Christine Hemp - Wild Ride Home: Love, Loss, and a Little White Horse, a Family Memoir

Copyright 2020 by Christine Hemp

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or .

Arcade Publishing is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc., a Delaware corporation.

Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

Cover art by Bndicte Gel

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-950691-24-1

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950691-33-3

Parts of this manuscript (in slightly different forms) have appeared in the Iowa Review, Fourth River , and Writing on the Edge at the University of California, Davis. Other sections were aired on National Public Radios Living on Earth and posted on This I Believe . Portions have also been awarded a Washington State Arts Commission Artist Trust Fellowship for Literature, a Barbara Deming/Money for Women Grant, a Donald Murray Award for Nonfiction, an Annie Dillard Award from Bellingham Review , a residency at Vermont Studio Center, and a first runner-up for the Iowa Award for Literary Nonfiction.

for my family, both here and there

We Manage Most When We Manage Small
Making safety in the moment. This touching
home goes far. This fishing in the air.

Linda Gregg

Authors Note

D EAR R EADER : I HAVE TRIED to be vigilant about the facts of my story and am painfully aware that memory is a sticky business. My interpretation of events will undoubtedly differ from anothers, and time can be elastic, too. I have done my best to stay true to chronology, but some passages are compressed to serve the story. The only factual changes I deliberately made were the names and details of several people and places to protect their privacy. Other than that, a memoir is always a matter of selective memory (whats left out remains as potent as what is included), and I found I had to succumb to this storys own particular power. I write to keep fear and sorrow at bay. I write to celebrate what Ive found. I write to find out more. Finally, I write out of love, for even after all these years, I still believe my mothers words that echo in my earliest memories: It will all work out.

Christine Hemp
Olympic Peninsula, Washington State
2020

Table Of Contents

PART I:
LAND OF ENCHANTMENT

Chapter 1.

Pressure and Release

A BALD EAGLE SKIMS ALONG the bluff where windblown Douglas firs, their exposed roots like talons, grip the eroding cliff. Gulls circle and warn the bird of prey not to come too close. One hundred fifty feet below, the Salish Sea crashes and stretches west to the Pacific.

I arrive on foot with an empty water bucket just as the morning sun spills across the field. Near the meadow gate a small, white horse and two mules are dozing. The horses delicate head flies up when he hears me coming. He nickers and nods. I sneak a lead rope around his neck (no time for hide-and-seek today) and brush his bright coat while he picks up a stick and waves it in the air as if conducting an orchestra. Come on, Buddy I tell him, We have places to go. I toss the brush into the bucket along with my sandwich, skinny him out the gate so the mules wont escape, then tack him up with an old bridle Id saved since childhood. He gnaws at the bit, dancing in place. After sidling him over to a sawhorse, I jump up with one hand clutching both reins and a long hank of white mane, slip my leg over his bare back, and carefully lift the bucket in my other hand. As my weight settles, the bucket rattles and Buddy rears and skitters so frantically I have to drop it. So much for supplies. We head off down the road, Buddys legs in a whir, his nostrils wide, my heart beating fast.

Buddy isnt the only cause for apprehension (he shies at everything from plastic bags to rabbits); its the thought of seeing horse people again. My teenage 4-H horse-show days return, and, even in middle age, insecurity rises like a warm flood. I can certainly ride this snappy geldingIve been doing that all summerbut reentry into a world of the right tack or registered horses spooks me more than Buddy with the bucket.

After the mile ride to the Fairgrounds, the first person we see is a woman in shiny boots and breeches unloading a black horse from a trailer. I try not to think of my scratched-up logging boots, my red-and-gray fishing hat, or the car-wash brush Id been using to groom Buddy, now left behind in the bucket along with my lunch.

Hi! the woman says. Cute little gray Arabian! Hey, if you need anything, Ive got buckets and such.

Oh, thanks! I say, Yes, I could use a water bucketI had to leave mine behind.

She sets one near an empty stall. Ill see you up there! she smiles and points to where people are gathering. I fill the bucket, slip Buddy into the stall, and hurry to the outdoor arena. A compact man in jeans, tennis shoes, and a wide-brimmed, water-stained Australian Outback hat is talking to a cluster of women. A half-smoked cigarette hangs from his fingers. When I approach, he turns to me, his blue-gray eyes clear and welcoming. Hi, he says, holding out a strong, square hand. Im Ken.

A young woman leads her bay Morgan into the arena, and Ken asks her horses name. Tika, she says and stops next to the mares shoulder while the rest of us retreat to the bleachers. The mare tenses as the woman mounts.

Hmmmm, Ken says. Why dont you walk her out. The horse steps in a perfect circle, turning with agility and arching her neck like a professional dressage horse. I think of Buddys head carriagewild and highand wonder how this Morgan has come to be so compliant. Looks like shes been told what to do so much she cant even make a decision on her own, Ken says. To me the mare looks alive and full of zest, but Ken sees something else.

See her eyes? Ken turns to us. She is so afraid of doing the wrong thing, she cant move out freely. Shes packed in there tight. I begin to see it. The horses eyes are wary and her shoulders tremble slightly, a shadow of sweat forming on her chest.

Tami, Ken says gently, Your horse may seem like a safe horse to ride, but someday she may lose her cool over something really small.