As summer drew to a close, I organized a demonstration for Jennifer and her riding abilities during the local 4-H show at the county fair. The crowd went through the usual cornucopia of emotions: gasping, incredulity, speechlessness, tears and finally wild applause for the little girl with cerebral palsy riding the beautiful Morgan horse.
The days of autumn finally turned too cold to ride and we all reluctantly retired until spring. Winter lingered on relentlessly that year. At every sign of thaw, I wanted to be on the phone to Jennifer’s mother, like a persistent playmate, asking if Jennifer could come to ride. One day, I couldn’t resist any longer. There was a long pause on the telephone. Jennifer’s scoliosis was no longer to be ignored and she was scheduled for surgery to fuse her spine. The procedure might mean Jennifer could not ride again. Winter might never end.
“But,” her mother reminded me, sensing my feelings of woe, “we’ve beaten the odds before.”
As the date for her surgery neared, so did foaling time. One week before her surgery, Jennifer came out to meet our newest arrivals. As with everyone and everything, the new born foals were mesmerized by her and we had to physically restrain a day old filly from climbing into the wheelchair with Jennifer. Jennifer's head fell back and her laughter filled the old barn.
I took some photos and dropped off a particularly adorable one of Jennifer and the filly to her house on Thursday before her surgery. She asked to take it to the hospital by spelling out the words on her talking tablet. I hugged her and told her I would see her in a couple of weeks. She sparkled back at me and I left to return to my chores.
The phone rang on Saturday night. It was my aunt, who had been engaged as part of a phoning tree. She was crying. “Oh, Michelle,” she said through her tears, “I’m so sorry, Jennifer is gone.” She had arrested during surgery and died.
It was dark outside. In the barn, the horses were breathing very quietly and were surprised to find me among them so late at night. I sat down on a feeder and began to cry. Topaz came up to me, put her muzzle to my cheek and inhaled my tears. The other horses gathered around respectfully and voluntarily attended to me, sharing my grief.
Jennifer’s hometown was made up of a population of about 2,000 people. Her wake was held in the high school auditorium, to accommodate a crowd of over 500. She was buried with a statue of a Morgan stallion and a lock from Topaz’s mane. Blue Bunny donated ice cream for everyone, which was Jennifer’s favorite, and we all, including the Blue Bunny executive, ate it without joy.
A very special stone memorial was chosen for her grave and Jennifer’s mother asked if it be possible to have it custom engraved with a picture of Jennifer and Topaz. At the unveiling, we released yellow [Jennifer’s favorite color] balloons and gazed in wonder at the likeness of the girl and the horse. “So long lives this, and this gives life to thee”, I thought with tears streaming down my face.
Spring passed, summer came, and still I was living in the darkness. The light had gone out of the world. I was still in the depths of grief and nothing, it seemed could move me. Just when I was feeling really sorry for myself, sitting on the back step of the house, watching the horses graze in the soft early evening light, the voice came into my head.
“Walk on.” The pronunciation and the voice were unmistakable, they belonged to Jennifer.
I jumped up and ran inside to call Jennifer’s mother. “I want to start a therapeutic riding program in Jennifer’s name, as a living memorial to her, so that other children could have the same chance Jennifer had to ride a horse. Will you help me?”
“When do we start?” she replied.
The next four years were filled with much laughter and a few tears. Starting a non-profit organization was a tremendous undertaking. Without the benefit of Jennifer’s immense charisma, it was sometimes hard to convince donors of its merit. But it was never difficult to convince the children and adults that came to learn to ride a horse for recreation and therapy that the program was worthwhile.
My own life took on greater meaning. I had lived so long without a fulfilling occupation that I had become disillusioned and somewhat bitter. When I found myself in a position to help other people, the entire process became therapeutic to me. I was ill less often. I had abundant energy. I worked seven days a week, often for 18 hours. Each morning I would bound out of bed and start all over again. It was a calling.
The stories of personal growth from clients and volunteers could fill pages, even chapters. The program that bore Jennifer’s name seemed to have a life of its own, a mission to inspire everyone to achieve their own personal potential. Most times, these changes would occur spontaneously, out of nowhere the realization would take hold. Sometimes, it would be as a result of months of coaxing, prodding and pushing. And other times, it would come quietly, serenely with a glow. The self realization saw many volunteers suddenly change jobs, leave bad marriages or go back to college. It was a whirlwind of the possible.
Life moves on in unexpected ways. The non- profit organization multiplied and divided and now there are several programs where once their was only Jennifer's. Her legacy still provides saddles and driving equipment to those with disabilities; other programs are staffed by former volunteers. I still work with the horses and teach children and adults with disabilities and without. I still hear, in the rustle of corn that surrounds the paddocks, the ethereal laughter of a little girl who altered my life by showing me how easy it is to make dreams come true.
Neither death nor change can deter the memories or the cognizance that all things are possible and it is within our power to realize them. That is Jennifer’s legacy. Walk on.
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