Sue Wiygul Martin - Out of the Whirlpool: A Memoir of Remorse and Reconciliation

I WAS TWENTY SIX YEARS OLD AND LIVING IN ALABAMA when my story begins. My first marriage had failed after two years. I had made a complete mess of my first and second attempts at establishing a career. Having resigned from a disastrous stint in the insurance industry, I moved back in with my parents, into the home where I grew up. Everything I touched, thought, or did seemed to be ending badly.

Not surprisingly, my parents insisted that I see a psychiatrist. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldnt tell him the truth. After some fruitless sessions, he prescribed an antidepressant. The only effect this medication seemed to have was to turn getting out of the bed each morning into an ordeal. Id wake up and just lie there staring up at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. There was nothing I could think of that would make getting out of bed worthwhile.

I had been an exercise rider for a federal judge for the previous two years. He owned a steel gray thoroughbred named Knight Commander. My job was to keep the horse fit and in training for fox hunting. Knight Commander had developed the habit of setting his jaw against the bit and galloping, out of control, at any fence that the judge directed him to jump during a hunt. This was dangerous enough in itself but it was especially dangerous in a crowded hunt field. This behavior didnt manifest when I rode Knight Commander for exercise and the judge concluded that it must be the excitement of the hunt that was the problem. He invited me to hunt Knight Commander the second weekend in November to see if I could break the habit.

On the morning I was to drive to the judges home I awakened to the familiar feeling of paralysis. What was wrong with me? I should want to do this. I should be excited. I should be leaping out of bed in anticipation of a thrilling challenge. But I was none of those things. I was a failure. I had failed at marriage. I had failed in my career attempts. Now, I was failing even to get out of bed.

With an enormous effort, I dragged myself to my feet. I crossed to the casement windows of my room. Drawing back the full-length draperies I looked out, through the branches of the silver maple, across the yard to Pump House Road. Our house was located in the suburb of Mountain Brook, just southeast of Birmingham. The sun was just beginning to top the tall trees across the street. I gazed out at the peaceful scene and then turned back to my room, the sun now glinting off of medals won in fencing meets and a trophy handed to me when I won my first kayak race. On the wall to the left was my diploma from the University of the South. How proud I had been when the vice chancellor intoned, Lillian Sue Wiygul, cum laudethe culmination of four glorious years. I remembered walking to the front of All Saints Chapel wearing the slightly tattered and faded academic gown which had been awarded to me at the start of my sophomore year.

On the other side of the bookcase was a photograph taken from the top of a mountain looking down on jewel blue lakes. While friends and family at home were celebrating our countrys bicentennial I had been abroad, toasting the Queen at an opening convocation for a summer term at University College Oxford. I had taken the photograph on a weekend jaunt to the Lake District of northern England during that term.

None of it now meant very much. Surely these trophies and mementos belonged in someone elses life. They didnt seem to belong in mine.

I steeled myself for what I needed to do.

Right. I needed to get dressed. Pack my hunting gear. Get in the car, and drive the ninety miles from Birmingham to Montgomery, where the judge lived. It was like I was standing outside of myself just watching as I went through the motions. Somehow, I got myself together. I arrived at the judges home Friday evening, and, early the next morning, I groomed Knight Commander. I then trailered him and stowed my tack in the car, and the judge drove us the sixty or so miles to the meet.

As the judge pulled into the frost-silvered field deep in the heart of Alabamas richest farmland, I saw the familiar sights of the hunt staff in their scarlet coats and the members of the hunt wearing black coats, some with the hunt colors on their collars. I got out of the car and sounds of greeting and laughter filled the chilly air. Horses snorted and whinnied. All of it familiar, yet all somehow alien. I didnt feel a part of it. I felt isolated. I felt alone.

After the judge backed Knight Commander out of the trailer he saddled him while I slipped the bit between his teeth and drew the bridle over his head. Positioning myself at Knight Commanders left shoulder I prepared to mount. He was a big horse, standing seventeen hands, one inch, but I had mounted him effortlessly many times. On that day though, getting myself into the saddle felt like climbing a mountain. I struggled, and slowly, oh so slowly, dragged myself into the saddle. I remember the judge placing a hand on my boot and looking carefully into my eyes. He said, Are you going to be all right? Without saying anything, I nodded, gathered Knight Commanders reins, and moved off to join the hunt. The huntsman sent the pack into covert to draw for a fox. They shot off in ever widening circles. They soon picked up a scent, and, with the hounds in full cry, we were off.

We galloped across a bare winter field and approached the first fence.

I wasnt sure what I was going to do if Knight Commander got out of control but I trusted my instincts. One thing I needed though was space. Gently tightening my hands on the braided reins, I slowed Knight Commander down, the other horsesblack, bay, chestnut, and whiteflashed by. Then it was time. Leaning slightly forward, tightening my legs, I gave Knight Commander some rein. We gathered speed.

As we approached the fence Knight Commander pinned back his ears, threw his head in the air, and rushed the fence. I had no control at all. I stood in the stirrups. Leaning as far forward as I dared, I simply yanked down, hard, on the right rein. That got his attention. Back in the saddle, I gathered the reins and collected the horse by driving forward with my legs and seat and resisting slightly with my hands. Knight Commander gracefully vaulted the fence.

By now the hunt was ahead of me. Leaning forward, I gave Knight Commander his head. He could run; he could run fast. The trees flashed by, and I caught up with the rest of the field. That hunt was a long one. The fox outsmarted the hounds over and over again, and there were long periods of time when we had to stand still and wait for the hounds to pick up the scent. Then wed be off again.