nose drooped to the floor; I swear his eyes were closed. I’m no rider so it’s hard for me to judge, but every horse person says that, on a course over jumps, Woody was a metronome. He didn’t speed up, didn’t slow down. At the Horse Center’s Thoroughbred Celebration Show, the judge once announced him as “Steady Eddie” as he cantered Jody around. Woody’s attitude seemed to be: “Just hang on kid; I’ll get you where you want to go.” Jody wasn’t The Doctor’s first patient. Diane had lent him out to other riders needing a confidence boost. One woman swears Woody reached out his neck to catch her when she got unseated. Gordon Reistrup, who runs Washington & Lee University’s horsemanship program and 31

The Doctor of Confidence By John Muncie Woody Wade, a bright chestnut Thoroughbred, was unflappable, cool, the hep-cat in a jazz band. He made every rider better.

SAS Equine Photography

The Doctor is in Some of Woody's patients. From top, clockwise: Jody Jaffe; Leah Coxsey's niece, Gwenevere Putnam; Woody teaching Dino and Jimmy how to relax; Woody's tongue; Diane Wade; and Leah Coxsey. On the following page, Diane riding Woody, surely taking the blue ribbon. RIP Diane and Woody.

trained the Jody-Woody combo, once summed him up this way: “I want a Woody in every color and size.” Jody and Diane were always swapping Woody news and stories. When Jody told her about letting Woody graze the front lawn, outside of the pasture, Diane told her not to worry. “I used to let him go loose at the Rose Mount Show,” she wrote in an email, “and he would always graze by himself between the fences and this tree. I would ask him to turn around when he went to the tree and he would, and then come back near our stalls. He did this for years – it was his own private turnout in the middle of the show. Me yelling every so often ‘Woody, please come back now!’” Once, somebody at the Rose Mount Show came running up shouting "Loose horse! Loose horse!" Then she realized which horse it was. “Never mind,” she shouted, “it’s Woody.” At the time Woody was lying out in our front pasture, he was an 18-year-old chestnut gelding. He had a wide body and was 16.2 hands – linebacker size for a horse. He seems to have had only one bad habit; he was a “cribber.” As horse people know, cribbing plays havoc with fences and stall doors, not to mention horse teeth and horse stomachs. Consequently, Woody had to wear a cribbing strap, which was kind of goofy looking but didn’t seem to bother him. Nothing seemed to bother Woody. There are various theories as to the cause of cribbing. One is that it releases endorphins – a pleasure chemical -- into a horse’s brain. So, basically, it’s a self-induced high. “No, no, John!” we imagined Woody saying when we approached him with the cribbing strap. “Just one more toke, bro. That’s all I want!”

It was this imaginary dialogue that gets to the heart of Jody’s panic. Horses are not simply farm animals, they’re pets. We love pets. They have character traits and personalities, some of which are undoubtedly real, some reflections of ourselves. What Jody saw sprawled out in the field was a member of the family, not heifer No. 347. One aspect of Woody’s character – and I swear we weren’t imagining it – was that I was his favorite. I’d never been on his back and only fed him occasionally, but he liked it when I fussed over him. Anybody else? Not so much. If Jody and I both offered him a peppermint, he always took mine first. That Woody and I were buddies was part of our farm lore. We had a fantasy that Woody and I would watch Washington football games together, brewskis in hand, bitching about yet another loss. Jody once emailed Diane a photo of me sacked out on a front-porch lounge chair. “Where’s Woody's chair?” Diane wrote back. Woody was a good influence on horses as well as people. We had him in a pasture with colts Jimmy and Dino. Before Woody arrived, Jimmy was a high-spirited nosey Paint who got in everybody’s face and food. The first time he tried that on Woody there were painful consequences. Soon, Jimmy was a high-spirited, nosey Paint with manners. Apparently, Woody had a similar mentoring role with Ice, the horse Diane bought when she semi-retired Woody. When Ice was young, Diane wrote to Jody, “he would get worried and Woody would help him calm down. Woody’s also still very protective of his ‘little brother’ – if they are turned out

together, Woody won't let other horses talk to Ice. Ice is the least aggressive horse I've ever seen, Woody helped him mostly gain some confidence! I'm soooo glad!!! Woody is an amazing creature!” All of Diane’s exclamation points reveal the intense bond between people and these magnificent, obedient, dangerous creatures. Any one of them could kick us into next week if they wanted, though they seldom try. Instead, they usually do whatever we ask, including carry us around through rain, sleet, or gloom of night – as reliable and determined as mailmen. Jody claims that special horses like Woody have pledged a secret “Hippo-cratic Oath” to keep their riders safe. (“Hippo” is, after all, the Greek word for “horse.”) So when Jody ran to the house, she wasn’t just carrying the burden of news, but the weight of a relationship. “I can’t look. You go see.” Panic. I threw on some jeans and shoes and took off for Woody’s pasture, but I didn’t get far. There, ambling up a hill, was Woody, calm and cool as ever, his tongue hanging out a bit. I suspect he thought all the hoopla signaled a feeding. Sometimes on cool mornings, horses lie down on sun-facing slopes, soaking up extra warmth from the ground. Often you see them with their legs folded under them like cats. Not Woody. Jody saw him sprawled across the grass like a New Year’s drunk, dead still despite her repeated calls. Of course, Jody told Diane all about the incident. Diane’s response was not surprising. “He’s a very deep sleeper,” she wrote. “I could hardly wake him up at the horse shows.” Eventually, Woody left our farm to begin treating a new patient, Leah Coxsey, who owns a place in Middleburg. When Leah came to pick him up, she cried along with Jody. Leah knew how important Woody had been to her. Not long ago, Leah wrote to me about what happened afterwards: “Woody, being the seeing-eye horse that he was, got me back into the saddle and was the last horse I showed in 2013. He was, hands down, THE Doctor of Confidence!!!!” Like Diane Wade’s, the number of Leah’s exclamation points barely measures her appreciation, “Diane knew how scared I had become, and she had the perfect solution,” Leah wrote. Leah rode Woody for a few years until he started tripping. He was treated for EPM and Lyme but those medicines weren’t compatible with the hock and neck injections he needed for arthritis. So, Leah retired him. “But even retired he played an integral part of everyday life at the farm,” she said. “My nieces always came to brush or bathe ‘the best horse in the world.’ " 34

Ultimately Woody became so achy he had a hard time getting up from his daily sunbathing. Leah called her vet. “I wanted to get him to age 30, but at 29, it was the right call.” “From day one I always said Woody had a home with me for the rest of his life,” Leah said, “and especially after Diane’s cancer diagnosis, Diane knew she never had to worry about Woody Wade, he earned the best retirement package I could afford.” You see, sadly, Woody isn’t the only one in this story who lay down in the warming grass and never got up. So, the next time you walk across a sunny pasture slope, you might consider Woody and all the other Woodys who have come and gone. They’ve never been and never will be just horses; they’re guides, companions, helpers and pals. They’re family. And consider, too, Leah’s final words to me: “Woody and I had a theme song. 'Sitting on the Dock of the Bay' by Otis Redding. I listen to it quite often. It just always represented the pace at which Woody and I moved, which in this crazy and hectic world I live in, was a blessed change. Woody was constantly the one I went to for advice or just to dump the emotions of the day. He would stand there listening to whatever the days' nonsense was. His coat was always like a copper penny, he was round (some would even say fat), he was just perfect in every way. He was my heart horse, my own personal Secretariat. He was just my best friend. I know you are not supposed to have favorites, but he will always be mine.”

John Muncie was the Managing Editor for Features at the San Diego Union-Tribune and the Arts and Entertainment Editor for the Baltimore Sun. He is a travel writer who has written for the Los Angeles Times, New York Times, and other major newspapers. He is a staff writer for the on-line magazine Wine, Dine & Travel.

My favorite horse book... My favorite horse book was Man o’ War by Walter Farley. It’s the story of a famous racehorse, told from the point of view of the stable boy, Danny, who took care of “Big Red.” The thing I remember most about the story was that the jockeys always held Man o' War back, but he always won the race because he was a horse with so much soul and passion. The book builds to a crescendo as Man o' War becomes the greatest race horse of all time. An overachiever myself, I am guessing that element of the story appealed to the 4th grade me. —Amy Myers Jaffe is a university professor whose research focuses on energy and climate change. Her book, Energy’s Digital Future: Harnessing Innovation for American Resilience and National Security, will be published this Spring. ** My favorite horse book is Penny's Worth by Nancy Caffery. My very beloved and well-worn copy has full color plates and lovely black-and-white illustrations. Hard to pick just one, but that is mine. It is told in the format of Black Beauty, narrated by the steady and trusted lesson pony, Penny. The story is charming, the illustrations are lovely, and the book itself, with the full color inserts, is stunningly beautiful. —Margie Wolson, a human resources specialist who lives in northern Virginia, began taking riding lessons at age seven, walking to the stable after school. She got her first pony from the Chincoteague Pony Penning auction in 1970 and has had horses ever since.

For horse nuts, this was a slam-dunk question: What was your favorite horse book as a child? The hard part was asking us stop naming all the horse books that touched our lives.

My favorite is Summer Pony by Jean Slaughter Doty with illustrations by Sam Savitt. I was a horse-loving kid who couldn’t afford my own. This story enabled me to dream. I read it over and over and outlined the beautiful illustrations with my finger as if they would come to life. I’ve held it in my heart and even now as I ride, I think about lines from the book and give thanks that, as an adult, I am fortunate to have realized that dream. I’ve never forgotten that yearning nor do I take one day for granted. —Amy Wodaski was a participant in the first ever Mrs. George C. Everhart Memorial Invitational Side Saddle Race. ** The book that stuck with me best is Can I Get There by Candlelight? by Jean Slaughter Doty. I love this one. It was about a girl who rode her horse through a time portal. It was the horse and the fantasy imagination that really caught my attention. —Krista Wilson is a life-long horse owner and mounted games rider where ponies rule. ** My favorite horsy book growing up is Mig o' the Moor by Nancy Caffrey. I actually tracked down a copy a few years ago and bought it. It was not exactly what I remembered, but I liked it even better. —Mary Ellena Ward has been riding horses in fantasy and fact for over 70 years. She lives in Lexington, VA, and supports two retired Arabians.

For horse nuts, this was a slam-dunk question: What was your favorite horse book as a child? The hard part was asking us stop naming all the horse books that touched our lives.

My favorite horse book as a horse-crazy kid was High Hurdles by Frances Duncombe, illustrated by Eleanor Iselin Mason and published in 1941. I discovered an old tattered, taped copy in the early 1960s at the small town library of Wabasha, MN. I loved it immediately. A young girl who lived my dream, immersed in horses. I loved the detail of each horse, the horse care, farm life, a homey kitchen, the secondary characters, and horse showing —Julie Maidment, a school bus driver in southeastern Minnesota, has been a horse trainer/riding instructor for many years. ** I read Black Beauty as a fourth grader, desperate for my own pony. The novel gave clarity to my belief that horses were not property but lovely fellow beings with long, eventful lives. The happy ending warms my heart and reminds me of the beloved horses who grew old on my farm. —Kay Killian is a lawyer and and conservationist who lives with three horses on her family farm in North Carolina. ** I had a TON of childhood favorite horse books, but The Silver Brumby tops the list. I didn’t read the other books in the series because I don’t think I knew they existed, but the first one, all about Thowra, the silver stallion, really had all the elements to capture my pre-pubescent interest. There was romance and daring escapes and beautiful cream and golden horses and fights for herd dominance. I loved that the horses were the characters, rather than the people. I must have read that book 10 times as a kid! Other favorites include most of the Black Stallion books, particularly The Horse Tamer. I really liked Black Beauty and read it many times. I had a book called Mr. Revere And I, which was all about Paul Revere’s ride, but it was written from the horse’s perspective. (Obviously I was way more into horses than people at that stage of my life -- perhaps I still am!) —Sara Lieser is managing editor of The Chronicle of the Horse and an eventer. ** King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry is the story of the Godolphin Arabian, one of the four founding sires of the Thoroughbreds. I read it seven times in fourth grade. It is sad and triumphant, and I cried EVERY time I read it. —Beth Gianakouros, 66, has owned horses for 35 years. Her parents met when her large animal veterinarian father came to see what was wrong with her mother’s horse.

We were public library people; books were a luxury. I was in third grade when my mother gave me for Christmas the first book that was all my own – The Black Stallion. I have it still, its faded red-and-black jacket and sewn binding intact, the round letters of my youthful signature inside. I gobbled the story, and when I came to the part where Alec tames the savage Black until he can ride him wildly across that deserted island, it was not the ride that thrilled me. By all rights the Black should have dumped Alec on his ass. But here was a kid who’d ever-so-patiently tamed a horse that would nicker when he spied him, come when he whistled and love him as he did no one else. That, I said to myself, I will do someday. —Kathryn Schwille is the author of the novel, What Luck, This Life, named by the Atlanta JournalConstitution as one of the best Southern books of 2018. www.kathrynschwille.com ** It’s a tie: Black Beauty, because what horse-crazy girl didn’t dream of having a horse of her own exactly like Beauty? And Misty of Chincoteague, because that book gave me hope I could finally get a horse of my own, even if it wasn’t big and black like Beauty. All I had to do was get my inner-city, row-house 10-year-old self down to Chincoteague. And lord knows I tried. I bought 15 cartons of Salvo, advertised in the back of Archie comics. My plan was to go door-to-door selling the cans of goop and use the profits to buy a bus ticket to Virginia. I’m sure you know how that went. I read and reread Misty until the pages came out of the binding. And when I finally got to Chincoteague 35 years later on a trip with my husband, I started crying when I saw the brown and white ponies in the distance. They were the hope that sustained me. —Jody Jaffe is the editor of Gallop and the author of the Nattie Gold horse-show mystery series. ** I read anything and everything horse related growing up, and I kept scrapbooks of newspaper clippings of all the big horse races. Lord knows where they are now! But the book that changed my life forever was The Horsemasters by Don Stanford, about a group of teenagers learning to ride at Porlock Vale Riding School in Great Britain. I remember at the end of the book it said for more information on the British Horse Society contact....and so I did....and off I went to Crabbet Park Equestrian Center! Talk about a book making an impression! —-Nancy Hartman is a hunter/jumper professional in New Jersey.

Looking For Emotion, Attitude, Movement I have had a lifelong fascination with horses and love watching them display their personalities and attitudes. My grandfather always kept a horse to work the cattle on his south Texas farm, and my great aunt and uncle had draft horses to pull their sugar cane wagon and grind the cane for molasses. My family visited them often and I spent all of my time outside watching the horses. Horses' overall body shape and size, musculature, and long legs play perfectly into my abstracted style utilizing sharp angles, vertical lines and smooth planes. I have honed my eye and trained my hands and mind to best express my artistic vision and knowing exactly when to stop. I am looking for emotion, attitude, movement or quiet, not precise anatomy or plausible function. I'm interested in seeing how far I can push the limits and still capture the horse -- rather than have the different areas being correct. Horses and riders have long been favored subjects of mine. I simultaneously view them as a single melded figure and as two separate entities expressing their own personalities.

---- Wayne Salge

Larkspur – 38” h x 15” w x 5” d

Pecos – 38” h x 26” w x 15” d

Wayne Salge was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. He trained at San Antonio College and La Villita School of Art. His career has ranged from a television art director to an Army illustrator to an advertising agency art director and to a freelance graphic designer and illustrator. Creating fine art for the past 22 years in his studio in northeastern Colorado, Salge’s sculptural works now number more than 150, including 27 sold-out editions. His pieces are exhibited at galleries and shows nationwide including large-scale public installations in seven states. Salge is an elected member of the National Sculpture Society and a fellow in the National Sculptors’ Guild. www.salgesculpture.com

Finish – 19” h x 25” w x 6” d

Tovar – 44” h x 14” w x 9” d

Horse & Rider I – 60” x 49”

---- Wayne Salge

Larkspur – 38” h x 15” w x 5” d

Pecos – 38” h x 26” w x 15” d

Finish – 19” h x 25” w x 6” d

Tovar – 44” h x 14” w x 9” d

Horse & Rider I – 60” x 49”

room, Mrs. Strasberg sat on the sofa, sucking a lime lollipop, glasses on the tip of her nose, absorbed in Modern Screen. I knew she fancied movie magazines (as I did) because I often noted her at the Broadway newsstand on 86th Street perusing —rarely buying—a stack of movie magazines. And now, here I was inside the Strasberg’s nest. A divine moment! Surely, my challenge was to make an impression. But how? Dare I place myself beside her on the sofa as she perused the pages? Yes, yes, of course. An inspired thought. So, I did. Ensconced, I noted a compelling photograph in the magazine and dared to speak. “Isn’t that Bing Crosby sans toupee?” I ventured. An aging Bing was pictured with his youthful wife, Kathryn. Mrs. Strasberg’s eyes darted from the page to me. “Oui!” she replied sweetly. And then continued reading and sucking. I felt a little like a talking fly on the proverbial wall. I only visited the Strasbergs once, but I had had my moment, minuscule, unimportant, and disconnected as it was, it was mine to treasure…forever. Invitations to visit those who lived in The Belnord were rare…at least for me. In fact, much of my time at The Belnord, I hung out with Rodney, one of the building’s doormen, who was always pleased to see me, even though I often made his doorman life wretched as I careened around the courtyard on my roller skates or on my Schwinn or slammed a rubber ball against The Belnord’s Italianate courtyard wall. My most daring and satisfying athletic feat was scaling the garden’s marble fountain. Unfortunately, my fountain climbing escapades ended abruptly.

At 13, I excelled at one thing. Which is identifying famous people on New York City streets, buses, subways as well as in crowded restaurants and in darkened alleys and theaters. Truly, it’s my gift. And I persisted. My passion for celebrity identification was greatly assisted by my growing up on the West Side of Manhattan in the 1950s and 1960s and living in The Belnord, a Renaissance masterpiece, featuring two grand archways that provide entrance and exit to an inner courtyard with lush landscaped gardens. In the garden’s midst sits a garland-festooned marble fountain. Many famous and near famous lived in The Belnord, and these folks all had famous friends and relatives who visited. Among those living in The Belnord were child actor Brandon De Wilde, writer Isaac Bashevis Singer, actor Zero Mostel, and the head of the famed Actor’s Studio, Lee Strasberg, who resided there with his wife, Paula, and two children. From my second-floor bedroom window, facing The Belnord’s courtyard, I steeped myself in a far more interesting world than I dwelled in. On any given day, I might spy the likes of actors such as Marlon Brando, Richard Burton, James Dean, Wally Cox or Shelley Winters who all, at one time or another, arrived at The Belnord to kneel at the feet of their theatrical guru, Lee Strasberg. The Strasbergs were a fascination. And one fateful day, luck smiled upon me. Susan, the Strasberg’s daughter, whom I knew only slightly and was a few years older than I, invited me into the Strasberg enclave. I savored the moment. I remember a sea of books in numbers of rambling rooms and in a grand living 42

Add a little bit of bo

Illustration by Job Zheng

Add a little bit of bo

Illustration by Job Zheng

One one occasion, I climbed the rim of the fountain and leaped across perhaps four feet of water and clung precariously to a large sitting swan spouting water. Somehow, I lost my grip and tumbled backward into the fountain water below. Rodney heard my crash and likely my scream and dashed toward the fountain. Saint that he was, he scooped me out of the fountain with his long doorman arm. I was soaked, head to toe. Truly, Rodney was the catcher in the fountain. Truth was, I was never in any real danger. But I reckoned Rodney presumed he would be fired if I’d drowned. Personally, if that had happened, I don’t think it’d be fair to blame Rodney for my recklessness. Rodney and I had our secrets. During this period, Marilyn Monroe was the Strasbergs most frequent visitor. But only Rodney and I knew who she truly was. She arrived daily in the same outfit: Wrapped in an oversize camel-hair coat, her head swathed in a kerchief, a few sunny ringlets exposed. She wore large dark sunglasses and no makeup and was surprisingly petite. Amazingly, she wasn’t exactly ordinary, but she was no sex goddess either. As she passed us, Rodney tipped his doorman’s cap. “Good afternoon, Miss Monroe,” he always whispered. She smiled ever so slightly. This was a ritual. The Goddess of the Universe had arrived and was acknowledged, yet she was invisible to everyone around us, that is, everyone except the cognoscenti...the two of us. Then, one balmy day, something astonishing occurred. "Today is going to be unique,” Rodney reported. “The Strasbergs are being interviewed on TV, and Miss Monroe is going to be participating on the show." “Wow!” I exclaimed. At that very moment, Marilyn Monroe, astride a muscular brown horse trotted into the arch’s driveway. Two extraordinary creatures! This surely was not the Marilyn of the camel-hair coat, kerchief and sunglasses. This was the Marilyn of myth and movies. Her mouth was slightly open. The breeze ruffled her pale hair and a lock escaped her braids and fell over an eye. Rodney tipped his cap. The horse shook its head, neighed and snorted, as if to say good evening. Rodney extended his hand to help her dismount. She wore tight blue jeans and a rolled-up shirt and somehow made it the sexiest outfit I’d ever seen. Those sumptuous hips and bosom. I took a deep breath.

“Good evening, Miss Monroe,” Rodney whispered. Then, unexpectedly, Rodney’s long doorman arm reached for me. He wanted me to have the moment, too. I stood at his side directly in front of Marilyn. Such a doorman! Marilyn stopped, perhaps for two seconds, and looked me over. A smile that could melt icebergs. Teeth of gleaming porcelain. Crimson lips and skin the color of Pond’s cold cream. “Who is this child?” she asked Rodney. “I am not a child,” I snapped. After all, I had recently gotten my period and had developing breasts; granted, so far, only the size of chocolate kisses, but they were promising. So, I was a teeny tiny bit sensitive. After all, I now was officially a teenager. I was in no mood to be labeled a child, by anybody. So, my words just spilled out. Her response was a giggle that reminded me of the MM character in the movie, “Some Like It Hot," where she appeared as the ukulele-playing singer Sugar Kane. A movie I had seen. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings,” MM said. “What is the horse’s name?” I asked. “Golda,” she replied. “She’s a mare.” “Is she your horse?” I asked. “Not exactly,” she answered, “the horse belongs to my husband, the playwright Arthur Miller. He named the horse after Golda Meir, who helped found the State of Israel.” “Is Golda the horse Jewish?” I asked. I was half serious. I liked the idea of a Jewish horse. She pondered the question. “Kind of,” she finally answered. “But I will ask Arthur.” Then, she turned and sashayed across the courtyard. But something stopped her, and she walked back to us just as Rodney finished tying Golda to one of the garden’s lamp posts. “I almost forgot,” she said to Rodney. “I brought some treats for Golda.” She handed him a bag filled with apple slices, carrots, and hay cubes. Then she handed him a banana. “Bananas are her favorite,” she said. She started to leave again, yet again came back. Then she did something completely unexpected. She bent down on her knee so that she was eye-to-eye with me. “How would you like it if I came back one day and we took a ride together on Golda around the courtyard?” “I’d love it,” I exclaimed.

Then she was gone. This time for good. As I watched her cross the courtyard, I was reminded of the moment in “Some Like It Hot” when Jack Lemmon first spied Marilyn on a railroad platform. Bug-eyed, Lemmon marveled at the sight. “Like Jell-O on springs,” he gushed. And so, it was, too, at The Belnord. Like Jell-O on springs. That hallowed day with Rodney, MM and Golda has never left my thoughts. Marilyn never returned to the Belnord. Soon after, she died of a barbiturate overdose. So we never had that august trot around The Belnord’s courtyard astride Golda. But that was then. I am now many, many decades away from my childhood mischief. For me it’s been a long life. Soon after meeting MM, I eschewed my passion of identifying celebrities; of merely skimming the surface of other people’s lives. It truly was a great relief not to be a pigeon poking at breadcrumbs. Like hoping to catch Mrs. Strasberg’s attention. To climb on her bandwagon rather than on my own. Like daring to do foolish things such as scaling marble fountains rather than life’s true mountains. In every way, I have dug deeper into life…and lived what is now a palpably welllived life. Yet, after all these years, my memories always drift back to those halcyon days. If I were to have but one wish before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I would ask that MM, Golda and Rodney be returned to me very, very briefly. Understand, I don’t want to break any divine rules, but I would so deeply appreciate the favor. Just two minutes would be plenty of time to say, “thank you and goodbye.” Then, she turned and sashayed across the courtyard. But something stopped he, and she walked back to us just as Rodney finished tying Golda to one of the garden’s lamp posts. “I almost forgot,” she said to Rodney. “I brought some treats for Golda.” She handed him a bag filled with apple slics, carrots and hay cubes. Then she handed him a banana. “Bananas are her favorite,” she said.

Joan Marans Dim is the author of the novel, Recollections of a Rotten Kid, (Bobbs-Merrill, 1974) and several histories. Her latest book is Lady Liberty: An Illustrated History of America’s Most Storied Woman Fordham University Press, 2019). Her essays have appeared in many major publications including the New York Times, New York Daily News, Miami Herald, and Investor’s Business Daily. Critics describe Dim's prose as "laced with impressive depth, a droll wit, and an elegant narrative."

Jim, our vet, was holding a sedative-filled syringe and stroking Jake’s neck, feeling for a vein. “Hold his head,” he said to me. “Tell me when it starts to get heavy.” A horse’s head weighs about 100 pounds and steadying Jake’s head while Jim injected the sedative, I felt only the weight of companionship. Jake was a 24-year-old Quarter Horse, built like a small tank, with powerful hindquarters, a well-muscled chest and a sculpted head. Horsemen talk about a horse’s eye as a measure of temperament; Jake’s eye was soft, kind, steady. He belonged to my younger daughter, Erica, but I loved riding him, and did, often. Over the past year, Jake had begun to deteriorate. He had difficulty getting up the hill in his pasture, his hind legs crossing -- instead of tracking straight -- when he walked. Jake’s muscles were slowly wasting, his legs wobbly. Horses are prey animals, constantly testing the wind for strange smells, or sudden movement. Then they run. Movement, speed, running are the essence of horse. Lacking mobility, there is no horse, only a target. It was time to euthanize Jake. When the day came to put Jake down, I was there, resolute. Erica and her older sister, Rebecca, were with me, waiting for the vet. Erica walked down the hill in Jake’s pasture, and as she approached, Jake lifted his head, tilting t it towards her, while she attached his halter. I watched him struggle up the hill, halting every few steps. Horses are stoic, and if they appear in pain, then the pain is serious. The domestic horse lives a life free of predation, but tell that to evolution. A horse hides his pain, not wanting to give away his weakness. For a wild horse, it makes sense to fool the mountain lion. The stoicism of a domestic horse places humans in charge of reading equine body language, trying to determine quality of life. The last thing my daughters and I wanted for Jake was the terror of falling in the field, unable to get up and run. The horse now struggling to climb a small hill once carried me nimbly up steep rocky hills, across streams, down narrow slippery trails. His body then was strong, and riding him I felt his powerful muscles move beneath mine. It evaporates gradually, physical strength and grace, so that you don’t notice the unfolding weakness, until one day the hill is too steep, the legs too tired, the once familiar path treacherous. A body in motion can’t remain in motion. Jake’s decline was my decline, too, the decline of everyone I loved, just more visible. Once on level ground, Jake grazed, occasionally lifting his head, looking around, alert.

Death of a Horse By Anne Sagalyn

The farm was divided by an unpaved, narrow, dull gray road. We walked Jake along it to a small, flat grassy area. Across the lane were drifts of pasture, dotted with horses. While we waited for the vet, the girls fed Jake the equine equivalent of the condemned man’s last meal -- carrots, apples, granola bars. Food which would have killed him from colic any other time, We heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive; Jim was close. More kisses, tears. Erica buried her head in Jake’s neck. Neither she nor Becky wanted to witness Jake’s death, but didn’t want him to die alone either. I promised I’d take good care of him. As Jim approached, they drove away. Across the farm lane, the horses were grazing, ignoring us. Jake’s last view was pastoral, the horses scattered across fields, singly and in pairs. Jake’s head soon felt heavy, and I cradled it, supporting him. Jim prepared the large dose of barbiturate, frivolously pink inside the syringe, and told me to stand back. Horses were unpredictable in their last moments, could rear up and fall over on top of a person and kill her. I let Jake go, and backed to the end of the lead rope. Jim injected Jake and a look of surprise, the universal moment of recognition just before the fall, or the crash, or the gun, flitted across Jake’s eyes. “It’s O.K., buddy,” Jim said, and Jake dropped and hit the ground, the surprise in his eyes replaced with a glassy void. After Jim left, I knelt by Jake’s still warm body, and stroked his neck. I stood up, Jake’s body behind me, and looked out across the summer pastures. The late afternoon sun was strong. The horses had moved to the top of a large expanse of rolling green fields, framed by fencing, and beyond that, the undulant tree line. I turned again and looked down at Jake, his body beginning to stiffen in death. The renderer would pull up soon, and load Jake’s body into the truck. Dust to dust. I walked to my car, slid into my seat, and turned onto the dusty farm road on my way home.

*** Anne Sagalyn is a life-long equestrian and a retired psychiatrist. She has two dressage horses, Ajax and Sonnenlicht.

Death of a Horse By Anne Sagalyn

*** Anne Sagalyn is a life-long equestrian and a retired psychiatrist. She has two dressage horses, Ajax and Sonnenlicht.

Amadeo

by Kevin McIlvoy

The members of the rescue team already knew the name of the blind old stallion carried into the ocean here. My mother, the bravest of the team, saw Amadeo charge in with no hesitation, and she and the other two figured the wild horse thought he was defending his harem from waves of stallions in tens of thousands. They could hear the horse huff-grunting and screaming, with no idea – with no care – that the rip current had him. He bit at the waves mocking him, crashed his chest against their massive collapsing chests, his front hooves lifting against their pounding white hooves. He wound his neck up like a striking snake would and got the napes of the cresting waves in his teeth and he swallowed and made a furnace-roaring sound so fierce that vapor blazed from his mouth and spouted into the air. The narrow corridor of current pulled them and their rescue buoys out after him. They weren’t lifeguards, you understand, they weren’t a team by any definition. When the three old women surfers saw Amadeo’s mad siege, they rushed to the unmanned rescue shack and of one will and in one wordless pact took what they needed, and not one of them shouted, Wait! or asked, What? or made any plan but to help Amadeo stay alive, to somehow reach the release-point of the rip-suck a thousand feet out where they could swim him parallel to the shore, could use the buoys to turn him like a train at a wheelhouse, and could guide him in the right direction back to shore, onto solid land, and head him far enough up the dunes that he would not return to his ocean of imagined enemies. Careening in rage, he vaulted himself onto a sandbar no bigger than his body. He collapsed there, his soaked mane and tail and hide wearing the dense sand-cloaks that had draped the morning light

Scrath painting by Kevin McIlvoy

inside the current surface. The three fixed their gazes upon each other’s spooked brown eyes and long, toothsome faces. They treaded years of disconnection, loss, and deeper separation at this pipe dream alley 48

Amadeo

by Kevin McIlvoy

Scrath painting by Kevin McIlvoy

of ocean that they had come to since they were children. When they floated onto their backs and the merciful clear sky showed them their ludicrous situation, they tossed their heads in laughter – this would make quite a story, wouldn’t it? With one quaking casting-off he launched himself in, churned his body under, and lunged farther down and looked moonblind into the firm calm bottom his hooves struck as weightless as when he first ran the swells of Currituck pasture. At the point of giving himself to this lucky last swift drowning, he let the three emplace the buoys at his rear where they could hold and float and steer him and swim behind and push. He had been corralled more than once, and knew the drill, but he bucked and swam and bucked against relenting to this herding. During the two hours of returning, the thrusts of his back hooves broke their ribs, fractured their hips and gouged the bundled muscles of their thighs and shins, and so shattered my mother’s knees that she had to use her arms and elbows to crawl out in a wash of her own blood. As long as I can remember, my mother and her two not-ever-young undomesticated younger sisters have been strangers sharing nothing in common except for their eighty-some years of beach-roaming and surfing addiction, their erratic storytelling and persisting echoic silences. Among them they have three estranged daughters, three granddaughters, three greatgrands. I’m one of the three granddaughters – and the bravest. Distant. Distant. Distant. Why is it that at every recent enforced Amadeo Beach reunion when one of our brood has begun telling this so-called epic eleven-year-old family tale, we have needed three of us to tell and three to argue over every detail and to recast my mother’s leading role, and, after hours of sincerest reconciliations, to then deny the newest version, to silently agree to try again next year. Here.

*** Kevin McIlvoy has published eight books including One Kind Favor (WTAW Press, May 2021), At the Gate of All Wonder (Tupelo, 2018), 57 Octaves Below Middle C (Four Way Books, 2017), and The Complete History of New Mexico and Other Stories (Graywolf, 2007). "Amadeo," is from a work in progress, The River Scratch; other poems from it appear in The Georgia Review, Willow Springs, Barzakh, LEON, River Heron Review, and Consequence. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina. https://kevinmcilvoy.com/ 50

King of the Beach In Amadeo’s obituary, the Virginian-Pilot called him "king of the undeveloped beaches.” The stallion had spent most of his 40 years on the Outer Banks north of Corolla and had been known as a fierce fighter for his harem of mares. Seven years before, a riptide had carried him nearly a mile offshore before he was rescued. The first time, according to the Pilot, an ocean rescue team had saved a wild horse. Eventually fully blind, he was retired to a farm. In announcing his death in March 2020, the Corolla Wild Horse Fund called Amadeo “one of the kindest, smartest, toughest horses any of us ever knew.” Their tribute ended with these words: "Rest free and easy, sweet boy. We love you so much, and you will forever be in our hearts and in the spirit of everything we do here at CWHF." The CWHF's mission is to protect and manage the herd of wild Colonial Spanish Mustangs roaming the Outer Banks and to preserve the land as a sanctuary for North Carolina's state horse. For more information: www.corollawildhorses.com Photos courtesy of the Corolla Wild Horse Fund

Breaking Even by Cathi Stoler I've always loved horses. It was my father’s influence that inspired my admiration for these gorgeous creatures that always seemed so imposing and so beautiful, especially to a small child. I even had a horse head tube for the beach that I named Seabiscuit. He was my pride and joy, my racehorse. Slipping him around my middle, I’d play at the edge of the surf and gallop around like Eddie Arcaro—not that I knew who he was then. 52

My father, Louie Pierro, loved to play the ponies. It was his one and only hobby. Every night after dinner was cleared away, he would sit back down at our kitchen table and tear out the racing pages from New York’s two tabloid newspapers: The Daily News and the long-defunct Daily Mirror. Piling them on top of previous sheets, he’d pore over these pages for hours and mark each one with what, to my child’s eyes, seemed like indecipherable hieroglyphics. Handicapping is what he called it, as he studied the breeding backgrounds, race stats, owners, trainers, and jockeys of each mount. When he was done for the evening, he’d put them away in one of my old school briefcases. We had quite a collection of these briefcases in our basement, never to be touched by anyone but dad. On Saturdays when the horses were running, off he’d go to Belmont or Aqueduct with his cronies Chubby, Gigi, Eddie, and Uncle Bob for a day at the races. Once in a while, he could be persuaded to take me along. I was probably about eight when my mom said it was O.K. I always promised that I would behave, but once we were at the track, all bets were off. There was so much going on it was hard to take it all in. The cheers of the crowd as the horses galloped around the oval. The roar as they approached the finish line. Losing tickets fluttering to the ground and me stooping over to see if someone had thrown out a winner by mistake. It all seemed larger than life. I couldn’t sit still and I’d tug at him until I got him to leave the comfort of the clubhouse and walk to the paddock to view the horses making their way onto the track. Then, I’d wheedle until he’d let me pick one and have him place a two-dollar bet to win. My system was simple—I’d choose my winner based on a name, a number, or even a color. Of course, we had to watch the race up close and personal, pressed to the rail. When a horse I picked did occasionally come in first, dad would let me keep my winnings. I always tried to give him the money, so we could save it up and put it toward buying a racehorse of our own and spend every day at the track.

I enjoyed these outings and looked forward to them. My dad bought the daily program as soon as he arrived and started making his ‘winning picks’ which didn’t always come in. He never bet too much--or my mother would probably have put a stop to it and to my going with him. He also would never say whether he won or lost. “Breaking even” seemed to be the operative phrase. Dad took me along until I was a teenager and my interests had shifted from horses to boys. I secretly think he missed me, but he still had his pals to keep him company. I don’t remember if he ever went to the Belmont Stakes, but I’m sure he bet on that race every year. It was the most exciting racing day in New York and he’d never miss seeing that Many years later, when I was older and married, it was my turn to take dad to the track. My husband and I would pick up my parents at their home in the Bronx and head out to Belmont. Our last outing was about a year before he died. He was still following the ponies and marking up the racing pages in the newspaper every day. Even though our roles had changed, it was still exciting to be at the track with dad. Once there, he would get right back into the swing of things, studying the racing form, assessing lineage and jockeys, quietly placing his bets, and still breaking even. I still love horse racing and wrote a novel in which my main character, a professional Blackjack player, gets involved with racing in Kentucky and Dubai as he tries to protect a thoroughbred racehorse from terrorists. I don’t go to the track very often anymore and I miss it. Especially when I think of all the good times I had there with my dad.

Cathi Stoler’s Murder On The Rocks Series includes Bar None, Last Call and Straight Up, published by Level Best Books. She’s also written the suspense novels, Nick of Time and Out of Time, and the Laurel and Helen New York Mysteries. www.cathistoler.com.

Red Mare By Courtney Lane

Red Mare II Suspicious of affection, she’s no child’s pony reveling in colored ribbons. World wise, world weary, disdainful of kiss or pat, quick to pin her ears Or let fly her heels. As a queen, she accepts tribute as her due. We have an odd agreement: I make her work and she will…eventually and on her terms. Old Ironsides, old battleaxe, she gives nothing away for free. But sometimes our desires coincide, and her step under me is light and swinging, Her whole body lifted and rounded, flirting me a look out of the corner of her eye. If she wants, she can do anything. It’s all in the way I ask.

Red Mare III Mosaic by Jody Jaffe

Red Mare I She’s a big mare, well boned, a Teutonic queen: blue blooded, red headed. And after this fickle season of ice and thaw, what we both need is a gallop— The kind we take in the summer, in the late day, when the dark roof of night Hovers well off from our snowglobe world; The kind of gallop, unheeding anything but hooves and pulses bounding, That I know if something spooked her and I fell…my bones crush easy… But in those moments I don’t care, think there’s no better way to go Like a warrior beneath the hooves of his destrier. That’s the kind of run we need, she and I, in this sodden, early darkening season. But first— We need a dry place to set our feet

When I get to work on Mondays, my fingers stumble awkwardly over the keys, Drop the phone to the floor, scatter papers, Because my hands remember the feel of the reins. When I get to work on Mondays, I blunder in my nice shoes, Used to crossing show grounds in tall boots dusted with sand, Or tennis shoes damp with dumped water buckets, itchy with shavings. When I get to work on Mondays, my skirt shows off my legs Bruised here and there by knocking into my tack trunk, or Pinched by stirrup leathers twisted wrong. When I get to work on Mondays, my office chair Seems a poor substitute for the rich leather of my saddles And the burnished coat of my horse.

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Courtney Lane lives on her family's farm in Fitzpatrick, Ala., where her father taught her to ride. She has competed in USEA eventing competitions at Novice and Training levels, including the American Eventing Championships. Courtney can often be found curled up with a book or at the barn spoiling her two retired Thoroughbreds, Griff and Royal, and current mount, Mark, the son of the Red Mare, Godiva. 55

Red Mare By Courtney Lane

Red Mare III Mosaic by Jody Jaffe

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“Heads up! Center oxer!” Amara’s voice echoes through the indoor riding ring as she and Silver Streak—a gorgeous, leggy black jumper—canter toward a wooden fence in perfect rhythm. Even their glassy ponytails bounce at the exact same time. Which is completely annoying. And then mesmerizing. And then annoying for tricking me into being mesmerized. Ugh. Amara is oh-so-politely warning everyone at Oakwood Riding Academy to get out of her way. Move it or lose it, breeches. She’s basically QUEEN OF THE #HORSEGIRLS (as her T-shirt helpfully explains to anyone who wasn’t clear on this point), so we all click-click at our steeds, who scatter like stable mice. Or at least they’re supposed to. I, however, am perched on Clyde Lee—one of the oldest, giant-est, willful-est horses at Oakwood. Clyde is half Clydesdale, half thoroughbred, and 100 percent not budging. He and I got matched up because I’m what they call a “novice” rider, aka “inexperienced,” aka “Peasant of the #HorseGirls.” Clyde is massive—several hands higher than any other horse here—a sturdy bay with white feathers on three of his fetlocks and an ivory blaze down his muzzle, sort of like he got caught with his nose and three hooves in a jar of vanilla frosting.1 Which, um, I can relate. Being half draft horse, he’s what my grandmother would call “big boned”— Clyde wasn’t bred for delicate dressage or breezy show jumping. His hooves are each the size of a medium pizza! But he works his heart out in the ring. And he’s always down for a snack. In other words, we totally get each other. 2 I’m not sure if I was built for my life, either. My name might as well be “Wow, You’re Tall for a Girl.” And let’s face it —walking my Breyer model horses through the miniature jump course in my bedroom and wearing breeches to school might have been cute in fourth grade, but it makes me certifiably dork-tagious in seventh. (In my defense: 1. It’s a visualization exercise! 2. Breeches were invented way before yoga pants. You do your athleisure and I’ll do mine.) 3

Cover illustration by Steph Waldo

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Cover illustration by Steph Waldo

I honestly don’t care if everyone at school thinks I’m a horse-girl weirdo. I think anyone who doesn’t love horses is a weirdo. Ponies are my passion, and I am leaning in. Unfortunately, Clyde is only mine on lesson days. My family can’t afford our own horse, unlike most of the girls at Oakwood, who were practically born in a tack room. So we have to make the most of our time together. Clyde Lee may be “just” a stable horse, but that “just” is the single best thing to happen in my entire life. On the day of my riding lessons, I run (gallop) home from school and fly up to my room as fast as my clumsy feet can go. I usually throw on my favorite practice shirt—BARN HAIR, DON’T CARE—over the aforementioned breeches, which I’ve had on since approximately 7:00 a.m. I braid my frizzy waves into two tight halos, tug on my boots, and snap on my velvet helmet. Ta-da, I’m ready! Roughly two hours before my lesson. “Nice crash helmet, Wills!” My dad finds this joke equally funny every time he says it. He thinks my turnout—the fancy word for gear worn by #HorseGirls and their steeds—is hilarious. I find his cargo shorts and dad sneakers similarly hilarious. And by the way, my real name is Willa, but everyone seems to find that extra syllable just a liiiiittle too much effort, so across the universe, I am known as Wills. (Even Amara’s name soars through the air. Just say it: Amaaaaaara. Now try Wills . . . thud.) But when we’re finally at the stable, Clyde doesn’t care what my name is or how many times I have gently nudged his flanks, asking him to please, pretty please, move. He only cares about staying right here. In this exact spot. For the rest of time. My tongue flicks out another click-click. Nothing. I lean forward in my saddle, then pull one of his reins to the right, hoping he might turn a little and slide into gear. “Come on, boy,” I whisper as Amara glares at me. “I know you need your me-time, but must it be right now?” It must, apparently. “I have snacks back at the paddock,” I quietly plead. “Carrots! Apples! These all could be yours!” “Heads up!” Amara calls out again—several notes shriller this time—circling around for a second approach.

She’s aiming for an oxer jump—two green-and-white-striped rails that can be configured a bunch of ways but are currently staggered so that the front pole is a bit lower than the back—in the center of the ring. Exactly where Clyde has parked us. Since I’ve been taking riding lessons for only a couple of months, we aren’t supposed to be anywhere near the oxer. Clyde and I are supposed to be working on ground poles. That’s when my instructor, Georgia, lays a few wooden rails flat on the ground, then Clyde and I practice the steps and pace and positions and idea of jumping without, you know, actually jumping. And we’re supposed to get the heck out of the way when the real jumpers come through. That was the first thing Georgia taught us on day one. The number one, most important, brand-this-in-your-brain rule. Otherwise, someone could get hurt. Or worse . . . annoy Amara. Who has just veered around us yet again. (Ugh!!) Even Silver Streak is glaring at me now, nostrils flared. Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, a deep voice rumbles: “Look alive, Wills!” OMG. It’s my dad. Everyone at Oakwood—Georgia, the other girls taking lessons, the stable hands, several camera-phonewielding parents, Amara, and even (I swear) Silver Streak -- turns to look at him as he loudly “encourages me” from the side of the ring. OMG. OMG. “You’re blocking traffic, kiddo!” Oh no, Luis Valdez and Gray Dawson are looking, too! (They’re the only boys who take lessons at Oakwood, and they’re a grade older than me, but since they don’t know I exist, I try to keep the feeling mutual. Plus, if I glance at them, my cheeks liquefy into a shade of extra-hot salsa, which is not a cute look on me.) I bend toward Clyde’s ear, trying to hide my scarlet face in his black mane. “Clyde, I’m going to tell you a secret,” I breathe. “You are the only one in the entire world who can save me right now. Everyone is watching us. Are you familiar with the term social outcast’?” There’s no response. Guess that’s a no. He’s too busy enjoying his new career as a frozen ice sculpture. Amara guides Silver Streak back into position

“Georgia?” she trills in a sickly sweet voice. “Wills doesn’t seem to be paying attention?” Wait, Amara knows my name? Oh. Of course she does, since my dad just blared it across the stable. “Remember your training, Wills,” Georgia chimes in. I take a breath and snap into focus. “Go!” I command, giving Clyde a firm squeeze with my calves and shifting my weight forward in one last, desperate attempt to save us from certain horse-girl ruin. By some miracle, Clyde trots forward. Maybe I gave him clearer direction this time, maybe he reconsidered the apple offer, or maybe he’s just as afraid of Amara as I am. In any case, we make it out of the way—but just barely. Sweet relief! Amara and Silver Streak gallop toward the jump—Amara in a two-point position, hovering just above his back. She gathers her reins and leans into his neck, the thoroughbred gracefully lifts his legs in the air, and she sinks closer to him as they float . . . majestically . . . magically . . . effortlessly . . . through the air. Everyone in the stable stares, spellbound. I hold my breath. The world seems to slow down as I, too, lean forward and shift in my own saddle—soaring vicariously with them. Except I am now moving. And it is not vicarious. “Aaaaaahhhhhh!” Clyde takes off, bounding after Silver Streak. Apparently energized by a serious case of FOMO, Clyde decides he won’t be left behind at the boring ground poles. He strides closer and closer to the oxer as I jostle in my seat, barely clinging to the reins as one of my clumsy feet slips out of it's stirrup. I slide off-kilter, slithering down the saddle leather. Suddenly the arena is zipping past me sideways as Clyde’s medium-pizza hooves gallop away. Galumph-galumph-galumph! “Whoa!” I yell, tightening my abs and attempting to grip the reins from my diagonal, half-upside-down position. And just as he’s beginning to stretch his neck into a gigantic leap, snatching us both into the Air o’ Doom, Clyde— for once—listens to me. Swooosh! He slams on the brakes, stopping short and veering left. My body, still screaming along at full speed, misses the memo, flipping above the saddle and then— wheeeeeeeee!—straight over the top rail of the oxer. And into the dirt. Thud. . . . My first jump!

Footnotes 1 . Fetlocks are joints on horses’ legs just above their hooves. Some horses grow long, swishy “feathers” there—kind of like it’s spirit day and they tied pom-poms to their ankles. 2. Draft horses are GINORMOUS and bred to pull sleds and other heavy stuff. They’re not built for dressage (a fancy sport where riders guide horses through teeny, tiny, delicate dances) or show jumping. Imagine the Rock trying to perform a dainty ballet leap—that’s basically me and Clyde. 3. Who needs yoga pants? Breeches are stretchy pants with suede patches to help you stay on the saddle—and they look super sassy with boots. They’re at the top of every #HorseGirl’s wish list.

Carrie Seim created the best-selling adventure series The Flying Flamingo Sisters. A former staff writer for Nickelodeon, she's also written for The New York Times, The Atlantic, Cosmopolitan, The New York Post, McSweeney's, and Architectural Digest. Carrie grew up writing plays and riding horses in Nebraska. www.carrieseim.com Excerpted from Horse Girl by Carrie Seim; Copyright 2021 by Carrie Seim, by permission from Penguin Workshop. All rights reserved. Available in bookstores now. 60

Woodcut by John B. Flannagan Smithsonian American Art Museum

Up Up and Away by Samantha Johnson As we pick up the trot, I can feel the hair on my arms stand straight, filled with excitement. I feel my shoulders relax. My posts line-up with the beat of the horse’s hooves, up down up down, clip clop clip clop. I sink into the saddle and squeeze. We glide as one into the canter, thud dud thud dud. I breathe to the rhythmic beats of the horse’s hooves. My worries continue to lighten with each breath, in out in out. We turn to face the fence. Our eyes widen as thoughts and objects go rushing by. Hearts racing, there’s only time for split-second decisions, no second-guessing. Smiling ear to ear, I rock back, three two one, takeoff. We’re in flight. What is merely a few seconds off the ground feels like minutes of tranquility. Landing on the other side of the fence, it’s as if I’m called back to earth, everything begins racing by once again. We canter away, back to the real world.

Samantha Johnson is a junior at Washington and Lee University. She is the junior captain of WLU's equestrian team and has been showing horses for the past 12 years, both nationally and internationally. She spends her free time hiking, rock-climbing, or just being with her horses

Ben Shepard is an artist and writer. He makes paintings with Drew Beattie under the name DBBS, and with Job Zheng under the name TMT. His collaborative work has been displayed in New York, Konstanz, Beijing, Bangkok, and Frankfurt.

Horse and Rider

* * * * * * *

Longeing by Katie Kelly The Bermuda triangle Made by line, whip & horse, Where one can think And get lost in the world And mind of the horse, Each one brought here For a different reason. Now is the time to listen. The strong-willed bay mare: “At last! Freedom from that tiny room! I can finally be myself. You know, I don’t understand Why you folks want me to canter So slowly and jump those little sticks. Don’t you know life is more fun At a gallop across the field?” The saucy chestnut pony: “Personally, I take this as an insult. It clashes with my image, people! What if a cute filly sees me!? As royalty, I shouldn’t be forced To do such menial a task; This is for those lesser than me. And I have degraded myself enough: I insist we go back to the barn NOW.”

The aristocratic black gelding: “Is this really necessary? Look, we all know I’m gorgeous And too dignified for this [bucks]. I mean, I haven’t played since I was a foal [pulls and gallops a lap]. Ah well, the curse of being beautiful: Everyone wants to say they helped make you. But, of course, mine is natural perfection And you can’t improve on that.” Such may be the thoughts Of a horse on the line As he circles around one of us Because we ask him to. Who knows? We can only guess And hope we are right. But our only chance of knowing Is if we become a horse ourselves For a little while.

Engraving courtesy of Wikipedia.

Katie Kelly is an amateur hunter rider from Virginia who shows a little locally. She wrote this poem while grooming the summer after college graduation and had a lot of time to think while (you guessed it) longeing in the mornings. 63

Horse and Rider

* * * * * * *

Engraving courtesy of Wikipedia.

Book review:

'Perestroika in Paris' By Noelle Maxwell

This usually isn’t something I take notice of when removing a book from the package – after all, they say you can’t judge a book by its cover – but my first thought seeing Jane Smiley’s Perestroika In Paris was, “nice-looking book.” Even the cover art invites readers in. But there’s much more to Perestroika In Paris than its cover. Perestroika in Paris begins with a curious young Thoroughbred filly, Perestroika – Paras for short. Paras has just started her steeplechase racing career at a racecourse outside of Paris, France. She’s a talented three-year-old filly who’s won most of her races. One afternoon after her race, her distracted groom forgets to latch the stall door. Paras discovers this and off she trots, picking up the groom’s purse along the way, to explore the world around her. Paras ends up in a Paris park where she meets Frida, a German Shorthair Pointer; Raoul, a wise yet talkative old raven; and Sid and Nancy, a mated pair of mallard ducks. They eventually make the acquaintance of a young boy, Étienne, who lives with his 97-year-old great grandmother, Madame De Mornay; and the two rats who live in Madame De Mornay’s house, Kurt and his father, Conrad. I am probably one of the few equestrians who had not read Jane Smiley prior to this book, though I’d heard good things about her work. Initially, I was a skeptic, thinking that a book with talking animals had too much potential to veer into the saccharine, cuteness explosion sometimes seen in the cheesier horse-themed things. But I was curious, as I’d heard Smiley’s books are usually excellent. This book proved to be delightfully whimsical. Smiley draws readers in from the first page and paces the book perfectly, juggling several character points-of-view. In short, Smiley is a brilliant writer. This book is a coming-of-age story of sorts. Paras matures and comes into her own; Frida gradually learns to be more trusting of humans; Raoul learns to keep his beak shut once in a while; Sid overcomes his anxiety, returning to meet Nancy and their ducklings; and Kurt the rat gets out and sees the world outside Madame De Mornay’s home. Perestroika In Paris also shows how people and animals come together over the unlikeliest things. Paras has a knack for finding lonely people and animals and brightening their days. The book ends with the human cast of characters — a baker, a shop owner, a groundskeeper at the park, Paras’s trainer, and more — all coming together. I won’t say more because I don’t want to spoil anything. Perestroika In Paris is a whimsical, sometimes sad, all-around heart-warming galloping romp of a book.

Horse Haiku by

Patricia Michael

Winter Ride Across frozen ground bareback gray sky hooves thunder laughter in the wind.

Gallop Hooves fly nostrils flare tangled mane fingers entwined two hearts become one.

Patricia Michael has had a lifelong love of horses, dogs, and nature. She is inspired by the depth of the relationships with her animals and resulting joy. Additionally, she finds inspiration in nature and its endless variations in colors and textures. She lives in central Virginia.

*** Noelle Maxwell writes for Horse Nation, FEI.org, Horse Network and The Chronicle of the Horse Untacked. A lifelong reader and currently horseless-horse person, when she's not writing about horses she works as a community journalist. 64

Book review:

'Perestroika in Paris' By Noelle Maxwell

Horse Haiku by

Patricia Michael

Winter Ride Across frozen ground bareback gray sky hooves thunder laughter in the wind.

Gallop Hooves fly nostrils flare tangled mane fingers entwined two hearts become one.

Defying Gravity Although I have only ridden a horse once, I love their form and how they project sensitivity and soul while, at the same time, being so powerful. As an animal lover, the connection between humans and animals is a recurring theme in my paintings. I'm also intrigued by aerialists and acrobats and trick riders, and many paintings arose from how these people seem to defy gravity. There is something about the trust between human and horse that calls to me as an artist. As a child I loved carousel horses and that is where the decorations on the horse in my paintings come from.

--- Carla Golembe -

Horse and Rider

Carla Golembe is an award-winning acrylic painter and illustrator. Her work is included in numerous collections including Hyatt Corporation, Medical College of Virginia Hospital, JFK Library, Boston Public Library, University of Maryland University College, Academy Art Museum, and Worcester Art Museum. She has illustrated many books including Why the Sky is Far Away: A Nigerian Folktale, chosen as a New York Times Best Illustrated Book. She received a BA in Painting from Bennington College and her MFA from University of Guanajuato, Mexico. www.carlagolembe.com

Horse Dream 3 Horse Dream 4

--- Carla Golembe -

Horse and Rider

Horse Dream 3 Horse Dream 4

Movie review:

"UnReined" By Conventionality By JoAnn Grose "UnReined” (2020) is a different kind of horse movie – a documentary that’s completely unanthropomorphic and completely un-romantic. No violet-eyed Elizabeth Taylor here, gasping about her love for The Pie in “National Velvet” (1944). More like clear-eyed Buck Brannaman, explaining how his abusive childhood helped him communicate with troubled horses in “Buck” (2011). Co-produced, co-directed and co-filmed in sepia desert tones by Marcia Rock and Naomi Guttman-Bass, “UnReined” shares the remarkable life of Nancy Zeitlin, a brave and down-to-earth woman who told her parents in 1968 she was not moving from San Diego to Israel unless they bought her a horse. She was 11 then and already knew that being with a horse, any horse, is dwelling in “a holy place.” In her own words, Zeitlin was good at choosing horses, but her personal life has been “somewhat of an obstacle course.” Men are harder to read; if you’ve been around horses (or men) at all, you know that. Her life is the history of the Middle East for the past half century, thanks to horses. For 20 years she held the Israeli high-jumping record. When the Intifada intensified, she lost her hopes of funding for an Olympic ride. She married an Orthodox Jew, an Israeli who drifted into orthodoxy, and a Palestinian. She was (is) the single mother of two sons, one of whom has also become more than right-wing in his religious beliefs. She trained Israeli, Palestinian and Ethiopian/Israeli riders. Today she still trains and judges, and last March she graduated from law school with distinction.

Like swimming, riding is one of those sports that has not been particularly welcoming to people of color, even to white people of modest means. Zeitlin devoted years to changing that, many of those years in direct and physical danger. Unless you’re British royalty, Bruce Springsteen’s or Aristotle Onassis’ daughters, you don’t assume you can ride your way into the Olympics. Most people don’t even get to ride regularly. The sight of Zeitlin’s rag-tag riders competing (and winning) will warm the coldest of hearts. This mission alone is enough to make her life a memorable one. More amazing to this viewer, though, is the evidently uncrossable chasm between secular and orthodox Jews – evidently as deep and unchanging as the divide between Israeli and Palestinian. Zeitlin shares a lengthy, matterof-fact conversation with a Palestinian protégé along the lines of: “If I didn’t know you, I’d want you dead.” But it seems a lot like the political divide we need to bridge with knowledge in our post-election society here in the USA. She finds a common ground and meets her “enemies” there. How many people, I wonder, can we meet in stables so they can learn we’re not raving lunatics on either side of our American divide.

Nancy Zeitlin teaching a stable management class in Jericho, 2000

...

JoAnn Grose is the former movie critic for The Charlotte Observer who got her first horse, a buckskin Quarter Horse named Matt Dillon, when she was 55.

Nancy Zeitlin riding Hope

Khaled Efranji and Nancy Zeitlin

Movie review:

Nancy Zeitlin teaching a stable management class in Jericho, 2000

...

JoAnn Grose is the former movie critic for The Charlotte Observer who got her first horse, a buckskin Quarter Horse named Matt Dillon, when she was 55.

Nancy Zeitlin riding Hope

Khaled Efranji and Nancy Zeitlin

Harness Racing: A Love Letter by Alan Richman

In America, we cherish the professional sports we are unable to play: football (too brutal), baseball (too difficult), ice hockey (too slippery), and the most impossible activity of all, Thoroughbred racing. Participation in that sport is limited to underweight jockeys who are required to dress in garish outfits modeled after the clown suits worn in a circus. I’ve nothing against Thoroughbred racing. In fact, I once went so far as to purchase a winning $2 OTB ticket on Secretariat the day he won the Kentucky Derby. But even with that triumph, I never appreciated the sport. Although picturesque, Thoroughbreds reminded me of runway models: stately, aloof, and impeccably groomed, of little interest to an average fellow like me. I much prefer the working-class sport of harness racing, although I grew up knowing absolutely nothing about it. I was a city boy, and when I thought of harness racing, which wasn’t often, I considered it a pursuit best suited to county fairs or rustic tracks located in places accessible only with four-wheel drive. The featured races seemed to always be won by a horse with “Hanover” in its name, which puzzled 70

me, inasmuch as Hanover was to my knowledge a shoe company. I later learned that these horses, called Standardbreds, were often bred at Hanover Shoe Farm in Pennsylvania. This also made absolutely no sense to me. Everything changed when Liberty Bell Park opened in Philadelphia in 1963. I was an undergraduate at the University of Pennsylvania at the time, and even more significantly, a sportswriter for the college newspaper. The new track offered me free admission, the first perk of my life, although I was rarely able to attend the races. I didn’t own a car and Liberty Bell was about 20 miles from the campus, carved out of farmland in North Philadelphia. Nor was I able to write about harness racing for The Daily Pennsylvanian, the school paper. The trustees of the university gave us considerable leeway, but I was smart enough to know they wouldn’t be pleased to see a morning betting line in the student newspaper. When I did get to Liberty Bell, I happily explored the bright and shiny corridors of the new facility, or I stood by the railing overlooking the track, 71

Harness Racing: A Love Letter by Alan Richman

watching the horses warm up, ultimately falling for the unpretentiousness of the sport: the Standardbreds that seemed so much more civil than rearing Thoroughbreds, and the drivers who appeared to be ordinary fellows who didn’t exercise a day of their lives. They looked like they woke up in the morning, ate a country breakfast, and took their horses for a lap or two around the track before calling it a day. Some drivers were downright chubby; quite a few pursued their craft well into their seventies, occasionally into their eighties. They did not sit atop horses, of course, but drove little carts, known as sulkies, that were pulled by the Standardbreds. I was reminded of the elderly town doctors in cowboy movies, the ones who were always driving their buggies to remote ranches to deliver baby calves. Much later, when I had a chance to meet many of these drivers, they were downright neighborly, often exotic. Many were French-Canadians who spoke English (as well as French) with a charming accent deplored by Parisians. Famously, the word “hassle” came out as “asshole.” While at the University of Pennsylvania, I had done a little work for the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, now gone, like so many other newspapers. A few years later, while I was in Vietnam, I got a letter from the Bulletin’s sports editor, Jack Wilson, offering me a job when I got back to the States. A week after returning, I was in the office, working the desk, editing stories. I secretly wished to be writer, so I volunteered to cover harness racing whenever the bosses wanted a story, which wasn’t often. That was when my relationship with harness racing blossomed. With my official trips to the track came access to the press room, located high above the grandstand and stocked with complimentary food and drink. Plus one astounding perk: a dedicated parimutuel machine for the convenience of any journalist wishing to bet on a race. You would think that with all that -- free admission, great access, and my very own ticket machine (at least I thought of it that way) -- I would fall in love with the sport. And I did. I even devised a get-rich-quick scheme. Here’s how it worked: I noticed that at the track, parimutuel betting on a race closed a second or two after the drivers left the moving starting gate and headed down the track. That was of no advantage to the folks in the grandstand and clubhouse, but it was to me, especially after the kindly fellow manning the press box machine got to know me and let me punch my own tickets. I figured I could monetize that extra second or two, decide which drivers were going all out to win and which figured they had little chance and were settling in for a quiet ride near the back of the pack. How did I do? Terribly. My scheme led to exactly no wins. That make me question my chances of becoming a professional gambler, but it didn’t make me love the sport any less. Harness racing was so widespread in those days that I had options other than Liberty Bell. My other favorite track was Brandywine Raceway in Delaware, an easy drive from Philadelphia. I don’t recall the races there nearly as well as I remember, with great fondness, “Colonel” Dave Herman, the publicity director, a wonderful character with a single flaw: The wine he served when he invited journalists to dinner in the clubhouse was made from the Baco Noir grape. I do not recommend it. Baco Noir wine is probably the only thing about harness racing that I don’t miss. Several years later I moved to Montreal to work at another gone-but-not-forgotten newspaper, the Star, where I was the sports columnist and an occasional visitor to Blue Bonnets Raceway. Harness racing was everywhere in Canada in the 1970s -- actually, Blue Bonnets had been around since the 1870s. I especially remember a wonderful morning when a friend and I set out for a Shakespeare festival in Ontario but changed our destination when we passed a billboard promoting afternoon harness racing at a small local track only a few miles away. We decided Shakespeare had waited 400 years to get our attention, and he could wait a little longer.

We bought tickets to the grandstand. I quickly lost the first two races, but I noticed that a middle-aged woman seated close to us had cashed tickets after both. She looked like a housewife, not a track regular, but she was wise beyond her appearance. I immediately made her acquaintance. She turned out to be the greatest handicapper I’d ever meet. She won race after race, as did I, after I convinced her to share her insights. I even cashed her tickets for her, although I was pretty certain she thought that was a terrible idea at first, that this cheeky American was going to make a run for his car with her winnings. I got so bold that when she hesitated before one race, I turned to her and said, “You might not think so, but you know the winner. Out with it.” She won, of course, as did I. I won six straight races, all of them her picks, my best day ever at a racetrack. Harness racing is dying in this country. That might be too kind. It seems to me it’s almost gone. I’ve been to a few tracks in recent years, and what bothers me about all of them is that they have become casinos with harness racing offered as a side show. The stands are almost empty. Even the parimutuel ticket sellers are all but gone, replaced by automatic machines I don’t know how to operate. Nor do I want to learn. I loved the process of placing a bet in the old days. I’d get in line, slowly inching my way to the front. It seemed I’d always get there with almost no time left before the start of the race. While in line I would change my mind two or three times about the bet I wanted to make. When I got to the front of the line and still hadn’t decided, those behind me in line would start yelling for me to hurry. I loved it all, even the self-imposed pressure to finally make up my mind, just seconds before the moving gate started to roll.

Alan Richman has won 16 James Beard Foundation Journalism Awards for food writing and reviewing. In 1998, he was inducted into The James Beard Foundation Who’s Who of Food and Beverage in America. He was described as “the Indiana Jones of food writers,” when he won the National Magazine Award in 1995. Richman has written for GQ and People magazines. He has also been as a columnist, sportswriter and editor at The Boston Globe; a reporter at The New York Times; a sports columnist at The Montreal Star, an NBA beat writer at The Philadelphia Bulletin; and editor at The Portland (Indiana) Commercial Review. Richman served in the U.S. invasion of the Dominican Republic and as a U.S. Army captain in Vietnam, where he received the Bronze Star. Photo of Well Together At The First Turn by J. Cameron, courtesy of the Harness Racing Museum & Hall of Fame, Goshen, NY. www.harnessmuseum.com

The Squall by Mary Ellena Ward Dust. Dust and sullen heat. Acrid smell of sweat, horse and human. Clouds block the sun. Thunder grumbles. Wind lashes the trees, the dust, the heat. We take cover in the barn aisle, my horse and I, and watch the rain: a grey blur moving across the pasture, cold and fierce. Raindrops crater the dust. Wind drives through the aisle whipping my hair, my horse’s mane, smelling like rain. The squall moves on leaving a damp glaze on the barnyard. Beneath the damp, dust.

A Running Horse by Katsushika Hokusai Courtesy of the Smithsonian, gift of Charles Lang Freer

Ilustration by Job Zheng

A Running Horse by Katsushika Hokusai Courtesy of the Smithsonian, gift of Charles Lang Freer

Ilustration by Job Zheng

Chapter 1 “You again? I’m not talking to you anymore because you didn’t tell that woman what I really said.” “That woman pays $1,500 a month to keep you hock deep in clean sawdust, $100 every two weeks for your myofascial release massages, and $300 for your monthly chiro/acupuncture sessions, with additional mesotherapy at another $75 a pop. So I’m not telling her you don’t like the way she smells and to stop eating so many onions. Besides, I thought when you cooked them, your breath is OK.” “Maybe for your sense of smell. But for mine? Ach, Stinkefuesse. Every time that woman kisses me on my nose, which is constant, I want to vomit. And we both know why that’s problematic. Totes Pferd.” Jilly Gild is an animal communicator and that was her second conversation with Commander, a prickly Hanoverian gelding with a laundry list of complaints. While Jilly specializes in horses, she can talk to dogs, cats, lions, platypuses, whales, giraffes, etc. But the money is in horses. Big money. For instance, the above exchange netted Jilly $500, with the promise of much more, given the issues bothering Commander, a six-figure, meter 1.50 jumper recently imported from Germany. Like many European warmbloods brought to the U.S., Commander’s new job took him to the hunter ring. Specifically, the 2-ft 6-in Special Adult division where he was supposed to babysit a successful mystery writer whose books live on the NY Times Best Seller list and have been turned into the No. 2 hit series on Amazon Prime. Despite the intended task, Commander had yet to step into the show ring with her. Every time his new owner approached, he tried to bite her. Reluctantly, the woman contacted Jilly a week ago as a last-ditch effort before she started shopping for a new six-figure horse. She’d already invested more than $7,000 in vet bills — ultra-sounds, X-rays, even a nuclear scan — to find out where the handsome gelding was hurting enough to be biting her. Nowhere it seemed, according to all four vets, including Dr. Alfred Lotman, the U.S. Olympic team vet and personal vet to Jessica Springsteen. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with this horse,” Dr. Lotman told her the last time she hauled Commander to his clinic. And then he handed her a bill for $1,350. As the woman — let’s call her Mrs. Abernathy (we’re changing the names because no one likes to admit they consult horse psychics) — watched her groom lead Commander onto the trailer, Dr. Lotman’s assistant tapped her on the shoulder. “Mrs. Abernathy, do you have a second?” the young woman said. She, like all of Dr Lotman's hired help, was tall, leggy, and easy on the eyes. Particularly Dr. Lotman’s eyes. The young woman — Hanley or Brinkley or something like that, Mrs.Abernathy couldn’t remember because she’d been too worried about Commander biting her to pay attention during introductions — led her to the back of the barn, out of Dr. Lotman’s earshot. “I know this sounds crazy,” Brinkley/Hanley said. “But I think there’s something bothering Commander? I mean maybe not physically, because no one’s better than Dr. Lotman for finding things, but maybe emotionally?”

Like many young women her age, Brinkley/Hanley ended all her sentences with an upswing, as if questioning her every thought. “Have you considered talking to a horse psychic?’’ she continued. “I know, I know, it’s seems like crazy town, but I’ve suggested this to a few owners who can’t find answers?” Mrs. Abernathy’s daughter also ended all her sentences with a question mark and on more than one occasion, Mrs. Abernathy had told her daughter to “just talk normal.” Each time the effect was the same: her daughter stopped talking to her for a week. So Mrs. Abernathy found herself gritting her teeth every time she had a conversation with a young women who spoke in question marks. It annoyed her that the women’s movement she participated in during her younger days gave birth to all these self-doubting women. “Andwhathappened?” Mrs Abernathy said. That’s how it sounded through gritted teeth. It took Brinkely/Hanley a few moments to puzzle through Mrs. Abernathy’s run-on sentence. “Oh what happened? Oh my god! It was amazing? One mare told Jilly — that’s the communicator I always recommend — she hated going out with this other mare because that mare chased her around all night? She couldn’t get any sleep and that’s why she was so grumpy — ears back, nipping, you know — when her owner came to ride her? So they stopped turning those two mares out together and the next day the lady’s mare’s ears were forward, not a bit of girthy-ness or grump attacks?” “Andtheother?” Mrs. Abernathy said. “A gelding with a chronic limp in the left hind,” Brinkley/Hanley said. “Dr. Lotman brought out every piece of equipment he had — and he has probably a million dollars worth. That horse had perfect everything, just like Commander. So his owner called Jilly, and Jilly talked to the gelding. Guess what? I mean you will never believe this. He told Jilly he was faking it because he hated dressage and didn’t care if his owner was going for her silver or gold or titanium medal. ‘If I never see the letter X again, I will be the happiest horse on the planet,’ he told her. So the woman, who didn’t really believe in horse psychics, gave it a try. She let go of her reins, let him stretch out his neck, got in a two point and rode him through her fields. Guess what? The limp disappeared. Of course there goes her silver medal.” Brinkley/Hanley handed Mrs. Abernathy a slip of paper with Jilly Gild’s phone number. “You won’t be sorry,” she said. For the next two days, Mrs. Abernathy thought about calling Jilly Gild. She’d spent the first day doing background. That’s what they’d called it back in the day when Mrs. Abernathy was a newspaper reporter, before she turned to writing mysteries. These days they called it sleuthing or, depending on the depth and fervor, stalking. Regardless, Mrs. Abernathy knew all the places to look to find even a hint of deceit or sham about Jilly Gild. But all she could find were glowing reports. “Nothing worked until Jilly told me my horse said he was allergic to his fly spray and that’s why he was tossing his head. I stopped the spray and he doesn’t toss his head anymore.” Or, “Ajax told Jilly his blanket was pinching him, and as soon as I switched his blanket, he stopped making ugly faces at me.” On the third day, while Mrs. Abernathy was still considering whether she wanted to waste $500 on a horse psychic, Commander bit her shoulder. Back in her newspaper days, $500 was a lot of money. Now, thanks to her latest deal with Amazon Prime for three more seasons, it was coffee money. If nothing else, talking to a horse psychic would make for a funny story during her weekly Zoom chat with ‘The Council,” her former newspaper buddies she’d reconnected with during the Covid pandemic. “This is Jilly Gild.” The voice came through the speakers of Mrs. Abernathy’s Tesla. Mrs. Abernathy was surprised and encouraged by how much Jilly sounded like the New York Times journalist Maggie Haberman. She’d been expecting high-pitched airy-fairy New Age tantra teacher, not deep, forceful, assured journo-tough.

“Hi, Jilly. The young woman at Dr. Lotman’s suggested I call you,” Mrs. Abernathy said, then she gave Jilly her real name, which we won’t reveal for the aforementioned reasons. “Oh Brinkley, right. She’s referred many of Dr. Lotman’s clients to me,” Jilly said. "Well, then,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “I have a horse who bites. I’ve tried everything. Brinkley says you can help.” “I can,” Jilly said, punching out the two syllables with just enough force to make Mrs. Abernathy believe she could help. But not so much to make her sound like a pompous banty cock. On Jilly’s instruction, Mrs. Abernathy detailed Commander’s history as she knew it: He successfully competed in the meter 1.50 jumpers in Germany with a former Olympian, attesting to his athleticism. Even more important, he was quiet and unflappable. So much so that the Olympian’s nine-year-old daughter routinely took him on lane walks by herself. But what sealed the deal was that Commander was a freakishly good mover. This all but guaranteed Mrs. Abernathy would finally beat the queen of the Special Adult Division, Lisa Mooney, and her spectacular chestnut gelding, Matisse, who has yet to lose a hack class. “My trainer even went to Germany to ride him,” Mrs. Abernathy told Jilly. “She wanted to make sure he was as amateur-friendly as he was advertised to be.” “Was he?” Jilly asked. There was a pause that Jilly noted. She subscribed to Dr. Greg House’s dictum: “Everyone lies.” “Yes,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a hint of waver in her voice, also noted by Jilly. “But in a European way, meaning he did his job politely and safely. But that was it, according to my trainer. ‘He’s all business,’ she’d said to me on the phone from Germany. ‘He’s not like an American horse who wants to cuddle with you and be your friend.” “And that was OK with you?” Jilly asked. After a lifetime of talking to horses and their owners, Jilly knew better than anyone that most horse owners — especially the female owners — are looking for way more than a horse. They want a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a mother or a father or a brother or a sister and mostly they want a therapist and a best friend. It’s never just about the ride. “Well to be absolutely honest...,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Please,” Jilly said. “It will help when I contact Commander to know exactly what you want.” “OK then, to be honest, my heart horse, Brenda Starr, wasn’t a hugger either. But I was much younger then and had a lot more emotional holes to fill. So I’d spend hours imagining her to be more affectionate, more devoted to me than she actually was. I looked for the slightest sign — brushing up against me, looking at me from her stall, eating peppermints from my hand — as evidence to support my imaginings. In the end, it was all invention on my part. She was a pretty aloof horse, who probably didn’t care or notice if I ever came to see her. “But that was 40 years ago. I’ve since filled those emotional holes. I’m happily married and my two children are grown and launched. So now I just need a horse to get me to the other side of the fence, even if — or especially when — I’m scared. Commander doesn’t have to love me. He doesn’t even have to like me. He just has to stop biting me.” Jilly didn’t really believe Mrs. Abernathy. She’d never met a horsewoman who just wanted to get to the other side of the fence. But her job was to talk to Commander, not psychoanalyze his owner. She told Mrs. Abernathy she’d make contact with Commander later that day and find out why he was biting. And she did. That’s when Commander told Jilly he didn’t like the way Mrs. Abernathy’s breath smelled. That was just the start of his litany. He presented Jilly with a 10-point checklist of improvements he wanted implemented at his barn, including increasing the sweet feed, a delicacy he’d never tasted in Germany. Right when he got to Number 7 — wash the saddle pads more frequently -- Jilly had to take an emergency call. She told Commander she’d tell Mrs. Abernathy about the sweet feed, and the six other things on his list, then get back to him tomorrow for the remaining three items. 78

That night, Jilly gave Mrs. Abernathy’s Commander’s list, with the exclusion of item Number 1: Her breath and the removal of onions from her diet. Mrs. Abernathy quickly called the barn manager, repeating Commander’s demands. Because Mrs. Abernathy was the barn manager’s most generous boarder, she was assured that all the changes would be implemented ASAP. “Her breath still smells,” Commander told Jilly the next day. “Does she eat onions at every meal, even breakfast? She was here at 8 a.m. and she reeked of them.” Jilly told Commander she did not tell Mrs. Abernathy about her breath and that was when he threatened to stop talking to her. But not surprising to Jilly, Commander kept talking despite his threat. She knew he would. Horses love an audience, especially a human one. Jilly had yet to find a laconic equine. But the bigger truth was Commander was lonely. He hadn’t made any friends at his new barn because he kept correcting the other geldings in his turnout paddock. And the mares, well that was another story. Plus, this was the first time he’d actually talked to a human — they didn’t do that kind of thing in Germany — and he found it pleasantly stimulating. Much more so than participating in all the gossip at the barn. “That’s one thing that’s same here as in Germany,” Commander told Jilly. “The incessant gossiping. Horses can’t stop gossiping about the humans. Most horses, that is. But not myself, I find it beneath my dignity.” That segued into Commander’s observations about the differences between America and Germany: — More bugs here, blander food there. — Better grass here, more organization there. Evidenced by Number 3 on his list: feed time. “In Germany we get our grain at exactly 7 a.m. so there is no worry. Here, one day it’s 7:09, another day 7:16. Even once, 7:48. Forty-eight minutes late!” — Exciting hard pieces of extreme sweetness that tingled — Was ist das? — here; nothing even comparable there. “Peppermints,” Jilly told Commander. “I think that’s what you’re referring to. But back to your biting.…” That was Jilly’s fourth attempt to steer the conversation back to his bad behavior, and he kept steering it away. He was a horse who liked to pontificate, and he did so about everything — except biting. “Commander, I have to go soon. You got more sweet feed this morning, and it was fed exactly at 7, item Number 3 on your list. I’ve been told they’re going to incorporate the rest of your ‘suggestions’ later today. And I can assure you, Mrs. Abernathy will keep you in peppermint bliss now that she knows how much you enjoy them. Does this mean you’ll stop biting her? Because here in America, we have an expression: 'You are literally biting the hand that feeds you.' " “I told you, it’s her breath,” Commander said. “Ask her to eat one of those exciting pieces of extreme sweetness, your peppermints, before she comes near me.” "I’ll see what I can do about that, but no promises. I don’t want to insult her. Now, what are the other three items? We’ve got to find a way to make this work. Otherwise, who knows where you’ll end up?” “Was meinen Sie?” When Commander got upset, he slipped into German. Already three times in this conversation, Jill had to Google translate. “Hold on, hold on,” Jilly said, typing his words into Google translate as fast as she could. “‘What do I mean?’ I mean, surely you don’t think they’re going to let you stay in those cushy digs if you keep biting her? And your salability just hit zero with that bite on her shoulder. If she can’t sell you, she’ll donate you. And biters don’t go to Hollins or SCAD or any other prestigious riding program. You’ll be going to some podunk school riding program 250 miles from the nearest horse show. They might even slap a Western saddle on your back and force you to run around barrels. Or worse, they could ship you to Cornell as a lab rat.” “Was ist ‘lab rat?' " “You don’t want to know. So you’d better tell me now your other three items that will make you stop biting.” 79

“OK then,” Commander said, “in addition to fixing her breath, these are also mandatory: First, my name. It is Kommandant, not Commander. Sometimes she even calls me Mander-boo-boo. Such an embarrassment. I realize she probably can’t pronounce my real name. I’m more than familiar with the American inability to master any language but their own. In Germany, we like to tell a joke when the American riders come through our barns. What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Trilingual. What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do you call someone who speaks one language? American.” “Haha,” said Jilly, not that she was really laughing. She took three years of French in school and still couldn’t ask where the bathroom was en Francais. “Let’s move on, shall we? What do you want her to call you if you don’t think she has the intellectual capacity to master the correct pronunciation of your German name?” “No need to be churlish,” Commander said. “She can call me Dante, that is acceptable. And full of sex, I think that is the American idiom, yes? To imply attractive to females?” “Sexy, I think that’s what you mean,” Jilly said. She rolled her eyes and was glad this was not an in-person or as the case may be, in-equine, consult. “What else?” “Yes sexy. Das ist gut. Now, Number Two: No kissing. None. Keine. Zip. Especially until we address her breath issues. Three: No more puns in her book titles and her next plot is utterly ridiculous. No horse, not even the great Leonardi, with whom I share a grandsire, would jump over a dead body placed inside a jump. And Leonardi, you will recall, set the world Puissance record at 2 meters 40. For her next book, I have something much more important — and believable.” That one took Jilly by surprise. “What? Horses read books?” “We don’t,” Dante said. “But that is all this woman talks about. I can hear her talking to her characters when she rides. Perhaps if she concentrated more on proper riding form, I could understand what she wants from me. Kick, pull, kick — go forward, go slower. What is she doing? She must focus on the task at hand. In Germany, riders must have a working knowledge of all Alois Podhajsky’s books before they are even allowed on a horse. This is the way it should be here. Until then, she must first use her legs, then — and only then — she must…” Jilly interrupted him before he went down the Podhajsky rabbit hole. Just to get beyond the walk would take hours. “Dante,” Jilly said, “What about her books?” “Yes, the books. Remember how most horses love to gossip? At this barn, they can’t stop making fun of her book titles and they use them against me. When I walk by the mares, they snicker and say, 'Oh look there goes a Horse of a Different Killer.' What does that even mean anyway? Is that another American idiom I’m unfamiliar with?” Jilly, also familiar with Mrs. Abernathy’s literary canon, said, “You could have answered back something really funny like, “Oh look, there’s that Chestnut Mare. I better Beware.” “Unter meiner Würde.” Jilly’s fingers tapped that into Google Translate: “Beneath my dignity.” “Oh boy, what a pompous ass,” she thought, or thought she thought to herself. “I heard that,” Dante said. “I’ve been called worse. Just do your job. I don’t want to wear a Western saddle. And what is this running around a barrel nonsense?”

Chapter 2 A moment here to describe how Jilly communicates with horses. First, she asks the owner for a complete description of the horse: color, size, identifying marks. And if time permits, she asks the owner to email her a photo of the horse. Then she asks where the horse lives and with whom he/she is turned out. So in Mrs. Abernathy’s case, she would have said: “Commander is a 14-year-old, 16.1 hand, dark liver chestnut with three white socks and a big blaze. He lives at Edgehill Farm. During the day, he’ll be in a paddock with three other geldings: Rio, Seamus and Theo.” Jilly will then close her eyes and take 15 deep, centering breaths. She will picture a paddock with four geldings and think: “I’m looking for Commander at Edgehill Farm. Are you there?” Sometimes she will have to repeat this several times because the horses are too busy, as it turns out, gossiping. Or sometimes all the nearby horses will want to talk to her because they have some grievance they want righted, usually pertaining to whom they’re turned out with or stalled next to. But they are usually polite enough to allow the horse who’s being summoned by the communicator to his or her time with the human. (In Commander, or rather Dante’s case, he answered Jilly’s call within seconds. Remember, he is a horse who doesn’t like to gossip, so he wasn’t too busy doing anything other than swishing away all the annoying American flies with his tail.) Then she will introduce herself, thusly: “Hello Commander, I hope you don’t mind me intruding on you. My name is Jilly Gild, I am an animal communicator. May we speak?” On several occasions, Jilly has been asked to come back later, usually by an alpha mare trying to establish dominance. That’s when Jilly stifles a giggle and says, “Sure, no problem.” With $500 on the line, there’s no sense arguing with an alpha if you want her cooperation. Because Dante had never had a human try to talk to him in this way, he was very curious and asked Jilly many questions before she could move onto why she was in his head. Here are some of Dante’s questions, followed by Jilly’s answers in italics: Can all humans do this? Yes, but they don’t know it. Can you come into my head without my permission? No, we are like vampires, we have to be invited in. So your thoughts are private, unless you’ve asked me in. Can you talk to other animals? Yes. Prove it, what is that crow thinking? One second. (Jilly introduces herself to the crow sitting on the fence near Dante and asks permission to talk to him). He says you’re fat, and to be nicer to the other horses. (Jilly and Dante both hear the crow cawing as it flies away). When did you start talking to animals and who was the first animal you talked to? Ever since I can remember words and it was a mouse. I heard him screaming for help, Jinx, our cat had caught him. I asked Jinx to let him go. Did he? No, and I never talked to Jinx again. Have you ever been to Germany? Yes, great bread. But it broke my Bubbie’s heart when I went. Her mother survived Dachau, the rest of her family didn't. For that, I am truly sorry. The stain will never leave us. Thank you, now may I tell you why I’m here?

That’s when Jilly explained to Dante that his new owner had hired her to find out why he was biting her. “I can tell she’s a non-believer in animal communicators,” Jilly told Dante, “but that’s how desperate she is to find a solution. You’ve landed a very easy gig here. Most horses would kill to get an owner like Mrs. Abernathy. She’s got all the money and time in the world to lavish on you. And let’s face it, you’re no spring chicken. Aren’t these smaller jumps much easier on your joints?” Over the years, Jilly learned to categorize her horse clients. Some needed coddling, some needed praise, and some needed tough love. Dante’s crow question quickly put Jilly into her tough love mode. No horse had ever asked her to prove she could talk to other animals. Also, given his inflated opinion of himself, Dante clearly didn’t need praise. As for coddling, maybe in a later conversation. Jilly saw that his heart was big — but guarded — by his response about the concentration camps. “By ‘spring chicken,’ are you referring to my age?” Dante asked Jilly. “I have many, many productive years ahead of me. In Germany, we are purpose-bred for longevity. My mother would not have been able to have me had she not passed rigorous inspections, and my father competed well into his mid-20s. Why do you think so many Americans come to Europe to buy horses? You breed your lame show horses here. That’s why half the horses in my barn receive so many drugs and injections. I’ve never had any such thing and I have many years left in the jumper ring. I was quite successful. At Aachen I won the…” Jilly was regretting her impetuous leap into tough love. Clearly she insulted him and insulted horses never change their behavior. She pivoted to praise mode. “Not only have I heard so much about all your wins, but I’ve seen photos of you jumping those monster fences. You look like you’re flying. And Mrs. Abernathy told me your rider in Germany allowed his nine-year-old daughter to take you trail riding alone. So I know you’re a kind horse. That’s why your biting doesn’t make any sense to me.” Jilly heard Dante sigh. Dante missed Leoni, the nine-year-old girl who brought him carrots, took him on long walks, and sang him German folk songs. He pictured his last ride with her, when she sang “Kuckuck, Kuckkuck” over and over. While Dante would never admit this to anyone, he never got tired of hearing her sing that song. Another way animal communicators communicate is that they see images the animals put in their minds and feel what they feel. Jilly was right there with Dante and Leoni. “Is that the girl who trail rode you?” Jilly asked. “Long red hair? Singing something about cuckoo birds? Such a sweet voice.” “Yes, but in Germany we don’t call it trail riding, it is called lane walking. Yes, that is she. Singing a German folk song about the coming of spring. And yes her voice is like a dulcimer.” Jilly could feel Dante’s sadness and that gave her an idea. She would ask Mrs. Abernathy to contact Dante’s former owner and ask him to send a video of Leoni singing. This ‘lane walk’ down memory lane was interesting, but Jilly had to bring the conversation back to biting. That’s what she’d been commissioned for. “Did you ever bite Leoni? Or her father?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Dante snapped. “Of course not.” “So why now?” Jilly asked, even though she knew the answer and knew Dante would never admit how much he missed his previous life, specifically Leoni. Talking to horses was a lot like talking to men. “I told you, it’s the onions. Now I must go. I see that woman walking toward me with a halter. I won’t bite her today, but tonight you must tell her ‘no onions’…and to focus on her riding. Perhaps you can buy her a copy of Podhajsky’s The Complete Training of Horse and Rider?”

Dante missed Leoni, the nine-year old girl who brought him carrots, took him on long walks, and sang him German folk songs. He pictured his last ride with her, when she sang “Kuckuck, Kuckkuck” over and over. While Dante would never admit this to anyone, he never got tired of hearing her sing that song.

*** “I don’t know how you did it, but Dante was an angel today. He let me brush and saddle him, no ugly faces, no pinned ears and no biting,” Mrs. Abernathy said to Jilly later than afternoon when Jilly called to check on Dante’s behavior. “It doesn’t make rational sense, but I can’t argue with success.” Now Jilly had to fulfill her promise to Dante and deal with the onions. “So there are just a few more things to go over,” Jilly started. “Did you know that horses have a heightened sense of smell?” That was a new one to Mrs. Abernathy. “OK?” she said, wondering where this was going. It’s hard to tell someone they have bad breath, but Jilly did just that and was pleasantly surprised by Mrs. Abernathy’s reaction.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll cut out the onions and buy a bottle of Listerine. Anything else?” Jilly asked Mrs. Abernathy to call the previous owner and get a video of Leoni singing. They both agreed that was probably the root of Dante’s anger, more than her breath. “Also,” Jilly said, “I ordered you a book Dante wants you to read, it’s about riding. Apparently he wants you to focus more on your technique. And finally, speaking of books, he doesn’t like your ‘punny’ titles — he called them ‘inexpensive humor’ and said the other horses use them to make fun of him. He knows there’s nothing you can do about the previous books, but he does have some suggestions for the next one. And has asked me to tell you that plot of the new one you are working on is ‘utterly ridiiculous.’ He said no horse in the world, not even the great Leonardi, who set the Puissance record at 7 feet 8-plus inches, would jump a dead person. Oh, and to be sure you knew that he and Leonardi shared a grandsire and that Leoni, the little girl who sang him German folk songs, was named after Leonardi. Apparently Dante’s rider and Leonardo’s rider are tight. “Anyway, he was quite adamant about something troubling that’s happening at the barn, that someone's life could be ruined, and someone might get hurt or even killed. He wants to talk about it ASAP. Do I have your permission to contact him again?” Mrs. Abernathy knew that was code for: Can I spend another 500 of your dollars? The older she got, the less money meant to her, especially since she had so much of it. At age 63, Mrs. Abernathy figured she had way more money than time. So what was another $500? Besides she couldn’t argue with Dante, her new book’s plot was ridiculous, and perhaps the reason she couldn’t get past page 73. She’d tried every tool in her writer’s arsenal, to no avail. She was going to give it one more try before she dropped that file in the trash can icon. Maybe it was time to drop it now. But still there was the question of how Dante knew what she was writing. And then there was the even bigger question: Was she really even considering the possibility that a horse could talk to a human to tell her he didn’t like the way she rode or wrote? But Dante had stopped biting her. And he’d been a dreamboat to ride today. It felt like he was suspended in the air as she trotted him around the ring. Even her normally tight-lipped trainer, Becca Long, couldn’t contain her enthusiasm: “Hack winner!” she yelled to Mrs. Abernathy as they trotted by. Mrs. Abernathy couldn’t wait to see the smile leave the face of Lisa Mooney, the reigning Queen of the Special Adults division, when Dante knocked that tiara off her head. “Sure, talk to him,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “What the hell.” Inspiration comes in all forms. When Mrs. Abernathy was a much younger woman and believed there must be an explanation for the cruelties in life, she read a slew of new age books searching for the answer. There was none to be found, which is one of the reasons she started professionally killing people — in print. However, she did remember one series, Seth Speaks, in which the author, Jane Roberts, was first contacted via a Ouija board by a spirit who had a lot to say. At least eight books worth. So much that he, Seth, dropped the Ouija board and went straight into Roberts’s head during a trance. If there was one thing Mrs. Abernathy knew for certain, it was that nothing is impossible. Was “Seth” really an entity Roberts invited into her mind? Or was Roberts culling information from what she had learned in life? The answer was almost irrelevant to Mrs. Abernathy, because the proof was in the pudding: Roberts published at least eight books and there are more than 12 million Google hits under Seth Speaks. So whether Dante was really speaking via Jilly was also irrelevant. Dante had improved. She was on her way to be the reigning queen of the Special Adult division and she just might get a better plot. That was worth way more than $500.

Lithograph by Fernand Leger Gift of Cooper Union Art School Library

***

Jody Jaffe is the author of Horse of a Different Killer; Chestnut Mare, Beware; In Colt Blood; Thief of Words; and Shenandoah Summer. 84

Lithograph by Fernand Leger Gift of Cooper Union Art School Library

***

Jody Jaffe is the author of Horse of a Different Killer; Chestnut Mare, Beware; In Colt Blood; Thief of Words; and Shenandoah Summer. 84

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