Riding Barranca (13 page)

For a long time our family dynamic had been distorted, and no one had been honest about the source. All anyone ever did was complain about Mom, and finally, I had to ask myself—why was she so hostile and angry? I think my father had to take some responsibility there.

I wasn't standing in judgment of him. I knew he preferred a life of fun and games, sneaking around. I could sympathize with what he had had to juggle throughout his life, but when secret desires and needs for escape dominated reason, when naughtiness and rebellion against the maternal were continually acted out, there could not be a clear sense of boundaries, where the adult cares for and protects the child.

Of course, I am only realizing this now, as a woman and a mother. As a girl I just went along with whatever unsettling schemes my father had. Throughout my childhood, I never asked, “Is this normal? Is this parenting what others experience?” Only the adult-child in remembrance tries to put the pieces together.

I remember when Geoff, my first husband, and I were having a difficult time in our marriage, my father offered to send us to Door County for the weekend, while he took our three-year-old Clovis to the Wisconsin Dells. We agreed, and had a terrible time. When Clovis returned from his outing, he ran wildly into my arms. I looked up at my father wondering— what's wrong? “What happened?”

“Popi threw me into the pool,” Clovis said.

“He doesn't even know how to swim!”

My father looked sheepish, but I was aghast.

And why did my father want to terrify me in the waves of the Atlantic when I was a small girl? He put me up on his shoulders and went out deep—the salty water going up my nose, making me gag. I have been a coward in the surf ever since.

When I was eight, my father put me on a city bus in downtown Milwaukee and told me to get off at the Downer Avenue stop, our neighborhood. This ride must have taken a full half-hour or more, and all along the way, I felt displaced and anxious, wondering if I would get lost. Would I recognize the popcorn stand, the bike store across from St. Mark's Episcopal? Once I got home, I was rattled, as if I'd been put in harm's way.

Many years later, I heard my sister's story. She and our younger brother, David, were having their childhood European tour with our parents, and while in Venice, my father let go of her small hand in the middle of the Grand Piazza. He told her to stand there, alone, and he would watch from a distance. He wanted to see who might try to pick her up. Cia went along with the game, uneasy, yet acquiescent.

I remember how he left my twelve-year-old brother, Georgie, in the middle of Dublin, all alone in a large strange city, because he was lagging behind. I was alarmed that he would abandon my brother, and was probably even more upset than he was. Luckily Georgie had a book of matches in his pocket with the name of our hotel.

And why would my father want to subject me, a lithe, attractive teenage girl, to a dinner with a well-known sex offender? David Tallmadge was a Schlitz beer heir and my father's client. The three of us sat together at the Oconomowoc Lake Club, and during the whole meal, Mr. Tallmadge leered at me from across the table. I had never experienced this kind of lasciviousness, and it made me extremely uncomfortable.

Cia and I agreed that we were not well-protected as girls, and perhaps we were overreacting as adults, but maybe that is the see-saw of generations: Much passes from one to the next, like a ledger book, until someone finally does some accounting.

It's not as if our father was a tough guy, but perhaps because he was the opposite of tough, he wanted to harden us up, so we wouldn't end up being sissies. Was he afraid of appearing to be one?

As a child, I was comfortable being father-identified, claiming I wanted to be a cowboy, never a cowgirl. I always took the male part during my all-girls' school square dances, dressing up in blue jeans and handkerchief scarf. I only put on girls' clothes for Sunday school, holidays, and Christmas cards, where I might be seen playing with my baby sister on the Oriental carpet before a roaring fire. I didn't feel like myself in crinoline, and there was little nurturing of my femininity. My mother was not eager to doll me up. Dresses felt unfamiliar, wrong. I was eager to get out of them as fast as possible, comfortable in my brother's hand-me-downs. I was even put into his swimming trunks, while my cousin, Helen, one year younger, wore a frilly, girlish one-piece.

No childhood is ever perfect. But in retrospect, I am still grateful for the smell and taste and feel of mine. Despite the cruel teasing and horrible pranks, I enjoyed most of our boisterous family fun. I wasn't a sissy. I was a tomboy. But a tough exterior can hide a sad vulnerability beneath.

Sometimes I felt like I was looking back at my genetic stream under an archaic microscope, seeing at last, the source of my gifts and my failings, little signposts, forgotten memories, stumbling blocks, egg on shirt, spills, and stains, unburied treasure.

I had always been a “daddy's girl,” but deep down, I wanted to win the heart of my mother. I'd pull up lilies of the valley from their sucking stems to make a fragrant handful for her. I'd write her a poem or make her a picture. I was always trying to please her.

Abigail and I clamber over a loose rubble of rock and keep going until the road runs out. Down below, we can see the rooftops of the Blackwell Ranch, as well as the pink octagonal home of our closest neighbors, and there in the distance, the tiny town of Patagonia. I feel exhilarated, especially nice to take this ride with my beloved niece early on Easter morning.

We return home to rest up for our midday feast at the Hard Luck Ranch, home of Gayle and Bob Bergier. Jim Harrison has his writing studio up at their place off the Salero Road, and we have all shared this Easter meal together for years—a fine repast of smoked Virginia ham, German potato salad and Gayle's exceptional coleslaw with sliced peppers and jicama. Gayle is also an exceptional baker. Her cupcakes with a light lemony buttercream are the icing on the end of a great visit with Abigail.

At the Gate

Finally, a calm day and I am off to ride with Peter Phinney in Hog Canyon. When I arrive, Peter is already riding Wesley out in the working arena, which has nice soft footing with a clay base. I unload and saddle up Barranca, but when I come around the side of the barn, Peter's horse spooks and spins, throwing a shoe. Does this mean we will have to cancel? Peter goes looking for his tools and manages to pull out the remaining nails in Wesley's rear hoof. He thinks that if we stay on the dirt, we can still have a short ride. So we head down this little wind-protected valley full of dense oak trees. The oaks, which lose their leaves in the spring, are now turning a russet-golden color in preparation for their false fall. The old brittle leaves can leave quite a mess, but I must say that it is nice to have their greenery all winter long and to see the fresh soft leaves appear in early spring like cut velvet.

A large trough by the second gate has a handy little in-and-out ramp for any animal that might get trapped in the water. Peter's two dogs run up it and have a drink but Barranca is wary of the huge slimy tub. Back East, I put a long branch
in my water tank so that squirrels and chipmunks can rescue themselves. There is nothing more disturbing than finding a dead, bloated animal tainting your horse's water supply.

Peter is especially happy that I have come out to ride with him as it gives him a chance to make his gelding pay attention to him rather than to another horse. Peter likes the looks of Barranca and how he moves, but because of Wesley's lost shoe, we don't ride up on the ridge or go too far. Instead, we head back to do some flatwork in the ring. I push Barranca into figure eights, cantering him slowly, while Peter practices spinning his horse.

In the show arena, reining horses are spun around four times in each direction. They also have to know how to do a sliding stop, and some horses can slide for almost twenty feet. “It's kind of silly,” he admits, “because there is no real need for a sliding stop. It's all for show. And each year, there is some new horse that can go even further.”

Peter offers to let me use his wash stall, and it is warm and cozy from the heat lamps above. He even has access to hot water and a nice spray hose that you can adjust. We cross-tie Barranca and wet him down before applying shampoo with a sponge. Then I rinse him thoroughly, mane and tail and all. Scraping off the excess water before using the shedding tool, I get a lot of his loose winter coat off until it looks sleek and shiny. Peter sprays Barranca's tail with a generous amount of a detangling product, and I work on the long strands. There is something satisfying about cleaning a horse
—it makes the inside of a woman feel good.

I ask if we can measure Barranca, as I want to know if he is actually 15.3 hands, or possibly taller. Measuring to the middle of his withers, it seems clear that he is a good 16 hands.
My Big Boy.
We leave him tied to the fence to dry
while Peter shows me his Turnbow trailer. It must be the most elegant trailer I've ever seen, deluxe. It has a side ramp, which allows a horse to enter with his head toward the rear. If given a choice, a horse will usually stand with his head going toward the back rather than toward the front, as most trailers are designed. I wonder why horses would prefer riding backward. Maybe they are trying to avoid the wind of the road. Horses always seem to turn their rumps to an approaching storm, perhaps for the same reason.

In Sedona

So much planning for our trip to Sedona—Helen and I load up the night before—measuring grain into baggies, stashing hay in the back of the truck, getting all of our tack into the trailer, both coolers, not to mention our suitcases, as well as my humidifier and espresso maker! We want to have an easy and smooth departure the next morning. Kathleen
James, our friend, will drive her own car up to Sedona and meet us there for dinner.

We eat sandwiches along the way and only stop once near Picacho Peak to fill up the truck and give the horses slices of apple to moisten their mouths. Climbing out of the congested Phoenix traffic, we leave Highway 10 and enter a barren high plateau that reminds us both of Scotland.

Helen amuses me with tales from her childhood. How her parents would dock five cents from her twenty-five-cent allowance if she said the word
Gol
(too close to God) or
shoot
(too close to shit). We talk about our grandmother, Alice, mother to both of our fathers. Helen says Gramma's funeral was more green than black because there were so many Girl Scouts present. Helen's memories are always different than mine. I think I was grieving too much over the loss of my grandmother to notice what anybody was wearing.