EAST COUNTY HORSE WHISPERER Recalling a Past Filled with Struggle and Glory
	MAY 2005

by Diane Lando
Photos by Russell Byrne

Like millions of other people, I saw the movie Horse Whisperer. Unlike most of the other viewers, however, I knew exactly what that guy was doing. Somehow I’ve always had a connection with living things myself, including wordless communication with animals, and with horses above all else.

As I write this, just yesterday I went out to the stable with a new friend of mine to see my two lesson horses, Cash and Lady. I am still wearing a sling on my left arm from a recent repair to the rotator cuff and a broken collarbone. As I entered their separate stalls, both horses came up to me and nibbled at the sling, asking me what was wrong. So I explained it to them as best I could, and wrapped my arms around their necks (not easy to do with such large animals with my incapacitated left arm), saying I was sorry to not have been with them as often as before, but promised to be back soon. They both leaned into me and sighed, seeming to know that everything would be all right.

My friend was amazed at the "control" I had over these animals. I don't see it as control, but more like a shared understanding. One I had to learn, as well as feel. Tears welled up in my eyes, at their loving acceptance of me and my troubles. The feeling of having communicated with my horses was real; it always is for me. Whenever I am with my horses, working with them teaching lessons, or doing nothing at all, I can always feel this connection. It nurtures me.

I certainly can’t tell anybody how such a connection works between animals and ourselves, physically, emotionally, or spiritually. But I do know that communication is happening on some level.

Reaching out to Horses
I sometimes think that my connection with horses is more reliable than is my connection with people because horses are more honest. They have nothing to hide so the connection is less complex than with people.

I have loved horses from the moment I first laid eyes on one and desperately wanted a horse of my own. Every time mom took me with her to the grocery store I wouldn't stop screaming until I got a nickel's ride on the latest copy of Trigger, Buttermilk, or Silver, that were conveniently parked out front. She couldn’t pry me off that thing. I would ride it for hours and hours if I could. I would watch the Westerns they would show every afternoon on our old black and white TV until mom turned the set off saying it was too nice a day to just sit inside. Meaning she wanted to clean house and we were in the way.

I would also run like a horse as a child, and make noises like one. I had the gaits down perfectly. I could trot and canter like the best dressage horse that you ever saw. The kids at school thought I was really weird. Eventually I was shamed into not making horse noises any more. At least I learned to stop making them in public.

I was especially able to gallop like a horse. I could run full speed like a Thoroughbred with a glimpse of the wire in front of him. I could outrun most boys and, of course, always left the girls in my dust. I was never on a track team, but I could run fast and everyone knew it. The only “horse” I ever had back in those days was a bicycle, but it was an unsatisfactory substitute.

Down on the Ranch
The best parts of my life, by far, while growing up were spent on my grandfather’s Brentwood ranch in the very house where I am now living. My mom would sometimes take us four kids to the ranch for my grandparents to watch while she went to work — especially during the summers. The farm and its animal residents provided a stability that was missing from the rest of my life. Of course the horses, cows, goats, and chickens were my friends.

Even as a child I was a morning person, unlike my three siblings, who, when given the choice, would sleep till noon. I would get up in the dark to help my grandpa milk the cows and feed the horses. I would take water out to the fields to him while he was cutting hay and later would have a thrilling ride on top of the big hay loads as the great sweaty draft horses hauled them back to the barn.

A dramatic incident occurred one day when I was nine years old. I was bored out of my mind wandering around the ranch, and discovered a pretty horse that my grandpa had turned loose in a nearby corral. It looked lonely to me, so I walked up to the fence and started petting it. I pulled out some grass and began feeding it to her, petting her on the nose. Soon, I found myself petting her neck, and scratching her, guided by what I thought made her feel good. She didn't walk away or try biting at me.

I remember being able to feel that animal’s pleasure. I loved her rich horsy smell, and enjoyed the companionship that she and I were sharing with each other. It felt good to be around her. I climbed up on the fence so I could reach her better, and began scratching her withers.

I talked to the horse, “If I can get up on your back, I can scratch your shoulders even better.” I wasn’t saying this out loud; I was just whispering. Satisfied in my child's mind that this was safe, that she understood me, I crawled from the top rail of the fence on to her back and sat there scratching her shoulders, and thoroughly enjoying myself.

My arms and back finally grew tired, so I laid out full length on her back to rest. Finally, I grew bored and slid off the horse’s back into the dusty corral. We said goodbye to each other, and I crawled back through the rails of the fence.

The corral was near the house and suddenly I saw that my mom and grandparents were looking out the window at me. They had seen the whole show. Even through the window I could see that my mom’s face had a really angry expression. My grandpa, on the other hand, was wearing a big grin.

Mom put the fear of God and everything else into me at that moment, but later my grandpa put his arm around me, “You did good!” he said. I found out that he had been trying for a couple weeks, without success, to get a saddle on that horse. I think he was amazed that a child could lie stretched out on her back in such a short time, just by giving her some grass and a few rubs.

I had enjoyed being with that animal. And she obviously enjoyed being with me. Even better than that, we somehow had been able to communicate to each other our feelings about that situation. My mom was right that the horse could have killed me, but I knew that she wouldn’t.

That was the beginning of my life as a horsewoman. I have been wrangling at stables and giving riding lessons for much of my adult life. I’ve incorporated the things I have learned about horses into a training video for novices called “Basic Horse 101” (available at Contra Costa libraries). I’m pleased by the prospect of helping people, some of whom I will never meet, by sharing my love of horses.

Reaching Back to the Past
My grandfather’s name was William Murphy. He started the very same Murphy Ranch where I live today. When he died grandpa told my grandmother, Lydia, that I was to get his boots, his saddle, and his hat. He thought that I was the only relative he had who would appreciate them.

He made no mistake about my appreciation, because I have treasured those personal things that I inherited from him. It turned out, amazingly, that my grandpa’s Visalia saddle, which had been tailor-made for him, fit like it had been made for me. I still have that beautiful talisman sitting on a frame in my storeroom. I had it refurbished by the famous saddlemaker, John Gray, until it almost looks like new.

I don’t look like new myself any more, however. I have been living with MS for three decades. Riding horses is actually a great curative to the symptoms of that disease — good both for my agility and my spirit. I’ve had other injuries and problems that currently make it difficult these days for me to work with horses as much as I would like. But my passion for those beautiful animals continues to fill my life to overflowing.

I still own a couple horses and love soundlessly whispering to them and listening to the silent murmur of their replies. I continue to offer riding lessons to children and adults, trying to pass on to others my own love for horses. I’ve had enough conversations with my animals that they are glad to teach lessons with children and adults on their backs.

As I grow older I discover that memories of the past become ever-more-wonderful resources of psychological health and wellbeing. I can gaze at the stitching on my grandpa’s saddle and trace with my fingers the fancy designs that were worked into the leather of that beautiful keepsake. I can smell the rich aroma of that saddle and remember the horses that I rode, and the ones my grandpa rode before me.

Someone said that you don’t completely appreciate an experience until you remember it later. I’m sure that’s true. In my memory I ride those horses again and once more feel the power of their muscles and feel again the joyful release that always came from galloping through the golden hills. I can experience once more the rich communication that always passed between rider and mount during those brilliant hours.

Best of all, I can close my eyes any time, see my grandpa’s smile, and once more hear his voice echoing in my memory, “You did good!”