Cubbing Season

Published in The Memoirist

The car smelled of Kiwi shoe polish, a scent I'd always associate with my grandfather. A whiff of that and I'm there, in the basement, sitting on the round wooden stool. Papa opposite me polishing his riding boots oblivious to how anxious I felt.

My grandfather and I were driving to a fox hunt, okay not really a “hunt.” It's cubbing season, a month before the real season begins, when juvenile hounds and green horses learn what to expect. During cubbing season, young fox cubs see how the horses run and where to look for cover. You never use the word “dog” for “hound,” I did that one time: the ensuing silence was mortifying! The foxes are not killed and rarely caught.

Then it hit me: I was like a hound pup, a green horse, or a fox cub. Though I'd never in a million years admit it. Because I was 12 years old.

The morning dampness made it feel colder; it seeped through my clothes. I regretted not listening to Grammy’s advice about long underwear. I felt fidgety and nervous. I'd stupidly forgotten my black velvet hat, even though Grammy put it right by the garage door.

I was almost more scared to tell Papa about leaving my hat as riding a horse I'd never seen.

We passed dense forests, rolling hills, farms and fields. Frost lay in low patches on the ground; the world wrapped in silver gray.

Turning from the main road onto the unpaved road to the stables, I felt dread. I'd been jiggling my foot against the door, not realizing I was doing it until Papa said: “Stop it Janie!” When I told Papa I had forgotten my hat, he wasn't upset because he was too distracted with his dapple gray: Whirly was nearly white, seventeen hands tall, spectacularly beautiful and skittish. Papa named his horse after seeing the whirling dervishes in Turkey.

I follow the groomsman to the tack room. I love the way sawdust, hay, leather, and horse manure all mix together in a barn.

The groomsmen pulled out a few ladies hats; the velvet well worn. The problem was that none fit on my head; they were too tight. Finally, he announced he have to look in the men's lockers! He found one. It fit perfectly.

I put it on, feeling as if I were in a bad version of “Cinderella.” I pulled the strap under my chin and snapped it, certain that the clicking of the snap could be heard for miles.

“Well what do you know?” the groomsman said to the men waiting, “this young lady wears a men’s size seven and a quarter. Isn’t that something? Pretty little thing with a man’s sized head.”

I don’t know if anyone laughed; all I could hear was the blood rushing in my big head.

I climbed the mounting block feeling more humiliated once I was the same height as everyone else. The men atop their horses clustered together, their breath visible as they spoke. A misty cloud rose from the horses’ nostrils. The ground had an oily sheen from the melting frost, the horses might slip; my stomach tightened. My horse, a bay thoroughbred, watched me with warm brown eyes; his ears swiveled, for a second in my direction.

"You're riding Mr. Griffith’s gelding. He's getting a little up in years, but he's got plenty of spunk," one of the riders told me. "His name is Herby; he doesn't like water jumps, but you let him know who's boss." Herby, I thought, what an ugly, and undignified name for such a handsome horse. Who names a horse Herby? It might as well be Mr. Ed.

We’re off at the trot, faster than I expected. These couldn't be the same old men from the stables. I figured it would be slow… Most of them were at least 50 years old! I try to display a collected calm, but inside my anxiety is growing as fast as the horses move. I slide my hands up my reins.

Pairs form, we're jockeying for position to go single file through a gate. I'd never been out in the open with a group so large, I push away the anxious feeling of meeting up with more horses. I'll show Herby I'm boss, sinking my weight deeper in my stirrups and tightening my calves. He doesn't respond, he tugs, moving up to the chestnut mare with a red ribbon tied at the top of her tail. I know what the red ribbon means: “stay back!” Papa’s far away, riding forward with the huntsmen. Did he care where I was?

Joined by two other stables, we became a field of about 25 horses. Hooves thunder and thud, small pieces of dirt fly close to my eyes. The air smells of crushed leaves, damp earth and horse. A clear delineation separates the riders in the front or first field from the slightly slower second field. This is better than any amusement park ride! I’m moving fast, with horses so close I hear them snorting, and see foam gathering at the edges of their mouths.

Never had I seen the countryside from this perspective; the same height as the stomping horses. I glimpse hedges, culverts, a patchwork of fields. I thought I'd seen the natural world, but I'd seen nothing… I was a mere ant before.

“ ‘Ware bog! ‘ware bog,” voices repeat the warning until it trickles back to us in the second field. Horses are reined in, some riders turn in small tight circles. I see two horses ahead: riderless. I can't understand what they're saying; it doesn't sound like English. Seeing my baffled expression, a rider near me moves his gelding in front of me, enabling me to slow my horse.

“First field’s warning us there's a bog up ahead: deep sticky mud," he said in a reassuring voice.

"Huh?”

"Oh that, ‘ware means be aware, it goes back to England, where the word was shortened a long time ago." I am grateful for that man who stopped and talked to me. I watch him grow smaller as he canters off.

We begin to move, picking up speed, we are no longer separated as first and second field. What seemed like a carefully choreographed hierarchy fades.

I pass mud splattered men and feel a cool smugness riding in the first field with the real riders! Straggling hounds weave in and out; I peek down and see one with a sweet beagle-like face and I want to take him home. In a rush the pups are off with the pack as the horses vie for position toward the first coop jump. I didn't realize I was on top of the jump until Herby vaulted over. I'd mindlessly look down for a split second. I hear Papa's stern words in my mind: "Always keep your head up, look between his ears."

A blaring horn resounds, I didn't know that archaic horn was really used. Three precise notes pierce the air. We’re zigzagging across a pasture, the hounds no longer baying; they’re crying, on a scent. Horses run at a gallop. The controlled canter is GONE!

A single riveting pulse stirs from the pack of hounds to the horses and back again. That same charged pulse runs through my legs to my chest making my heart rush. We are no longer three distinct creatures: hound, horse, human; we've transformed into one herd. I understand the phrase "riding hell for leather" for the first time.

What's that sound? I see a small stream several horse lengths ahead. Two horses leap over, three others stomp through spattering muddy water. Hooves, like hammers on rocks as they bulldoze the creek.

“Come on. come on, Herby, get up. Go on…” I encourage him. I feel his tentative steps and see his ears pin back. I squeeze my legs against him: hard.

An abrupt halt, my balance shifts, I slide up his neck grasping his mane. I hang there over his neck for a second, then plop; I’m on my bottom smack dab in the middle of swampy muck. A brackish smell permeates the air. I hear the hounds in the distance, drifting away like a passing train.

Phew, no one saw me! I don't see that stubborn, dumb ass horse anywhere. Self-consciousness dissolves. I am scared. I want to sit down and cry, but I get up and start walking, sweeping off dirt as I tromp around. But where? Back to the stable? Which way was that? My feet ache, riding boots aren't meant for hiking: the ground uneven, clumpy.

I spot Herby and feel happy for a moment until I realize he doesn't acknowledge me, not lifting his pea brain head from the ground. You can't even call a horse like a dog. Loyalty is not a quality of horses, though I believed in “Black Beauty” and “My Friend Flicka.” I now knew those were fiction. I reach big dumb Herby, pull the reins over his head to lead him: where? A realization paralyzes me; I cannot get back on without a mounting block. He jerks his head to the ground. I wrench it up from the grass, but he's undeterred. I give up and let him eat. Hopeless, all I hear is munching, the grinding of the bit against his teeth.

Up bobs Herby’s head, ears cock forward. I scan the horizon: nothing.

Then I see a white horse. “Papa!” I say aloud and realize I'd been holding my breath. Whirly is lathered up with white soapy liquid at the edges of his saddle; his breath fast, steam rising from his body. Relief surges over me until I look up and see my grandfather's scowling face.

“Don't let him eat like that. You're not hurt, now get back on," he said gruffly.

“But how?" My voice is weak, squeaky. A tear forms, rolling down my cheek, I wipe it away. But Papa saw; he softens.

“What in the Sam Hell are you doing down there, honey?” He laughs, I manage a tiny smile. Grammy would die if she heard him swearing, especially in front of me. I feel like I'm part of an inside joke.

Papa explains how to lead my horse to a slope so I'm slightly taller. I try lifting my foot up to the stirrup when wise old Herbie side steps away from me.

“Give him a good strong yank. Don't let him get away with that!"

I do it, tug him with all the furious force I have. I've got to show my grandfather I am in control or I'll never go on another fox hunt, even if it's only cubbing season. Papa guides Whirly so close to the other side of my horse they rub against each other, preventing my horse from stepping away. I stretch, I stand on tiptoe, but cannot get my boot into the stirrup. My grandfather is silent, offering no solution. Think. I reach up and let the stirrup down low enough to get my foot in and voilà, I swing my other leg up and over, readjust my stirrup leather. I did it!

“Okay, let's get this mule over the creek. Come on," his voice trails off.

Herby hears the water before I see it, his trot changes to a pokey crawl. We stop while Papa talks. It's not hard bringing my horse to a halt; he didn't want to budge another inch. Whirly’s reined in tight; no slack, his bit showing the pink inside of his mouth.

“He's scared of water, who knows why. Here's the thing: you can't be afraid, or show fear. Even if you feel it. A horse can sense any hesitation you have. Show him you're determined. He has to know you're confident or he can’t be. I'll be right behind you. Help him find his courage, talk sweet to him, like a baby. When you get to the water, keep pressure on him, when he tries to stop, whack him with the crop," Papa finishes.

The side of the creek is slick, I’m afraid he'll lose his footing. I push down that fear, just as Papa said. Herby slows, I press my calves into his girth so hard it hurts; I say nonsense words in a sing-song voice… I feel his legs gather beneath me. He bounds over the puny stream like Tigger bouncing in “Winnie the Pooh.”

A white flash as Whirly passes me and we're racing toward the forest. Herby elongates and I catch up so we're in stride. Papa calls out: “That's my girl!” I feel a heady combination of elation and independence. Ducking my head, avoiding branches I'm immediately focused my knees inches from tree trunks. I dodge. My mother always tells me to be "in the present moment." Riding is extraordinary for the simple reason that it's inconceivable not to be in a pure present moment; it's a momentary heaven.

Back with our original group, the “hunt” dispersed a while ago. I uncurl my fingers from the reins; my hands feel frozen, not from cold, but from holding tight for so long. As I dismount, my legs are rubber, my feet numb. I overhear Papa: “She was a champ!”

I didn't know the word “empower” when I was 12, but that's what I felt. Countless life lessons compressed into a single morning, riding with my grandfather.

My grandfather, age 75, riding Whirley. Photo taken by a friend in 1975.