Riding With Reg

This blog, for me, is a way of recording who I am and, when my physical being ceases to function, who I have been.  This is a collection of my thoughts, ideas, opinions, and personal stories targeted for my children and grandchildren (but available to any who wish to know of me).  

I love good stories.  Listening to a storyteller reveals as much about the raconteur as the story they are telling. Two connections for the price of one!  I also enjoy spinning a tale or two.  Usually it’s about a personal experience and often to my grandchildren, who are, especially in their pre-teen days, the very best of listeners. One such story that they requested over and over again was, Riding with Reg.

One fall day back in the 1990’s my friend Reg, invited three of us to go horseback riding on the trails near his home, aptly nicknamed Rancho Rinder.  I jumped at the chance to spend a day with these guys because I liked them all and was ecstatic that we would be spending our time outdoors.  The least favorite part was that we’d be doing so riding horses.  I didn’t ride, or have any real experience with these powerful, thousand pound creatures. A little background…in college at the school’s campsite I was introduced to well trained trail horses.  I went up to the closest one, to pet it.  Standing a bit too close it adjusted its stance only to put its front left hoof on the top of my foot (I was wearing sneakers at the time).  As I tried to back away it pivoted ripping the top of my sneaker, the sneaker tongue, and the top layer of skin off of my foot.  I suspect he didn’t even know my foot was under him but I certainly did!  And while I did sit in the saddle on a couple of occasions, the horse basically took me for a ride going where it wanted and how quickly or slowly it wanted. Never in the front of the pack, it generally played “follow the leader” and took me where the fly-swishing tails of the others horses went.  The experience was more like sitting on a merry-go-round but with better scenery.

A photo of an earlier time when I rode with friends…

When we arrived at Reg’s stable, I carefully described the limited extent of my equestrian prowess as well as my apprehension of  riding with these experienced riders.  Always one to assure and calm, Reg laughed and guaranteed I would have absolutely no problem and all I needed to do was trust him. (This was from a man who often threw caution to the wind and would jump full tilt into one adventure after another.) So, knowing I was likely going to have to depend on my own resources, I gingerly got on the horse, he said, would be best suited for me.  Off we began on a narrow, one horse at a time, trail from his barn toward the open fields bordering his property.  I was second in line trotting slowly along on this beautiful day.

For some reason, my horse Frightful (not his real name but definitely appropriate) crowded the trees on the left side of the trail. And, despite my yanking the reins to the right, my left leg was scraping bark.  I yelled to Reg to ask him what was up with this left-listing horse.  “Oh!” he replied slapping his forehead with his right hand, “I forgot to tell you that he’s blind in his left eye.”  I asked if there was anything else he forgot to tell me but he said no. Again, the words “trust me, this is going to be easy” found their way to my doubtful ears.

On we rode toward an open field where Reg motioned for us to pull up alongside him so we could ride abreast and engage in conversation.  Following orders I had no idea that Frightful must have interpreted this as pulling up to the starting gate at a racetrack.  And, as soon as one of the other horses moved ahead of him, he bolted, reaching full gallop in seconds despite my many whoas and attempted pull backs on the reins.  At that point all I could do was hold on tight to the saddle horn and his mane as we reached the end of the field seemingly at the speed of light.  When the others caught up I, once again, raised my voice asking Reg what that was all about.  “Oh!” (with a simultaneous slap to the forehead) I forgot to tell you, he’s a thoroughbred and thoroughbreds love to race.  I’ll be sure to stay ahead of you so that won’t happen again. Trust me!”  (It was then that I began to realize those two words must have different meanings for different people and/or situations.)

Nearing the end of our ride I was finally getting a bit more comfortable and less anxious that anything else could cause my horse to behave in a way that might send me to the nearest hospital so I began to enjoy the last of the trails home.  One such path was narrow and uphill and Reg decided it would be fun to turn our trot into a gallop up the hill.  He was certain I was sitting well enough on the horse by now that I would enjoy the challenge.  Of course, as you may have guessed, I was soon to learn that there was one more thing he forgot to tell me.  Reg led the gallop up the hill and peeled off to the right as he reached the top, the next two riders did the same as he crested the hill.  Now I could see why they took their horses to the right as there was a stone wall directly ahead at the top of the hill.  Gingerly (still at full gallop) I began moving the reins to the right.  However, one-eyed, thoroughbred racing, Frightful had other plans for us.  Looking straight ahead, I could tell in a flash that my horse was not slowing down to turn but was maintaining enough speed to jump over the wall!  Screaming at the top of my lungs for him to stop and yanking hard on the reins, he came to a full but abrupt standstill inches from the wall and I found myself with my arms wrapped around his neck looking him straight in his good eye.  “Reg! I shouted hoarsely, what the heck happened this time?”  “Oh!” he said slapping his forehead yet again. “I forgot to tell you, your horse loves to jump if he gets the chance…”

The last mile of our trip home was led by Reg on his horse, followed by our two friends on their horses, followed by me, walking my horse to the stable.  I had many more adventures with him but I never rode with Reg again…trust me!

I’m not sure why some stories appear to be more interesting and worthy of retelling than others.  I suspect it’s a combination of the content, facts riddled with humor, the style, energy, and gestures I infuse when telling the story, and/or the personal relevance  to the listener.  But I’m pretty sure that there’s another element that is less obvious.  Perhaps there is an accidental coming together of words that exudes intrigue or mystery or a joyful indulgence that somehow connects the teller with the listener.  And then, if I can recapture that engagement upon the second telling, somehow the magic ingredient, yet unidentified, becomes increasingly entrenched in the whole of the story and the telling.  Somewhat similar to the repeated use of neural pathways causing thoughts to become deeply embedded in the brain, the retelling of the adventure helps cement the secret component that pulls it all together into a worthy reiteration.

Are there memorable stories from your past or ones that you enjoy sharing with others that perhaps helps continue the family narrative?

P.S.  I started this piece at the beginning of the week and was about to finish it when I had the unexpected pleasure of my grandchildren coming over for dinner and a sleepover.  Teenagers now, and probably more than 8 years since I had retold this story to them, I began telling my them another story they might not have heard.  And sure enough, after much laughter my oldest interrupted and asked me to tell her the Reg and horse story before I had the chance to tell her I had just written about it!  Life is good!

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”

Philip Pullman – an English writer

Tell Me a Story

I loved Hen’s story! It sort of follows the framework of an escalating punchline – a rapidly deteriorating situation told with humor. Just when you think the ride with Frightful couldn’t get worse, the words of St. Ginsu come back to haunt: “But wait, there’s more!” No wonder his kids and grandkids ask for the retelling. 

Hen’s challenge back to us is to think about stories that we enjoy retelling… and there are many! Stories are the glue that bind family and friendships. Recently, we three old guys were at a reunion with our college fraternity. It was great fun – and almost every conversation started with “Do you remember…” followed by mythic recounting of heroic (and some not so heroic) deeds of our youth. The spectacular football catch, the spectacular almost-catch, the pranks, the shared experiences, the people that were a big part of our lives – all were celebrated. 

That’s what stories do: they celebrate moments, vignettes, milestones that characterize a life shared with others. They are the signposts on the highway of our past. We share that journey with so many others – even over generations. After all, the journey did not just start with us.

Some people have a real knack for storytelling… unfortunately, I’m not one of them. But my Adirondack neighbor Jodi is a champ! She has a way of building a situation, so that you feel part of the story. Some deal with danger averted (my favorites). They leave you in suspense as the tale proceeds, such as when the bear chased her and her three-year old son down a secluded hiking trail – you would have thought they were goners, but the bear ran right past them without breaking stride. Or when she was attacked by a mama turkey while trying to free a gosling from a net; or when she inadvertently stowed away on a European ship headed to France… or when she was stranded on a Bavarian ski trail 10 miles from the nearest village. Or…. It goes on and on. Now there’s an adventurous life!

We have tried to encourage Jodi to enter the local “Howls”. If you haven’t heard about them, they are local storytelling competitions where folks tell a short (5 min) story on a common topic. These convocations are hosted by National Public Radio and are recorded in events across the north country. For instance, the last howl was on the Halloween theme ‘You Are Not Alone’. 

I love the idea of memorializing these stories. They have the benefit of being brief, but having big impact. Perhaps, that’s why Hen’s story is so attractive – and it would make a great ‘howl’.

If I had to pick a personal story, it would likely be in the theme of that last howl. In 1957, when I was nine years old and my brother Rich was seven, we were alone in our three-story house one evening. Mom and Dad were out at an event and I was babysitting for the first time. We had always rented the second floor as an apartment to bring in some needed income. But Dad had gotten a better job and we were able to fix up the space into three bedrooms, a narrow hall to a bathroom, and one large erstwhile kitchen. The kitchen was a little creepy and Rich and I avoided it. But the attic was foreboding and we rarely opened the door to climb up the dark, steep, narrow stairway into this world of the past. The attic was composed of two rooms, all paneled in weathered wainscoting. The large windows were placed only a foot from the floor and the wind rattled the panes of glass in warning not to get too close. Literally, there were boxes of broken toys and porcelain dolls with cracked faces watching your every move (and that was before it became a horror film trope!). The partitioned space was a bare bedroom with an old metal bedframe and mattress, covered with spider webs and dust. Once in that space, the atmosphere just pushed you out the door. It was rumored that a prior owner had died in that room and I always wondered why the boxes under the eaves in the main room were never cleaned out. 

On the night in question, Rich and I were becoming used to our new bedrooms. As we turned out the lights and said goodnight, I hoped that Mom and Dad would not be too late. After a bit, I heard some rustling in the attic over Rich’s room, followed by Rich running into my room and jumping into bed with me. “Did you hear that?”, he said. “Someone is upstairs”. 

I did hear that. It was the sound of footsteps walking up and down the main room in the attic. Up and down; back and forth. We pulled the covers tight, but with our ears primed for listening. We decided to pretend that we were not there, breathing quietly as to make as little noise as possible.

Then I imagined what might happen if we heard steps on those rickety stairs coming down from the attic. What if the door handle began to turn. What would we do? We listened even closer to identify where the steps were headed – were they getting closer to the railing that was at the top of the stairs? That railing which moved when you touched it – was that the sound?

That night, I experienced what being ‘scared stiff’ really meant. I was paralyzed as we listened to the marching feet. I knew I had to protect my asthmatic brother, but I was too afraid to get out of bed, open the stairway door and scream: “Get out of our house!” I was too frightened and my skin was crawling with goosebumps. Rich was crying softly. We huddled together for an hour as the footsteps traversed the attic rooms. Eventually, the walking stopped and we heard no more from the attic prowler. But that didn’t stop the fear.

We tried to be as silent as stones, hoping the marching being would not come back. Perhaps the presence had halted to listen for the evidence of small boys lying in their beds. Rich was shaking and we held each other until our parents came home and then we ran downstairs to them. Dad and Mom immediately went up to the attic and reported that all was fine – perhaps it was a squirrel. 

But we knew better.

Laughersby Langston Hughes

Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
   My people.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies’ maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Rounders,
Number writers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,—
   My people.
Story-tellers all,—
My people.
   Dancers—
God! What dancers!
   Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers
Dancers and laughers.
   Laughers?
Yes, laughers . . . laughers . . . laughers—
Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands
   Of Fate.

In Search of a Legacy

When Hen first introduced his idea for our blog he was unsure what direction to go in.  We tossed around a few ideas and he identified his legacy as his ability as a story teller.  He wanted something that would be significant to his grand children in years to come and since he has the ability to weave stories that  his kids and grand kids enjoyed, he realized that is what he could pass along.  They often asked him to tell them the story about the crazy horse again, and hence his legacy began.  Now I have enough to worry about without having to worry about what my legacy might be.  For about a week I began to brainstorm what would be my legacy.  I have no grand children to be remembered by for whatever my legacy might be, so who is going to remember me?  Sure I have friends who will think of me and of course my children but after the next generation is gone it will be as if I never existed.  Hmmm, pretty sad!  So I began to think seriously about what my legacy would be.  I could be one of the world’s best worriers.  Worriers not warriors!  Yeah, but who would care? Oh that guy, yeah he worries better than anybody.  Not such a good thing to be remembered for.  I began to realize, that in my life I had had a lot of interests and abilities but I never explored any one thing to the point of developing an expertise in  it.  My brain storming list was short and not too impressive.  A week went by and we were scheduled to have our zoom meeting again.  I discussed my predicament with Wally and Hen.  Wally suggested my teaching career and the effect I had had on my students.  That gave me pause for thought and pausing for thought was never one of my strong points.

But the seed that Wally planted was germinating in my mind for days.  I started to jot down a few notes.  I loved teaching and loved communicating with the kids.  When I retired in 2003 I thought that that would be the end of my connection with them and time to move on.  I soon realized  that former students were making reservations to come and stay at my inn in Vermont.  It was always a pleasure  to greet these students, now young adults.  I loved seeing what these kids became as adults and over the years have kept in touch with many of them.  When I retired from inn keeping and moved back to New York I connected with many more thanks to the help of Facebook.  We would meet for lunch, laugh and relate stories of their memories of 4th, 5th or 6th grade classes with me.  They remembered mostly the simple communication between us rather than big events.  The personal touches seemed to be the most effective.  Every day they had to write in their journals anything they wanted, and I would answer them the same day and return them.  I did this religiously and the impact was tremendous and rewarding for me as a teacher.  How can you expect a boy to learn when he watched his dog get hit by a car as he was getting on the school bus? Or how do you get a student to focus on their times tables when he had just come off the playground where he was made fun of the whole time at recess?  We developed a trust where they knew it was safe to write things that were bothering them.  Sometimes they would write some very personal things but they knew I would listen and  the information was safe.  Many lunches I spent hearing about how they still had their thought books on the bookshelf at home.  Sometimes the parents would send me notes through the thought books to let me know if something happened at home or if something was coming up that the parents were worried about. It was an incredibly helpful tool for me as their teacher and apparently for them as well.  The other big thing that they would frequently mention is when I would read books to them.  I would use different voices for the different characters where I could be as dramatic as I wanted without feeling self conscious.  Through the years and over many lunches, I had the joy of seeing who these little kids became as adults.  One of my favorites experiences was with a girl in one of my 4th grade classes who was having divorce problems at home.  She became a high school administrator, got her doctorate degree in education, but the best part is she became a hot air balloon pilot.  I love these stories!

Shortly after that zoom meeting I had an interesting experience that made me realize I did have an impact on my students.  It was shortly after the election and I got a message from a former student who had befriended me on Facebook.  I never connected with him other than brief comments back and forth.  He wrote me very hesitatingly that he was concerned about the past election. He is now a 45 year old man who was devastated that his candidate lost.  He went on to say he believed I was probably of the opposing political party than he,  which is why he wanted to contact  me.  He wanted to hear the other side of the argument without all the screaming and arguing.  He wanted to have a civil discussion about elections and political candidates and needed help understanding the opposing view points without the anger and hatred that seems to have taken over our political system today.  I was touched that he would reach out to me and thought his request was very sincere.  And part of me wanted to hear what caused his frustration. I wrote back  that I thought it was a great idea to help both of us better understand what is going  on..

Now I haven’t seen this man for over 35 years.  The last time I saw him was the last day of his 4th grade year.  I didn’t know what to expect but we arranged to have dinner the following Friday night at a local restaurant and discuss his concerns.  He was even going to prepare a list of  questions for us to discuss.  I was expecting to see this short little kid that I remembered but this large 6 foot tall law enforcement officer came in and joined me at the table.  I had had his sister in class too so we  chatted about  his family for awhile and then over bowls of linguine in white clam sauce and lasagna we talked about his concerns.  The discussion was polite and respectful. We even  found things we agreed on.  We talked for almost 2 hours and I think the discussion helped me as much as he said it helped him.   As we walked out to our respective cars  he thanked me for taking his concerns seriously and for being willing to listen as he had no one else with whom he felt he could discuss this topic .  I felt really good about the situation and was pleased that I was able to help.  We said goodbye and I may never see him again but the night was significant.  I knew I was a good teacher, but never gave much thought to what effect I would have on their lives.  I finally found my legacy!  Maybe years from now some former students will tell their own kids about their 4th grade teacher and I will be remembered fondly!

I guess that is what a legacy is all about.  I can rest easy now that I don’t have to worry about that anymore.