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.
What luxury! There were no ration books in sight. Jamie taught Sarah and me to cook for hundreds. There were never less than ten for dinner. Any recipes, if ever referred to, were quadrupled. Jamie made gravy by mixing flour and water in old mayonnaise jars—several quarts at a time. Looking around us, Sarah and I saw crabs and lobsters en masse; moulded jellies; mouldy leftovers; bedevilled eggs; whipped, squashed rutabagas…and Jack Daniels in jugs. As one of our earliest American experiences after leaving war-torn Britain, we had never, ever, seen anything like it.
We’d been met at Idlewild—as JFK Airport was called at the time—by Jamie, driving a 1957 Chevrolet. There were no seatbelts then, and it was a wonder we lived to write these stories.
Sarah had been only one day at Bryn Mawr Farms when she ran into trouble with Humphrey. He was nineteen hands high without shoes, hammer-headed, with feet like basketball nets and a Roman nose. He was so thin, he resembled a shipwreck. From his sickle hocks to his parrot jaw, he was ugly to the bone. We were to get to know that jaw well, before long. Billy, who mucked out for us, told us about him.
“This is Humphrey, and he come from Ireland, he did. His feet never been sore, never put ‘em in a hole. He jumps the double banks, too, the boss man says.”
Sarah and Jamie wondered if Humphrey had been a cart horse in Ireland. Indeed, he had arrived in a head collar with blinkers. The first time they tried to tack him up they realized why he might have been sold. When they tried to bridle him he acted as if he never before had a bit in his mouth.
When the unsuccessful wrestling match was abandoned, Sarah turned Humphrey out into the paddock. The wooden fence rails, as thick as telephone poles, stood level with the top of my head. To the side of the paddock was a beautiful wooden mounting block, painted green.
Five minutes later there was a fearsome crash. This was no ordinary, every-day crash. This was more like a giant sequoia being felled—a splintering, shattering thud.
“Humphrey’s out,” yelled Jamie.
We rushed out expecting to see Humphrey thundering for the Atlantic, rough-shod, spittle flying, but no. He was out…cold. He was lying on his substantial rib cage, flat on the grass and quite still. We gazed at Humphrey, stupified.
“Humphrey thought it was an Irish bank,” shouted Billy, pointing at the splintered mounting block.
Humphrey had tried to jump the telephone poles and change feet on the mounting block!
“Is he dead?” I whimpered, horrified.
But life was returning. If Humphrey was short of anything, it was not courage. His rib cage started heaving slowly. I ran for a bridle before any thought was given to reviving him. Humphrey’s jaw was jammed shut, of course, but we were already used to that.
“Let’s get the bridle on him while he’s down,” said Jaime. “Get Sarah’s pig stick to open his jaw with.”
Sarah had brought her Spiller’s pig stick with her from Britain. ‘It will always be useful,’ she had thought when she packed it. It was three feet long and flat, with beveled edges like a spatula. It was used for encouraging pigs into pens. Here, it was just what was needed.
“Quick, he’s twitchin’, ma’am,” urged Billy.
Delicately we approached him. We pushed the stick into Humphrey’s mouth, and it worked just like a shoe horn—total magic. In a trice, the bit was in and the bridle was on, and as Billy and I struggled to get the big horse up, we saw Humphrey’s owner coming down the hill.
Billy, Sarah, and I ran and hid, leaving Jamie to explain that we were just schooling Humphrey to the bridle.
Posted January 19, 2016
More of Deirdre’s and Sarah’s adventures in America to follow. Watch for them!