The Horse Race
Copyright: Ken Harris 2006
The time: a winter morning in 1957. The place: the trail between the Arroyo Seco Stables in South Pasadena and the Rose Bowl.
Bobbi Williams kept Bonny Pico, a racing Thoroughbred, for her own pleasure. Bonny Pico had raced several times and won or placed on those occasions. But she was temperamental and often “blew her cool.” Very soon into her career she tangled herself up in the starting gate and damaged her legs. She was was still temperamental after her accident, just not so fast. She frequently “flew into alt,” to use an old, old phrase. If you weren’t careful with her, you would fly even “alter” before you hit the ground. Not many people besides Bobbi rode Bonny Pico: she required an experienced or firm hand, usually both.
We three, Joanne, Bobbi and myself, decided to ride to the Rose Bowl for breakfast. A recent rain had “gifted” us with a muddy trail. Bobbi wanted to ride Bonny Pico and give her an opportunity to run. It must be miserable to be a race horse in a rental-schooling stable. Always wanting to run, never getting to? It must be like an AA member working in a bar.
On this fine day Bobbi wanted to let Bonny Pico out a bit on the trail to the Rose Bowl. She volunteered to give us a half mile head start. Sheba, the little Arab mare, and I formed a second “racing team,” if you could call us that, and Legend, a 3/4-Arab, and Joanne formed a third. Sheba, while willing, couldn’t match Legend for speed. Soon Joanne and Legend immediately left Sheba and me behind with globs of mud on our faces.
We stood no chance of catching them, but we tried our best. A few minutes later I heard a buh-duh-BUMP buh-duh-BUMP coming up behind me. Bobbi and Bonny Pico passed Sheba and me like we were hobbled. And Bonny Pico wasn’t even running. She was galloping. Huge, yard-eating strides. And as she galloped by, she had this dreamy, ecstatic, “free at last” look in her eye.
Bobbi and Bonny Pico zoomed past us, coating us with lots more mud. Then they passed Joanne and Legend, giving them an adobe facial as well. When we finished our course, Bobbi and Bonny Pico were in fine fettle and Sheba, Legend, Joanne and I felt as good as mud lumps could.
I may never get to Heaven, but I know what it would feel like from the look in Bonny Pico's as she passed Sheba and me by like we were chained to a tree.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Dandy, Ironsides and Salty
Three More Horses, Dandy, Ironsides and Salty
Copyright Ken Harris, 2009
I don’t believe Dandy was a U.S. Cavalry veteran, but he was interesting. For one thing, his neck was thicker than his head and jaws. Halters and bridles dropped off him like rain off a slicker. Escape was his specialty. But when he had freed himself, he didn’t want to go anywhere alone, so he would untie all the other horses as well. Chuck or Bobbi Williams would periodically take the working horses down to play in the Arroyo Seco water, back n the days before it became a concrete ditch, and to soak their hooves. If Dandy had not been working during riding lessons that day, he was left behind. Not to worry, he would soon show up minus his halter. After that the Williamses decided that whenever anyone went for a cooling footbath, Dandy got to go as well. It was easier than hog tying him.
Ironsides was a boarder, but he loved to jump so much that he was used in jumping lessons as well. The horses lined up and jumped in turn. Ironsides was so keen that he would cut in line to get in more jumps. Most of the other horses didn’t mind since they could live their entire lives and never jump, prefer it, in fact. A professional trainer whom I shall not name, borrowed the horse for further schooling. She “crammed” Ironsides against a jump and ruined his front legs. He was good for the occasional pleasure ride, but his jumping days were through. The trainer, by the way, was not my landlady, Bobbi Williams.
The last horse I shall discuss was neither the most beautiful nor the most obedient. Certainly not the latter. His name was Sultan, but everyone called him “Salty.” That should give you a clue right there.
On this particular afternoon I had just returned home from work. (So many of my adventures begin with my just returning from work to discover what my frau has been up to.) On this afternoon, she had been dutifully washing the dishes. She had put her hand into the top of a glass holding a wash cloth, and made a circular washing motion when the rim broke and she gashed her hand deeply.
Bobbi Williams loaded Joanne into her elderly Cadillac and took her down to the Los Angeles County Hospital Emergency Room where they administered medicine in the rough. They held her hand over a pan and poured alcohol over it, and then stitched it up without benefit of any pain deadening injections. Fortunately, I guess, the alcohol on the fresh cut caused the nerves in Joanne’s hand to shrivel because she didn’t even feel the stitches. It’s like curing a headache by cutting off a toe.
They got back from the hospital just as I drove in from work. Meanwhile, Salty ran out of the stable with his saddle underneath his belly, leaving his rider, a teenage girl, lying face down in the middle of the ring. Salty hung a right out of the stable driveway and began his mad escape. We piled into Bobbi’s Caddy and began a hot pursuit. We’re talking Friday afternoon rush hour here.
It was easy to track Salty. You just went in the direction people were looking and pointing. When we caught sight of Salty, he had slowed to a canter. Just then an intrepid soul in an MG convertible tried to head him off. Salty was a jumper-and-a-half at need, and he easily cleared the MG, saddle under his belly and all, giving the driver an object lesson in why people should think before they act.
By the time Bobbi caught up with the horse, Salty had slowed to a walk and was on the on ramp to the Pasadena Freeway. Cars were lined up for a half mile in every possible direction. Bobbi pulled up beside the horse and drove slowly, perhaps 1- to 3-miles-per-hour, as slowly as she could without stalling. Joanne stepped out of the car to catch the horse.
Joanne was carrying our first child. Her balance must have been a little off because she did not land gracefully on her feet, but flopped around like a scarecrow in a whirlwind, finally landing in a supine position on the street. At this point, the cars stopped.
Joanne got to her feet. Still silence. She walked quietly by the horse, not even looking at him. She’s just a girl going her own way, minding her own business, catching a horse the furthest thing from her mind. She suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the broken reins dangling from Salty's bridle and stopped him. Quickly she uncinched his saddle and stowed it in the car.
The trip back to the stable was almost anticlimactic. Joanne began to walk Salty home and soon Bobbi slowly drove by in the Caddy. They women changed places, Joanne drove, Bobbi and Salty walked, and order was restored in the universe.
I never before believed in miracles until this incident, but in all that time, with all those cars stopped, not one Los Angeles motorist honked. Now that’s a miracle.
Copyright Ken Harris, 2009
I don’t believe Dandy was a U.S. Cavalry veteran, but he was interesting. For one thing, his neck was thicker than his head and jaws. Halters and bridles dropped off him like rain off a slicker. Escape was his specialty. But when he had freed himself, he didn’t want to go anywhere alone, so he would untie all the other horses as well. Chuck or Bobbi Williams would periodically take the working horses down to play in the Arroyo Seco water, back n the days before it became a concrete ditch, and to soak their hooves. If Dandy had not been working during riding lessons that day, he was left behind. Not to worry, he would soon show up minus his halter. After that the Williamses decided that whenever anyone went for a cooling footbath, Dandy got to go as well. It was easier than hog tying him.
Ironsides was a boarder, but he loved to jump so much that he was used in jumping lessons as well. The horses lined up and jumped in turn. Ironsides was so keen that he would cut in line to get in more jumps. Most of the other horses didn’t mind since they could live their entire lives and never jump, prefer it, in fact. A professional trainer whom I shall not name, borrowed the horse for further schooling. She “crammed” Ironsides against a jump and ruined his front legs. He was good for the occasional pleasure ride, but his jumping days were through. The trainer, by the way, was not my landlady, Bobbi Williams.
The last horse I shall discuss was neither the most beautiful nor the most obedient. Certainly not the latter. His name was Sultan, but everyone called him “Salty.” That should give you a clue right there.
On this particular afternoon I had just returned home from work. (So many of my adventures begin with my just returning from work to discover what my frau has been up to.) On this afternoon, she had been dutifully washing the dishes. She had put her hand into the top of a glass holding a wash cloth, and made a circular washing motion when the rim broke and she gashed her hand deeply.
Bobbi Williams loaded Joanne into her elderly Cadillac and took her down to the Los Angeles County Hospital Emergency Room where they administered medicine in the rough. They held her hand over a pan and poured alcohol over it, and then stitched it up without benefit of any pain deadening injections. Fortunately, I guess, the alcohol on the fresh cut caused the nerves in Joanne’s hand to shrivel because she didn’t even feel the stitches. It’s like curing a headache by cutting off a toe.
They got back from the hospital just as I drove in from work. Meanwhile, Salty ran out of the stable with his saddle underneath his belly, leaving his rider, a teenage girl, lying face down in the middle of the ring. Salty hung a right out of the stable driveway and began his mad escape. We piled into Bobbi’s Caddy and began a hot pursuit. We’re talking Friday afternoon rush hour here.
It was easy to track Salty. You just went in the direction people were looking and pointing. When we caught sight of Salty, he had slowed to a canter. Just then an intrepid soul in an MG convertible tried to head him off. Salty was a jumper-and-a-half at need, and he easily cleared the MG, saddle under his belly and all, giving the driver an object lesson in why people should think before they act.
By the time Bobbi caught up with the horse, Salty had slowed to a walk and was on the on ramp to the Pasadena Freeway. Cars were lined up for a half mile in every possible direction. Bobbi pulled up beside the horse and drove slowly, perhaps 1- to 3-miles-per-hour, as slowly as she could without stalling. Joanne stepped out of the car to catch the horse.
Joanne was carrying our first child. Her balance must have been a little off because she did not land gracefully on her feet, but flopped around like a scarecrow in a whirlwind, finally landing in a supine position on the street. At this point, the cars stopped.
Joanne got to her feet. Still silence. She walked quietly by the horse, not even looking at him. She’s just a girl going her own way, minding her own business, catching a horse the furthest thing from her mind. She suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the broken reins dangling from Salty's bridle and stopped him. Quickly she uncinched his saddle and stowed it in the car.
The trip back to the stable was almost anticlimactic. Joanne began to walk Salty home and soon Bobbi slowly drove by in the Caddy. They women changed places, Joanne drove, Bobbi and Salty walked, and order was restored in the universe.
I never before believed in miracles until this incident, but in all that time, with all those cars stopped, not one Los Angeles motorist honked. Now that’s a miracle.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Arroyo Seco Stable Horses
Arroyo Seco Stable Horses
Copyright Ken Harris 2006
In 1957 my wife and I rented a house in South Pasadena owned by Chuck and Bobbi Williams, who also owned the Arroyo Seco stables. The house was a part of the stables property and so, besides our own two horses, Sheba and Legend, we had many other horses for neighbors.
Arroyo Seco Stables was a rent , boarding and schooling stable, so there were many horses permanently in residence. Chuck and Bobbi Williams had discussed the matter years before and had decided that they were put on earth to give horses a good home. I decided that in my next incarnation I wanted to be one of their horses. Those horses got rest, exercise, care, feed, and affection. Some humans who don’t do that well.
Many of their horses were U.S. Cavalry remounts. Cal Poly at Pomona had been a remount training station before the Army decided that they would go to tanks and helicopters. When the army went out of the horse business, Chuck and Bobbi bought some of their finest equine friends from them. An ex-cavalry horse was a great buy. It had received wonderful training and care during its formative years. Four of the Williams’ horses come to mind, Richard, O’Malley, Grey Dawn, Cocoq (pronounced “Coke” because we couldn’t figure out how to say his real name).
Richard, when I met him, was a 24-year-old bay. He was in good flesh, he ate well, and he worked as hard as any horse on the place. However, you had to be a little careful with him first thing in the morning. No sharp turns for the first fifteen minutes of the day. After that, you were dealing with a healthy, strong, mature horse. He was the best looking 24-year-old horse I’ve ever seen.
O’Malley didn’t like to work nights. He was a gentle soul and a favorite with student riders. When Bobbi gave a lesson at night, you could bet the ranch on it, someone would call for O’Malley. O’Malley would slink into the corner of his stall, put his head in the corner and make himself as small as possible. It never worked. He was a huge, seal brown gelding. If he had stretched himself out against the back of his stall, he might have disguised himself as the wall. But the corner schtick never worked. It was like hiding a football in a bucket. But each night O’Malley would try his little trick and wonder why it never worked.
Gray Dawn earned a little extra money for the stable by working in movies, appearing in at least one Disney flick. He was a perfectly well mannered horse, a perfect school horse. Except for one little character flaw. He had one buck a day. It wasn’t a sunfish, but just a little crow hop. But you never knew when it would happen. Riders were relieved when he bucked early in the morning. But as the day grew longer and the buck hadn’t come, riders would get more nervous. Then Gray Dawn would buck. Once. And everything settled down again.
Cocoq was a jumping fool. When Bobbi taught jumping classes and had a student who might be reluctant to jump (and if you stop to think about it, why would you jump a horse over an obstacle when you could walk around it), Cocoq was saddled up and away the pair went. In Cocoq’s opinion, the whole U.S. Cavalry had taught him to jump and who was some chicken rider to tell him that it was too tough.
That worked against me once. I was taking English riding lessons from Bobbi and I rode like I was duct taped to the saddle. No style whatever. Bobbi had heard somewhere that if one had a student of indifferent ability and talent, his progress could be hastened by teaching him to jump. I seemed like the perfect guinea pig to her. Of course, she didn’t tell me that. She just said she thought I was ready to learn to jump.
So there we were one night, Cocoq and I, in a “gambler’s sweepstakes.” The winner of the event was the person who took the most jumps in a minute. Maybe it was an hour. It seemed like it. Cocoq and I took the first jump and I lost my right stirrup. I tried to put my foot back into the stirrup, but by then Cocoq had committed himself to the second jump and I lost my left stirrup. Then I clenched the horse between my legs as much as I could and we took jump after jump, Bobbi calling, “Stop him, Ken, stop him!” Joanne, meanwhile, encouraged me. “Jump, Ken, jump.” I think she wanted me to win the event, but she may have been bucking for early widowhood. I completed the picture by hauling on the reins and crying, “Whoa, damn you, whoa!”
We won the event.
I could hardly walk the next day because I had strained every muscle from my toes to my nose. Bobbi said she was relieved that I had not cracked her horse’s ribs. For Cocoq, it was all in a day’s work.
Copyright Ken Harris 2006
In 1957 my wife and I rented a house in South Pasadena owned by Chuck and Bobbi Williams, who also owned the Arroyo Seco stables. The house was a part of the stables property and so, besides our own two horses, Sheba and Legend, we had many other horses for neighbors.
Arroyo Seco Stables was a rent , boarding and schooling stable, so there were many horses permanently in residence. Chuck and Bobbi Williams had discussed the matter years before and had decided that they were put on earth to give horses a good home. I decided that in my next incarnation I wanted to be one of their horses. Those horses got rest, exercise, care, feed, and affection. Some humans who don’t do that well.
Many of their horses were U.S. Cavalry remounts. Cal Poly at Pomona had been a remount training station before the Army decided that they would go to tanks and helicopters. When the army went out of the horse business, Chuck and Bobbi bought some of their finest equine friends from them. An ex-cavalry horse was a great buy. It had received wonderful training and care during its formative years. Four of the Williams’ horses come to mind, Richard, O’Malley, Grey Dawn, Cocoq (pronounced “Coke” because we couldn’t figure out how to say his real name).
Richard, when I met him, was a 24-year-old bay. He was in good flesh, he ate well, and he worked as hard as any horse on the place. However, you had to be a little careful with him first thing in the morning. No sharp turns for the first fifteen minutes of the day. After that, you were dealing with a healthy, strong, mature horse. He was the best looking 24-year-old horse I’ve ever seen.
O’Malley didn’t like to work nights. He was a gentle soul and a favorite with student riders. When Bobbi gave a lesson at night, you could bet the ranch on it, someone would call for O’Malley. O’Malley would slink into the corner of his stall, put his head in the corner and make himself as small as possible. It never worked. He was a huge, seal brown gelding. If he had stretched himself out against the back of his stall, he might have disguised himself as the wall. But the corner schtick never worked. It was like hiding a football in a bucket. But each night O’Malley would try his little trick and wonder why it never worked.
Gray Dawn earned a little extra money for the stable by working in movies, appearing in at least one Disney flick. He was a perfectly well mannered horse, a perfect school horse. Except for one little character flaw. He had one buck a day. It wasn’t a sunfish, but just a little crow hop. But you never knew when it would happen. Riders were relieved when he bucked early in the morning. But as the day grew longer and the buck hadn’t come, riders would get more nervous. Then Gray Dawn would buck. Once. And everything settled down again.
Cocoq was a jumping fool. When Bobbi taught jumping classes and had a student who might be reluctant to jump (and if you stop to think about it, why would you jump a horse over an obstacle when you could walk around it), Cocoq was saddled up and away the pair went. In Cocoq’s opinion, the whole U.S. Cavalry had taught him to jump and who was some chicken rider to tell him that it was too tough.
That worked against me once. I was taking English riding lessons from Bobbi and I rode like I was duct taped to the saddle. No style whatever. Bobbi had heard somewhere that if one had a student of indifferent ability and talent, his progress could be hastened by teaching him to jump. I seemed like the perfect guinea pig to her. Of course, she didn’t tell me that. She just said she thought I was ready to learn to jump.
So there we were one night, Cocoq and I, in a “gambler’s sweepstakes.” The winner of the event was the person who took the most jumps in a minute. Maybe it was an hour. It seemed like it. Cocoq and I took the first jump and I lost my right stirrup. I tried to put my foot back into the stirrup, but by then Cocoq had committed himself to the second jump and I lost my left stirrup. Then I clenched the horse between my legs as much as I could and we took jump after jump, Bobbi calling, “Stop him, Ken, stop him!” Joanne, meanwhile, encouraged me. “Jump, Ken, jump.” I think she wanted me to win the event, but she may have been bucking for early widowhood. I completed the picture by hauling on the reins and crying, “Whoa, damn you, whoa!”
We won the event.
I could hardly walk the next day because I had strained every muscle from my toes to my nose. Bobbi said she was relieved that I had not cracked her horse’s ribs. For Cocoq, it was all in a day’s work.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Picking Up Ponies
Picking Up Ponies
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
Twin Falls, Idaho. Spring, mid-1960s. Opening day of trout season. My wife and I were trailering back to Twin Falls to pick up two stud ponies. Our intent was to win fame and fortune raising Ponies of the Americas (POAs).
It was a long drive from Auburn, California to Twin Falls, Idaho, made longer by a flash snow storm over Donner Summit. God, I loved crawling on my belly in muck trying to put rusty, borrowed chains on the GMC. Because it was opening day of trout season, there were thousands of motorists lined up at Nyack Garage to buy chains. Who brings chains on a trout fishing trip? Stu Wells, the garage owner, had a grin on his face they could have used to guide airplanes.
We finally got through to Twin Falls when the alternator on the GMC gave out. Slow go to no go. Bought a used alternator that wouldn’t work because the mastermind who sold us the vehicle had reversed the wiring. We stood in the weather while some guy with a screwdriver and a cigar clenched in his teeth tried to fix it. Did you know that there isn’t a single tree between the North Pole and Twin Falls to break up the wind? Not a single one! This happened 40 years ago and I still have icicles on my liver.
We loaded up our ponies, at least, we were assured they were ponies. It was difficult to tell under all their hair because they had been on good Montana winter range until we picked them up. I wondered if someone had slipped in some Ponies of Siberia on us.
Driving back was uneventful except for a brief – it seemed like forever – encounter with black ice in the high desert of Nevada. I'd heard enough about it to know to take my feet off the gas, the clutch, the brake, and just hope the forward inertia would do just that, carry us forward.
Not a pleasant trip. Successful, but not pleasant.
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
Twin Falls, Idaho. Spring, mid-1960s. Opening day of trout season. My wife and I were trailering back to Twin Falls to pick up two stud ponies. Our intent was to win fame and fortune raising Ponies of the Americas (POAs).
It was a long drive from Auburn, California to Twin Falls, Idaho, made longer by a flash snow storm over Donner Summit. God, I loved crawling on my belly in muck trying to put rusty, borrowed chains on the GMC. Because it was opening day of trout season, there were thousands of motorists lined up at Nyack Garage to buy chains. Who brings chains on a trout fishing trip? Stu Wells, the garage owner, had a grin on his face they could have used to guide airplanes.
We finally got through to Twin Falls when the alternator on the GMC gave out. Slow go to no go. Bought a used alternator that wouldn’t work because the mastermind who sold us the vehicle had reversed the wiring. We stood in the weather while some guy with a screwdriver and a cigar clenched in his teeth tried to fix it. Did you know that there isn’t a single tree between the North Pole and Twin Falls to break up the wind? Not a single one! This happened 40 years ago and I still have icicles on my liver.
We loaded up our ponies, at least, we were assured they were ponies. It was difficult to tell under all their hair because they had been on good Montana winter range until we picked them up. I wondered if someone had slipped in some Ponies of Siberia on us.
Driving back was uneventful except for a brief – it seemed like forever – encounter with black ice in the high desert of Nevada. I'd heard enough about it to know to take my feet off the gas, the clutch, the brake, and just hope the forward inertia would do just that, carry us forward.
Not a pleasant trip. Successful, but not pleasant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
