A few months ago I got an email from Nancy Tusinski, Adult Program Director at Springfield Town Library, informing me of an exhibit coming to the Library this spring. The exhibit was titled “The Literary Horse”, and consisted of photographs of real-life contemporary horses accompanied by literary quotations. Nancy said that the exhibit’s creator, photographer Vanessa Wright, liked to have local horse people involved wherever it was on display, and asked if I had any ideas or suggestions for how Baymare Farm might want to be a part of the event.

Immediately I thought of Becky, our dear miniature mare. What better way for library visitors to experience a horse-themed exhibit than by getting to meet an actual horse? So what if the actual horse is on a smaller scale than the chargers and warhorses of myth and legend that populate literature. Becky’s compact size makes her not only more energy-efficient, but much easier to get in the front door of the Library than the average warhorse.

Nancy accepted our offer with enthusiasm, and Becky’s Big Day was officially put on the calendar. Our plan was for Becky to make an appearance at the Library on the last day of the exhibit, when Vanessa herself would be there to take photos and talk about her work. Becky and I would come into the building, ride the elevator to the second floor, and set up for visitors in the Children’s Library surrounded by a great selection of favorite horse books. I would give a brief talk about Becky, then people could come meet her, pat her, and get a picture taken with her if they wished.

Though I encountered some disbelief and skepticism from people when I told them of our plans, putting a pony in a library is nothing new. When I was a little girl growing up in Elgin, Illinois, famed author Marguerite Henry lived in the nearby village of Wayne. Her books were some of the greatest treasures of my young life. One of my favorites was Newbery award winner Misty of Chincoteague, a story about a family raising a pony foal and the celebration of “Pony Penning Day” on Chincoteague Island off the coast of Virginia. The real Misty lived with Ms. Henry in Wayne for a time, and was a regular visitor to area libraries, including ours in Elgin. So now, over fifty years later, it seemed both logical and a great honor to follow in Misty’s distinguished hoofprints.

On the morning of her public debut, Becky was thoroughly groomed and prepped. She had a date with the horse vacuum, then a red ribbon was braided into her forelock and a little glitter brushed into her flowing mane. Finally, I fitted her out in her new halter and lead rope, and together we strolled down Elm Hill and into town. We enjoyed receiving smiles and waves along the way, though an amazing number of people drove right by us without even a glance. We paused at the old horse watering trough near the bus stop. Recent rains had filled it, and Becky sniffed at it and then took a few sips. I wondered how many years had passed since another horse had drunk from that basin.

We got to the Library right on time, and a good-sized crowd had assembled to watch her arrival. She had a smooth trip on the elevator, and we took up our station in the Children’s Room with no fuss at all. For over an hour, little Becky performed like a trouper. She stood patiently while dozens of strangers, some who had never touched a horse before, came up to pet her and have their picture taken with her. Her attention never wavered. She responded with interest and courtesy to every person who met her. I found I was able to step back, several feet away at the end of the lead line so that I wouldn’t show up in everybody’s photograph, and she continued to stand perfectly still.

Even though I went into the day with one hundred percent confidence in Becky’s ability to carry on safely and with good humor, I was absolutely swept off my feet by her performance. Not only was she tolerant and well-behaved, she was completely invested in every moment. Each person had her total attention, each of the hundred or so photos from the day shows her alert and focused on the job at hand.

Finally, once everybody had had a turn, we loaded back on to the elevator for the first floor and were soon out in the fresh air and hiking back up Elm Hill. Becky got a bucketful of carrots when we got home, then I turned her out with her companions to enjoy a lovely roll in the mud and the horse equivalent of recess for the rest of the afternoon. And that was Becky’s Big Day.

Thanks to Becky’s and my steadfast assistants, Kathy and Sofia Gulick for smoothing the way, to Nancy Tusinski for taking us on, and Library Director Russ Moore for trusting us in his Library!

Visit www.TheLiteraryHorse.com to learn more about this wonderful traveling exhibit.

Thumbnail photo by Wendy Svec, all other photos c. Vanessa Wright and used with her permission.

The original Bay Mare is thirty this year. I have been promising myself for a long time that I would write “her” piece while she was still alive to revel in it, and while I still have daily contact with her true and often exasperating self, rather than some sugared-up version colored by my own sentimentality and sense of loss after she is gone.

Willa has no time for sentiment. She has always been a horse who wanted to cut to the chase, no kisses or lovey-dovey stuff. Just let her jump the jumps, gallop down the path, do what needs to be done. She has accepted carrots and rubbing over the years not because she sought affection but because they were her due. She repeatedly saved my bacon going cross country, not out of some anthropomorphized sense of loyalty but because she understood her job and seemed to relish it.

Willa and I became sparring partners late in the summer of 1983. She was a nicely started 3- year-old and I was in my late twenties, teaching in the riding program at Dartmouth College. I had the use of a stall with the job, and with the financial backing of my mother, I purchased Willa as a likely sales project. Willa had promise and sass and sense, and displayed unusual ability over fences from the first day we casually popped over a log out on the trail.

In my mind she is inextricably connected with my mother. Not only because my mother bought her for me, but because they remind me of each other, with a dash of namesake Willa Cather thrown in for good measure. My mother was born and raised in Nebraska, and was deeply familiar with the landscapes and people Cather wrote about in My Antonia, O Pioneers, Song of the Lark, and other stories. Like Cather the author and Willa the horse, my mother was not sentimental, but committed to getting on with the business of life.

I don’t know if this justifies the fact that twenty-seven years later my sales prospect is still eating hay in our barn. Willa was with me when I met, dated, and eventually married my husband Scott. She has moved cross country with us a couple of times. She took me on lovely relaxing hacks when I was pregnant with our twin boys. The twin boys are twenty now and though they have moved out, the horse is still here. She has seen me through better and worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health, and has never uttered a word about obeying anyone.

My purpose here is not to recount her competitive history, nor to reminisce about her unflinching honesty and courage in front of whatever obstacle she was aimed at. Ribbons, triumphs, fun and glory have certainly been part of the picture, both for me and for Scott. Frustration, too. Her disdain for the dressage ring was legendary, as was her mulish reluctance to load on the horse trailer without a compatible equine escort.

What I want to celebrate is Willa today. She is an old horse, a cranky horse, an arthritic and arguably senile horse. Equally, she is a living miracle. Her ego, her look, her attitude are as intact and tangible as ever. When I lead her from the barn to her paddock on cool mornings, she snorts and shies and jigs just as she did a quarter of a century ago. She treats me with as little respect now that I am gray and grandmotherly as she did when I was young and ambitious. She no longer dominates the big group of mares in turn-out, but she happily lords it over her designated companion, Becky the mini horse. Age has distilled her into the purest essence of herself. In her great longevity she serves as a daily reminder of the impermanence of our most precious relationships, and as an inspiration to keep moving forward.