Gina Rarick's yard at Maisons-Laffitte

Satwa Sunrise and her neighbors

Ever since I was a child, I have been crazy for horses. Like every other kid, I read all the books, Misty of Chincoteague, and everything else by Marguerite Henry, Black Beauty, My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara, and dreamed she was my friend, and The Black Stallion series by Walter Farley. It was Alec and Henry and their black stallion who captured my imagination more than any of them. I lived the races with them, and I dreamed of the racecourses down which the black stallion beat out his winning rhythm.

My grandparents lived outside a small city on the Saint Lawrence River in far northern New York State. Up the road were two farms. One in which my uncle stacked hay in the hayloft; the other more majestic. It was just  a little farther up the road and on the other side. The Carlisle's farm. They had horses, paddocks and a ring. My  uncle put a cushion on the crossbar of his red Schwinn bicycle and rode me up to the farm to play in the hay and maybe help me a little, but it was the Carlisle's farm of which I dreamed. We rarely went there.

I remember once, and I don't know how or why, being there with our mother with my sister. We each got to get up on a horse, our first time. I couldn't have been older than 8, my sister 5. I sat on that horse, facing the horse barn, and my mother said, "It's your sister who is a natural, not you." I was stung, but I did not want anyone to know. I don't remember anyone else being there to hear her words or to see my disappointment, but someone must have been holding the lead. That, or it was the gentlest, tamest old horse in the barn.

I supposed it was fair. I loved skiing and waited all the warmer months for the snow to fall, going down to the basement to look at all the ski equipment hanging from and leaning against the concrete block walls. My sister didn't. If she hadn't already, she would soon go out one morning, a blizzard blowing freezing air and heavy snow across the region, the Lake Effect, God love it, and declare to our father, "No. I am not going to ski," and she didn't. She turned around and went back into the lodge, where we found her for lunch. That was her last time to the slopes with us. So, perhaps it was fair that horseback riding was for her, but neither of us got to do any of it, anyway. It was inaccessibly far and expensive, and we each relegated horses to our dreams and met them in our books.

It was a couple years ago, when my stepdaughter was going through a first rough patch, that I asked her if she wanted to ride. Her eyes grew three sizes and her whole face opened in excitement. She nodded yes.

"Mais, Papa ne voudra pas."

"On s'en fou. Tu me laisse gérer Papa. Je veux bien pour toi."


Papa won't want me to ride. 


We don't care a fig about that. Let me take care of Papa. I want that for you. 


Her first session, that July 2009, she was timid, reserved, and absolutely delighted. They learned basic care of the ponies and led them to the paddock. Mounted them, and learned to sit, to hold the reins, to start and stop. To try to change direction. I had no idea where we were going and whether she wouldn't finally decide it wasn't for her; whether she wasn't too timid, afraid, finally. Several months later, during the winter, she had her first galop of the 9, like your first star in skiing, and Julie, the director of the pony club, told me very simply that she was gifted. her father was more restrained.

"On verra."

"Mais tu ne l'as pas vu monter et Julie a vu passer des tas d'enfants; quel serait son intérêt de dire une telle chose si ce n'était pas vrai?"

We'll see.


But you haven't seen her ride and Julie has seen tons of kids; what would be her interest in saying something like that if it were not true? 

Still, he demurred, and his daughter continued to pass her galops "au galop". The second, the third, the first part of the fourth last winter, a year and a half after she had first gotton on Frimeur's sturdy back. She as jumping, and she had competed in her first unofficial competitions without ever losing a huge smile on her face. Jumps, speed, nothing made her afraid. It delighted her. I brought her father to see Julie with me, and she told him, "Votre fille est douée."

Your daughter is gifted.

The French respect what they consider expert opinion, even if we were not seated in front of the director of the national team. At this level, it was enough. He started to come to see her jump, and he realized: she rides beautifully, with grace, composure, assurance and joy.

If I were never going to ride, she would ride as far as her talent and ambition, and our means, stretched, could take her. Not that she didn't want me to ride; when she started, she offered me a crop. It sits at the bottom of the stairs, with the unused backgammon set, a box of bills and my stable boots. I got those a long time ago for walking the dogs, working outdoors and general wearing when I don't particularly care about my elegance, or most of the time. I have made progress, though. I now where Ugg boots for that.

Two weeks ago, Julie scheduled her to finish her galop 4. It was way past time, and not liking dressage is not reason not to pass it, and a little before then, just before the Breeder's Cup, I saw the New York Times was starting their blog, The Rail, again and looked it over, including the contributors. Imagine my surprise when I learn that one of them is a woman, a professional thoroughbred racehorse trainer at the Maisons-Laffitte international training center, just outside Paris, and that she is from the United States. Her name is Gina Rarick, and I sent her an email through her blog on her site, GallopFrance.com, and, she replied. We were welcome to come to visit her and the yard, and, better still, she had had a number of girls my stepdaughter's age work with them and it had always worked out beautifully.

We went to see Gina and the horses and everyone who works with her last Saturday morning, but that's another story, for another post.

Meanwhile, I have been back to help muck out the boxes, clean up the hay and straw storage rooms for a delivery -- I got rid of as much cough and respiratory problem-inducing dust as was humanly possible; horses are meant to run, not stay home with a cough --, and feed and give water to these gorgeous creatures: Satwa Sunrise ("Sunrise"), Magical Flower ("Magic"), King Driver ("King"), Deep Ocean, Triple Tonic, Hard Boy and Surrey Storm ("Milly"). And I acquitted myself decently.

My stepdaughter will be returning every Saturday morning to help out, and eventually to exercise the horses, if she is ready. I am in training for the 5:30 am weekly Saturday morning alarm, in addition to the ones that will ring Sundays for competitions.

Right now, I need to hurry up and get ready to meet Gina over near the highway to Horse Breeding land, Normandy. We're going to the farm where she rests her horses to meet a young woman coming to take one she had to retire and is giving away in exchange for a good home for her.

As for me, I might not ride, but, who knows, perhaps I will invest in a share in a thoroughbred.
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The first jumping competition

Capucine and Papouille

Today was the first jumping competition for Capucine, who began riding last July. She passed her first "Galop" (pronounced ga-low) in the fall and started in the class for the 2nd Galop, moving into the group working toward their 3rd Galop before Thanksgiving. It has been noted that she is making progress very rapidly. I told her, when she began, that only one person decides how far and how fast she can go: herself.

One dream coming true.

I wish it were so easy for my son.

Her run. Sorry it's so dark. It's worse here than on my computer.




And the last jumps. She had a no-fault in 57 seconds. The winner had a no-fault in 44, but she was on a Shetland. The Shetlands took the top places, while the double ponies were at 51, 52 and then 57 seconds. The Shetlands can cut their turns between jumps closer.



Ouf. You can't see a thing on these. I guess you have to come look at the ones on my hard drive.

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The first day, Frimeur

Cleaning the shoes

Yesterday was the first session of Capucine's summer riding camp. I picked her up at 2:49, only 4 minutes late (I cannot tell a lie; I was not there on the stroke of a quarter to the hour.), and she appeared in her riding pants, boots, and chaps, her helmet in the bag on her back.

"Bonjour, Jacqueline!" She was grinning.

"Salut, Capucine. T'es prête?" She nodded yes; she was ready and eager. The clouds had been scudding overhead all morning, issuing sudden bursts of downpour. I looked up through the windshield.

"Je ne sais pas si vous allez avoir un temps convenable, mais je suis certaine qu'ils ont prévu quelque chose dans le cas des intemperies." Surely, they would, I thought, have something planned in the event of downpour. There is an indoor riding ring, but maybe, I thought, they keep that for the more experienced riders? I hoped they would. We talked on the way to the stables, a 15-minute drive across the boucle de la Seine to the ridge above Bonnières sur Seine, and arrived only a couple of minutes past 2 pm. The place seemed deserted, until we approached the stables, and there were riders, horses and smaller children looking a little nervous on their first day everywhere.

"Salut, Capucine," Julie welcomed her.

"Vous avez une très bonne memoire," I said. One of those stupid things you say to be nice and fade into the woodwork all at once. Of course she remembered Capucine.

"C'est parce que je l'attends avec impatience." Of course she was waiting for Capucine. She expected her in class. I assumed my place of invisibility, somewhere behind the only other parental figure still present. My cue to go ahead and leave, but not before I had shown Capucine that I wasn't dumping her, but leaving her confident that she'd have a good session. I snapped pictures, and the children learned to groom their ponies, Julie handing Capucine a too small anorak to protect her from the rain that had begun to fall again.

Mental note: stop at Decathlon before taking her home and get her an anorak.

After what felt like a decent period, I gathered my things and sidled past the kids, Julie and the ponies with a glance at Capucine to say, "I'm leaving, and you'll be fine. I'll be back." She nodded back, imperceptibly.

It poured while I sat at home and tried to work on my entry addition drawings, mostly letting myself get sidetracked with variously amusing threads on Facebook, daydreaming about horses and jumping, how I'd feel starting from scratch and learning from women half my age. Your sister is the natural, our mother said. It's funny how you believe your parents. Forever. Best not to listen to them when it isn't life-threatening, or academic record-threatening, either. Maybe we'll get to that. Maybe we won't.

When I returned, they were still in the smaller paddock, working on turning in the saddle to face backwards and then front again. Capucine had switched and was mounted on the very slightly taller Frimeur. Much littler Paul was on Bambina, and 10-year-old-going-on-11-year-old Anne, a head taller than Capucine, who is not a size 12 but more like a size 10 we learned trying on anoraks at Decathlon afterwards, was mounted on the sleek dark pony. Paul looked a little consternated. He was having listening and instruction following issues, but he was managing and Julie was manifesting infinite patience while demonstrating focus.

I watched and took more pictures.

"C'est un bridge?" a voice asked me. I turned and saw the mother standing nearby, a pocket-sized digital camera in her hand. She was slipping it into her pocket.

"Excusez-moi?"

"Un brigde. Votre appareil de photo, c'est un compact, un réflexe ou un bridge?" I thought that was what she was getting at. I felt my vocabulary suddenly dry up just when it was clear that I was about to have a conversation with a digital camera connaisseuse. Damn.

"Oui, c'est un bridge." How odd, I thought, that she isn't starting in with the 'And is this your daughter's first time, too?' line of questioning.

"C'est bien. J'ai mon compact, mais le zoom n'est pas très bon." Alright I thought. Let's go, and I'll do my best.

"C'est quoi comme zoom? 3x?" She nodded.

"Oui, est ce n'est pas très bien comme le votre l'est pour prendre les photos d'elle de loin." The conversation ranged from the digital SLRs in the amateur enthusiast range that interest us to the possibility of using les objectifs from our old appareil photo argentiques. It was nearing time to approach the topic of the children. I started first, and when she answered me, I realized that was what she had been artfully setting up all along. I admired her skill.

"C'est la première seance pour votre fille aussi?" I asked.

"Oui," she confirmed. "Elle fait un essai pour voir si ça lui plait vraiment. Elle a fait de golf avant."

"Ah, c'est autre chose le poney. Ce n'est pas ma fille, mais celle de mon mari, mais je lui ai proposé de faire de poney parce que j'ai eu le sentiment que ça lui plairait beaucoup et je pense que de monter peut donner beaucoup de confiance et d'aissance à un enfant. Elle en manque un peu, pas dans toutes les circonstances, mais souvent dans les situations sociales qu'elle ne maîtrise pas facilement --" I let it drift. You know my line of thinking if you have read this from the other day.

"Oui," she nodded, "est la relation avec l'animal est très important."

"C'est exactement ce que j'allais dire."

"Capucine --" she started to say, and I understood then that she knew her.

"Mais, vous connaissez déjà Capucine?"

"Oui, j'ai été sa maîtresse en CP," she smiled and introduced herself.

"Alors, vous connaissez également mon mari, son père?"

"Pas vraiment. J'ai eu beaucoup plus affaire avec sa mère." I nodded. That was my first year of marriage. The first year I knew Capucine.

"Oui, j'imagine. Son père est médecin hospitalier et travaille beaucoup." She nodded understandingly.

"C'est un métier très prenant." With her help, we had learned who we were and gotten through it with ease. It's not easy when you perhaps know more about the person with whom you have affaire than they can possibly know you do, and it isn't likely very nice. We talked on about her son, her work, my son, and the children finished cleaning their ponies' shoes and joined us.

"Alors, ça t'a plu encore, je vois, Capucine." She nodded, her face and arms still flushed a little red, and a band from the front pad of her helmet pressed into her high forehead. "La bombe n'est pas trop petite, j'espère?" She nodded no.

"Ca va." The teacher turned to her daughter, seated on the bench in front of us.

"Tu veux venir encore?"

"Oui!" she replied, adding, "Quand Capucine viendra encore."

"Capucine," I said to her.

"Vendredi," she supplied.

"Allez, à vendredi," said her old teacher.

"Et nous allons chercher un anorak, si tu penses que ce ne gênerait pas Maman, Capucine. Tu peux l'appeler, si tu veux."

"Ca ne posera pas de problème," dit elle. Smiling.


....

New habits

Capucine mounts for the first time

Tell me, if you can, what young girl does not look more beautiful in a riding helmet? And more still in riding habit?

It's been a long struggle for me, one I knew I was going to lose because I needed to. It was a matter of time and some combination of mystery and magic that cannot be named that did the work. Correction: that is doing the work. It's not done yet.

She is my youngest stepchild, the youngest of my husband's five children, the second from his second relationship, a relationship the end of which didn't make our beginning easy. I started with the best of intentions; I nearly finished with the worst. I was trying to aim for something in between, something that resembled the Hippocratic oath; do no harm. The problem is that with children, that is not enough; in fact, it is doing harm. You have to do better, even if it kills you.

Our friends gave me the best advice, for years. It amounted to "let their father take his responsibility; you are not responsible" and "be kind". I wanted him to do things the way I would; I didn't want to be kind. That kind of thinking leads straight to one place, one place neither one of us wanted to go: divorce court. In the case of my own childhood, it led to our father letting us go. I married a man very different from my own father. I like to think that I did that on purpose. I like to think that if we are committed, doomed to repeat our own histories, perhaps changing roles along the way, it isn't to make the same mistakes our parents -- however many were involved, for better or for worse -- made, but to learn from them.

That, it turns out, is easier said than done.

Perhaps, I justified, if we had had a child together, it would have been easier to hold my heart open. Maybe, I told anyone who would listen, if their mother were more like I am, it would be smoother. Surely, we all nodded in agreement, if she didn't hate me so much, it would be easier. But, the fact remained, none of that was going to be any different or change. Close your eyes and reopen them in front of the mirror as many times as you like, you will still see you; do the same in front of the Polaroid of your life, and you will still see your life, with all the same people in all the same situations.

But, it's not working!, you wail.

But, I'm not happy!, you lament, looking for someone to make it all better.

Have a temper tantrum, pout, refuse, dig your heels in, the fact remains: the situation isn't going to change until you do.

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.
And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.

Yeah. Thanks, Luke. And Mark, and Matthew, and James, and Leviticus and Romans and Galatians and Ephesians.

And what if I don't like her? What if she really annoys me? What if she dresses really badly and sucks her thumb and wants her "doudou" still? And, what if her mother really resents me, and what if her father really loves me? I can hear the apostles tapping their feet and sighing.

There's no fighting Jesus. Go ahead. Try. You can be a secular humanist, and it's still pretty hard to argue with Jesus. You can struggle with it all you want. You can flirt with depression and divorce, but it isn't going to change. If you want to live, you have to love.

"Tu veux monter à cheval?" I looked from the corner of my eye at the 12-year-old girl, riding shotgun. Unusual because I never take her anywhere. I made a first step and asked if she wanted to come with me to get some new fish. It was a chance to talk about the "crise" of the night before. The one that started in the car on the way home from family's for dinner, and exploded as soon as we walked in the door at 1 am, the final bouquet finally only coming at 3 am, after 2 hours of non-stop screaming, shouting and sobbing. That "crise". The smile crept across her face. She nodded yes.

I had tried translations of my favorite books from my childhood. Her cousin prefers them.

I thought I would take her shopping for a new wardrobe. It wasn't, it turns out, the place to start, but I didn't know that yet.

The place to start was inside me, and the second place is inside her.

"Je t'amenerai alors."

"Mais papa ne veut pas."

"Papa voudra. Je m'en occuperai. T'inquiète pas." And dad did.

"Merci," he said.

"C'est normal," I said.

"Je te chercherai mercredi à 13 h 30," I told her. "Sois prète et attends-moi au portail. Je ne sonnerai pas." She was at the gate, peering through the slats.

"Merci. C'est vraiment gentil de m'amener. Je suis très heureuse," she said, very -- as Jane Austen would say -- prettily. Very simply.

"Moi aussi," I said.

We rode in the car together. We walked together. We talked companionably. She could have been my daughter. I almost didn't take the camera. She's not my daughter. Take the camera. Her father will be thrilled to see the pictures. She will be happy to have them. You will be happy to take them. Alright, I've got the camera. I took 100 pictures. She looked proud.

"Il y a la bombe à 29,00 euros et il y a celle-là à 49,00. Le visier est souple, il y a des trous de ventilation et de la mousse pour absorber la transpiration," said the sales girl. It was 34°C in the sun. We all sweat today. I thought of her father and what he would do. He'd buy the less expensive one. No, wait -- I was there with her, not he; he was leaving it to me to decide. He'd be happy whatever I decided. The sales girl handed her the deep, soft brown velvet helmet with the flexible visor -- in the event of a shock; God forbid --, the ventilation and the perspiration absorbing foam. It was lovely.

"Essaie celle-ci aussi, pour voir." The sales girl put the black velvet one on.

"Tu es mieux dans laquelle des deux?" asked the sales girl.

"Elles sont pareilles," she said.

"Remets l'autre," I said. The sales girl put it on her head. She blushed and looked happier than I have seen her since I stopped being kind, a long time ago, when her mother told her not to wear the winter jacket we bought her, that she loved. I nodded.

"On prendra celle-là." She would not say the more expensive one. Not until I had made the decision in favor of her comfort, even if her head will still grow.

"En fait," she said, "J'ai eu très chaud à la tête cet après-midi." I nodded. I could have been excused for chosing the less expensive one, without the foam and ventilation, in November, but in July weather, with temperatures hot enough to fry the brain, it was a no brainer. Be kind.

The sales lady proposed the bag to carry it in, to keep the horse hairs off it. They are, it seems, difficult to remove. "Et le sac aussi," I said. I thought she might burst. We went to have her try on the pants, and left the sporting goods store with the short boots (like mine that I use for the motorcycle, my motorized horse), chaps, riding pants, socks, and the helmet and its bag.

"Merci," she said to me. "C'est vraiment gentil. Je pense que je vais faire plus qu'une année de cheval."

"J'espère," I told her, "que tu en feras beaucoup d'années de cheval." We drove her home.

"Et maintenant, quand mes cousines parlent du cheval, je vais pouvoir comprendre et parler avec elles." I nodded. That was also the intention. It isn't clothes that make you like others, and it isn't clothes that give you the confidence to speak up; it's sharing things in common and having the sort of real confidence that comes from accomplishment.

"A mardi alors." She thanked me again, got out of the car and headed to the gate, open, waiting for her return to leave for the weekend. "Capucine?" She turned and looked back. "13 h 45 ira mardi." Her first 3-hour summer session, twice a week for the month of July, is Tuesday. She smiled and nodded. She'll be ready, in her riding clothes, next week.

"Pourquoi tu ne montes pas avec elle?" asked my husband. He was home when I returned from the supermarket later. I was showing him the pictures. He hadn't expected any.

"Elle me disait la même chose."

"Ca serait super. Inscris-toi en même temps qu'elle."

"Elle d'abord,et on verra pour moi plus tard."

"Merci," said my husband, "C'est vraiment gentil." I nodded.

I am going to have to get used to being nice. It appears that the horseback riding is going to help more than just one of us do some growing.



I can fight it, but I might just be shelving the arsenic sauce.



Beauty is something that starts inside, with pride.
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