[I feel compelled to apologize for the use of my describing myself in the third person in this graphic, but I’ve decided to blame ChatGPT since it created it for me.]
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (Mary Oliver)
2025. Not a fan.
I lost my brother suddenly to a skiing accident on April 4th.
In June, I forced myself to return to some rhythm of normalcy, working out and riding. I fractured three transverse processes in my lumbar spine when Dunkin stumbled out on trail, and caught himself in dramatic fashion. (Dunk does embrace drama in all its forms.)
I thought I had a heightened sense of mortality. It is a matter of pride, almost. Worn like armor, I suspect, by anyone who lost a parent at a young age. In my case, my mom.
But this was different. My brother died doing something he loved. Too young, too soon, my peer, with too much living remaining to be done. I had an accident that could have been much, much worse. Doing something I loved.
It was the first time I ever questioned whether the risk of riding was tap dancing on ‘too much.’
And my style of riding, which means lots of miles, frequently solo, and often involving long-distance trailering and camping. That’s my jam.
I’m a safety consultant. I’m paid to understand and mitigate risk. That’s also my jam.
So I did what every sane individual does.
I had chats with my mom and my brother about it.
My mom, no surprise, mostly silent on the matter. She’s never presented me with any billboards in the half-century she’s been gone. I reminded myself of the ‘risky’ things she did in the 60s and early 70s. She was no shrinking violet, Peggy.
My brother, his presence more recent, more palpable, was like someone standing just outside my peripheral vision. I could almost hear the one-liners, the casually tossed off commentary, the shrug of his shoulders. Really, I knew his vote before I asked.
So I did what a horsewoman on the sane end of the bell curve does. [I brag about my residency there, at the sane end of the thing. I don’t look around too closely to see if anyone is rolling their eyes at this proclamation.]
I went horse shopping.
I decided I was looking for a Morgan. A gelding. A fairly young one. My on-the-verge-of-lady-of-a-certain-age horse.
I traveled to see one handsome and green four year old gelding out of state. He was charming and fancy, and also a little NQR (not quite right) on his left front. I was disappointed, but I got some great hiking in, as my back fractures allowed, fabulous Mexican food and margaritas, and the exquisite company of my friend Joanie.
Hiking and gorgeous Southwest scenery with Joanie. Excellent consolation prize for visiting a potential horse who was not a match.
Within days another horse hit my radar. A 100% Lippitt Morgan, 7 years old, used almost exclusively for driving. A very ‘made’ driving horse, but green under saddle. His name was Atticus. (Since I loved To Kill A Mockingbird, I was tempted to send a down payment, sight unseen, based solely on his name.)
I flew to see him. Fargo, North Dakota. Which was just exactly as I recall it from the movie “Fargo” minus the snow. Someone joked that you could “watch your dog run away for three days.” There was a practicality and kind honesty about everyone I met there that I think of as being iconic upper Midwest.
As I drove to the farm from the hotel, my brother and my mom sent me a few signs. Having claimed sanity on the socially acceptable side of the bell curve, I will not disclose those in writing, but they involve wildlife and a specific song from ABBA.
I got to see Atticus load patiently in a stock trailer with an entire herd of ponies to head to a local show. Got to see him tied to said trailer while the show activities proceeded around him, and his herd mates came and went.
I mean, doesn’t this side eye from Atticus say “I want to come home and live with you?” I chalk this image up to bad timing with my iPhone.
Watched him get ridden. Climbed aboard myself. My first time swinging a leg over a saddle since my spinal fractures.
It felt like I belonged.
Oh, but he was green under saddle.
He turned, sort of, most of the time, but his owner had the privilege of driving him and translating rein and voice aids from the familiar to the new as she sat on him. He’d had a good start, but it was just that. A start.
I felt a bit like I was speaking a foreign language to a toddler learning the language themselves, a toddler occasionally distracted by something bright and shiny.
Are you misunderstanding, or are you ignoring me?
And Atticus was not without a bit of spunk. He seemed happy to fill any vacuum of opinion with his own decisions.
It made me smile.
I headed off to a local bar to think about my decision and to watch the Bills spank the NY Jets. Another sign.
I headed back to the farm to tell Atticus’ owner that I wanted to buy him, assuming he passed a few vet tests. He did.
He arrived here in South Carolina in mid-October.
After two days and nights on a horse trailer, Atticus arrives at our place safe and sound, and I look like I just got my first pony for Christmas. Dunk lurks in the background, contemplating whether he really wants another roommate.
I am finding myself for the first time in when-was-Ace-a-four-year-old? years bringing along a green horse. (I did the math. It’s been 22+ years.)
I’m figuring it out all over again. I’m remembering what I used to know, testing the theory of older and wiser. I’m determined not to make the same mistakes I’ve made in the past.
I have help, as usual, reliant on my tribe for their wisdom.
I’m happy to share that journey, as a training journal of sorts. I’ve already made a few new mistakes I’ll be obliged to share.
You in?