Where do summer camp horses come from, and where do they go when the summer ends? The year I began my official training as a camp riding instructor, I had an opportunity to learn the answer to this question. The riding director, the assistant director, and the other instructors took me along with them on a trip to the large horse farm that leased fifteen horses to our camp every year. The director drove us all out to the farm in the camp van.
“Wait till you meet these people,” she told me. “They’re a family– about four generations the last time I counted– and they work this farm and lease trail horses to camps and other programs like ours.” “Where do the horses come from originally?”
“They buy and adopt retired horses from riding schools, farms and breeders. They look for the calmest and sweetest horses they can find. And they take on a few bad ones too. Some bitter, difficult ones who have had a hard life.”
“Why do they do that?”
“Because these people have a way with bad horses. I’ve seen a few crazy ones at this place that were completely transformed by the time I met them again a year later.”
“We should take one of those.”
“This time we might. We’ll see.”
We were headed to the farm to select the last of the fifteen who would be ours for the summer. A long truck would deliver them to the camp a few days later.
When we rolled up the winding gravel driveway of the farm, we were greeted by a fleet of tiny Chihuahuas, a frantic rabbit-sized welcoming committee. Then several children appeared. Then finally we met Grandma (She actually told us to call her Grandma, which seemed normal to us– We lived, after all, in a world of camp names).
Grandma was an enormous lady in a mumu who never appeared without a Chihuahua in her arms and who could tell us anything we cared to know about any horse on the farm. She could tell us who was a pacer or a flying lead changer, who cribbed, who had won awards as a cross-country hunter-jumper, who had sustained what injuries and traumas in this life, and most important: who could best tolerate three long months of being kicked in the ribs and jerked around and hugged and loved and spooked by little children.
These would be the first and perhaps only horses some of our campers would ever meet. And having been a camper once myself, I knew what a powerful role these horses would play in their memories of camp as well as their future relationships with horses and large animals in general.
Ten of our horses had already been chosen, but we still had five positions to fill. In addition to sweet temperaments, we wanted horses who had smooth gaits, so we spent the afternoon looking over the available horses and riding them around in a corral.
Grandma watched us from the fence, shouting advice and ordering her sons to saddle up and bring out this or that potential candidate.
It was on that day that we met:
Dancer, an Arabian mix with a showy way of tossing her head. She looked sassy, but was just gregarious and high spirited. She was a beautiful jumper, but Grandma told us if we kept her busy for more than three hours at a time—exactly three hours—she would write us all off and head immediately back to the barn. Which she did. We learned to keep her work days short. She would be a celebrated favorite in our stable.
Chomper, a draft horse of indeterminate parentage. He was enormous (for a camp horse) and white with milky-brown patches all over his body. Later that summer he and I would be leading a group of campers on a trail ride through the woods when he would accidentally bring one of his giant hooves down on a yellow jackets nest. He would control his ensuing panic in a way I would remember—and be grateful for– forever.
Mini, a tiny grey pony. She was adorable but grouchy. Only children could ride her (we were too big), and they would fight for a chance to do so, but she didn’t take any nonsense. She bit. She was so cute that the children didn’t seem to mind.
Beauty, who was coal black, hideous, and charming. He was designed horribly—he had an outrageous roman nose and a sway back and knobby knees like a goofy caricature of a backwoods mule. But his eyes and face were expressive and his patience was inexhaustible. Children, adults, barn cats, and even other horses seemed to grow calmer just being in his company. He had a settling effect, as well, on some of our campers who were especially troubled and hard to reach.
And finally, Merlin. Merlin was a lean, long legged, long necked old gentleman. He had once been white, and possibly beautiful, but he had been burned in a fire. Parts of his back were scarred and bald, and where his coat had grown in, it was thin and grayish with liver spots showing through under his hair. Merlin was my own favorite. Most of the other instructors felt the same way about him that I did.
Put simply, Merlin seemed to love being a camp horse. He loved being where he was. We could not imagine him being so happy in any other setting. He seemed to take to us right away and understood the unique nature of our relationship with him—our human tendency toward powerful and temporary friendships. He loved the woods, and he also loved children. It wasn’t just patience in his case; he actually seemed to find them fun. His ears would perk up when he saw or heard them coming and he would trot over to the fence to visit with them and let them cover his face with the patter of their little hands.
He represented all that is wonderful about the camp horse, an animal quite wonderful even among horses. Everything he did seemed to say, “Take a look at me—I am a horse. Go ahead and touch my velvet nose. We all have these. If you let us into your hearts, we will change you.”
When we first met Merlin at the farm, we asked Grandma about him but she couldn’t tell us much. She did not know the details of the fire. She didn’t know very much about his history at all actually—his previous owners had taken him in after he had been abandoned in a field.
But Grandma told us one important thing: “You should probably take that one,” she said. “The kids might find him hard to look at. But you let them work that out on their own.”
We did as she recommended. She was right.
-Erin Sweeney
When I was a little girl, one of my favorite places was my Portuguese grandfather’s vegetable garden. I have vivid memories of picking tomatoes and green beans, and sitting down for a snack at a wooden picnic table under his grapevines. I also remember sitting beside my great grandmother on the back stoop in the late-afternoon sun shelling peas and shucking corn. Those seemingly mundane tasks made such an impression on me that still, today, thirty-odd years later, when I shuck corn and shell peas I think of my great-grandmother, and when I see a bunch of grapes I think of my grandfather and long for grapevines of my own.
Gardening with kids is easy because everything they grow gives them a thrill. It doesn’t have to be perfect. If your family is new to gardening, start small. Plant a little herb garden and let the kids use fresh herbs when you cook together. Some of our most popular are chives, pineapple or chocolate mint, and any kind of basil. If you want to try something bigger, create a themed garden—pizza gardens are always popular (tomatoes, basil, oregano, onions, and garlic), but I also like an international garden that incorporates food plants from all around the world and uses flags as garden markers. It’s a great way to learn about other cultures and branch out to new cuisines. No outdoor space? Don’t despair! Do some container gardening. A Salad Bowl Garden is easy and fun. Poke some holes in the bottom of a large plastic bowl, and plant four or five different varieties of lettuce. Instant mixed greens salad–colorful and tasty!