Today I was reminded of an early lesson that apparently, I did not learn very well. Let’s just say that not paying attention while riding a draft cross is seldom a good idea.

Way back when in my early barn-rat training my mother would place me on ponies during the work day because she claimed it was easier to keep an eye on me on top of one than wandering around underneath them.

I have since wondered if this was perhaps some sort of sadism on her part, or if perhaps she really did want me to learn a thing or two on my own. Because ponies are the world’s great joke on human kind: small enough for a child, adorable enough to be appealing to a child, and yet inherently evil.

Josephine embodied all things pony. She was a chocolate palomino complete with Barbie-esque flaxen mane and tail and a face that could melt the hardest heart. Approximately 12 hands she was primarily used for pony parties at the farm that mom was working at the time. According to her, on the lead line she was the perfect party pony willing to be led around, pose for pictures, and tolerant of the bows and ribbons expected at such events.

Off the lead? Well, I consider that where my true equine education began.

Pony parties were only a small part of the offerings at that farm, which ran a large lesson program during the school year and a camp in the summer. I have so many fond memories of that farm, although in hindsight it was literally a three-ring circus.

Four afternoons a week and all day on Saturdays, all three arenas were in use, with overflow lessons being held “out and about,” which consisted of rides around the property, in one of two jump fields, and often across the creek and into the woods.

Horsemanship, they believed, could not be achieved solely in the ring. And to this day I could not agree more.

As an instructor’s daughter I was granted many privileges that included one lesson a day on one of the very suitable members of the school horse string. When not in a lesson, I was expected to “do something constructive”. Or at least stay out of trouble. Because Josephine, when not doing parties, was also expected to do something constructive (or at least stay out of trouble), and I was a small, somewhat capable rider at that time, we became a team of sorts.

At first, we kept things simple; when mom was teaching her lessons, I would simply tag along, mostly allowing Josephine to follow mom around as she taught, occasionally taking part in the lesson exercises. Mission accomplished! Josephine and I were being constructive and staying out of trouble. In the ring at least.

I was convinced I was riding that pony and was ready to take on the big world outside.

After much begging, I was allowed to start riding out and about with some of the older lesson groups. It is worth noting here that a portion of this property consisted of an old pecan grove, and a popular out and about activity included a follow-the-leader type game where the line of students would follow the mounted instructor around an intricate pattern weaving in and out of the trees. I’d watched this game take place for months and was dying to take part. It looked fun, and simple enough to accomplish.

Riding always looks easy to those who have never done it.

And here is the honest truth – my lesson rides until this point had always been on older, schoolmaster types. The ones who have been doing their job for years and gave their riders a lot of help. Sure, they built up your confidence, but a rider could make mistakes and still feel accomplished.

Josephine, while technically broke, was no schoolmaster. Her main purpose was to stand and walk quietly and be fussed over. Actual work was not her thing, and I learned quickly she was quite creative at taking shortcuts.

The first time she cut a turn and scraped me off on a tree, I was more embarrassed than hurt. The instructor of course had to stop the whole line of students to pick me up and they all watched with barely concealed amusement as Josephine ran back to the barn.

“She cut the turn too close!” I said indignantly.

“Of course she did,” the instructor said while brushing me off and checking me over. “A.J., it’s your job to steer her around the tree!”

Riding – real riding – it turns out, is not a passive activity.

I’d love to say that it never happened again, but I won’t lie to you. Learning to steer around the trees involved many skills, such as looking where you want to go, using ALL of your aids (leg, seat, hand) and using them in a clear and decisive way.

Over time I did become better at steering, and while not one hundred percent successful at missing the trees I did at least become more capable of hanging on through the rubs. That lesson in particular served me well today, although perhaps I should have taken better advantage of Josephine’s earlier teachings.

This morning, some thirty years after the Josephine days, I was riding through a short, wooded path that separates the ring from the barn. My boss du jour had texted me a random question, and I’d dropped my reins to quickly respond to her.

It only takes one moment.

Through the stars of pain when my lower leg connected and drug across the tree bark, the black mane of the horse I was riding (who may very well have been a pony in a previous life) turned flaxen before my eyes and for just a moment I was transported back to a pecan grove several states away.

Complacency has no place in riding.

Thank you, Josephine, for the reminder.

We all have stories to tell, and telling them connects us.