Horse Crazy (2 page)

Once I did spend the afternoon with a pony
who belonged to some distant cousins. He was a shaggy, wild-eyed
little thing, who was the star attraction at a country family
reunion in Pendleton, Indiana.

There was no tack, not even a bridle, so we
children took turns clambering on him bareback, entwining sticky
corn-on-the-cob fingers through his dirty white mane. We cantered
him mercilessly up and down a fence line until dusk when our
parents gathered us up for the ride back to Indianapolis. This
first experience with a pony not chained to a moving wheel or
firmly fixed to a trail guide's rump was nothing less than
exhilarating. During my good-byes to the dear, exhausted thing, it
stepped on my sneakered foot, blackening my big toe for weeks.

As part of an Air Force family, I moved
around a good bit (which was the perfectly sound-sounding reason my
father gave me for not buying me a pony.)

We were transferred in the early sixties to a
tiny French village in the Alsace-Lorraine area where the only
horses wore heavy work harnesses and looked painfully unhappy
(especially to a little girl) as they went about their chores. Even
so, I still loved to watch the sorry creatures.

Later, when we moved to Germany, my hope of
being around horses still didn't perish on the Army Post at
Kaiserslautern but neither did it flourish much. I didn't know
anyone who rode or who was involved with horses, and at twelve, my
contact-making skills were a little undeveloped.

Eventually, we moved back to the States and
riding opportunities began to present themselves.

In my late teens, I took formal riding
lessons for the first time. The lessons were given at a shabby
little ranch that supported itself by raising and selling chickens.
I didn't care. I loved the lessons. There were three students in my
class, each with varying degrees of riding skill. Sometimes my
instructor would have us do running squats across the sandy ring in
order to build up thigh muscles. We were taught to barrel race in
the same hour we were shown how to get into a two-point jumping
position.

One afternoon, one of the other riding
students claimed her horse got away from her and the two of them
jumped a little coop outside the ring. I was jealous that she'd
done it but didn't have the nerve to "accidentally" jump it too. As
it happened, that particular experience would have to wait about
sixteen more years, and when I finally did do it, with much
excitement and emphasis on a clear April afternoon in a field in
Alpharetta, Georgia, I would fall and break my shoulder in two neat
snaps.

Coming home from my lessons as a teenager, I
would walk in the door of my parents' house, hair blown, clothes
haphazard and filthy, with streaks of mud on my face. My parents
would greet my bedraggled appearance with some apprehension. In
fact, the first time I came home in this fashion, my father peered
at my refugee attire from over his newspaper, then said to my
mother as he returned to his reading: "I say, dear, it's Penelope
in from her evening hack."

But I was older now and interests in men,
career and a car-to-call-my-own began to outweigh my childhood
dreams of riding like the wind in the Grand National. I was always
enthusiastic about the odd trail ride with friends and became a
devoted Dick Francis fan, but I put away the little girl's horse
fantasy with my Barbie dolls and Silly Putty and for the next
fifteen years did other things.

Chapter Two

Mounting Up Down Under

I had been living in New Zealand about a year
when we shot the Captain Phillips tea commercial. I had traveled to
there for a holiday and ended up being held captive by an island
enchantment.

New Zealand has been described as "lovely,
lonely, loyal". Tucked away in its remote corner of the Pacific
Ocean, it is more remote than any other land mass of consequence in
the world. (This is not intended to annoy the members of any
inconsequential land masses in that area.)

Geographically situated in the southernmost
point of the island triangle that makes up Polynesia, New Zealand's
nearest neighbor, Australia, is about 2,000 kilometers away. To the
east is the South American mainland--with a few thousand miles of
ocean in between.

Called Aotearoa, or literally "land of the
long, white cloud", by the native Maori, New Zealand was
happened-upon in 1642--if not actually set foot-upon (the natives
were a cross bunch)--by a Dutch explorer, Abel Tasman. (Later, he
got around to having a sea and an island near Australia named after
him. And a devil too, come to think of it.)

It's estimated that the first horse probably
showed up some time in the late seventeen hundreds, compliments of
Captain James Cook. In fact, every mammal in New Zealand--except
for two species of bat--has had to be introduced to the
country.

As it turned out, the place became as much
horse country as Kentucky would be if it were its own nation.

It is a country of just three million people,
so engrossed in athletics and sports that they herald their Olympic
medal winners as national heroes. These heroes are immediately
recognizable--by housewife and pub-frequenter alike--wherever they
appear.

A reason for New Zealand's applaudable
proficiency with
les chevaux
might be attributed to the fact
that, unlike other third world countries, people there have a lot
of spare time to concentrate on hobbies. In fact, the commitment to
leisure activities is so intense that a visitor once wrote, after
visiting Australia: "I also visited New Zealand. But it was
closed."

The country definitely tends to be a people
concentrating on having a good time, of finding the perfect
weekend, of elongating the perfect weekend. Whether the Kiwis (as
New Zealanders call themselves) are down at the beach, building a
boat in their backyards (a popular Kiwi enterprise) in order to
sail around the world (a popular Kiwi accomplishment), playing
rugby, riding, or drinking beer, they consider their time off as
important as anything else they possess.

It's a relaxed attitude toward life that
lasts comfortably through whatever political and economic
difficulties the country may be going through at the time.

Kiwis are pleasantly pro-American--even
during the awkward months of having to tell the U.S. that its
nuclear-armed ships were not welcome in New Zealand waters. In
spite of the grumblings and storms leveled against it by its friend
and ally, New Zealand remained firm that New Zealanders and only
New Zealanders would decide what is good for New Zealand.

The Kiwis can be a stubborn bunch at the best
of times. They are as charming as the Irish with their endless
stories and catch-sayings, catalogues or memorized trivia, and
their absolute, uninhibited and unbounded pleasure at having you
on. As generous as Americans but more genuinely interested and
curious about their guests than we tend to be, New Zealanders enjoy
a national self-awareness and smugness that seems to belie their
physical isolation from the rest of the world. Or who knows? Maybe
it's because of it.

New Zealand is rather like a mini working
class Britain. And a nostalgic one, with old cars lovingly restored
and driven, the best fish 'n chips, and prolific, plentiful pots of
tea.

It's also proud to have what is undeniably
the world's longest place-name, a ridge on the coast of Hawke's
Bay, called Taumatawhakatangihang-akoauauotamateaturipukak
apikimaungahoronukupokawhenuakitanatahu.

In fact, it sounds very like some of the
names Kiwis like to give to their horses, making it difficult for
North-American-types to call them in from the pasture. And when
uttered by a Kiwi, sounding very much (to the pakeha or non-Maori
ear) like someone attempting to remove his left lung during a
sneeze.

As an American copywriter working and living
in this antipodal paradise, I found a lot more commonalties than
differences between our two countries and their communication
habits. The commonalties made my working transition easier but the
differences made it fun. Usually.

With over ten years advertising writing
experience behind me in the U.S., plus a University degree in the
subject, I felt that whatever language differences I might face
would be subtle.

I mean, after all, we do all speak English,
right? Everyone down there still uses gerunds, subjects,
predicates,
n'est pas
? I felt perfectly capable of writing
"concerned Mums serve Healthy-Nut Bread" instead of "Moms who care
serve Healthy-Nut Bread." I can add a "u" to "color" and "flavor."
No worries.

Which is why I wasn't quite prepared the
first time an account executive came into my office and said to
me:

"We'll get the budget approved. Just keep
your pecker up."

After I blanched in response, and then tried
on a few facial colors (all in the crimson family), I stuttered out
my assurances that I certainly would.

(Making a lot more sense than the way we
Yanks sometimes use the word, "pecker" refers to one's nose in New
Zealand.)

In another, no-less-embarrassing moment, I
was proofing some copy one afternoon when one of the production
staff peered over my shoulder.

"So, how's it look, luv?"

"Real good, Michael. Can I just have a period
after this line?"

"Perhaps you ought to take that up with your
gynecologist."

"Excuse me?"

"You want a full stop."

"Will it look like a little black dot?"

"Yeah."

"That might work."

My language education down under by no means
full-stopped with work. That was evident the first time I asked
where the bathroom was at a friend's house (who thought she was
excruciatingly amusing) and was handed a soap and towel.

Down Under, the toilet is called the "loo" or
simply the "toilet." It's also called a few other things, but "loo"
and "toilet" will suffice for present purposes.

It seems that we Americans are one of the few
countries that remain rather delicate about what we call the
toilet. In the States, and specifically in the South, one's toilet
is either that process of splashing bracer on one's face and
combing one's hair or it's where your business has gone if you've
mishandled your affairs.

Our euphemistic word "bathroom" sort of takes
all showering, brushing, shaving and etc. activities in at one go.
In fact, the same word, which in New Zealand and Australia is used
to mean a place where one bathes, is not exclusively a noun in the
U.S. It's flexible enough to be used as a predicate phrase too, as
in:

"Better take the baby, he's just gone to the
bathroom on my Yves St. Laurent suit."

The Kiwis never really got over this. Nor
could they handle comfortably the idea of one "fixing" dinner.
("What's wrong with it, then, that you've got to fix it, eh?")

Nonetheless, most of my Kiwi friends enjoyed
the language differences enough that they were actually
disappointed that, as a Southerner, I didn't emit an occasional
"Wal, hush mah mouth" or even a "Laws a mercy" now and then.

Aside from language differences, I also took
a moderate share of abuse for my seemingly unfathomable obsession
with American foods. (I brought a year's supply of Crystal Light
with me and never stopped bemoaning the lack of buttermilk, Dr.
Pepper, microwave popcorn and American bacon.) I did this even
though the milk in New Zealand is brought to your door nectar-fresh
every morning, the lamb is so delectable you'll swear off forever
the teenaged-carcasses we're offered in this country and the fruit
is as sweet and as exotic as they'd be in your best fantasy of life
on a South Sea island.

After I'd been in the country about six
months, an American friend of mine wrote me from the States and
suggested I get in touch with a young man he knew in New Zealand
whom he thought I would enjoy. He mentioned that Trevor had his own
horse and although that mildly interested me, the obsession was
still too heavily covered with the years and the belief that that
particular dream had passed me by. Trevor's having a horse was
simply an interesting point of fact and that was all.

I rang him and we spent some time together.
Trevor was quite into horses as it turned out. He bet on them
regularly, rode his own and helped train and exercise thoroughbred
racehorses. The more time I spent with him and spent in New
Zealand, the more I could feel the layers of long non-horsy years
begin to peel away.

Once, while spending an afternoon at what the
Kiwis call "the trots", and which, thankfully, has nothing to do
with what we Yanks call "the trots", I spotted a particularly
beautiful roan. Knowing zip about horses' conformation, I
nonetheless enjoyed picking out ones that I thought particularly
winsome and then pointing them out to Trevor to see if he would
agree. He always did, bless his heart.

This roan was prancing about, head high,
knees high, with a long bushy tail and bright eyes. I thought he
was excellent and years of writing retail copy descriptions that
included "ecru collars" and "mauve overblouses" prompted me to
exclaim:

"Look, Trevor, over there. The taupe one,
isn't he great?"

"The whut?" Trevor blinked at the field of
horses and then at me.

"There, the uh..." now losing confidence
fast..."the, you know, that one. Taupe. Ish. Color. Him."

"Whutza toope?" He looked bewilderingly out
at the horses as if they'd all just landed via space shuttle.

"Well, maybe it's not taupe. Forget it."

"Towpe?"

"Trevor, forget it, okay?"

"But I just want to understand what
you..."

"I said something stupid. Okay? do you capice
'stupid?' I mean, is that a word you people use down here?"

"Ahhh, yes! Now that word I do recognize. In
fact, you'll think I'm psychic or something, but I was just
thinking of that word."