Story: John and Huntsman Take the Blue

I wrote this story in 1997, the day my brother John died. I added it to a collection I called the "Knollwood Farm Stories," favorites of my preschoolers at Moonwhistle School in San Francisco.

 

Back in the 1960s my brother John was the best rider New York’s southern tier had ever seen, everybody said so. I can explain why: John learned to ride on a pink pony named Little Dipper, who by all rights should have been named Big Brat.

            Dipper was a strawberry roan with sides like a barrel and quick little legs that featured a jackhammer trot, a trot also prone to sudden 90-degree turns. Dipper lived for one thing: silence. Not just any old silence, but an I’ll-Breathe-For-The-Rest-Of-You silence that stretched from a child’s last giggly bounce in the saddle, through stages of launch, flight, and re-entry, to the fabulous cacophony of human mortification that always came next. That was it. Two, maybe three seconds of downright perfect silence, then on with the show. The instant the child hit the ground Dipper would freeze, a gentleman after all, not to be accused of cold-heartedness. This was an animal with instinct. I shall describe his methods.

            First, there was the extreme snack attack. Quicker than clicks in a 4H slide show, Dipper could switch from Jolly Pony at Brisk Trot to Serenely Grazing Farm Animal. He would just stop dead, drop his head and grab a mouthful of grass while the whippersnapper up top flew through the air. Tossing his head once, maybe to shake off a horse laugh, Dipper would then let it droop in feigned remorse as if to say, “I can’t think what came over me.”

            Now, if you were a girl growing up with a pink pony in the field outside your window, you might, periodically, owing to the vicissitudes of childhood, flirt with the following logic: if John can do it, I can; he’s only two years older than me, and I’m a lot bigger than I was last time I tried to ride Dipper; besides, he’s only a little pony. This is what Dipper loved about kids. We always came back for more, and he got to play pretty pony, nice pony, anything-you-want pony—right up to the moment when you said, “Look Mom! I’m riding Dipper!” Then he’d streak for the apple tree, duck under the lowest branch and scrape you neatly off his back. If you were quick with your hands, you’d end up suspended in the tree, legs flailing. If not, you got one more lesson in the law of gravity (and the perils of pink).

            Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t we ride Dipper inside the ring, where there was no juicy grass, no apple tree? That would have been safe, right? Oh, clever reader, the nice pony would have loved you, too. He would have walked when you asked him to walk, trotted on cue, your wish his command. Too bad if your leg got scraped against the rail all the way around the ring! So maybe he was a little chubby, was that a crime?

            Dipper was smart, did I mention that? He’d pull his most insidious trick before you even got on his back. As you know or may have guessed, what holds a saddle on a horse’s back is a broad belt, a “girth” running under his belly and buckled to the saddle on both sides. It’s always a good idea to make sure the girth is tight.

            So there you’d be, straining on the leather straps, cinching that girth for all you’re worth, knowing the many challenges you were about to face. And there he’d be, silently sucking in air and puffing out his belly. Once you were snug in the saddle, he’d quietly let it all go. Then, as you and your obedient servant rounded the end of the ring in full trot or, God forbid, canter, your saddle would round Dipper’s midsection, dumping you kerplop in the dirt. You’d look up to see Contrite Pony with Bowed Head. My brother’s  first, and worst, riding teacher.

            John and Dipper competed with full-size horses in shows around western New York. I always loved the moment when the announcer would say, “Next up is John Marcus with Little Dipper.” The crowd always gushed, “Awww…” then murmured words like cute, sweet, darling. It was a delicious set-up.

            John would gather the reins, trot Dipper in a circle and aim for the first jump. Dipper would motor furiously toward the fence, then float up like a balloon in the Macy’s parade, John stuck tight on top, yellow jodhpurs splayed over the pink pot belly. With each landing the audience would go whew!, then release a few whoops, and get quiet again. Even if Dipper did sometimes refuse a fence or two … or three … disqualifying himself and breaking John’s heart, still the crowd loved them both, and the air was filled with excitement: “Did you see that Marcus kid? Man, that kid can ride!”

            So you see, if John could ride Dipper, he could probably ride anything. That must be what my father was thinking when he ordered a dozen horses from some bargain-basement ranch in Oklahoma, and then said, “John, I need you to get right up to the barn after school and ride these horses. You ought to be able to ride two or three of them every night. I’ll help you when I get home, but that won’t be much before dark. You ride’em and see what we’ve got.” John was eleven.

            Well, it was a motley assortment of four-leggers, all trained western. Some had brains; some, not so much. A horse that looked pretty good might turn out to be a plug, or one that acted logy might turn out to be “a lot of horse,” as my dad liked to say. Only a test-drive would tell. So John rode and rode, horse after horse, reporting to Dad at the dinner table. The other five of us got to take lessons, and everybody helped name the horses, soap the saddles and bring in the hay. Still, it was largely John who sweated and trained and worked that menagerie into a stable of somewhat dependable English riding horses. That’s how my brother became the guy who could ride anything.

            Of course, in the public world of horsemanship, the ability to ride “anything” wasn’t worth  much. What got you a blue ribbon in a horse show was, naturally, showmanship: the winning smile, courtly tip of the hat, small graces that showed confidence and flair. This was not my brother’s bailiwick. John, who was witty and winsome up close, always looked serious in the ring, I suppose because he usually had his hands full just trying to make whatever horse he was on perform with some semblance of dignity (remember: bargain basement). 

            Take Huntsman, for example. Years after Little Dipper trotted off into some other family’s nightmares, John was still riding horses with, shall we say, psychedelic personalities. Huntsman was the cream of this crop. He had thoroughbred conformation, brains galore, a beautiful gait, and excellent jumping ability. But he also had, well, ideas. I think of it this way: Huntsman was to horses as Lucille Ball was to, say, vintners. You really had to keep an eye on him. Example: he learned to open his stall and would go around letting the other horses out. In the morning, we would find them all partying around the grain bin, having knocked saddles and bridles off their racks and trampled them underfoot.

            In the pasture, every now and then Huntsman would put two and two together: they’re always making me jump fences, hell I’m outta here! And over he’d go. My father would come out of the barn yelling—and whee! back over he’d go. Just seeing if anybody was paying attention.

            In the ring, what Huntsman loved was to mess with authority. He would buck, trot sideways, toss his head, snort and blow, anything for a laugh. He had no particular desire to unseat the one upstairs as Dipper had done, only to assert that he was a character and having a great time. Just one person could make him behave and make it look easy. I’ve said it before, John could ride anything, and when he rode Huntsman, you simply could not see the mayhem he was holding in check.

            Now, there was a boy from Elmira who rode what my father called a push-button horse. This simply meant the horse behaved the way my father wanted his horses to behave, but without the swear words. The boy, like his horse, was perfect. He was tall and blonde and smelled good. His boots were shiny. His jacket fit. He transported his perfectly groomed horse in a deluxe-appointed trailer with extra compartments for every little thing. He was always cheered on by his fashionable parents and cute younger sister. When he rode that horse of his, the two of them looked like a single, glorious creature, destined for the cover of Life Magazine.

            So this boy, let’s call him Prince Cravat, never missed an important show. For years, every horsemanship class came down to a contest between the prince and my brother John. The judges would stand in the center of the ring, arms folded, brows knitted, tilting toward each other’s mutterings without looking away from the lively whirl of horseflesh and youthful aspiration. After comparing a few notes and barking a few commands, they would dismiss all the riders except John and the prince. Around and around those two would go, John looking serious and competent, but humble, the pince looking regal and sure. When the prizes were awarded, it was always the same. A trophy and blue ribbon for Prince Cravat. A red ribbon for John. It went on for years.

            Then came the day when a certain judge at a certain show found himself stumped by the two riders. Maybe he was looking for something different. He watched. He gave orders. He had them out there walking, trotting, and cantering one way around, then the other for what seemed forever. Finally, he called them both to the middle of the ring and this is what he said: I want you to switch horses.

            Now, you know my brother seldom smiled in the ring. That day, it took everything he had to stifle what must have felt like an emotional stampede. John dismounted Huntsman, handed the reins to Prince Cravat, climbed aboard that push-button horse of his and started off, grinning like a toothpaste salesman. And the prince? Oh, he had quite a ride. Huntsman, always thrilled to audition a new rider, pranced off tossing his head, swung his butt toward the middle of the ring as if mugging for the crowd; he trotted then stopped short; he reared and bucked and farted with joy, never unseating the prince, mind you,  just showing him a ripping wild time. Prince Cravat decided not to complete the ride. He hit the ground with both feet and handed the horse over to the judge.

            That’s how, at long last, and before a cheering crowd, John and Huntsman took the blue. And a nice silver trophy, too.