We had another opportunity to excel on Sunday.
The Kat had a show down in Bonita. As it turns out, a horse show is very like a
military operation: It involves many arduous days of careful planning, assiduous
preparation and cross-functional coordination. And then, as D-Day dawns on a
world all a-tiptoe with trembling anticipation, you are thrust into a whirlwind
involving perhaps 8 to 10 minutes of high drama and of kinetic excitement
surrounded by many long and dreary hours of sitting around, writing with your
toe in the dust (there’s a very great deal of dust, at a horse show),
waiting for something to happen.
0600 - day starts with the alarm clock going
off. At 0600 on a Sunday morning - The
heathen
bastards.
The Hobbit contributes a cheerful, “Mrmph!” and rolls over, falling
quickly back to sleep. Events occurring before 0800 on a weekend are my
exclusive province, my domain – no one even attempts to challenge me for
the rights.
I lurch
spring out of bed with my usual vigor and stumble down the stairs, all thoughts
focused on the most important thing in my life: Coffee, at his particular point.
The rest of the world may very well rot, for all I care, until the first cup of
joe goes gurgling down my throat. The Kat lies sleeping on the couch – the
upstairs rooms were “too hot” to contain her feverish anticipation,
while her own room was too noisy, what with Norwegian mice spinning on their
treadwheel. I take a certain grim satisfaction in that latter truth.
0615 – I wake the Kat. Her
eyes were momentarily confused, unfocused, until I whispered the magic words:
“Show day.” And with that, her angelic morning face suddenly became
infused with intensity and drive. A terrible beauty was born. We move quickly
around the house, finalizing the last night’s preparations. She puts on
unmatched socks and when I quizzically raise an eyebrow, says in reply only
“Good luck.”
I
see.
She's not yet 11, you
know.
0630 - We’re out of the
house, driving unpredictably in order to throw off pursuit. Actually, I’d
left my to-go mug in the other car, and the unpredictability of my driving is
more due to the scalding coffee now gracing my lap, in consequence of the many
speed bumps in our “child friendly”
neighborhood.
I do not scream. Don't.
My story. My very
own.
0640 –
Bagels.
0645 – At the barn. We
are the first. This brings me no particular satisfaction.
0705 – The first tousle-headed
riding instructor arrives, a college student. Then the next. There is a good
deal of standing around and moping. No visible progress is apparent to the
casual observer. Your martial scribe experiences a queasy, if familiar, feeling
of déjà vu.
0710 - I leave
for the in port cabin, somewhat uneasy in
mind.
0830 – Having swept up
the Hobbit, we have arrived in Bonita
exactly on
time! but find no trace of our daughter, or
any of her crewe. We start to wonder if we’re at the right arena.
Competition classes are in session, including several that sound to us as though
the Kat ought to be participating in them. The cost of this whole affair, never
far from the forefront of my consciousness, thrusts itself right forward
again.
0905 – I will not
fume.
0910 – The entourage
arrives, with exactly as much noblesse
oblige fanfare as the main act taking the
stage at a rock concert. No one seems to be in anything of a hurry. No one quite
seems to know what to do. Competition continues in the background. Gaily colored
ribbons are passed out. To other people’s
children.
My advice goes
unsolicited.
0920 – I am not
fuming. I am not.
I
swear.
0945 – The Kat is up on
a pony known everywhere but at this event as “Ladue.” For reasons
that continue to evade me, no horse may be called by its commonly accepted name
at a horse show. Instead, there is some one or another paean to pretension such
as “Afternoon Excitement,” which sounds rather too adult for this
age group, but never mind.
1015
– The Kat is on her first class, a “flat class” (no jumping
– your humble scribe likes flat classes – it is only a very rare
occurrence when anyone’s daughter is thrown through the insubstantial air
into the unyielding earth in a flat class) and she garners a respectable Third
Place ribbon.
This is a four hundred
dollar ribbon, if no others end up joining
it.
1022 – The class is
over.
1022 – 1400 –
Nothing happens.
Nothing.
At
all.
Oh, I read a bit of the book I’ve brought with me. And got
many a strange glance from the assorted parents. I mean, the cover is from a
medieval painting, and the subject is the Black Death. It's not like it's p0rno
I've brought with me. But you'd have
thought...
Other kids rode other
classes, awards were announced, your humble scribe sat there entirely mystified,
not entirely sure when something might happen again that concerned him or any of
his. In the interim, we are asked to provide a blank check to the show
sponsors.
An actual blank check -
like those metaphors of credulity you hear about. We airily tossed our superior
heads and scoffed protestations that of course we wouldn't provide a blank
check. Who did she think we were? Mere rubes?
These protestations were met with a
silent, withering scorn.
But did we
back down?
Yes. Yes, we
did.
But! We fretted over it for the
rest of the day.
Oh. And we ate
some, too. Everyone brings food to these things, and so of course everyone eats.
More than maybe they should. There's a hummus and pita chip combo over on the
corner of one tailgate that I'm having a hard time resisting, or at least, I
would have had a hard time resisting, were it not for the lady who
clearly didn't need any more to
eat blocking me out. The fact that I
probably fit the same description is one I do not care to explore
further.
I'd have made way for her.
That's all I'm saying.
1415 - We ride
again, finally. It's not entirely clear to me how this moment is any different
than the several thousand which precede it, but suddenly we are back in the ring
again, jumping. And doing quite credibly, actually. Then, moments later, another
ride - same course, opposite direction. Finally another ride, this one "under
saddle."
-
- Which
means that it's not the Kat who's being judged, but rather her mount. Our hopes
are not uplifted - the Kat still has to ride school horses, and there are actual
rich people here, folks who blanch not at dropping upwards of $20k on a weekend
ride for their ten year old.
We
don't float in that particular
tub.
1500 - the last awards are
given. Kat has won a First Place (and there was much rejoicing!) two seconds and
another third. A good day, all things considered. Later, she's awarded a ribbon
as "Reserve Champion," which we gather to mean second place overall. She's very
happy. Very happy indeed.
And
suddenly? Some switch is thrown and a long day becomes a good day, in the vault
of family memories. We're very happy too, so we
are.
Later at home, I give the Kat
another hug and tell her how proud I am of her one more time. And then I lean
down and whisper into her ear: "Remember this. Remember how it
felt."
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
