Our story begins in the summer of 1965. My father was working in San Fransico and we had a small house in Woodside, then a very rural, quiet community in the Coastal Hills between SF and San Jose. My mother would put me down for my afternoon naps in a playpen on the front poarch and I would fall asleep to the sounds of horse hooves clip-clopping down the asphalt roadway in front of the house. Little did they know they were brainwashing that sound into me! At about 2 1/2, my grand mother, who I am named after, used to take us to the race track, both Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields were within easy driving distance, and she would sit me on the rail and bounce me when the horses came thundering passed. This all set me up to wanting to be a jockey. That dream died an early death when my height betrayed my ambition.
Enter the Black Stallion books and King of the Wind. My parents were on the fence about the horse thing. We had bought a house in Orinda, in Contra Costa county just east of the Berkely Hills. We had almost 3 acres, plenty of room for a horse. No horse, but my Dad bought me a saddle for my birthday, along with a socket set. So I started my tool box and my tack box! Looking back, my parents were incredibly tollerant and indulgent. After reading Misty, Dad built me a "stall" in the backyard. Mom used to take the sheet of engineering paper he'd bring home and draw all kinds of things I wanted-- horse, whales, elephants. They even let me get chicken wire and build a life-size paper mache horse. Maybe they thought this would stave off the real thing. No such luck!
My Dad, even though a mechanical engineer by trade, came from Illinois farming country and I think always wanted to make a living doing that. He would talk about the livery stables where he grew up and the draft horses he would get to ride. My Mom was a great one for looking for real estate and my Dad, also having a broker license, was more than ready to spend the weekend exploring the properties. Dad believed that owning real estate was the key to wealth. That's how we ended up with 105 acres of bare land in the Capay Valley, a beautiful, quiet place 1 1/2 hours north of SF and 1 hour west of Sacramento. It was an area of cattle, walnut and almond orchards, tomatoes, sunflowers, alfalfa fields, wheat, barley and oats. And horses!
It took a couple of years, putting in electricity, a well, a lot of fencing, learning to drive a tractor and finally a mobile home, that my tenacity finally had whittled Dad down. Our neighbors on the 40 acres next door had Quarter Horses and Appaloosas. My Dad bought a bay mare, great big animal, witha huge blazed face, roachy mane and a couple of white spots to denote that she had Appy in her. I had dubbed her Blaze, her former owner called her Dolly, so Dad called her Dolly Blaze-- I know, not at all original, but I had a horse, who cared about the name. If I remember right, Blaze was 5 yo., probably had never had a halter on or much of anything done to her. But she had a fairly amiable attitude. Now this was at a time when cowboys still "broke" horses, used ear twitching and snubbing posts. I had watched all kinds of western movies, bucking, wild horses throwing would-be riders into the ground. At 9 yo that was not where I wanted to be. But I also had seen movies with Indians taking horses chest deep into water and getting on them like that. We had Cache Creek just 1/2 mile away so that idea of a watery first ride was plausible. But my Dad did not believe in terror or abuse to train an animal. He really was a big soft heart when it came to animals because he always felt that they suffered with no voice and always gave their all no matter what. So we started researching more humane ways to train. Enter the book Understanding and Training Horses by Mr. A. James Ricci. Mr. Ricci used touch and feel and herd mentality -- now so common-- and was a classical dressage trainer that rode Arabs in his book, showing how to train for your horse to be your partner. I still swear by this book today. I feel Mr. Ricci paved the way for all those other whisperer trainers, at least for me. His are the techniques I have used for years.
So, Blaze's training commenced, and I soon discovered that she and I really didn't like each other. She would do anything for my Dad, who really let her get away with anything! She never really did anything mean, just stepped on me, crow-hopped, stopped quick and sideways. Now, I had tenacity, but this really wasn't what I had invisioned for my first horse. Enter Rebel. Now here let me tell you something that seems so obvious that we all should know it but seems to slip by until we are hit between the eyes, or in the nose, or in the teeth, by the fact. People name horses as reflections of their unique characters. If they have registered names, they usually have a barn name that more closely reflects their personality. This horse was called Rebel. Chances were there was a reason. The owner was an Italian so I don't think it was as a reminder of the old Dixie homestead. But I has seen this bay horse across the road for several years. No one seemed to do anything with him that I could tell. So here comes Dad to say he has bought this gelding, complete with all the tack. In retrospect, the saddle was the best of the deal.
Rebel had two gaits-- jig and Kentucky Derby. This became a baptism by fire. I was either going to learn to ride this horse or one of us would die trying. I had had riding leasons and I could stick on pretty well, but this old guy was as savy as they got. On the ground he really wasn't too bad, a little spooky about fast movement, but in the saddle he wouldn't walk, just jig and toss his head up and down, throwing spit everywhere. Tie downs didn't work, they made him rear. Talking to him didn't work, he didn't want to hear. So, about 2 or 3 weeks after getting him, I took him out. Remember, we had 105 acres, kind of in a big L shape, no cross fences on the back half at all. It took a good 1 1/2 hours to ride around the perimeter. Rebel decided we would do it in 10 minutes. It was partly my fault, but we had gotten to the back fence on the North side and I usually loped or hand galloped straight across the 40 acres to the south fence. Rebel started tossing his head and proceed to get the curb bit stuck up over his cheek bones. Off he went. Everytime I tried reach forward to push the bit down, he'd put his head down. Pulling back was a waste. I discovered he could run just as fast with his head pulled to the side, and still keep going straight. I figured either he'd try to jump the fence and on landing he'd have slowed and I could get off. Or he's turn at the fence, and I could get off. Or he'd just run smack into the fence, and I could get off, hopefully under my own power. But this was a wreck anyway you looked at it. It ended up with him sliding sideways into the fence while trying to turn, I was able to get a grip on the bit with his head turned and get him back under control. Arriving home, we were both a little worse for wear, minor cuts from the barbed wire fence, sore muscles, very sweat soaked. I went that week and bought a jumping bat. When Rebel tossed his head, I smacked that bat between his ears. Scared him a little, enough to curb the head tossing each time I reminded him of it. All in all, he really wasn't that terrible a horse. But so far I had had a Quarter- Appy cross, and Rebel was Standardbred and Quarter Horses. There was also this terrible snot of a Shetland pony stallion named Stubby that our caretaker had talked us into. It was time for a change.
At the end of my 7th grade school year, my dentist suggested I should get braces. My Dad decided that having braces was a status symbol and they were putting them on people who really didn't them, so he told me if I wanted them I was going to have to earn half their cost myself. I know that sounds wierd, but you have to understand my Dad and where we were living. Orinda was very upper middle class, very neuvo riche. Labels were everything. Dad wouldn't buy me Calvin Klien jeans, because jeans were jeans and Sears Rustlers were just fine. Dad did not understand that the wrong labels made school not one of the most pleasant places for me. I have to admit that the braces thing he probably had right on, but I spent the whole summer driving tractor for him-- we now had the 40 acres next door, and all of it had to be readied for fall planting. Plus we had 10 acres of alfalfa that pipe needed to be changed and Dad also gave me a dollar for each gopher my dog caught. So I had the potential to make the $2500.00 I needed.
Our neighbors across the road on the southside had horses, some really nice ones. I went over to see them all the time because the owners were only up on weekends. They had a lovely chestnut mare. She looked exactly like the Breyer Family Arab mare-- Yes, I was a huge model collector, still have a whole bunch that I have passed down. In retro, I should have stayed with models-- much less costly on the upkeep, but, oh well.-- I called this mare Sabba. She was beautiful. Then they got this scraggily, grey, moth-eatten yearling gelding. Skinny, pink in color, u-necked, splay footed-- he was every fault in one package. He followed me and would not go away. He put his head on my shoulder, his nose in my pocket. I was in love. By the end of summer, Raj was mine. I never did get the braces. I was now the registered owner of Ibn Raftan, a 3/4 Arabian 1/4 AQHA grey gelding.
Due to The Black Stallion, I loved Arabs. And I had been studying their breeding for sometime. But now I had one that at least part of him was recorded in a stud book and could be researched.
