Greener Pastures, Part II

I visited my hometown in Vermont last week and was immediately reminded that traveling to the Northeast from California means boarding a plane in flip-flops and shorts and then six hours later trying while deplaning to stuff myself into five sweaters... at once. By the time I left the airport terminal, I was wearing everything I packed in my suitcase. And I was wishing for one more scarf to cover the drafty parts on my neck not yet fully mummified.



My father, meanwhile, pointed out that it was a lovely Autumn day with "balmy" temperatures well into the 40's. I begged him to roll up his window and stop trying to tell me that the biting air outside was "warm" by any one's definition. It has been only six years since I left Vermont for California, but apparently one can soften up quickly. I used to laugh at Californians during January wearing their Ugg boots and woolen scarves as if it were actually 'winter' outside rather than a mid-60 degree day with light breezes. But now I have become one of them. I wrap scarves around myself as soon as the temperature dips below the high 60's, I use the word "storm" to describe a light rain shower, and I talk about winter as if it's actually a season here (which it isn't).



While visiting Vermont, I realized just how soft I've become. Back when I lived in New England, I often taught riding lessons until I was frozen solid. Then I would call it a day, rubbing icicles out of my eyelashes. One year, I got frostbite in all ten toes and instated a policy that from then on, I would teach only in temperatures above 10-degrees Fahrenheit. The following year, though, I got frostbite in all ten fingers, and I raised the temperature minimum to 20-degrees. However, a horse trainer in Vermont cannot survive with such a policy as I soon found out. You see, during the months of January and February, the temperature sometimes sits below 20-degrees for weeks at a time. This meant my prospective income-earning days reduced from 30 per month to zero. Thus, I moved to California.



Last week's visit home coincided with my birthday, and so my friend Sarah took me to her favorite tack and saddle shop. The idea was to buy me a gift. Not being a great shopper, I asked Sarah to help me choose a pair of riding pants. Next thing I know, she's holding up something that looks like a uniform for ski patrol in Alaska.



"What about these?" she asked, obviously pleased with whatever it was that she found.



"Um... well what are those, exactly?" I asked as politely as possible.



Her brow pushed together. She looked at me like a stranger, or someone who had gravely disappointed her.



"What? You don't remember these?" she finally mumbled, looking off into space now. I could sense an odd tension in the room, as if she'd asked me if I remembered my own father's name. I tried to ease the growing alienation I sensed between us. Clearly, I should have recognized whatever she held in her hands. And honestly, to me, it looked like a cross between a bathrobe and a sleeping bag.



"Fleece riding pants? Don't you remember? Do people in California not wear these?" asked Sarah, trying to fathom how anyone could survive in winter without insulating herself in four inches of unflattering fabrics.

Upon closer inspection, and a very chilly recollection of my former life, I did remember the fleece riding pants. I remember owning an entire drawer of them. They were thick and fuzzy and added at least three inches of bulk to each thigh. Well, I should say they would have added three inches of bulk...if worn alone. But a rider would perish in Vermont's winter trying to wear only fleece pants. One also needed 1.) silk long underwear 2.) thermal undergarments 3.) heated socks and 4.) an external waterproof shell of some sort. In that order. All told, when I got dressed to ride in Vermont, I inflated from a size four to a size 10.

With so many layers of clothes, it's almost impossible to ride a horse. I mean, you are so padded and insulated that you can barely move, let alone feel anything like a horse moving under you. Giving lessons always highlighted this challenge. Riders would ask me about their form, their position in the saddle, etc. "Is my leg in the right place?" they would ask. "Is my back straight?" And I would stand in the middle of the arena staring at them, trying to see them through all those layers. Sometimes, I had to admit, "You know, I can't even see your back." A person could be entirely slouched over or slumped down in the saddle, and I would never be able to tell under all the jackets and flannel.

But the beauty of life in the Northeast is that riders there assume that equestrians across the country suffer through the same winter experiences. They think the sunny portrayals of California are just a fabrication of Hollywood. Shivering with their frostbitten fingers frozen around a pair of reins, they believe we Californians are donning fleece riding pants and sniffling through riding lessons, too. Not so, dear New Englanders! I will always remain a Vermont native at heart and I do harbor a fierce pride in that frigid northeastern United States. But I have to admit that I don't miss fleece riding pants, no matter how sexy this year's color selection might be. I'll stick to riding in shirt sleeves and everyday breeches.

For now, I need to get going. Tomorrow is forecast for light rain showers and I need to go prepare the barn for a "storm."

Greener Pastures, Part I

Call me an idealist, but generally when I think of horses, I simultaneously think of rolling green pastures in which to keep them. This is one of the reasons I'm often told I have a chip on my shoulder. You see, originally I'm from the East Coast, where pastures are as common as rodents. Almost any homeowner outside major metropolitan areas has one... or five. With this much land, a person can happily accumulate horses to her heart's content and the horses will lead a happy grass-grazing life out there under the sky.



Here in California, it's another story entirely. In order to have a pasture, you would need to be a multi-multi-millionaire. In fact, in the town where I live, even if you were a multi-multi-millionaire, you would likely end up with only a quarter acre on the side of a steep cliff that will either disappear in the next mud slide or burn up in a major wildfire mid-summer. This is usually when I start saying things like; "Well, back East a quarter acre isn't considered enough land for a horse, anyway. Our pastures back there are at least 20 acres..." Most folks in California haven't owned 20 acres of raw land since the Gold Rush. And when I start sentences with "Well, back East..." people tend to roll their eyes. Frankly, they're sick of me talking about greener pastures.

So, recently I've been trying to stifle my comparisons about horse-keeping on both coasts and fully embrace my current surroundings. For instance, I've begun talking to myself when retrieving horses from stables the size of shoe boxes, saying things like "Yes, Jec, this is perfectly normal. Horses adapt to their living environments. Never mind this horses doesn't have enough space to comfortably lie down; he's just fine." I've become more at ease referring to a 12' x 16' area being defined as 'turnout' where a horse can romp and kick up his heels. I've convinced myself that it is in fact possible for horses to be raised in sand lots without ever seeing or tasting a blade of fresh green grass. In fact, I've spent so much time trying to shed my previous paradigm about horse-keeping that some days I feel like I'm repeating a mantra in my new state: "This is normal. This is fine. This is just fine. Yes, normal."

Sometimes, however, I totally fail at convincing myself. Maybe this does equate to me having a chip on my shoulder, and so be it. At certain points during my day, I just can't help yearning for endless miles of open land for my horses and I to romp and roll in the dirt and relax. I can't help pining for the peace and quiet that comes from riding across 80 open acres without a sound except birds and breezes. Luckily, I'm able to snap out of these nostalgic longings quickly and get on with my day.

Last week, however, my mantra "This is just fine" suffered a prolonged blow. I was riding a client's horse at her property, which borders a very busy highway near out coastal town. Sometimes, the din of utility trucks, zooming sport scars, and Harley Davidson motorcycles can make it impossible to form a complete thought. I've often thought it might be more peaceful inside a food blender. Just to hold a normal conversation with my client, I am forced to yell at a level that actually hurts my neck. The horses, though, have adapted to highway life just fine and go about their workouts without being distracted at all by the nearby traffic mayhem. Truthfully, it's me that suffers more. So, I was repeating my mantra while putting this particular horse through his paces. And it was working.

Then a giant speeding SUV passed the arena and slowed down to watch us for a moment. The very second it slowed down, a ferocious bout of growling and barking erupted from its interior. The sheer volume startled me so much I dropped my reins. Confused, my horse trotted to the center of the arena awaiting a cue from me to do otherwise. I regained my composure enough to look over in the direction of the giant SUV in time to see an entire herd of Chihuahuas crawling out the driver's window snapping and yowling at me and the horse. Let me tell you, they may be tiny, but these little guys were out for blood.

Meanwhile, the driver tried to get them under control by rolling up his window which only agitated them more. They barked and scratched and yapped, all half dozen of them swarming around the driver, who obviously could no longer see enough to drive and was now blocking the road. Along came a Honda Civic pouncing up and down with rap music and piloted by a teenager in a beanie and hooded sweatshirt. The rollicking Civic slammed to a stop but continued to bounce up and down from the sheer volume of music pumping through its speakers. The teenager leaned on his horn. This, of course, startled the carload of Chihuahuas, spurring them into more mania.

It was right about then that my mantra completely failed. This was not normal or fine or even fun for that matter. Here I was trying to school this horse in the majestic and graceful maneuvers of dressage, all while under siege of yapping dogs and an angst-ridden teenager with a car that bounced like a basketball. No, this was not normal horse-keeping. Call me prejudice, but I'll trade the carload of barking dogs for a silent arena any day...