My Horse Mom.

This is what happens.

You fall in love when you are six years old.  Not with boys or makeup or popularity contests.  No, when you are six years of age, your mother suggests that the two of you take horseback riding lessons together for the summer.  What six year old would ever say no to that?  You and your Mom head to a nearby farm, completely green to the world of horses.  You both hold the bridle upside down, neither of you know much beyond sitting atop a horse and letting it walk you around the ring.  At six you ask silly questions about whether the pony named Sister is a girl or a boy, you confuse the horse named Bogus by calling him Bruno.  You and your mother dread Danny Goat - the barn goat - who will butt you any chance he gets.

You are starting at the very, very beginning.

You begin to trot, to post, to sit a beat when you're on the wrong diagonal.  You learn to canter, to tell if you're on the right lead or not.  One day - though you do not know at the time that it will become a best day - the woman giving your lesson sets up a tiny little cross rail. It is no higher than a few inches off of the ground but it does not matter.  You have tasted the thrill and excitement of jumping for the very first time in your life.  There will be no turning back.

Your mother recognizes that you have talent, that you are enjoying yourself, and that, while in general a content child, being at the barn is one of the spots you are happiest in all the world.  She understands that you need greater challenges, that you can do more than what the bomb-proof, gentle, old, sway-back school horses at this particular farm can offer.  And so she sets out on a search, looking for a trainer.  Unbeknownst to you, she visits local horse shows.  She watches the young riders in the ring to determine which ones seem to know what they are doing more than others.  More importantly however, she watches the students when they leave the ring - she pays attention to which trainers yell and get angry and which ones are supportive and encouraging.  She looks for ones who laugh, who are gentle yet firm, who truly teach.

She finds Marie.

You are seven the first time you visit Mason Run Farm, Marie's home and farm where she teaches. Marie puts you atop a tiny little white freckled pony, appropriately named Freckles.  The thing about tiny ponies is their little legs have to move very quickly to break into a gate.  Freckle's trot is fast.  And jiggly. And bumpy.  You fall off.  Given Freckle's tiny height, it's not too far of a fall before you have hit the ground but you're a bit shaken, slightly embarrassed.  You tell your mother and Marie that your arm really hurts.  Marie walks over to you on the ground and helps you up.  She crouches down to your eye level, wipes away your crocodile tears.  "Here's the thing," she tells you, "when you fall - and everybody falls - you will lose track of how often you fall - you always have to get up, wipe the dirt off, and get back on to show them who's boss."  You nod, trying to be a good student for your teacher.  "Now." Marie asks. "Do you want to get back on?"  You nod again, despite the tears, and up you go, back in the saddle.

You do not know it at the time of course - how could you at seven? - but this is a lesson that would - that has - meant everything in your life.

You have to get back up.
You always have to get back up. 

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Later that evening your mother will take you to the ER after consistent complaints throughout the afternoon about your sore arm. Your parents will learn you'd climbed back up on a horse with a hairline fracture in your arm.  Marie will worry you might never return for another lesson.

You come back.
You most definitely come back.

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Through Marie you join a 4-H club - they bend the rules a bit and let you in as a junior member even though you're technically supposed to be eight years old before you join. You make friends at the barn, you start to see the same group of riders each week when you come for your lesson. Realizing that riding but once a week means a slower learning curve, your mother arranges to half-lease a pony named Joe, from Marie.  For half of Joe's monthly board payment you are allowed to ride, groom, play with, and love him as much as you want.  Essentially, he becomes your very own pony.  Joe.  Dear, beloved, sweet Joe, the pony that lets children climb all over him, that patiently stands while you learn how to properly tack up and pick hooves and braid manes. Almost all of the older kids who have moved on to riding more complicated, challenging horses, started with Joe.  He is a rite of passage.  You ride Joe at your very first horse show.  The two of you win a blue in one class, go home with a reserve champion ribbon for the division. You are, in a word, smitten - with the world of horses and ponies and showing and 4-H and all things riding.  No question.

One Sunday, at The Meadow, a nearby farm that runs a fall and spring horse show series, you head to the trailer to grab your tack and realize you forgot Joe's bridle back at the barn.  Your mother and Marie have been on your case lately, telling you to focus and not be so forgetful and to pay attention because they're not going to do everything for you anymore.  You stand in the trailer's dressing room, panicked.  You know you'll get in trouble, you know you'll get a lecture about how you can't keep riding if you can't be responsible.  After a minute, you decide you need to just get the punishment over with and walk to find Marie standing by the riding ring.  You begin crying all over again the minute you see her; in between sobs you tell her how sorry you are, that you thought you'd packed Joe's bridle, that you won't ever let it happen again.

Instead of scolding you or yelling, Marie just pulls you in for a hug.  "Oh, sweetheart.  It's okay.  Mistakes happen.  We'll borrow someone else's bridle.  It's okay."  You nod and sniffle, likely wiping snot across Marie's barn jacket.  Marie holds you until you stop crying, until you feel better.

Of course you do not know this yet either, but on the very worst days of your adult life, you will think of that morning at The Meadow with Marie.  Somehow, despite the miles and the years, that feeling of safety, comfort, and pure relief that the forgotten bridle wasn't the end of the world that you felt all of those years ago at a random horse show in New Jersey, becomes a constant comfort.  Marie told you it was okay, that mistakes happen, and then she offered up a hug, not letting go until you were ready. Remembering this, knowing this sort of good exists in the world and was once lavished directly on you, will always make you feel better, always help you keep going. 

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When you are in sixth grade, you are given an assignment in your creative writing class where you are to write an essay about someone you admire.  When you come home and tell your mother about the homework, she asks if you have already decided who you would like to write about. You answer without a moment's hesitation: "Well, Marie, of course."

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In the fall, before it turns far too cold to imagine doing such a thing, Marie will host a barn sleepover for your 4-H club. You will carve pumpkins and drink hot cider and run around in the fields in the chilly fall air with the other kids until it gets too dark to see and you are all called back inside the barn by your parents. You will sleep up in the hayloft, twenty of you all tucked into sleeping bags among the hay bales.  You will fall asleep next to your friend Danni, Marie's daughter, drifting to sleep with the sound of horses munching on their grain in the stalls below you.

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One night as you and your mother are driving home together from the barn you start talking about how she decided on your name and other girls names that you both like.  You imagine, as only a thirteen year old might, that one day you will have lots of kids yourself...like six or seven children, you explain to your mother, who laughs. You tell your mother you already know what you would name your daughter if you had one.  "Claudia," for the first name, "just because you like it," you explain, and "Marie" for her middle name.  When your mother asks if the Marie is for our Marie, you nod your head.  "She means a lot to me," you will tell your mother, as she pulls the car into the garage.  "She means a lot to me too." your mother will answer in reply.

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Every July your 4-H club will participate in the county's Farm Fair.  You will look forward to this week every single year; even as an adult once you have moved away from home and are living and working in the city, you will think about Farm Fair each July, longing for the chance to return. Marie will organize multiple events around Farm Fair.  You will join your 4-H club in the weeks leading up to the big event, eager to plan your various displays and ideas for decorating each horses' stall in the horse tent.  You will paint jumps and barrels and help get the grounds ready for showtime.  Marie will welcome every child, every student, every parent without a moment's hesitation, always with open arms and an open heart.  You will sleep over in the horse tent - all of you children tucked along the isles of the barn in your sleeping bags and cots. Always with Marie in charge.

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You will eventually lose count of the number of horse shows you attend, the lessons, the rides in the cold, the rides in the heat, the lazy summer days spent at the barn bathing horses and soaking yourself with the garden hose in the process.  You will lose track of how often you fall off, just as Marie predicted that you would.  It is incredible to you, even as a young girl, the love you feel for a place, for these animals, for these people, for your trainer, Marie.  There will be days when you all head to McDonald's or Friendly's together after your lessons, the adults sitting together and talking, the children being treated to ice cream and french fries after a morning of riding. You will own horses and ponies, all of them different, all of them so very, very special.  You couldn't possibly know this completely, but instinctively you will already understand that you will one day come to realize that during each of those days a foundation was being built, that no matter what else would happen to you in your life you would be fortunate enough to have these memories and moments to fall back on. These treasures from your youth - simple, sweet, ordinary days, would be what would propel you forward through your adulthood.

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Eventually, you will be forced leave home, bound for college.  You will still own Derby, the gorgeous, tall, lanky Thoroughbred that you were lucky enough to get at thirteen.  You will find a student to lease her while you are away, you will join the equestrian team at college.  Your heart will never tire of being around horses or a barn, but you will find you miss the warmth and comfort of the familiar farms of your hometown more than you ever imagined. You will ride Derby each chance you get when you are home.  One warm May evening, when you are home at the end of your freshman year, you and your mother will drive over to Devon, Pennsylvania to spend the evening watching the famous Devon Horse Show, a tradition the two of you have always loved.  In between the jumper events, you will wander back among the stalls, seeing which barns are represented, wondering if you will recognize anyone you know.  There, walking down one of the isles, will be Marie, who you haven't seen in a year or two.  As she walks toward you and your mother, with a big grin across her face, you will feel elated and nervous at the same time.  You will ask her about Joe, that favorite old pony of yours, and Marie will tell you gently that Joe passed away after his long and wonderful life loving countless children.  She will give you a hug then, telling you that she knows how much you loved him, how much he meant to you.

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You will keep Derby up until the day she dies, on another warm May day.  You will be in Boston, walking home from work, when your friend and barn manager, Chrissy, calls you in a panic, crying, telling you she has called the vet but that things do not look good for Derb.  You will start to cry yourself as you walk back to your apartment, unable to be there at the barn, unable to help.  You will call your mother who cries right along with you, understanding your hurt and sadness. Chrissy will call you back a few hours later with the sad and awful news that Derby is gone, that there was nothing more they could do for her.  You will cry and cry and cry.  Not only will you mourn for your girl, your Derbnia, but you will cry over another severed connection to the horse world, to your equestrian life back in New Jersey.

But you will still get home, as often as you can.  And you will visit the farms and horse shows you grew up visiting whenever your schedule will allow.  You will stop complaining about social media and Facebook when you realize it is the tool that has kept you connected to your "horse-y community."  In the summer of 2012 you will find yourself lucky enough to be home during the week of Farm Fair.  Thrilled with this realization you will beg your Dad to come with you, to spend the day visiting the various 4-H tents.  It will be ridiculously hot, but you won't care.  The general rule has always been if you want to know when the hottest week of the summer will be just check the calendar for when Farm Fair is scheduled.  You and your father will purchase snow cones and climb up into the bleachers to watch the horse show.  You will reminisce with him over the adventures regarding all things horse, laugh together as you recount tales about loading stubborn horses onto trailers, or trying to get animals out of the barn during snow storms.  When you climb down from the stands, you will spot Marie, standing along the rail, right where she has always been.  She will hug you with her bear hug, will immediately slip into calling you Kel, just like she did when you were her student.  The last thing she will ask you before you part ways is when you are moving back to New Jersey.  Without a moment's hesitation you will tell her: "As soon as you find another horse for me."  She will laugh and nod, telling you she will be keeping her eye out.

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In March of this year, you will log on to Facebook and see a post from Marie at the very top of your feed, announcing that she has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  Being old enough to know the reality of cancer, this terrible one in particular, your stomach will drop.  And yet, Marie, being Marie, will follow her news with the optimism, sense of humor, and positive outlook that she has always had.  You will think of her often this year, writing on her wall, sending encouragement and prayers her way.  There will be posts that allow you to think she is getting better, that her strength and energy are returning.  She will continue to lead her 4-H group, after more than thirty years attending, she will worry she will not make it to Farm Fair this year, but in the end, she will.  Marie will like and comment on all of your own posts, she will answer each message you and your mother post to her wall telling her you are thinking of her, that you miss her, that you love her.

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On Sunday afternoon, October 18th, you will take yourself for a walk through your neighborhood, eager for a break from studying. You will, of course, as you often do, eventually find yourself walking into a clothing store, your walk having taken you to Harvard Square.  Into the dressing room you and an armful of clothes will go, teased by the promise of a sale.  After you try on your items and determine what you like, you will mentally tally what each one would cost.  You will divide the items into two piles - those still too expensive despite the sale and those that are actually good bargains.  Still, you will shake your head at yourself knowing that what you should be doing is saving your money for things like horses and riding, should you ever one day locate a barn close enough to the city.  You think thoughts like these on a pretty regular basis, you often promise yourself that one day you will find a way to be able to ride again.  On this particular Sunday, however, you will be overcome with such a longing for the barn, such a strong feeling about riding, that you will be forced to sit down on the dressing room stool for a moment to collect yourself.  

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You have a self-imposed rule of not checking Facebook over the weekends.  And so it is on Monday morning that you will arrive at work and log onto your computer, checking your emails and social media.  And there you will learn, there will you see a post from Marie's husband, announcing her passing the previous day, that Sunday.  You will stare at the screen in disbelief, willing the news to not be true, sure that there must be some mistake, that you are reading the post wrong.  You will get up and shut your office door and immediately call your mother.  She will answer on the second ring and you will greet her with, simply, "Mom."  "What is it?" she will ask.  And you will tell her, as your voice starts to crack and you begin to cry, that you think something has happened to Marie.

She will begin to cry immediately as well. You will read the Facebook news to her - the one from her husband posted on her page, and the one that follows from one of her daughters. You will not be able to read it straight through, your voice will catch and the tears will fall as you reach for a tissue. When there is nothing more to say, no further news to share, you and your Mom will hang up the phone, both of you still in tears.

You will get through the day at work, going through the motions.  Your heart will remain heavy, your shoulders will sink, your soul will feel sad.  You will connect with other horse friends over Facebook, all of them just as sad as you are, all of you equals in understanding this heartbreaking and unfair loss.  When you walk home from work at dusk you will be thinking of Marie.  You realize that you will always be thinking of Marie.  What a spirit she was, what a bright light, what a beautiful and loving person she was, how so very much of what she taught you molded you into the woman you are today.

Of course you will understand the reality of the situation, the truth.  Marie was here with us, and now she is gone, here no more. Still you will continue to revisit her page, re-reading the news and willing it to somehow be wrong, because your heart refuses to comprehend her death. You simply cannot understand how this world can continue to spin without Marie's laugh, without her kind and loving heart, without her soul as part of it.

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As you do in times of great joy and great sadness, you will turn to words to help you make sense of things.  You will sit down to write about Marie, about one of the greatest souls you have been fortunate enough to know.  You will find that you won't know where to begin.  As you reflect on all of your horse related memories - so many memories - you will understand that Marie was a second mother to you.  Your horse show Mom.  You will write down every memory you can think of, both the good and the bad. You will think you're writing too much, that your post for her is getting to be too long, but you cannot stop.  You won't want to stop. Even as you write, and then edit, your head and your heart won't fully accept that she could possibly gone, that a light so bright could ever have dimmed.  You will know that people will tell you that you should simply feel grateful for the time you did have with her; that you are lucky for knowing such a beautiful person for thirty some odd years.

Still.  You will know and understand the reality. The world is and will remain a little bit darker without her in it.