Now that the summer has faded away and we are moving into fall, we don’t have to blend in with the foliage; we can still wear bright sunny colors. Just because we ride in muted tones doesn’t mean we can’t wear bold hues out on the town. Be daring, after all, these aren’t your Granny’s tweeds!
Apparently, I’ve been a writer all along. I simply thought there would be someone in charge of telling me.
Holding my own book has made me look rather differently at that word—and at myself. “Author” still feels like a title intended for someone else, preferably someone with a proper office and fewer tabs open.
I’ve written about it on Chasing a Fox today: books, writing, and the peculiar business of becoming someone you perhaps already were.
Comment Read below and I’ll send you the article. 🦊
Oh my God. I wrote a book. An actual book, with pages and my name on it. Naturally, I’ve been picking it up every five minutes to make sure it’s still real.
“Be Scared and Do It Anyway” is about hunting, nerves, and wanting to go badly enough that you go—even while privately questioning your judgment. You don’t have to ride to know that feeling. Although horses do give you some excellent reasons. Come read it on Chasing a Fox on Substack. We can question our judgment together. Link in bio.
Before I had opinions about proper turnout, I apparently had these braids. This is me, about eight or nine, at my first Myopia Horse Show aboard Mrs. Saltonstall’s horse, Henrietta. Yes, I braided her myself. There is quite a lot happening along that neck, and I appear very pleased with all of it.
I rode at Pine Grove Stables with Patty Murray, and I would ride my bike from Beverly to Hamilton to muck stalls in exchange for lessons. I wanted to ride, and that was how I could do it.
Looking at this picture now, I can have a good laugh at the turnout, but I’m rather fond of that little girl. She was willing to pedal her way there and shovel whatever was necessary to get on a horse. The braiding needed supervision. The enthusiasm was taking care of itself. And look at the helmet not even an elastic strap holding it on!
Bobby Costello was riding with Patty then, too. He went on to the Olympics, which does make me wonder where my invitation went. Perhaps someone saw this photograph.
After recording the podcast about proper turnout, finding this feels like being confronted with evidence. Here I am, having developed rather firm opinions over the years, and Henrietta has been quietly holding on to my early work. Fair enough. We all started somewhere, and someone had to be patient while we learned. I was lucky to have people who gave me that chance and a horse generous enough to wear my handiwork in public.
Who remembers their first horse show. And, more importantly, is there photographic evidence?
Cold Sunday morning. Dog in my lap, absolutely nowhere to be—and yes, my pajamas are monogrammed. I know. I’m insufferable. But I’m also very comfortable.
There is nothing particularly practical about riding sidesaddle. The habit contains enough fabric to furnish a small drawing room, mounting requires a certain amount of planning, and once everything is finally arranged, one tries not to disturb it by doing anything rash. And yet, sitting there with Thomas beneath me, it all felt perfectly sensible. Tradition is rather good at making the impractical feel indispensable.
