Before Hercules--

My very best friend from 1st grade up through 8th grade had several overwhelmingly wonderful characteristics. First, she loved horses as much as I; second, her family actually owned horses; third, she and I were the best readers in our class. She was a better athlete than I, but as we pretended that we were twin wild mares running up and down through the foothills where we lived, we agreed that we were identically fast runners, thus eliminating the potential for conflict which might disrupt our enjoyment.

My friend's family operated a seasonal horseback concession out of the national forest. Each summer they would travel up to the mountains where they would live in a cabin without electricity and rent horses by the hour or day. The first summer I was invited to spend a week there I was 9. My friend rode Blaze, a mare who was ridden in a mechanical hackamore. Every day after breakfast and after the horses were taken from the corrals and tacked up, we drug the big rakes across the corrals and loaded the manure to take it to the "sugar pile." We rode there in the back of the pickup, standing up, the wind blowing our hair.

I rode Socks, a small chestnut gelding. My friend's poodle rode Socks also! I had a wonderful time!

My Horsestory Pt. 3--The Jack Tries to Kill Me Instead of the Poodle

Mounted Adventures

Between the time of Misty and of Hercules (my next live horse) I was pretty miserable with my horselessness. I made sure that my parents were well well aware of my feeling of emptiness, of neediness, and I found a variety of substitutes for a horse of my own.

When the ol' Willow Tree had to go, I at least got to enjoy a bit of riding. I was sad to see it finally hauled away. (As a side note, before it passed that tree was the source of much Tarzan-type enjoyment as my sibs and I made bows and arrows out of the ranches, and swung on the down hanging limbs, yelling, "(insert Tarzan yell here). )


One of those ways that my parents could discern the depth of my yearning was my daily reading of the livestock section of the local classified ads. One day, when I was about 9 (note, an "odd" age--no hope), there was an ad--not for horse, but for a donkey--an animal with "excellent disposition with children." And, only $25! Later I overheard my mother on the telephone making arrangements to visit the animal--tears of joy!!

Once Jack arrived in our pasture, the neighborhood kids and sibs gathered round and I jumped on his back. Jack wasn't so happy about that and I promptly wound up on the ground. Then little sister wanted her turn. Recalling all the rules about getting back on after a fall, I insisted I had to ride again. So I did.

Trey, our poodle, decided to enter the frey. Now, a digression. The ad that stated, "Excellent disposition with children", didn't add, "Deathly hatred of dogs and tries to kill them." After this particular incident we noticed Jack responded to being chased by a dog in a peculiar way; he chased the dog until the dog took off, then the donkey knelt on the ground and bit at it. Now, back to current events....

Jack chased Trey around in a circle, and I fell, unfortunately, off in the middle of the circle. Trey promptly disappeared (no loyalty there) and Jack turned his attention to my prone figure. He bit my hand but, not finding much purchase, he grabbed the upper part of my arm with his teeth. Kneeling with a knee on each side of my chest, holding my uper arm in his teeth, he raised me up and shook me around like a dog with a rat.

I was not quietly succombing; I beat on his nose with my free hand and screamed, "Daddy Daddy!" Fortunately for me, my father and mother were working nearby. I am told that my father leaped over the 2 pasture fences between us, while my mother ran around to the gates and jumped them. What I do remember, foggily, is my father doing a body tackle into the donkey and yelling, "O'lay!" (This last is probably some kind of hallucination, but that's what I remember.) Nevertheless, he knocked the animal off of me and they carried me to the car and took me to the doctor. (I went directly from accident to doctor only twice as a child.) After an xray of my hand (okay) I returned home. I fretted that my father would kill the donkey to avenge me, but instead he gave the donkey to a relative of a relative. He said they deserved each other.

As a 9 year old, I recall feeling quite heroic; if I hadn't insisted on riding after the fall, my younger (skinnier) sister would have been the unlucky recipient of the donkey's angst.

Some years later we were at a campground where there was a donkey wondering about. This donkey was gray, while my nemesis was black, but as some young kids were allowing the donkey to approach them I had a feeling of dread and found myself saying, "Watch out," as I advanced and pointed at the donkey with my walking stick. No one paid any attention to me and I began to wonder if I'd actually said anything at all. I slunk off and after that I always wondered if that was my "post traumatic stress syndrome" experience.

That was my first and last "donkey experience", though a neighbor girl had a very nice grey donkey and I rode him on at least one occasion.

After this experience I was forced to content myself with my Five-gaited Breyer horse with the red and white ribbon in his mane

and my 2 other model horses, and with my favorite author, Walter Farley and his Black Stallion and Island Stallion adventures until.... Hercules!

My Horstery-Part 2

Misty, my first live horse. She lived at my grandparents where I would her visit on Sundays. She and I went where ever Misty wanted to go-- fortunately she never wanted to wander onto the road.

One day I came home from kindergarten to find all of our worldly goods packed onto the back of my grandparent's flatbed 2 ton truck. They were just waiting for me. I don't remember being surprised when they told me we were moving to the "Ranch". This was a small rural 3 acres or so owned by my grandparents and I was happy that Misty could live with us. I was supposed to ride her every day after school. I had a halter and lead rope to use for her, but I lost that privilege when I forgot to take it off one day after riding. So, she and I travelled around the neighbor's 10 acres, usually at a walk. All the neighborhood kids were drawn to her and we'd hang out on the hill beneath an oak tree, me sitting on her back--even though I was younger than the others, I enjoyed that ancient natural superiority of the horseman over mere mortals.

Occasionally Misty went much faster and the only fall that hurt was the time she was chasing some cows and lost me as she rounded a turn. The centrifugal force was just too strong and I landed in a thistle patch.

Our rides always ended with my unplanned dismount.

One sad day I came home and Misty wasn't in the pasture. I was told that the neighbors wanted more cows on their 10 acres, and our small acreage wouldn't support a horse as well as the milk cow and two calves.

And, thus began the long, barren, horseless period of my life--a dry desert with the longing for a horse becoming more painful every year. My fantasy was that some even-numbered birthday --I'd get a horse. It wasn't 8, it wasn't 10. But, the next 4-legged animal was not a horse--and nearly killed me.

My Horstory--Part I

Recently my niece asked me if I'd every owned a horse until it died. I gave her an abridged version of my horse-history, and have decided it might be enlightening to dredge up my horse-history (horstory?).

It's difficult for me to recall a time when horses were not a part of my awareness. My grandfather was a government cowboy when he married my grandmother, employed in predator control in Arizona (or was it New Mexico?) His after-Sunday dinner stories are part of my memory--especially the tale of how he won a horse race driving a pacer against a saddle horse.

I rode horses outside the drugstore--piebalds with real leather saddles and bridles and a place to insert quarters. Most often, I rode them without quarters. Prior to, and during the time I was in Kindergarten, my family rented a house behind our landlady's home. She had twin grandchildren, a boy and a girl. They were older than I and had a horse that lived there also.

On one occasion the twins' stick horses came up missing and our landlady, Mrs. Marshall, came to the door and asked me if I'd seen them. I didn't have a clue, and let her know. Later, the horses were found where the twins had left them, and Mrs. Marshall brought a red and a blue stick horse for my younger sister and me. Mom told me that Mrs. Marshall felt guilty because she'd thought that I'd taken them. I guess Mrs. Marshall had discerned my facination with horseflesh.

The twins did let me sit on their horse while he stood in the pasture, though. I was home from school with the mumps, and I recall my mother not being pleased at all.

My grandfather didn't have a horse during my lifetime--probably for a good deal of time before that, but he made sure I had a pony by the time I was 6. There was no saddle, and the bridle was for a regular-sized pony, not one that would fit it the back seat of the Buick. So, I carried the bridle over my shoulder every day, like a purse, to Kindergarten. The pony lived at my grandparents home, where it masqueraded as a big dog. More to come.