Back in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America from post-war Britain, where shortages still prevailed and ration books were in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. Their adventures discovering America, land of plenty, while struggling with a lively collection of foxhunting horses, timber horses, and show horses, were published in five parts on these pages and popularly received. (Use our Search function with the author’s name to find those stories.) What follows is a new installment revisiting “Pink Gin, The Beer Swilling Timber Horse.”
Illustration by Rosemary H. Coates
Sarah and I had not been long in the States when Pink Gin arrived at Bryn Mawr Farms. Billy, who mucked out for us, was, as usual, the first to find fault with him.
“He do get drunk, he do. Proper beer-swiller he be. And he eats eggs and molasses with all his feed. Lord, if only I could eat like that!”
Pink Gin was a timber horse with a record of wins. Since most timber racing is in the spring, pre-season training often means blizzards and temperatures averaging ten degrees Fahrenheit. This was one of the reasons for the high-calorie diet that included beer and eggs.
Pink Gin’s first race meeting was the Radnor Hunt Races, where he showed huge promise. He was a very ‘straight-legged’ horse, which is the best way we felt we could describe him, and it showed in the way he tackled his fences. He leaped the timber with the most enormous enthusiasm. For us on the frigid ground, our enthusiasm was far from enormous. In our agony, we had reached the point where we could no longer think straight. To get us Brits used to the ice storms and howling gales, we’d been asked to keep watch at one of the fences in case a horse fell. I can clearly recall being handed tumblers of bourbon at the end of the day which finally returned some feeling to our toes.
On the occasion of this story, however, winter had passed and we were at a horse show in Lancaster. It was an awe-inspiring American experience to pack for a horse show at Bryn Mawr Farms. A lot of packing had to be done and many items had dual purposes. For instance, the hair spray used to keep the horses tails from unraveling after being plaited was also sprayed on the hair of the girl grooms. Equi-hose for a hunter could equally well support the leg of a girl who had been trodden on.
Vaseline, fly spray, fly switches, and twitches were all useful. Topping this lot up were several gallons of linseed oil, hoof oil, engine oil, cod liver oil, mineral oil, baby oil, oil for heating calipers, and oil to pour on troubled waters.
As the list was checked for the fourth time, we got to the fly sheets with a sense of relief. Sheets meant sleep, didn’t they? Quite overstretched by then, once on the horse van, we unpacked the cheese and wine. Our repast consumed, exhausted and groggy, we slithered down the saddle soap and went to sleep under the fly sheets. As the tack room listed to port we tightened and buckled the breast straps. As our eyelids shut, we dreamed twitchlessly….
Sarah’s birthday came round over the Lancaster Horse Show. A party seemed appropriate and Jamie invited some of the Maryland Hunt Cup jockeys, as Pink Gin, one of our charges, was a Maryland Hunt Cup horse having been a very close second one year. Sarah escaped for a quick trip to Philadelphia to buy a party dress. With her party planned for seven o’clock, she didn’t have much time and needed to catch a train out of Philadelphia. Sarah’s story:
I had a tight timetable to follow and managed to miss my train. Added to my problems I had a chocolate birthday cake with me that was melting in the ninety-five degree heat—chocolate fudge with the frosting flowing about generally. It was therefore very bad news that there was not another train for an hour. I sat down alongside the dribbling birthday cake and cried.
“Hey honey, what’s up?” said a kindly voice from above as I sat howling.
Thinking someone was trying to pick me up, I scowled at him but quickly realised it was the porter. I told him I had missed my train and was going to miss my birthday party, too, and showed him the cake.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said to me, “we can see to that. The next train goes out in eight minutes. It’s not due to stop at Lancaster, but we’ll get the driver to do a whistle stop for you. You’ll not miss your party. It’ll all be fine, you just hang in there, lady!”
Sara thought they would never stop a train for her, but they did, and there she was a bit later stepping off the train at Lancaster. Added to the challenges of the evening were the extraordinary difficulties of changing into evening dress. This had to be done in one of those hillbilly-type johns found at horse shows, with half the lower planks missing and an unreliable catch on the door. This was definitely an entirely new experience for us Brits.
When Sarah arrived at the party, Jamie asked how on earth she had got there and she told him of the kindliness of the railroad staff. This astonishing evening was a new American experience for both of us as we would be able to drink alcohol legally for the very first time in the States. It was predictable that having just turned twenty-one, things might move on with a swing, and they did.
With Hunt Cup jockeys among the invited guests, it was not long before some of the horses were saddled up and an impromptu timber race commenced around the property. This soon degenerated into a bareback high-jump competition. For Sarah and I, it was breeches, boots, and business now, though two men were in jeans and barefoot. Granary and Pink Gin were chosen to jump the night away. Sarah and I were soon out of the running, as the jockeys put the jumps up. Pink Gin eventually won, his timber muscles besting Granary. However, the rails were nearly six feet before they called it a night.
Never as long as we live will we forget that extraordinary day—the kindness of the railroad staff, the dubious complexities of the hillbilly changing rooms, the first legal taste of alcohol in two years, indeed since we had left England. Under our fly sheets once more, we listened to the crickets and felt the heat of the night.
Posted August 1, 2018
The author notes that all names have been changed to protect the innocent.