This same time, years previous: roasted red pepper soup, old-fashioned brown sugar cookies, the dogwood wild runner, my answer, why it ain’t happening, anticipating the mothballs, and potential.  

This is Isaac. He will be living with us for the winter.

Normally, Isaac lives and works at a camp for disabled people, which happens to be the same camp that my daughter volunteers for. This is the same camp where she was volunteering when she got hooked up with the farm where she now works. So, first she gleaned a job and now a horse. Moral of story: volunteering pays!

Actually, that’s not the moral. There is no moral. It’s just a story.

Anyway, a month or so ago, our neighbor (and one of the lead volunteers at the camp) stopped me as I was passing her house on my way home from my morning run. We have this horse at the camp and he’s getting sick of going in circles around the ring, she said. He needs someone to ride him. Would your daughter like to take him and ride him this winter?

Privately, my husband and I discussed the factors: electric fence installment, sufficient pasture space, large animal on the property. Within minutes (if not seconds) we agreed it was a not-to-be-missed opportunity. We told our daughter. She hit the roof.

Somehow, in all the conversation about Isaac, I got the idea that he was old, as in almost-dead old. I pictured him as a crotchety, rundown horse, slow moving and placid. So when my daughter walked him into the yard last night, I was caught off-guard.

Isaac was clearly not old, run-down, or placid. He was gorgeous and enormous. When I expressed my surprise to my neighbor, she said, “Oh, no. Isaac’s not old. He’s in his prime!”

After walking him around the perimeter of the field—a home-tour, if you will—my daughter removed the halter. Isaac tore around the pasture, kicking his heels and freaking me out because it looked like he’d run straight into the fence.

Because he belongs to the camp, they provide his feed, vet and farrier services, and tack. Our children can ride him (we’ve signed the paperwork) but not anyone else. And actually, only my older daughter has complete access to Isaac. She’ll teach the other children to ride, sure, but Isaac is her responsibility and privilege.

Last night before bed, I stepped out on the deck. I shone a flashlight down through the field. Isaac’s eyes glowed green. I shut the light off. He snorted and stamped. In the thick dark, the horse noises seemed quite close.

There’s a horse in our yard, people. This is weird.

This same time, years previous: home, party on, the quotidian (10.10.11). what we came up with, green soup with ginger, and happy pappy-style cornbread.  

Before heading off to work, my daughter always tells me if she has a jumping lesson scheduled for that day and what time it will be. She’s forever hopeful that I will come watch.

Days she is at work, I hold in the back of my mind an awareness that she’s working with horses and accidents might happen. When she’s jumping, my awareness is heightened. I’m not fretting and worrying, and most of the time I’m not even aware of my awareness, but when the phone rings, I get a slight ping of what-if panic, a little kick of adrenaline.

A couple weeks ago the phone rang. It was my daughter. She was supposed to be in the middle of a jumping lesson. Cue the adrenaline rush.

Her (at least it was my daughter and not the instructor, whew): Hi, Mom. It finally happened.

Me: Yes…?

Her: I fell off.

Me: Are you okay?

Her: Yeah, I’m fine. My mouth still has sand in it, but I’m going to go get another drink of water.

Then she filled me in about how the horse was going over the jump and did some weird wiggle thing mid-air and she went flying, landing ten feet away. Her shoulder and hip were sore, but otherwise she was just fine.

Her: I’m going to finish the lesson now. I just wanted to tell you.

She called again after the lesson was over. “It was the best lesson ever!” she said. “Now I know what falling off is like!” She made it sound like such fun that I wished I’d been there to see the drama firsthand.

Last week, at her behest, I showed up for a jumping lesson, camera in hand. I find her lessons super confusing because horse-speak is a completely different language. But it’s interesting, too. I always learn bunches.

For example:

*My daughter is doing “gymnastic jumping.” It’s called this because the horse is doing two consecutive jumps—he goes over, down, and over again. Voilà, gymnastic jumping.
*It seems like the lesson is as much for the horse as it is for my daughter. The horse is like a second person, opinionated and moody with a mind of his own. The instructor is forever asking, Did you start that canter or was that the horse? And the entire lesson centers around warming the horse up and then getting him in a good frame of mind for listening. It’s fascinating.
*The instructor can tell when the horse “has a poop in him” and whether or not he can wait to go. (!)

No mishaps occurred while I was there, though there was one point where the horse nearly went down.

It was over in a second and no big to-do was made, except for the instructor scolding the horse for being “sloppy.”

The barn is dark and there’s lots to watch, so it wasn’t till I got home and had a chance to study my photos that I saw even more of what is happening. Like how my daughter always chews her lip before taking the horse over the jump.

Also, I got to admire her makeshift riding boots: my old ankle boots with the mismatched laces. Classy.

This same time, years previous: clouds and apple pie.