elegy to a departed saint

Ode to David Bowie
Judy Gamboa, January 11, 2016

Brushing droll hair back from pink lids, waking from slumber, 

transported in a squeaky jalopy to my youth in California

when David Bowie was my boyfriend. 

On a vapid night of orange summer, we were on the lam -

we screamed away on his motorbike, 

on the run and love-mad.

Kooks and bitches chased us through the broken city,

careening down the vacant roads, trailing behind us gilt confetti. 

Gray metropolis faded to sweetly opened green

as the dawn presented a lush pastoral scene

we tucked ourselves away in the cathedral of a dusty barn

and there found refuge in the golden hay

wrapped in his leather I awoke to a bluebird’s strident song

and cried in my pillow -

my hero was gone.

Babe Part 2: More exploits of the best and worst mare in the world.

After two seasons learning her trade, Babe became a reliable, honest, and eager foxhunting machine.  Yes, we had our embarrassing moments. Certainly there was frustration. Could I even catch her if I woke up at 5:30 and had to load at 7:00? Maybe, maybe not. Her complete refusal to be caught posed a challenge that often bested my anguished efforts. Many mornings, nobody else was required to come in from her field, so why the hell should she have to? As the clock ticked I’d resort to new lows, bringing a bucket of feed into the field as she slowly inched forward, took a whiff of the air, then turned away. It was as close as I’d get. There was one particular morning I recall, where there was a mare she was second to. It was the only time in Babe’s life she was not the alpha. And this mare who dominated her dominated ALL. She was a food whore, and not at all difficult to catch. She was brutal about managing her herd and none of the horses questioned her authority. So here I come, bucket in hand, halter over my shoulder, and up walks the queen bitch. I toss some grain on the ground, and walk by her, as she hungrily snorts it up. Soon enough she’s following me as I make my way to Babe, who stands with ears pointed toward us, a bemused smirk on her face. She waits until I am exactly one arm’s length away and turns her head away from me, ambling off a few steps. The evil dominatrix mare is closing the gap so I fling the end of my leadrope toward her to fend her off. She turns her head briefly, but not her body. She wants that grain. Babe wants it too, but there is too much risk involved. I shoo away a few other interested horses and keep pressuring Babe. Finally she breaks into a jog to get away from me. At this point, the feral mare is hot on my trail. I turn around and yell at her, swinging the leadrope hard at her face. She begins to swing around and to my dismay, instead of turning to go, she’s loading both barrels. Her aim is damn good, but I see it coming and duck away but not quite quickly enough. Her right rear grazes my temple and takes me down. I scream a streak of pirate-worthy profanity and throw the bucket at her wide ass, smacking it square. She instantly turns around to enjoy her reward. I get up, brush myself off, and admit defeat. Babe is standing by, ears twitching. I did end up hunting that day, because when I went into the barn I was quite livid and my friends Jennifer and Nelly were able to catch her.

        Once caught, the worst was not necessarily over. We did have to manage trailer loading as one would manage a full scale military coup. To load her, I would be on her left shoulder with a chain shank (over the nose and up the cheek for best results), another person would be on her right shoulder, and someone would be behind her with either a lunge whip or, better yet, a broom. We would funnel her on, and if there was any exit door left open, Babe would use it. Once I very stupidly did not have the chest bar raised, and the side door in front was open. With a quick assessment of her size and the door size on the way in, Babe smartly went all the way through. I did not make that mistake again. Another time, when attempting to load to go home from a meet, I had Nelly to help behind, and I was at her head. Babe would just walk up the ramp half way, then simply turn her neck and bolt off. I was inside, and my arm nearly got pulled out of the socket before I let go of the rope. She would run to the same person every time, Geoff Ogden. He just happened to be chatting beside his trailer with someone, directly in her escape path. He graciously caught her as she repeated her maneuver at least three times. I believe he said on the third, “Next time I’m just keeping her!” I assured him he could have her if he could just load her on a trailer, any trailer. Even Jeff Blue had a hand in trying. He walked up and said, “Here, let me try.” Finally, enough people got involved that she was overcome and relented to being loaded. There were times that it actually was worse. The time at Glenwood, when it was a small field, and we came in with the last group. Nelly had Lucca, who also didn’t load extremely well, so I said, “I’ll just throw Babe on and help you with him.” Ha ha  ha!!! No way. Babe took one look at the empty trailer, and bolted. Took off at a dead run toward home, also ironically toward the infield of the race track. As she entered the enclosed infield, Nelly, and the one remaining soul kind enough to stay behind, Richard McWade, mounted up and cowboyed after her. The bitch actually had to be chased down and rounded up before she allowed Nelly and Lucca to grab her face. Thankfully the leadrope was intact. I grabbed her from Nelly at the gate and the three of us got Lucca loaded first, then Babe. Honestly if there had not been a fence around that course, it would have gone differently. Like the time we were at Bolinvar. I remember Merrilyn had rolled her ankle the week before, and then out hunting had banged it on a tree. She was so ready to go home. We went to load, and given Merrilyn’s ankle in searing pain, I attempted to load without help. Nope, bad idea. Babe pulled away, turned her head toward home, pointed her ears, and galloped off in the exact direction of her field. Merrilyn said, “We have to go after her!!!” And so we hopped in a car and drove along the road, watching as the black dot of her flanks got smaller and smaller in the distance. As Babe disappeared into the woods, Merrilyn said “What should we do? She could run into the road!” I said, “She’s going home. Let’s just pack up and meet her there.” I knew this to be true, and I also knew the shortest distance between Bolinvar and home was across fields and woods. No roads. So we loaded everyone else and went home. Sure enough, there she was, in full tack, standing by the gate of her field. I have so many memories of Babe from that field, the lower right one at Foxcroft. I once caught her without incident, and was happily chatting away on my phone with her leadrope draped casually over my arm as she grazed just outside the gate. I was just about to hang up and walk with purpose to the barn to tack up. She sensed my complete inattention, and high tailed it into the gap between the two fields. “Ha HAAA!” I thought, DEAD END.  The way between the fields was cut off by a run-in shed. There was only about an eight foot distance between the two fence lines. Easy, I thought. I will just walk up to her, and seeing she’s trapped, she won’t resist. WRONG. As I approached, she turned to look at her field. She was four feet from the fence. Like a deer, she simply launched herself back in. I was simultaneously irate and thrilled. What a majestic feat, to see her jump a board fence, from no distance. I remember taking a moment to let her enjoy being in her field before going after her. I did catch her that day. As obstinate as she was to be caught, she was all joy to ride. Her prowess in the hunt field was unparalleled. She never seemed to put a foot wrong and never refused. She was literally a dream to ride, once she realized she didn’t need to hurry. She compensated so well for my lack of riding skill. She was brave – never spooked that I can remember. She was agile and quick, and quite powerful. Most of all, Babe was brilliant fun.

Babe Part 1 - the first in a series of memories and accounts of her wonderful life.

Babe was born May 12^th, 1995 in Wilmington, Vermont. I was her second owner and got her when she was 2 years old. My friends Lenny and Diane found her for me. About a week after I got her, Lenny and Diane took me out to see the place Babe was born. It was mud season, which is the time in Vermont between Winter and Spring. The sky held gray, and even at midday there was no warmth. All the snow was gone, but brown was the overwhelming color of the landscape. We took mostly gravel roads to the isolated property, which was a small place in partly cleared woods. In a half-acre dirt paddock sided by a dilapidated shed row barn were about a half dozen horses. The farmer let me into the paddock and he and Lenny and Diane leaned on the rail. He held an open cardboard 12-pack of bud cans in his hand, which he offered from. I said “no, thank you.” The fence was a thrown together combo of wire, gates, and odd lengths of board. There was a dearth of forage and no hay was evident. All the horses crowded me, hoping that I bore food of some kind. Two huge Belgian mares, one of which was Babe’s mom, plodded over and sniffed me. “That there’s Babe’s mama,”  he said, pointing to the one nearer to me. I petted her big face, and she snorted softly. She and her sister were almost identical.  They had foaled at the same time, and Babe’s cousin was a beautiful liver chestnut colt. Both mares had been bred to the same Morgan, and although they were chestnut, Babe was solid black with a big star between her eyes. She had a finely featured face, and excellent feet. There were two other colts in the yard, yearlings. Clearly they just had too many horses; therefore we fell into the good fortune of acquiring their least favorite one. He said Babe was “a tough one” and his daughter, who was training the colt in a cleared area outside the paddock, said, “She’s tough alright. You gotta always use a chain on her.”  She offered to come work with her and help me break her. I said I’d let her know.

I had fallen in love with Babe. She’d been a freakshow coming off the trailer, and I could tell she was glad to be parting company with her first humans. The girl had pulled her off the trailer and yanked the chain over her nose, and Babe reared back, grunting. She spun around but the girl was able to get her into the barn and stuffed into the stall. The presence of hay and grain were all she needed to embrace her new home. As I watched her eat, I thought about how twenty years earlier I’d lost my second horse, a sweet mare, to colic. I always knew some day I’d have another horse in my life. I didn’t plan to get another horse, but suddenly here she was, a skinny 2 year old barely halter broke. That night I went back to her stall to look at her. I made a promise to her that I’d never be cruel and that I’d always love her. I was mostly able to keep that promise. She tested my resolve right away, when I began to do ground work with her.  I would lunge her, ground drive her and lead her, and we had a great time. Most of the time, she was pretty darn sweet. I’d lead her around with me everywhere and she followed along because for every 15-20 minutes of her attention, she got about 20 hours of being left completely to her own devices and there was plenty for her to eat. But if suddenly she decided she was done being led around, she’d turn her head, and simply bulldoze ahead in the direction she wanted to go at a brisk trot. I’d go after her, and as long as there was a leadrope attached, I could grab her. I was so foolish, and gullible. She was training me; and making certain that I knew her strength and her will would never be a thing I could dominate. I guess I never really wanted to.

We moved to Virginia in August 1999, when Babe was four. I’d gotten her started under saddle and was boarding her in Middleburg with my friend Nette, who wisely knew upon seeing her that she’d make a good foxhunter. Nette was a former eventer who loves dressage, so she offered to work with Babe. When Nette attempted to get her to go on the bit, Babe literally dumped her on the ground while breaking out of the fenced ring. Nette curled up in a ball, and Babe rather daintily avoided stepping on her. So much for going in a frame or any of that nonsense. Somehow though, Babe became a favorite with whoever was in her field. Nette’s two mares were like her sisters. They were great together, except that Babe had a thing about being caught. So when Nette was bringing in horses to feed one morning, Babe decided to pass on breakfast, as she was busy on the nice grass. Once she saw that she was alone, and her friends were inside, though, she changed her mind. She walked up to the gate, and pushed her fat chest against it, hoping it would just pop open and she could escort herself in. It was a pretty solid gate though, so it took more effort. She leaned hard. Instead of the gate giving way, the post itself gave way. As it came down and she crashed through it, a gate-hinge gouged her, probably cracking a rib, and she had a permanent dent there for the rest of her life. It didn't break the skin, never lost hair, it was just a dent in her side at the exact spot where the hinge and her body met. That spot on her side never healed, and I loved to touch it as I groomed her, feeling that thumb-sized indentation that marked her stubborn, piggish personality. Another time, when she was separated from those two mares of Nette’s, Babe tried to climb over a gate into their field and didn’t quite make it. She was stuck for a bit of time halfway over the gate, front legs on one side, back legs on the other side. She finally did make it to the other side. I doubt anyone tried to separate them again after that.

            After Nette moved to Maryland, I was in limbo for a while and didn’t really have a great place to board. Thankfully, I was offered a place for her at Foxcroft, where I had recently been hired. Foxcroft would be Babe’s home from age 7 to age 17. As soon as I got Babe settled in, Nelly and Merrilyn said, “come hunting with us!” And so, without any idea what the hell I was doing, I did, and boy was it a complete disaster the first few times. Well, for the first year. Or two. She didn’t have any real vices, such as kicking or bucking, she just wanted to GO. She did not like the checks, because standing around is bullshit when you are an all business kind of mare. And the whole idea of waiting your turn and jumping in an orderly fashion was also complete rubbish. If the horse in front of her was taking too long to approach the coop, she would just blast by and get the job done. One thing she always did, and I loved her so dearly for it, was take care of herself. Which meant she took care of me. Nothing scared me, because I knew in my heart she would do whatever it took to get us through it. I wish I had taken care of her as well as she’d taken care of me… the few times she had footing mishaps, I could have prevented them by riding better. Once, running up a washed out trail with deep gullies from rain runoff, I should have legged her over, but I didn’t, and she slipped into the ditch, doing a complete face plant. I was on the ground in a fetal position just knowing that she’d pick herself up and be on top of me, and although one of her bare feet did step right in the middle of my back, it surprisingly didn’t hurt at all. After some kind soul ahead of us caught her, I got back on and rode for another hour. She had dirt on her face, and I had a footprint on my back. We were both blissfully happy.

Babe in Vermont, 1997

Babe at two

Baby Babe

The best view is from the back of a horse!

Crows chased a bald eagle across the silver sky as we headed to school this morning, cawing and diving three against one. The girls said “aaah!” from the back seat, turning to watch the airborne game of tag.  That’s freedom, I thought, that’s freedom on the wing.  Just like the weekend, it flew by. 

It’s the month when the large orange moon blinks between fleeting clouds, her bright eye blessing the beasts that shiver in the fields.  Thrill seekers and bon vivants, we brace up with stirrup cups in the broken dawn, then cast off at a brisk trot to the sound of the huntsman’s horn.  The hounds wag and weave, crowding like a school of fish around the master.  We follow, our horses knowing, ears up, keen to the business at hand.  My mare is coiled tight and I do more harm than good by feeding her my own nervous energy.  She feels it on her mouth through the line of the reins, gripped tightly.  Her flanks were quivering before we got to the meet, but now she’s shaken that off as we pick up a canter.  Running down a well groomed path, then waiting by a lily crowded pond, we pause, listening.  Then the pack is moving on, and we follow along the edge of the field where it borders a wood as the huntsman works the hounds, talking and whistling, saying their names, “Jubilee, hup, Ranger,” and blowing his horn.  

When the first hound sings, it’s a piercing solo and the pack answers with a baying chorus of joy, and that’s when I make sure my feet are at least half way home in the stirrups, and I have a good grip on the reins.  But as we wait for the hounds to lead us off, we are frozen by the master saying, “tally ho” quietly.  We freeze, silent, and a red fox streaks low and long across the field toward us, then veers off and makes a line for the covert.

The hounds give chase, in full cry, and we follow the fox through a rolling densely grassed hay field, whose growth from the heavy rains had been cut late, leaving blunt chopped tufts.  At the fence line is a coop, and our field master always takes a careful, long approach.  No matter how I try, the mare wants to be right on top of the horse in front of her, but I manage to have at least a horse’s length.  She jumps high and close, with no finesse, unlike a low, arching thoroughbred’s jump, but I love her.  Her self-preservation and herd mentality keep her from knocking her legs or being left behind.  I never approach a fence with any fear, unless I don’t know what’s on the other side, and then the only fear I have is that I won’t be able to stay with her. 

We land in the woods and run after the hounds, far ahead of us now, on a trail that takes us winding through trees, slowing to a jog only for steep descents, then trotting quickly up the trail, breaking into a canter. Dodging and gasping, “dear god!” as we slalom trees within inches, it’s a miracle I haven’t been peeled off.  The trail becomes an old road, long unused, but still bordered by a stone wall, and the going is clappy, mud thick with pieces of the wall that must have broken down.  She takes high quick steps and moves cleverly around the worst of it.  Ahead of us the field is turning to jump over the wall.  One by one we jump over, and as we go too, everyone on the other side has stopped, so my horse lands squarely and halts abruptly, which makes me laugh.  I rub her mane as she blows out her air in a big snorty exhale.  In the chill her glossy black haunches have beaded up with sweat, and I place my hand on her rump, leaving a wet print.  I have to leg her over and back her off, as she’s practically resting her head on the butt of the horse in front of us.  It happens to be her pasture mate, and she nudges her in the flank, and the other mare looks at her and flicks her tail agreeably.  They gesture softly to each other with their noses and ears.  When we are waiting, all the horses have their ears attuned to the presence of the hounds.  They know where the hounds are, and respect them when they come from behind to get up with the pack.  A hound can dodge inches from my horse’s feet and she will freeze until he passes safely.  She knows if he can’t do his work, she can’t do hers. When the hounds gather again, and the whips have weeded the stragglers and wayward from the dense trees, again we follow. 

We break from woods to field, jump three more coops, some low walls, and soon we are again seeing country we saw  an hour ago, as the fox circles.  When the fox goes to ground the hounds are praised for finishing their task.  My legs are aching, my gloves covered in my horse’s sweat, and I’ve ducked branches and grabbed mane and said “oh shit” when she was following so close I didn’t see there was a jump coming up. 

With less urgency we pick up and go again, and this time the hounds lead us over a low wall, and across a road where cars are stopped, and some drivers have gotten out to watch.  We trot into a cornfield, work our way through it single file, and then turn back down to the road.  Over the wall again, into the field to head back to the meet.  Our path homeward has taken us over the same country we hunted, and all the while the huntsman calls hounds, blowing his horn, and talking to the hounds that are with him, “come along now”, and “get up there.”  At the corner of a field, we pause, all in a line, and watch as the huntsman jumps over the wall into a bordering field, calls, and a hound comes trotting along the top of the far wall to him, like “hello there, here I am!” As the hound joins them, the huntsman says to the pack, “let’s go then!” and they all turn and jump back over the wall towards us. 

We walk at a nice pace, with loose reins and have conversations in low voices as we navigate the terrain.  We come to a hilltop above a large pond, with a beautiful farm in the distance, a view of rolling fields with bordering trees all around.  The huntsman stops here and gathers the hounds to him, blowing his horn every once in a while, doffing his cap while his horse stretches out and cocks a back leg at rest.  The field gathers around the hounds, and flasks come out, are passed, and a bit of mingling ensues.  The hounds, knowing they are done, roll happily, kicking their feet up, or turn about in circles and lay at the feet of the huntsman’s horse.  Some are still curious, and search out the bordering covert, until the whip rides to them, calling, “come out of there,” then back they go, looking up expectantly at their master. 

I sit on my horse, having dropped my reins and propped my knees over my saddle and am completely content.  She tosses her head and swishes her tail, and I give her a pat on the neck.  It’s only nine o’clock and my day is complete.

A ride gone wrong

Today was destined to be a day of adventure.  I didn't know that when the jingle of the dog collars as they shook off the night's sleep woke me at the usual 6:30.  Really it was quite a normal morning. Slippers, glasses, phone in hand, heading down the stairs with my two mutts to give them their bowls, first her (Katie, the one in the snow photo), then him (Gravy, the one in the puddle).  Coffee and lunches were made with much the same perfunctory motions as they always are. Save that I drew a little hand on a post-it note and stuck it to my husband's burrito so he wouldn't hold it upside down, and made sure he had a piece of fruit. Lo sneaking up on me and poking me, even though she does it every morning, gave me that extra jolt again, and getting a kiss from Gary before he headed out for the day completed my morning. The worms were all over the gravel as we go to the car, they curl  and writhe after the rain, some have drowned in puddles. 

We pick up our two neighbor girls for a ride to school. Loren with her usual energy bounces out of the car and canters to their door (she canters everywhere, her little fists beating out the front strides), and soon we are winding our way down the road. Conversations in the morning are usually about dogs, horses, homework, or boys and the weird, awful things they do. Once I was able to hear the story of the boy in fourth grade who peed into a trash can.  As we come up a small hill the engine gets suddenly quiet and there is a faint shiver in the car's carriage. I look down at the panel, and the lights alert me that there is no power.... oh dear lord, we are out of gas. Thankfully I am able to coast into a driveway, which for the road we travel, is not an easy feat. It is more of a one lane paved path than a road. It is too narrow to be lined, and if something big is coming your way, it's really best to just pull over. I'm not very subtle about my feelings, and moan loudly, "Oh NO, this is NOT happening." But it has happened. I don't want to upset the girls' parents, so I call my partner at work and best confidante, who fortunately is able to come help me get gas. Another call to a parent later, and I have procured a ride for the girls to school. While all this is happening, it's raining, and the clock is ticking. Clearly to the girls, it's an emergency. I am faintly aware as I make my desperate rescue calls that there is a conversation happening in the backseat. I hear them discuss which classes they have first, and if it's math, do you like math? Or is it a fortunate turn of events that we are now possibly going to be late with a very good excuse. I hang up, and silently thank God that I have somehow averted disaster and might even be able to get them to school on time. As I do, I hear the oldest girl say, "Let's decide who will eat who".