Horse & Pony May-July 2018

Saturday mornings

    It’s Saturday, the morning my dad always stopped by the farm to check up on things. My Saturdays usually included Dad. When my sister and I were little he took us to the farm where we played in the barn, listened to stories, and ate Grammy’s pie. Soon there were ponies, and then early Saturday mornings were spent in the truck going to horse shows or lessons, or driving through snowdrifts and over icy roads to get us to the ski hill or a race somewhere. Years later, winter Saturdays meant cold rinks and hockey games. 
    I didn’t think much about that day of the week until Dad passed away in March. I suppose I took them for granted, as we do. Like all the other things we’re thankful for but never realize until much later perhaps how much they meant, or the effort and sacrifice that made them possible. 
    Dad was a farm boy, but not well versed on the subtleties of horse shopping. Molly was the start of what would become a lifetime of horses for my sister and me. An older man across the river had a pony his grandkids didn’t bother with anymore. She was close and the price was right. Molly wasn’t an ideal first pony. She ran free on the farm at Castle Frederick, probably because no one could catch her. She was also known to bite, and scrape us out of the saddle with help from the pear tree. Eventually we got braver and tougher. Finally I could ride her reasonably safely down the dusty tractor road to the dykes by myself – bursting with pride at my independence and freedom – pretending I was a pioneer on a great adventure with a sandwich in my pocket. 
    Many ponies and horses followed, often young or green to fit the budget. Equestrian sports are demanding, on both the schedule and the wallet. Parents who take this on at first glance might seem naive. But, if you dig a little deeper, you may find a parent with a master plan. The lessons learned caring for livestock, working at something, getting dirty, disappointed, and sometimes hurt, are valuable ones. A red ribbon now and then making it all worthwhile. Forward thinking dads might look into the future and see teenage girls too busy slinging manure to date, or talk to boys on the phone. 
    Mine stayed a committed, long-time “horse dad,” still faithfully watching from the stands as his grandchildren competed last year. He stuck it out through highs and lows, with many of our outings fitting the latter category. I remember well a three-day Pony Club rally in Caledonia N.S., around 1979. Riders were bunking in a building on the grounds. Dad was camping out in the luxury of the truck bed, having hauled a few of us to the event. Our day started at 3 a.m. to allow for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Falmouth, and time to set up the tack room and be well prepared for the dressage portion of the team event (four members with three scores counting). My pony, the young and spirited Mary Henry-bred Windsong was just starting out on her long and storied career – a start I was lucky to survive. We bathed, braided, warmed up, and then proceeded to enter at A, halt at X, and jump out of the ring at C. Rally was over for me at 9:35 Friday morning, just three hours after we arrived. Dad on the other hand would be stuck “rallying” until Sunday evening, just in time for the long drive home. 
    Chances are, if you’re reading this issue of Atlantic Horse & Pony, you too have (or had) a long-suffering dad with a master plan. If it’s not too late, go see him, take him his favourite dessert, and relive those Saturday mornings. Be sure he knows in his heart how much he, and his plan, mattered.