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Copyright 2008 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
May 2008 Issue
I love the smell of horses. It’s a musky, wild smell. It does
not come from a bottle; you cannot just pin a brand name on it and put
it on anything you choose. For any of you who have grown up around them,
and have had a chance to bury your face into the neck of your favorite
mare and take a long, deep breath, you know what I’m talking about. It
is a unique, wonderful smell, and always when I breathe it in I feel
comforted.
I heard once that the sense of smell is related directly to
memory. For some people, when they catch a whiff of apple pie they are
reminded of their mother, if she was into making such culinary delights.
The smell of horses does to me what the smell of apple pie may do to
someone else. It always brings the face of one person to mind. When I was 11, my mother left my father. This
is a traumatic experience for a young child, and no matter how much my
unhappy mom may have thought it was a good move for the family, it still
left me crying in my bed for months. Now, looking back, I sometimes
wonder why I was so upset over this turn of events. My father was never
exactly an outstanding authority figure. I knew he loved me, but in
truth he was more like another child in the house than a father. Because
of this, I wasn’t particularly close to him, but he was still my
father, and it was painful to see him go.
So when my mom moved us to
It didn’t help that I was a painfully shy child at that age. I
had just entered middle school, and between the move and my mother and
father’s divorce, I was having a hard time adjusting.
But maybe the loneliness these changes caused is why I became
close to Jack so fast. Within a year, we were closer than I would have
thought possible, especially considering my original feelings towards
him. I looked at him as my true father figure, and began to strive to be
more like him, which was not an easy thing. He was the essence of
confidence, and I had no self-esteem. He could do just about anything,
from computer programming to painting, and I felt as if I had no talent. So Jack made it his personal goal to help me
find my place in life, the thing that would make me feel like a person
whom I could be proud of. He worked with me in art, and I found I
wasn’t that bad at sketching, and had somewhat of a natural talent
with pastels. He helped me become less afraid of the world around me,
and showed me that I was able to do things on my own.
But the real breakthrough didn’t happen until the middle of my
eighth-grade year when we moved back to
My mother had bought two horses before her divorce from my
father: an old beat-up mare named Dapples and her filly, Mariah. But my
mom hadn’t been around horses since she was a child, and between all
the travelling she did for her job and my father’s fear of horses,
Mariah had become spoiled to the point where any new person who walked
into our field could expect to receive a kick. From my father I had also
developed a deep fear of any horse that wasn’t miniature, which
didn’t help the situation either.
As I said before, Jack had many talents. But the thing that he
was best at was working with horses. I’ve seen him take
a horse that had her head bashed in by a fence post, a supposedly
“crazy” horse, and be riding her around within a month. I
call him our personal horse whisperer, and anybody who ever watched him
in action would agree that he really is that good with them.
So when we moved back to Stevensville, he began to work with
Mariah. Between Jack and my mom, they had her calmed down to where she
no longer thought she was the princess of the house. Just the duchess.
At the same time, Jack began to work with me. We bought an old
mare named Dolly. She was a red roan and, though she was really 18, she
looked like she was twelve. She was short, had a bit of an ornery
streak, and was the horse that Mom and Jack decided to start me on.
Jack would put me on that mare and he’d have me do things I’d
never imagined I’d have the courage to do. I was careening over
ditches at a full gallop, without a saddle, since my parents thought
everybody should learn to ride a horse bareback. I was bucking out the
pony my parents had bought for my little brother and sister (and if you
are thinking of buying a Shetland, I advise against it). Sometimes I
would fall off and hit the dirt with enough force to rattle my teeth,
but somehow I always found the courage to get back on. And the whole time, Jack was standing there,
giving encouragement when I needed it and making smart-ass remarks when
it looked as if I would give up. He helped me fight through every
setback, and after awhile, I could take that mare anywhere.
The whole time Jack was working with me, he was working with
Mariah. I still remember the day he first got on her back. I couldn’t
believe what an amazing job she did. She didn’t try to buck, she
responded well to all of his commands, and for once, she didn’t look
at everybody as if you were the next one going to get a hoof in the
back.
That Christmas, my parents gave me a headstall, and a note
telling me that a horse came with it. They had given me Mariah. I was
terrified. Jack had just started training her under saddle, and she was
still very “green.” Yet they were giving her to me. I thought of the
near miss I’d experienced that day when she had been impatient with me
while I was bringing out her grain. She had attempted to take a chunk
out of me instead. I cringed thinking about it.
But a part of me was excited, too. This was a way to improve my
riding skills, and I actually got to start training my first horse! I
have to admit, though, the excitement faded as soon as spring hit, and I
actually had to get on her back.
I know that sometimes I frustrated Jack with my fear, but again
he helped me work through it. He yelled and gave me hugs and told me I
was a great horsewoman. He did what it took to get me through whatever
dilemma I was facing that day with Mariah. Sometimes he’d make me cry,
but I always finished my ride.
Soon my fear faded, and I realized that I really could do this,
and that I wasn’t a bad rider at all. In fact, I knew Jack thought I
could go a long way in the horse world. And even when he found out I
didn’t have enough of a competitive streak to take my horse to a show
or race her around barrels, he still gave me the support I needed. Soon
my horse, though still quite bad-tempered and mischievous, was a horse I
was pretty proud to be around. At the same time Jack was helping me gain my
confidence around horses; he was helping me with confidence in life. I
was able to make friends more easily on my own, and I really felt as if
I could do whatever I wanted to. When I had a problem, I usually went to
him about it. When my very first boyfriend found a different girl, his
was the shoulder that I cried on. He had changed my life for the better.
As long as he was around, I could always find confidence in myself.
But in the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, Jack
started to get sick. He was weak all of the time, and vulnerable to
illnesses. Sometimes he’d spend whole weeks in bed. The Jack I had
grown to love started to fade. He was never in a good mood, and too sick
to go out riding with me.
When my mom finally got him to go to the doctor, we were shocked
to learn he had a golf-ball-sized tumor in his neck. They scheduled
surgery for him immediately. He went in with a 40% chance of survival.
The doctors were shocked when he came through the surgery successfully,
and told us it was his strong will to live that had gotten him through
it. We were all relieved, but a shadow was cast over our happiness when
we were told he probably wouldn’t live longer than three years.
His health had improved, though he still had his rough days. I
graduated high school, and started my freshman year of college at MSU in
the fall of 2003. That year, his health again started to fail, until
finally I got a call telling me Jack had had a stroke, and was in the
hospital. I skipped a couple of days of classes, and drove home to see
him. When I got there, I discovered he had lost sight in his right eye. Unexpectedly, Jack was in a great mood, or at
least when he wasn’t yelling at doctors about letting him out of the
hospital, he was in a great mood. After a couple of days, he regained
sight in his eye, and had received no permanent damage. Again the
doctors put a damper on our happiness by telling us he would most likely
have more strokes, and again gave us a time limit. Eight months to a
year. It’s a terrible feeling, being told that this is “your last
Thanksgiving,” that I will only be able to buy him one more gag gift
for his birthday, and that the number of his hugs and our horseback
rides had a limit.
But still, I cling to the hope that the doctors are wrong. That
he will fight past the illnesses that always seem to plague his body,
and stay with us that much longer.
Though I still have hope, I know one day he will have to let go.
I will never give up in life, because I know it isn’t what he would
do. He would fight to the end. That’s what I hope I’ll always do.
And I know that every time I breathe in the sweet, musky smell of
a horse, I’ll remember him, and in doing that remember the strength
that I have within me, and that there isn’t anything that I can’t
do. And though I call him Jack, in my mind I always will think of him as
Dad. Editor’s note: Ronnie’s mom sent us her
story, written for an English class a few years ago. Ronnie wrote us in
January 2008 that “Jack is still alive (and hopefully will be for
awhile),” but had just had another operation for cancer. “I’m in
school for Liberal Studies, with a focus in English, Sociology, and
possibly Religious Studies. Jack and I remain close, though with school
and work I don’t see him as much as I’d like. He’s one of my
biggest supporters.”
Copyright 2008 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
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