Far From The Prying Eyes Of Adults...

Jack started it all.

I don't remember all that much about him except for the old black and white photo my Mother has in one of her photo albums. My Uncle is holding the reins at the buckle whilst my eldest Sister- who was only a baby herself at the time- is sitting on Jack's back smiling. They are standing near the road that leads up to my Grandfather's farmhouse. My Uncle looks drunk and more than likely was.

Jack is a bay gelding, though I have always thought of his as a chestnut. In the photo he has on Grandfather's old stock saddle and sometimes he or our Uncle will lead us around the front yard on the horse after they have finished rounding up the cattle. We are all horse mad- my Sisters, my Cousin and Myself- but only three of us ever rode enough to be classed as somewhat competent riders. I never rode Jack by myself; by the time I was old enough he was already dead.

The story at the time, to placate the kiddies, was that another horse called Peter- who was reportedly very mean-spirited- and was owned by the old bloke and his cranky old wife who lived further up the road- had run Honest Jack into the barbed wire fence- and that he got so trapped and tangled that he had to be shot on the spot- but more than likely the real story was that my Grandfather had merely sent him to the dog food factory when he got too old. It's more probable.

But because of this belief I had at the time, that Peter had done this to my Grandfather's 'beloved' Jack- or so I had thought- this started my irrational hatred of Peter that lasted quite a number of years. Sometimes, I would come across Peter grazing in the paddock and if I was alone I was always afraid that he would suddenly charge Me into a barbed wire fence. Usually this was after I had been down to the Lake, alone, for a swim and was walking barefoot back towards the farmhouse for lunch, trying to avoid the many thorny tickles and cat's eyes. Even though I had seen him being ridden by the farmer I always thought of him as wild, so I would chase him off with my towel before he could get to me, till he would gallop off, bucking and farting through the bush. It seemed that he would always appear, suddenly, out of the middle of nowhere.

He was a different horse when he had a saddle on, though, and when he was being ridden. I suppose you might call him a reasonable little cow-horse. He taught me to ride; there was nothing nicer than cantering bareback along the pine-needle covered tracks and past the large Paper-bark Trees, coming around the bend toward the Lake and seing the rings of stones that we used as fireplaces. I see my Sister and Cousin are swapping clothes into the only pair of jodhpurs that we have- they're still too big for me so I ride in my jeans, even though they rub my calves to shreds.

Peter was like riding a little barrel he was so fat; so that even if you were slipping and sliding all over the place you never seemed to fall off. There was no shit in him either- he wouldn't all of a sudden go crazy and begin bucking you off like my own horse did in later years. Come to think of it- I don't think I ever fell off him in all the years that I rode him. At first, when we were young, he had it all over us, and we couldn't even make him go half the time. One of us would have to entice him further by shaking a bagful of bran while the other kicked him madly to get him to go forward.

I suppose it was very monotonous for him to be cantered up and down the same stretch of road- time and time again, but that's what horses were for- besides just being beautiful- to my way of thinking at least; to get you from one place to the other as quickly as possible. We would go as far from the prying eyes of adults as we could, right down near the Lake or the mailbox, and try and make Peter jump out over the cattle grid so that we could ride him down the road to the Hippy Church that was covered in broken pieces of mirrors that had been arranged into Mermaids and painted whales and seashells; and whose many rusting-out cars house litters of tortoiseshell kittens. One day we watched the crazy Lighthouse Keeper who lived there eat a can of Pal while we video taped it for him. He thought it was hilarious that we were all nearly vomiting watching him do it.

But Peter won't jump the grid, and nor will walk over the sheet of corrugated tin that we lay down across it- so we have to walk through the bush to get to the Church whenever we visit. The Lighthouse Keeper's black one-eyed Labrador bitch scares the shit out of one of my Sisters, but she's just a big wuss, and hides on top of one of the cars until he calls the barking dog off. This is one of my Sister's who never rode the horses much, the one who fell off her bicycle and broke her collarbone because she was going too fast downhill one day...

I, rn_buffoon, have always liked to go fast- and it has hardly ever scared me. My other Sister said to me once that there isn't a horse I won't get on that I don't think I can go fast on. I just hate wasting time walking or trotting- besides the sooner you go fast on a horse the sooner you learn if you can control it or not. When I was ten I got six riding lessons for my birthday. The little black mare that they have given me to learn on, Nigger(truly), was heavily pregnant and, not surprisingly, fairly lazy. For the first of my six lessons I have to walk the horse around the arena- pretending I am trotting- rising on every second pace- which is impractical and uncomfortable and totally useless as an exercise- let me assure you. On the Fifth week they finally allow me to trot. At last, I got to do what the blonde chick with the ponytail on the skinny chestnut gelding gets to do- but then all of a sudden she gets promoted to Canter Class and I get left behind again. But at least I am finally trotting, and can see the benefit at last, sort of, of trying to rise to the walk, because it's not as easy as it looks to steer the hour and go around the arena and bounce up and down and keep the poor pregnant horse jogging along while her belly is squeaking beneath the surcingle.

I mustn't have been very good at trotting, however, because for my sixth and final lesson, just as I am dreaming that I will be able to go on the last day with the blode chick to Canter Class, I am told that I will have to go back to doing the walking trot again. I was fucking devastated let me tell you; more because of the horse thing than the chick thing. I wanted Her to think I was a good rider, though, because I had told her when we were getting our stirrups adjusted that I had already cantered bareback a few times. She must have thought that I was making it all up and that I'd never been on a horse at all. Well- I had; just not in the way they wanted me to ride one- being as the instructor kept telling me how to sit and hold my reins. I've never seen the point of learning how to look pretty on a horse, or how to sit nicely or why it's important to hold your reins in a certain way- I don't know what the point you are trying to prove is, because other than for control purposes, it shouldn't matter if you neck-rein more often than not. It doesn't to me.

The many horses I've ridden didn't read the book on how they were meant to be ridden, and most of the horses I've ridden have been spoiled long before I ever got the chance to ruin them. I've never liked going round in circles on a horse since then- it's pointless and gives me a stitch. Most horses I've known don't see the point in it either. I like to think that I have an understanding with the horse I'm riding; that I'm the one in charge for the next little while. They can still try their little bit of shit on if they want- and it doesn't bother me in the slightest- but that I'm the one who's telling them what their job is for the next little while.

You can feel it when you get on if they are listening to you or not. I have been taken unaware a few times and come off when a horse has bucked, but generally you can feel it coming and you just have to get their head up, or hang on for dear life if things are beyond staying positive. I don't think I'm a bad rider but I'm not pretty to watch- with my toes all stuck out at right angles.

Not that I can see Myself, of course...