What A Sight We Must Have Made (Part 2)

“I adored Hands, even though I could only reach his legs to brush, and I only fell off him twice: once, when his girth was not tightened properly and I posted merrily until the saddle went sideways and I hit the ground. I still remember the way he stopped and looked back at me like, “what are you doing down there, foolish child?” Twice, on a trail ride when the ponies decided a canter back to the barn was in order and Hands took off with an incredible leap, outpacing them all with monstrous strides until I fell off mostly from the surprise of it. (I then shrieked “let’s do that again!” of course. It was the first time I’d ever cantered. It was my new favorite thing in the world.)

It wasn’t until years later, when I happened to run into a girl who was a few years older than me who had also taken lessons with Ms. W, that I learned the truth about Hands.

His name was never “Hands.” His name was “Hans,” which Ms. W pronounced in an extremely Southern fashion with a short “a.” He was impeccably bred, foaled in Germany, imported to the US. He had been Ms. W’s  Grand Prix show jumping horse. He’d been to the Olympic Trials with her, many many years before I met him. When I rode him, he was at least 29 years old. He’d gotten pulled out of a well-deserved retirement when that seventh lesson pony went lame.

It’s been almost 30 years since I first met Hands. I still think about him often, and the way he took such perfect care of a dumb little kid. I think about Ms. W, who is gone now, too, and her little Jack Russel dog that rode a horse better than we did and how she must have laughed and laughed standing in the middle of the ring, watching six little ponies and one 17h champion show jumper parade around. What a sight we must have made!”