Illustration by Rosemary Coates
Back in the late 1950s, Sarah and I—both just nineteen—came to America. We had left Britain, where post-war ration books were still in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. I was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends.
Jamie picked us up at the airport, but by the time we reached the farm we were in the midst of a snowstorm and a power outage. Our first night was spent in total darkness. It was perhaps merciful that we could not see the mess.
We had no light, hot water, or heat. We groveled around looking for candles and torches but only managed to rustle out a rat, and even worse, several cockroaches. The smell of rotting food was unbearable. Dawn broke with the cold light of day, and Sarah and I started to ‘muck out’ after the last tenant.
It was corn—sweet corn—that we found everywhere: behind the stove, with the cutlery, in the ice trays, behind the fridge, under the soap, in the bedrolls. Later, when we thought we were free of it, it would appear again—somewhere. Neither of us have been able to eat sweet corn since. It reminds us of dirt!
With vast numbers of horses in the stable, vets came often and spent hours with us. We had tying up, lameness, red worms, fistulous withers, split teeth, splints, strangles, staggers, string halt, bot flies, and paralysis. When there was a moment to fall back and regroup, there would be swellings, skin rashes, heaves, colic, and coughing. Then, simply turn around once and there’d be whistling, roaring, bleeding, blistering, wounds, quittor, geldings, and…warts.
Horses came and went at all hours. Being eleven stone helped me somewhat, but when I rode eighteen-hand horses, I was still apt to get carted off. So I was overjoyed when Sarah told me that a small black horse was on her way to the stables. With a name like Witch, however, we should have anticipated trouble. She was.
“She’s got the evil, they say,” explained Billy, who mucked out for us. “It’s called Poll Evil. They hit her over the head when she done bad, I think. And look at this here hock; she’s a kicker I do think.”
She was also prone to azoturia (a heated condition of the blood) which could well have been associated with the fact that she made everyone’s blood boil. And she had warts.
Immediately upon her arrival, the trouble started. She wouldn’t unload. We tried blindfolding her. We tried putting a lunge rein behind her quarters and virtually carrying her. No amount of hauling would get her off. She kicked the partition down and pinned me to the wall.
“Dumb-headed Philistine,” muttered Billy, defeated.
Jamie, Sarah, and I, now nearly dead with cold, decided to leave her in the trailer. We made up a bed in the stable for the driver, and Jamie rang the Welshman who owned the wretched animal to see if he wanted the brute to go back to Wales rather than paying the driver waiting time. There was no sympathy from the owner.
“The owner told me to starve her out; said she’ done this before. She’ll come off eventually,” said Jamie.
A full day later, thirst got the better of her. A bucket of nice, icy water held just out of reach tempted her. Once she was off the trailer, Billy poured the rest over her head!
For the warts, we have Billy to thank. He had his own old-fashioned cure, though we never thought it could possibly work.
When he felt brave enough—for Witch had them all around her private parts—he would approach her slowly and gently. Then he would put rubber bands around each wart. Much to our disbelief, the warts eventually fell off!
Posted February 26, 2016
This is the second installment of Deirdre’s and Sarah’s adventures in America. “How to Bridle a Green Field Hunter” was the first.