03/11/2024
āIt takes a villageā¦ā
Not only to raise a child, but to wholly embrace this thing we call horsemanship.
Few of us truly āgo it aloneā, if weāre honest. There is usually someone waiting in the wings, to cheer us on, to hold our horses when life gets lifey, to rein us in a bit, when we feel like running away.
Iām no different. Iāve a spouse who, letās face it, would love to talk about something other than whether or not Pamela needs her blanket, or me wondering aloud if I should buy another young pony to start? (Hmmm. Maybe and most definitely not!)
Mike raises only an eyebrow as together, we wade resolutely through the farmās books in preparation for tax time. We both are watching, with horrified fascination, the growing columns called FUEL and VETERINARY and FEED...
We can take for granted our partners who blanch at the expense of our horsemanship but gamely say nothing, all the while they might want a real vacation, or a motorcycle... or at the least, a healthier chequing account.
We have the vet clinic that cheerfully takes our desperate call five minutes before closing, on holiday Friday, with a fully-staffed consult room to take our bleeding horse when we arrive, breathless and in tears.
We have the farrier who somehow, somehow, keeps our iffy gelding going soundly, despite its having been born with ridiculously small feet. Oh, pray that he never retires!
What about the truck dealership and the tire shop, who welcome us in off the highway, when we hear the funny noise? They take the truck in, without an appointment, despite the fact that itās still hooked to a trailer with stomping horses on boardā¦ and they give us hot coffee while we wait.
What about the teacher, or trainer, who patiently (even though they must want to rip out their hair) reminds us, āEyes up!ā or āDonāt lose your bend!ā every single time they see us ride? Or the person who quietly brings out all the jump rails and standards for us, before taking them away again, when itās time to work the arena?
Or the shop owner who will, last minute, fix the stitching on a pair of reins, or resole our favourite boots?
There's the young man at the feed store, who cheerfully manhandles salt blocks and bags of beet pulp into the tiny trunk of the car. We donāt realize how demanding is his job, until we are unloading the blasted things back home. How long we are able to ride mightnāt be as much about ageing gracefully in the saddle, as being able to heft those bags of feedā¦
The dentist who really, really cares if our horse is grinding properly and has no issues with its TMJ. The equine body worker who labours long into the night, when her own shoulder is so sore, she can hardly pull on her coat to go home.
God bless the excellent saddle fitter. And what of the boss at work, who actually schedules us, according to our horse show weekends?
Let's give thanks to the courier delivery guy who texts and says that the saddle for which weāve been waiting is left hiding behind the tree next to our front porchā¦ and that if we canāt be home in half an hour, heāll go back and pick it up, so itās safe.
The lady at the grocery store checkout who asks about our horses, every time we buy an oversized bag of carrots. Or the neighbourhood children who visit our horses and pet them over the fence, while waiting for the school bus. They, too, play a part in the village that surrounds our horsemanship.
Give thanks to the man who loads, hauls and unloads the cattle liner for that practice day we euphemistically call Cow Work Weekend. Then, he does the same thing later that evening, alone in the dark, to get them safely back home.
Let's not forget the seamstress who made a place in the busy-ness of altering grad dresses, when we desperately needed fitting done on our new show jacket. Or when we weirdly wanted a shirt sewn to a pair of bike shorts, so that it wouldnāt look rumpled or untucked, when we rode in the show ring.
She only raised an eyebrow, then made it happen. She didnāt call us crazy.
The company of gals at the barn who bring coffee, laughter and shoulders to cry on, when life gets truly hard.
The cheerful fellow who cleans the stalls and waters the arena, that same minimum-wage worker who happens to be a licenced equine vet, back home. He never complains, he never mentions the fact that he and his family could be living their dream, if only our country would acknowledge his training and experienceā¦
The owner-manager at the boarding barn, who hasnāt had a Sunday morning sleep-in, in living memory.
Let's give thanks to the children, friends and ageing parents who, though theyāre not at all horsey and maybe even a little bit afraid, gamely step up to take the lead rope and walk the colicky horse.
All these people who make up the village that surrounds us... just because we happen to love horses.
To all of you, to all these people in the village, we owe a huge debt of thanks.