I was four and we lived in Daytona Beach, Florida, when I met Kelly. He was a black Shetland pony at one of the pony stands on the beach. Parents paid ten cents or thereabouts to put their tots on the little ponies to be led around a ring by young boys. The "riders" had no control; the reins were knotted around the Western-style saddle horn.

After visiting Kelly a number of times I felt we knew each other well enough to communicate directly. So, as we went at our usual plod, I took the reins where I could reach and clucked and kicked. Kelly took off, yanking the lead rein out of the boy's hand. The pony did not go very far, because the boy was scared pea-green and caught him right away.

I was pretty scared myself, but wouldn't say so for anything.

Horse number two was Hickory at Camp Dellwood in Waynesville, North Carolina. I was seven that summer; the youngest kid at camp. We had a good riding teacher.

We learned to post at the trot, do figure eights, etc. Because Hickory was lethargic, I was allowed to carry a little piece of a broken crop so that we would not fall behind the rest.

I guess I was bored. One day I got tired of just "not falling behind" and I slapped Hickory a good one on the shoulder. He lumbered into a canter and his action was so high that I felt that I was going to be airborne any second.

The instructor yelled, and Hickory dropped back into a trot at once. Smart horse.

There was a slack period when at nine I made do with stick horses, and at 11 when I enjoyed tying string reins to my bike handlebars.

Then when I was in high school, family friends got a stable as a tax shelter. They let me ride free. Big Red, a former circus horse, was my favorite. I was 14.

I have to tell you that all this time I was not really "learning" to ride, the way my granddaughters are. They've been learning jumping and dressage since they were eight. I envy them painfully. I was riding only at intervals and not learning good horsemanship. Instinct isn't enough.

One time some of my friends and one of the stable hands and I were out riding. We were cantering, and suddenly Red decided he wanted to go home. He took off at a high gallop and I was soon off balance.

Well, in the newsreels I had seen Russian cavalrymen stop their horses by throwing themselves forward, grasping the bridle and hanging under the horse's head. If I did that now, I would put the horse on his nose. But, then, when I leaped, grabbed Red's bridle and hung under his chin, he didn't even break stride.

He was bumping me pretty good with his knees and I decided I'd better get out of this situation. I dropped. He -- clever beast -- jumped over me and I rolled off the trail. By this time, all the other horses were pelting after us. The stable hand threw himself off his horse and ran to see if I was okay. I was.

I went on to my job at the book store that afternoon.

It was nearly closing time when I touched my right ear and realized that it was filled to the brim with sand! What that must have looked like to the bookstore customers, I can only imagine!

The friends gave it up, after awhile, and their stable was rented to a dashing fellow who opened up for riding. One of the first things we noticed was that he put up a lattice just inside the stable door. You could not see back into the stable, and the new owner discouraged "visiting" the horses in their stalls, which my girl friends and I used to enjoy.

I only remember the name of one of his horses, Gallant (pronounced "gal-LANT"). In appearance - red with black mane and tail - he reminded me of Big Red, the circus horse, but Gallant was infinitely more biddable.

Working and busy then, I did not ride very often. I was nearly ready for my great leap from the Daytona Beach News-Journal to the Washington Post. I decided to go and ride Gallant one more time.

I was struck by the strong smell of dirty stalls and soiled straw. The pomaded, dapper owner brought out Gallant, already tacked up.

His neck was almost level with his withers; not arched as I remembered. His coat was staring, had no sheen to it, and even around the dirty saddle blanket I could see that his ribs were showing. He barely responded to my greeting, but grabbed the carrot roughly from my palm. He was hungry.

Gallant had always seemed to enjoy the palmetto-shaded trail to the beach as much as I did. He had always been alert without being skittish. This day, he just plodded along.

When Gallant's hoofs met the soft beach sand I heard a shocking sound. It was Gallant, wheezing with the effort of getting through the deep sand.

He'll be fine when we get to the hard sand nearer the water, I thought. He did seem to pick up in the brisk ocean breeze. I urged him into a canter. Then I wanted him to gallop, but he was already slowing down and sweat covered his neck and shoulders. His breath came in a sort of whistle. I pulled him up and he willingly settled into a walk.

I was crying.

I soon turned him back toward the stable. We returned at a walk and the sweat dried, along with my tears. But he never regained the verve which had won my heart when we first met.

When we got back to the stable, I asked the owner what was wrong with Gallant. He said something offhand, took my money and turned his back on me.

I suspected the real problem, but at 18 was not old enough or knowledgeable enough to take action. Today, I would file a complaint about the way this man was starving his horses and scrimping on their care.

For years, I thought about Gallant and wondered what happened to him. Horses are big and strong, but in the context of their lives they are helpless.

In a story book or on TV, he would have plotted with his stablemates to run away, and lead the Humane Society inspectors back to the filthy stable ... all that good stuff.

But you know it doesn't happen that way. All I could hope for was that the slimy owner would reach a point where the horses were so sick he could not make any more money off them, and he would sell them to good homes.

That wasn't a very strong possibility either. Even horse-lovers hesitate to buy sick horses.

But, I realize now, it doesn't help to think about the horses of the past, or what you might have done.

Whether it's horses or people, you just have to do the best you can to help the things that are...

Right Now!

If you don't do your best right now -- well, that's another problem.

April 28, 1996 Jo Campbell Ecotopics International

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