Hags on Nags
A friend loveth at all
times. . . .
— Proverbs 17:17a
We had a little Friday morning riding
club at the barn where we kept our first horse, Zippa Dee Dude. A bunch of us
women decided to sneak away from our busy schedules and hang out with our
horses, just for fun. Women so often fall into self-neglect and burnout because
they devote themselves to taking care of everything and everybody BUT
themselves. So we tried to reverse that trend. We called it "Hags On Nags."
We had a lot of fun, kidding around
and solving the problems of the world as we rode. We bragged about our
families. We rejoiced when members excelled at horse shows. When a long-awaited
foal died, we all hugged the devastated owner, and cried.
I was the greenhorn, the abject novice.
They were kind and tolerant, as horse owners tend to be. I was all thumbs
trying to bridle Zippy; they coached me. I didn't know a flying lead change
from an airplane loop-de-loop; they schooled me. If I'd drop a rein, they'd
pick it up for me. Gradually, with their support, I cowgirled up.
Week after week, we went around and
around in the indoor arena, perfecting our commands, and setting up some basic
obstacle courses to follow. We exchanged hoof care tips and fly masks, phone
numbers of farriers and opinions on nutrition.
We would talk and laugh and share
our lives, those Friday mornings in the sunlit barn on our gleaming Quarter
Horses. Summer rolled into fall - primeau riding time.
So one day, we decided to step out
of our comfort zone . . . and do a trail ride.
Word spread about our adventure. On
the day of the ride, there must have been 20 women there with horses of all
kinds. I had invited a new friend, Jeannie, and she arranged to borrow
someone's horse for the ride. Bugsy was "fresh" - hadn't been ridden for a
while -- but she was a veteran horsewoman and didn't expect much trouble.
We started off. I kept near the
back, letting more experienced riders take the lead. Jeannie rode just ahead of
me. It was going great; I felt like whistling "Happy Trails to You," but was
busy concentrating on my riding.
All of a sudden, we came to a steep
hill, and a couple of horses in the front got so excited, they bolted up it.
The ones in the middle followed suit, and those of us in the back tried our
best to rein in our mounts, since it's not a good idea to lope up a hill
willy-nilly like that.
Zip, thank goodness, stood stock
still. But Jeannie's "fresh" horse, Bugsy, wanted to run.
A horror unfolded before my eyes:
Bugsy decided to buck . . . and buck . . . and on the third big twist, bucked
Jeannie right off, and she fell all the way down onto her business end. OUCH!
I swear, all the way down, she had a
look of consternation on her face. Not because she'd been thrown - because
SHE'D been thrown and I, the novice, had stayed on. 'Course, I had nothing to
do with it. Note to self: thank Zippy's trainer!
That was the end of the trail ride.
We collected Bugsy, and got back to the barn, and Jeannie went home to nurse
her aches and pains.
I felt so bad that I stopped into
the local florist for a consolation bouquet. "Red roses mean love and daisies
mean friendship," I reviewed with the clerk. "But what flowers do you give
someone who has been bucked off a horse?"
She replied immediately, with a
glint in her eye: "Purple asters!"
Purple asters, it was.
Jeannie and I have since become very
close friends We both have big clumps of purple asters in our yards to remind
us of that day. When the Lord roped us together, when we cowgirled up for
friendship, it was a yeehaw kind of day. And when you fall on your behind, a
good friend will be there to pick you up, help you get your hat back on
straight, and mosey on back to the ranch. †
