Reflections on the Seventh Week of Summer – Jodhpurs and Jeans

Walk Trot Trail Turn

Under lumpy, light-gray clouds Wednesday, I clutched my camera bag in one hand and two pieces of paper listing halter classes in the other. Raising my foot, I stretched it up to the bottom bleacher seat by the horse arena. Too high. The architect must have been a basketball player. Pausing to regain my balance, I lifted my leg to the next seat. My knees stung as if I’d scraped their insides with the bleacher’s splintery wood. Waiting for the bleacher and me to stop wobbling, I glanced over my shoulder.

A six-or-seven-year-old girl held the bridle of a mini horse. She wore white jodhpurs, a navy jacket, and black helmet. Avoiding puddles, she walked and leading the mini along the fence on the far side. Then she turned toward me and ran. Her braids bounced, and the mini trotted. Hooves squished the wet ground. When the girl reached the center, she stopped and faced her horse.

Holding a clipboard against her leather belt, the judge walked around the perfectly groomed mini and girl. The judge nodded, and the girl walked the mini horse out of the arena.

More exciting than watching ice melt, but I didn’t go for excitement. I wanted to experience something new at the Cochranton Community Fair.

I could distinguish a donkey from a palomino, but the list of eighteen Halter Performance Classes, which I clutched in my hand, might as well have been written in snorts, neighs, and whinnies. Using my imagination, I visualized number fifteen, Walk/Trot Egg & Spoon―eggs flying and splatting on rider’s clothes―and number eighteen, Open Costume―trick-or-treaters riding horses. To understand the rest of the list, I’d planned to arrive early, listen to the announcer, and follow the program. Arriving 11:40 a.m. for events starting at noon, according to page seven, or “1 PM SHARP,” according to page twelve, proved too late. I would have to listen and guess.

I wobble-climbed to the top of the bleachers, sat, and pulled out my camera. I focused on the next exhibitor. Fence rails blocked my view of the horse’s legs, and the seat dampened my pants. Setting the camera bag on the papers, I hung the camera around my neck and stood on the seat. It wobbled. I held my hands to the side like an acrobat on a high wire but figured I looked like an idiot. I’d done wackier things to get a photograph―like laying on my stomach in the middle of frozen West Creek Road. The bench and I stopped wobbling. I raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder.

A tall teenager in jeans, a checked shirt, and Stetson led his mini donkey through the walk-trot-stop routine I’d already witnessed. I wondered if the riding outfits were the costumes listed for number eighteen.

An agile woman climbed halfway up the bleachers without wobbling. She sat with her back as straight as the children leading horses and turned to me. “Which event is this?”

I lowered myself to the bench and pulled the sheet from under the camera bag. “I think we’re on number two―the Walk/Trot Trail. But I don’t know much about horse shows.” I handed her the papers. “I did notice that some youngsters wear jodhpurs and helmets while others wear blue jeans and Stetsons. Will they ever ride?”

“Their outfits determine what kind of saddle they’ll use. English or Western.” She studied the papers and pointed to one item. “When it says equestrian, that’s a riding event.”

Blue Ribbon Class Winners Trying for Grand Prize

She handed back the papers, and we watched in silence while nine blue ribbon winners from earlier events walked their horses and donkey into the arena. One horse knocked the Stetson off a teenage girl, but she didn’t fetch it. She stood at attention while the judge circled and jotted notes on the clipboard.

When I’d attended the Junior and Open Cattle Show, the judge lined the cows in order of prizes and handed ribbons to the exhibitors. The horse judge didn’t. The exhibitors walked away while the announcer read the number―impossible to read from the bleachers without a zoom lens―and name of the winner. I had no clue who won, but families on benches across from me cheered and clapped.

The announcer said, “We need to construct the obstacles. If anyone out there can help, we’d appreciate it.”

Despite the cloud cover, the sun had heated my scalp and face. I wanted a drink. Step by step, I climbed down the bleachers, squished across waterlogged grass, and cut through the poultry tent. Wings flapped, heads jerked, and a melody of clucks and cock-a-doodle-doos echoed off the canvas. I hustled to the midway and stared into concession stands. Watching a man hand squeeze a lemon and getting a whiff of its fragrance, made me long for real lemonade—not the powdered stuff. I bought a small cup and listened to the ice clink-clank while I strode to the arena.

This time, I climbed to the top bench of the shorter bleachers behind the poultry tent―wobbly and damp but with a clear view over the fence rails while I sat. I sipped the lemonade. Smooth, cool, and sugary. More like non-carbonated lemon pop than lemonade. I drank it anyway while a woman measured distance between poles .

The show resumed. First the young girl with the mini horse walked through the obstacle trail as if they’d done it every morning after breakfast.

Then the tall teen entered with his mini-donkey. The donkey stepped into a square made by four long white poles and completed a circle turn with a couple thigh-nudges from the teen. When the teen walked the donkey to a set of three parallel poles, she planted her feet and swiveled her head as if planning to turn back to the square. The teen stepped, and the donkey pulled several more times, they walked around the poles.

I agreed with the donkey. No sense in stepping over scary poles instead of using the a perfectly safe path.

The teen led the donkey to a wooden bridge. He stepped onto the bridge. The donkey stepped back. The teen coaxed. The donkey turned her head. After a gentle struggle, the pair walked beside the bridge to the last set of parallel poles.

The teen stepped over the first pole and pulled the reins. Though the donkey pulled back, the teen stepped over the second pole making her trot behind him. When they stopped at the orange cone, the donkey snorted. Families and friends hooted and whistled.

Donkey Stopping Before the Last Set of Poles

Clouds turned dark gray, and wind flapped the pages of the performance events. I’d sucked the last of the sugary-lemon drink, when the first horse with a rider entered the arena. They followed the same trail of obstacles that the youngsters and horses had walked.

A girl on a western saddle made all the obstacles until the last set of parallel poles. Her palomino scooted beside them and stopped at the orange cone.

A girl riding, on an English saddle, guided her horse perfectly until the final orange finish cone. She pulled the reins to stop.

The horse pranced toward the square of poles and swished its braided tail.

The girl pulled the reigns again.

The horse circled and trotted toward the last set of parallel poles. I chuckled because the horse wanted to go around the trail again.

After several more vain attempts to pull the horse to a stop, the girl gave up and let the horse trot out.

Watching youngsters do what I hadn’t ever learned to do, made me more determined to figure out the eighteen performance classes.

After riding the obstacle trail, maybe the Walk/Trot Equitation or the Walk/Trot Hunter Over Ground Poles, youngsters riding in western saddles walked and trotted their horses along the fence. Then the judge handed each rider a spoon with an egg. I didn’t need the announcer or the printed papers. We’d hit number fifteen, the Walk/Trot Egg & Spoon class for riders ten and under.

Each of the four girls held the reins in one hand and the spoon with the egg in the other. They bent their egg arms at a right angles and held the eggs away from the horses.

The horses walked.

The girls held the spoons.

No splats.

No splashes.

The judge yelled, “Trot.”

The riders leaned forward then back to urge their horses to trot. Riders bounced in their saddles, eggs rode in the spoons. I gasped at their amazing balance. And I knew who won that class. The girl on the palomino held her egg the longest.

Youngsters on English saddles rode in and stopped by the fence.

Clouds blackened, and wind thrashed trees.

Expecting the announcer to tell the riders to go back to the horse tent, I packed my camera and stuffed the papers into my pocket. The announcer said, “Walk.”

The girls walked their horses beside the fence. The one in front blushed with a bashful smile despite the threat of rain.

I walked too. Down the bleachers, across the squishy field, and along the street to my car. The first sprinkles hit the windshield when I turned the key in the ignition. By the time I’d driven two miles, rain pelted the car and thunder crashed.

Though I’d missed the Open Costume Class, I’d seen the eggs, learned to match saddles and attire, and experienced rain not stopping the show. I didn’t need to be a horse expert, however, to know the judges had to let the horses and riders return to the horse tent before In pulled into our garage. Lightning’s too dangerous for talented riders and their show-quality mounts.

Walk Trot Egg & Spoon