(“So much for playing with the big boys.”)

Everyone looks young to me. These kids! (Half the time the kid in question turns out to be 29.) I guess to a degree it must be a matter of perception.

That said, there were times earlier in my career when I did deal with small children on a fairly regular basis. I look back on those days as character building—my character, not theirs.

Little kids have a way of grinding down any semblance of pretense you are trying to maintain, particularly that of a serious écuyer dedicated to transmitting the principles of classical riding to his students. Once upon a time my wife was confronted by this very reality. She had four children on their school ponies gathered around her. She turned back from correcting one’s leg position, to find another—Lois Yukins’ then-young son, Carl—sitting on his pony facing backwards and cheerfully singing to himself.

 

Then there is a horse’s curious sense which can recognize the innate innocence and vulnerability of small children. I knew a woman who went to the auction in Germany to find her dream horse. What she came home with was young, talented, and physically gifted. He also turned out to have a wretched attitude about work and about life. Angry, stubborn, quick to throw a threatening hindleg or bared teeth at you—he was a major disappointment all around.

Much dearer to the woman’s heart was her young daughter, her only child. Samantha had recently learned to stand and take her first tentative steps on her own. One morning while her mom was fishing clothes out of the dryer, Samantha’s hand happened onto the handle of the French door and when she accidentally pulled down, it swung open to the outdoors. Without hesitation she toddled her way across the porch and down to the barnyard. A few minutes later her absence was noted along with the wide open door. Horrified, her mother dashed to the barn where she found her tiny child sitting directly beneath the much–hated, despicable gelding, placidly hugging his front leg. The horse, who normally would rip your arm off as quickly as he’d look at you, was clear-eyed and nosing her inquisitively. Go figure.

 

To retain even a shred of our self respect, we always set a lower limit on the age of the children we would teach—essentially the No Pony Rides rule. Of course, there had to be an exception. We taught an “older” brother, age eight, week after week while his four-year-old sibling jealously looked on. Finally, as a special favor to their mother, Mickey was allowed a few minutes on the pony at the end of his brother’s lesson. With great excitement and bedecked in Shawn’s black rubber riding boots for the Full Experience, Mickey was hoisted on board as the cameras clicked. Since this was to be a walk-only ride, we did not bother with the stirrups. Mickey grasped the pommel with both hands. I took the pony’s head, and off we strolled. His adventure was a grand success, marred only when, as we halted, I heard two hollow thumps in rapid succession. Looking down, I discovered that Mickey’s overly-large borrowed boots had slipped right off and had landed upright on either side of the pony’s belly.

So much for playing with the big boys.

My friend, Karen, recounts one last children’s lesson tale. The ten-year-old girl has arrived early, accompanied by her eight-year-old girlfriend and her six-year-old brother, all along for moral support. Their mother is waiting in the car chatting on her cell phone. Karen is still in the house when she hears the highly excited trio at the door clamoring for her attention.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she calls.

“No, no,” they shout, their voices rising several more octaves. “Come quick. The horses are having SEX!” They drag her around the corner to find her 22-year-old gelding optimistically mounted on her Friesian mare.

“First she started to pee, “offers one.

“Then Kartoon climbed right up on her,” adds another.

“Then the red rocket came flying out,” chimes in the six-year-old, pointing helpfully. “There it is again! Are they going to have a baby?”

Karen surveys all this, notes that the mother is still in the car oblivious to the whole scene, and thinks to herself, “Oh, well, they’re  Montessori children . . . “