Just a Boy Sitting on a Crescent Moon

I stepped down, one foot at a time, in the dark. I could feel Tuukka doing the same, my hand cresting his silky back against my leg, only the sound of his nails clicking the wood boards, rising above the whip of wind. A band of cool air had arrived only thirty minutes ago, whistling through the crack of my bedroom window like a litter of hungry pups, snapping and snarling to squeeze through the kitchen door first. The front was nipping the heels of yesterday, chasing the unusual warmth back into the den from which it came. Finding the last step, Tuukka swished through grass, starting his day like every dog should, having a steaming hot pee, uninterrupted. I waited for him, not moving, soaking up this moment of silence and aloneness that are more fleeting with each year that passes. The wind kissing my face, I looked up. Stars littered the sky like a fishing net of diamonds cast across an endless sea, reminding me how inconsequential and fleeting all of this really is, and so utterly perfect and divine, beautiful and fucked-up, all at once.

What a day for funeral, I thought. Jimmy’s funeral, to be exact. Today I was going to see a lot of people I hadn’t for a very long time, many who grew up at Fox Covert Farm under Jimmy’s watchful eye, just like me. His passing has ushered in a torrent of emotion, surprising even myself. It’s the end of an era, bookmarking my time with the horses, as well as crucial decades in the growing sport of Eventing, which Jimmy fastidiously helped shape. Woff was an old-fashioned horseman. He taught me many lessons—from making sure the buckles on my spur-straps were centered perfectly over the tongue of my boots—to the merits of jogging gravel roads in the winter. But most importantly, Jimmy taught me there were no shortcuts to riding well. The longer one takes to produce a good horse [or good rider], the faster one is to arrive at success. But the reverse could also be true: Rushing inevitably leads to failure, true success elusive, indefinitely kept at arm’s length. These lessons were invaluable.

The 90’s was an incredible time to land at Fox Covert. Jimmy had hung up his own spurs, but had plenty of time to foster the next generation of Eventing diehards and enthusiasts. It is worth noting Jimmy began each day at 7 a.m. teaching his working students first.

Every. Single. Day.

What this meant for working students was the barn was completely purged and scrubbed, buttoned-up with Pine Sol-scented water looped down the asphalt aisleways using an old smudged watering can, our horses were brushed and tacked, and warmed-up by 7 a.m. Every morning. One could set their watch by the working students’ schedule at Fox Covert Farm. Under this—his—military dictatorship, I thrived. Working students not only received a lesson every day (that we weren’t galloping or hacking), but Jimmy also posted a daily log on the board in the wash-room at Fox Covert at the beginning of every season, with twelve weeks of training plans, culminating in the signature three-day event that wrapped the competitive schedule. Working students also received housing on the farm, board for our horse, and a membership to the Middleburg Athletic Club. We were expected to go and it was non-negotiable. Plenty of days, Jimmy walked into the barn and quizzed us.

“So….

Didn’t see your name on the check-in sheet at the gym. What happened?” he asked us.

Like a gaggle of goslings, we hopped from foot to feet, squawking we were there, but anyone could see his wheels turning, that killer grin widening in proportion to the panic blanching our faces. I envisioned the words, “Ahh, the lady doth protest too much, me thinks,” like a film reel playing across his forehead. Other times, when I happened to meet Jimmy at the club, he would sign his name at the counter, then head straight to my treadmill, his finger intuitively finding its way to the button on the dashboard stamped with an up arrow.

“Hmm, doesn’t look like you’re going quite fast enough,” he would say, the treadmill bleating disapproval like a goat, whipped. “The point is to get your heart rate up,” he’d say. I would find myself scrambling to catch the belt, rolling out from under my feet, Jimmy laughing, “He he he,” as he walked away to the men’s locker room.

Jimmy first coached me—officially as “my coach”—at Bromont in 1995. It wasn’t long after Jimmy rang and offered me a working student position. Of course, looking back, I am rather stymied by this series of events, considering I had accumulated more than one refusals-worth of penalties on Phase C at Bromont. How did that even happen? Because…well…HORSES…duh. Murphy’s Law prevails in the horse-world, especially when you add a dumb kid to the mix! Also, when Jimmy had called and asked me, I went silent on the phone.

“I’ll have to think about,” I said. “I’ll get back to you.”

I’m sure Jimmy hung up the phone that day wondering, “Who the eff does this kid think she is?,” quickly forgetting my name.

But I had already been a working student in my gap year between high school and college. That was a great experience, at Farewell Farm, (Kathy Faulk also deserves a medal for all the kids she wrangled while there), but now I knew what was involved, and sometimes, a little bit of education [aka just enough to be not nearly enough] can be a double-edged sword. Luckily for me, common sense did not prevail. I packed my bags and headed north for one year of “full-immersion horses” before I got “a real job.” (I stayed for five years, but that’s a different post.)

That fall, after my cracking good round at Bromont in the Spring (minus Phase C, eek!), Jimmy and his students traveled to North Georgia for the three day event there. I pulled up on cross-country that weekend. The round was like kicking a horse dead on its feet. Something was terribly wrong. Back in Virginia, Dr. Mayo diagnosed George with heaves.

Horse World, Professionals, Eventing Enthusiasts, please take note:

George was relegated to bagged shavings, in lieu of straw, and bagged haylage, in lieu of hay.

Guess who payed for all of those expensive measures?

Jimmy did.

My advice for professionals who can’t find—or keep—help?

Invest in them.

Like…really…invest…in…their…success.

If the relationship is purely transactional, its shelf life will be short.

My advice for young, aspiring equestrians?

Work your ass off.

You have the most energy and athletic ability you will ever have in your life right now, as well as free time, coupled with the least amount of responsibilities, such as a mortgage or kids of your own.

This is your time to shine.

Don’t squander it.

Do more than is expected.

The word “no” should not be part of your vocabulary. A year under the watchful eye of a professional is not enough and does not mint you a professional upon completion. The quickest route to detonation is through your ego. Put your head down, eyes on the ground, and pull in the harness.

HARD.

For years.

I am so grateful for my time at Fox Covert. I honestly don’t know how Jimmy—and Gail—did it. All those years of raising someone else’s kid, surviving their antics (I have a clear vision of the living room furniture we yanked out of the cottage and onto the lawn for an evening soiree), as well as all of mistakes we made, such as driving the sawtoothed front-end loader on the tractor through the cement-block of the barn wall, and through the sliding wooden door behind it, in the first week of arriving at Fox Covert Farm. That was the morning I discovered Jimmy and I were exactly the same height, as he stood inches from my face, not blinking. If he was trying to scare me, it worked. But he didn’t banish me from the farm, which was my greatest fear, so I felt simultaneous relief.

Yesterday, at Jimmy’s funeral, I saw a lot of wonderful faces I haven’t seen in a very long time. The memories flowed like champagne—or in Jimmy’s case—they flowed like bourbon and branch water! The horse world brings people together, if nothing else, and Fox Covert was a beacon for that. As I watched the stars in the sky yesterday morning, in the quiet that precedes dawn—just Tuukka and me awake in the house—I stared at the crescent moon, as bright or brighter than any of its sparkling neighbors. I thought how perfect it was, considering the day. Staring harder, I swore I could see a boy, sitting in the cradle of the moon, swinging a leg and casting his rod. His smile spread wide in return—so many bugs in his teeth!—each a souvenir from all those adventures he had, from a life well lived.

Godspeed, Woff.

**The following is a repost from February 2, 2023, the day after the world lost one of the greatest horsemen it will ever know.

Woff, with his wicked sense of humor, gifted me this photo after I fell off in the Advanced at the Southern Pines HT, back in the day, when it was still held at the Walthour Moss Foundation. He howled with laughter and so did I.

The inscription?? Jimmy shouted those same words to me at the Virginia Horse Trials many years before I ended up working for him. I was new to the preliminary level and trying to warm-up for show jumping. With all the big shots, it wasn’t easy. They had their jump crews and I didn’t.

I tried to be slick, tucking behind them, but inevitably my plan backfired. I was three horses out, cantering around, trying to catch the oxer. I couldn’t get to it before it was maxed out. I panicked. They were calling my number. So I went for it.

I remember clear as day seeing Skirmish Line’s front feet straight out in front of him like Superman. He was nonplussed. I was his third kid to break in to the preliminary level by that point. He was no dummy. So he took care of business. But I will also never forget the sound of collective gasping as Skirmy left the ground. I’m pretty sure some of those parents, students, and spectators stained their britches that day.

After the gasping subsided, those were the words I heard. Jimmy’s voice ringing with that sly smile, offering to jump crew for the kid from Texas, newly on the east coast, who found herself barely staying afloat in the ocean with the big kids. “Let’s start by putting the oxer down,” he said.

And the rest, as they say, is history. I worked for Jimmy for five years, right after graduating from college. It was, indeed, my graduate school. My experience at Fox Covert Farm, under Jimmy’s tutelage, were some of the best years of my life. Thank you, Woff. Thank you for everything. Rest in peace, Coach. You will be missed.