One Horse Open Sleigh
It is not the correct time of year to be day-dreaming about riding in a horse-drawn sleigh, but in spite of the flowers and budding trees, the image of a carved sleigh whisking through the snow behind a prancing pony (all right, a prancing cart horse), leaving nothing but clean sleigh tracks in its wake, is a delightful one. Add to that excitement the thrill of being unsupervised by a chaperone, as Anne, Diana, and their friends are in this week’s chapter, and suddenly a whole world of prospects opens up.
I remember very clearly when one of my closest high school friends got her licence. She was the first in our group of friends to get it, and similarly to Anne and Diana, our horizons widened. We could go where we liked, without having to ask for rides from parents or cranky older siblings. The world was our oyster, and we went wherever the wind (and a second-hand hatchback) could take us! In reality, that turned out to be exactly the same places we had gone in parent-driven minivans: the local mall, the cheap-seat movie theatre, school dances, sleepovers at friends’ houses. There were some minor differences, in the end, but they felt crucial at the time. The first was that we chose the music: instead of 102.3 Clear FM, which played what I derisively thought of as ‘soccer mom music’, we blasted sugary, mind-numbing indie pop, usually played from scribbled-upon CDs, filled with downloaded favourites of questionable quality. The second was that we always owed our friend gas money.
I never learned to drive. I took the classes and passed the test, and spent weeks practicing in a car with two steering wheels and two sets of brakes: one for me, one for the instructor. Behind the wheel, I completely lost my nerve. The thought of hitting something - or worse, someone - loomed so large for me that even getting into the driver’s seat sent my stomach plummeting to somewhere in the region of my feet. My enduring memory of trying to learn to drive is a view through the front windshield, the road coming at me so fast it made my head spin, hands obediently at ten and two, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers turned white. I left indents in the pleather steering wheel cover. I can tell you, dear reader, from experience, that it is very challenging to drive and scream-cry at the same time: tears obscure the vision rather, which is not ideal.
Much earlier in life, I did learn to ride horses. So, frankly, I suspect I would be much more at home driving a ‘one horse open sleigh’ than behind the wheel of any motor vehicle. Someone once expressed incredulity at this bizarre set of skills, and to an extent, I see their point: I am perhaps better equipped to be an eighteenth century gentlewoman than a modern girl, educated as I have been to ride horses and knit and sew and paint charming cards and, horror of horrors, read novels. If I could lay my hands on a decent set of stays and panniers, I’d be all set. But my feeling is that choosing horses over horsepower is perfectly reasonable - they are much prettier, and they have self-preservation. I’ve seen Thelma and Louise: cars will go careening off cliffs if they are left to their own devices. Horses are much more sensible - generally speaking, in my experience, if you let a horse go where it likes, it will go home. Admirable creatures. Besides, they haven’t written any classic holiday songs about driving cars, have they? But a ‘one horse open sleigh’ was obviously a worthy enough subject to deserve its own hymn. Makes sense to me. Jingle all the way!
Jennifer