I was sitting in the saddle on a ticking time bomb instead of our typically placid, relaxed half-Arab mare. I could feel every firing muscle fiber vibrate from Whisper’s back through the saddle, igniting my own twitching fear. It traveled through my seat, down my arms to my hands now clamped on the reins.
I was 10 years old, heading into my first native costume class at an Arab horse show in Springfield. It was a summer Saturday night and the light from the indoor arena melted out onto the blacktop where groups of horses and riders were waiting for their class to be called into the arena.
A native costume class at an Arabian horse show looks like the set of Lawrence of Arabia meets the Hollywood strip. Sequins, spangles and jewels decorate upholstery-covered saddles, braided bridles, harem pants and capes. Horses are judged at a walk, canter and hand-gallop both ways of the arena.
It is a fun, glitzy class and I had waited not so patiently for my turn to show Whisper in a native costume class. My mom had shown her in the same class at other shows and the mare didn’t mind the glitz and glamour. She was an even-tempered, steady horse who gave you an honest ride. Not much rattled her. But she was rattled and scared on this Saturday night. Buggies and carts were rolling out of the arena from the previous class and Whisper was terrified of buggies. This might have been her worst nightmare come true… buggies and carts were everywhere around her. Poor Whisper!
My mom held the mare still while my dad boosted me up. As soon as my butt settled into the saddle, I could feel Whisper’s terror. And my mom, at the mare’s head, could see the fear glazing over Whisper’s eyes. With her hands gripping the reins, Mom moved the mare forward, which happened in a stiff-legged frog leap. Shod hooves clattered and skidded on slick pavement. When I dared to open my eyes and look at my mom, I saw a grim look of worry quickly masked by attempted calm cross her face.
“Get off” she muttered to me. “Get off now.”
Mom was scared, which didn’t happen often. But I, usually an extremely timid rider, squeaked a tremulous “No.”
I was terrified but I also had waited a long time to show in this class. I was determined that I would at least make a few circuits around the arena. That is when Mom did what moms do: she led me through the gate and instead of letting us go after passing through the gate, she continued to lead me and our frog-leaping mare down the rail as the rest of the class filled in behind us, far behind us, thankfully! The arena organ, normally pounding out “At a Persian Market” for a costume class, was silent. All eyes watched Whisper lurch her way down the rail, my mother determinedly in tow. The only sounds were the snorts blasting from Whisper’s nostrils, the thud of her hooves as dug into the tanbark for the next leap and my mom’s quiet repetition of “Walk, Whisper, easy.” Finally, when we reached the end of the straightaway, Whisper stopped her lurching and the judge calmly spoke.
“I think you can let her go now, Mom.” Mom didn’t say a word but turned her head and looked at me, eyebrows raised in question. She wasn’t letting go because someone was telling her to do it. She was going to be sure I was ready for her to let go.
“Okay.” I answered. I was still scared but I knew it was time. Her hands left the reins and she turned and walked out of the arena. I was on my own.
