Mother's Boy Saves My Father

Okay, promised you the story. But first, a digression to explain my father's riding experience, as far as I knew it at the time. Fade back in time.....to black and white.....

Ol' Girl was our family's milk cow. Grandpa gave my mother her choice between two Guernsey cows. She chose Ol' Girl, she said, because of her "spirit." Hmmmm.

Now, my mom milked Ol' Girl for at least 15 years. Allowing for a couple months off each year for drying up and calving, that's 9,000 times that my mother milked Ol' Girl. Each and every time that cow was milked, she had to be fastened in the stanchion and a "Stop Kick" horse-shoe shaped gizmo ratcheted over her back to impede her efforts to kick. Got a vision of a milkmaid seated on a 3-legged stool, head nestled in the cow's flank, squirting milk two-handed into the milk pail? Nope, instead, envision a woman crouched by the cow's side, one hand holding the milk bucket, milking with the other, and jumping out of the way whenever the "Stop Kick" didn't live up to its name.

Now, Ol' Girl did tolerate my mother to some extent. But, she absolutely abhorred my father. When it was time to doctor the cow, guess who got the job? Shots, foot rot, any kind of distasteful jobs went to him.

One day his brother and he were hanging out at the place, and someone got the bright idea of riding Ol' Girl. Don't know if they were practicing to become bull riders, and thought they'd begin with a mere cow, or what, frankly. I guess it might be one of those things that, "seemed like a good idea at the time."

I'm afraid I don't have a clear recollection of the event, except for seeing Ol' Girl, her tail wringing, bounding down the pasture fence with my dad on her back. Now, every year my dad took us to The Rodeo, so I had a good idea of what it looked like when a man rode a beast. He didn't look bad, but didn't have the advantage of the thing that the bull riders hang onto and so didn't last too long. I believe he limped for a time afterwards, and I also recall it was one of the few times that he drew no sympathy from my mother. (The other time was when he kicked at the rooster and hit the fencepost instead, breaking his big toe.)

Also don't recall if his brother had a turn at Ol' Girl.

Now, this is the long way around of telling you that my father was not a rider, of horses or of cows. So imagine my sister's (horse co-owner) and my dismay at learning that my father planned to ride Boy on a hunting trip with his compadres? We were sooooo afraid for him. But, what could we say?

"Sorry old man, but you can't take that horse that you helped us buy, that you keep and feed and water and shoe and vaccinate, no, you can't take him because we, your young, immature young daughters believe that we know what is best for you." Right.

We crossed our fingers, and held our breath, as Boy loaded without a problem and they all motored off to parts unknown.

Okay, I'm back. Had to take a break there.

Dad came home way early. My memory is very foggy, and I heard nothing from my father, but the story was that they had been riding on a narrow trail on a steep hillside when my dad lost his seat and fell off Boy. He got his foot hung up in the stirrup, though, and was hanging there from the horse. Both my sister and I were so very proud of our good horse, who just stood stock still on the side of that mountain until someone could disentangle our father.

And so, because he took me to see the good ranch-broke , though green, horse, and sponsored my purchase, that day my father didn't die in a terrible accident on the side of the mountain.

Good Boy!

Mother's Boy

Anna and Albert before the Jackass Mail Ride.

One summer I worked at a packing house grading oranges and saved $250. My father took me up to a horse ranch in the mountains and we looked at a ranch-trained 5-year old Appaloosa gelding. Though I didn't care for his name, we seemed compatable and my dad and I bought him. He was $500 and so my dad split his contribution evenly between my younger sister and me. I owned 3/4 and my sis owned 1/4 of Boy. That is how it was that we never rode together until we were grown and I had more than 3/4 of a horse.

Boy had never been off the ranch and he had some rather odd quirks. For example, he balked at walking onto dirt that was a different color because it was damp. He didn't like to cross the irrigation rivlets in the orange orchards where we rode. But, all in all, he was super! He was young and handsome and had no vices.

Boy and I had lots of adventures during the time we lived together. I rode with a few girlfriends who lived nearby and had horses. There was Debbee and Chiquita, a quarter horse. I once mounted Chiquita and she turned around so quickly I was left hanging in the air until gravity took over and I fell to the ground. I've forgotten the name of Debbee's 2nd horse. She was a skewbald mare with a penchant for the persimmons that grew in her pasture. During the fall her white lips were smeared with orange "lipstick."

Susie's dad got her a little gray half-Arabian mare and had a Native American saddlemaker create a leather bare back saddle for her with her name on it. Christy carried her neck and head so high that she hit Susie in the chin one day. Susie grabbed her ear and bit it. But, after that she rode Christy with a tie-down. For many, many years after Susie graduated from college and left home, I would pass Christy's pasture and see her quietly grazing.

Jan had a big, big Chestnut gelding named, appropriately, Red. He suited her well.

During the year our highschool celebrated "Bermuda Day," or "Scatter Day," as it came to be known. Once we decided to ride our horses to school. It was a really long way and we set out before dawn. We rode along the canal road to the school agriculture farm. We put the horses up there while we were at school. For the life of me, I can't remember how we got home. It was about 15 miles, so you'd think I'd remember?

I also rode with Anna, who was mounted on one of her older brother's horses. She was a pretty mare, though she jigged more than she walked. We sometimes rode with her brother, Albert. One year he agreed to drive the horse trailer so that we could ride in the annual Jackass Mail Ride--24 or so miles along the road from Porterville to Springville, with a lunch stop at the lake.

Anna and I were the first to get to Springville, and we took a "long cut" through a picturesque section of Springville.

Boy was "ranch trained," as I said earlier. That's the only reason, I'm sure, that I wasn't left fatherless in highschool. That story is for next time.

Hercules

First, I didn't like his name. If I had not been so pathetically grateful that my dad had handed me a horse, I would have changed it. He was big, very big. I suppose he was a bay, but I don't have a single photo of him. One day he just showed up in the pasture with the cow. I don't know how old I was, 12 I guess. I bought a western bridle and a curb bit from the feed store, and eventually I got a bare back pad. Never owned a saddle, but my friend's dad loaned me a saddle during the winter when they didn't need them all.

I don't recall any boundaries, seems like as soon as I had him, we could gallavant around as we pleased. I day-dreamed about earning money with him, but it only happend once. I took care of a neighbor's place while they were away for two weeks, and I went to their place twice a day riding "Herc."

A few memorable occasions stand out for me. One was the time I rode him into town (via back ranch roads through orange orchards). We were almost into town and he balked on me. Everytime I tried to get him to move forward, he would back up. So, superior being that I was, I backed him the whole distance to where I wanted to go.

Herc was a good horse, he wasn't mean at all. But, once he decided he really wanted to head back to the pasture. He ran through the front gate and made an abrupt right turn to avoid hitting our stucco house. Unfortunately, I didn't make the turn with him--hit the house and slid down the stucco wall to the ground. Back in those days helmets were for motorcycles and I'm just fortunate.

I graduated from 8th grade and joined FFA in high school. I begged to raise a lamb for the fair, and my parents agreed--on the condition that I teach my three-years younger horse loving little sister to ride Herc.

I must digress here to a time immediately prior to Herc--for my birthday (which is in that "great" riding month of January) I recieved a month of riding lessons at Riata Ranch (four). I learned the parts of the horse, the saddle and bridle, and how to tack up. I learned how to walk and trot, and how to mount bareback when you have a lot of other people doing the same thing. Unfortunately (there's that word again), one of the days it rained and we did inside stuff. My month of lessons ended just before we got to lope. So, I could teach my unsuspecting younger sibling all this stuff.

Before I would let her actually ride Herc, I demanded that she be able to mount by herself. Now, he was a tall horse, and she was a little kid, and the stirrups were a loooong ways up. But, by using the strings (it was a western saddle) she was finally able to shinny her way into the saddle. So, done, I got my lamb.

Another digression: What I REALLY wanted was a calf. Bovines were closer to equines. They were big, and could, in a pinch, be ridden. But a calf project was more expensive in every way. So I settled for a lamb. With the assistance of our wonderful student-agriculture teacher, two of my friends and I all bought lambs for the county fair. We trained them and fed them and pampered them with shampoos and haircuts and curls before the fair.

While my folks were away, we even let them wander around the house!

I don't know why Herc left. No one ever said anything to me, and, for some reason I was afraid to ask. I felt that, somehow, it was my fault. Maybe I didn't ride him enough. Some insight to the fact that, often, kids think that bad things that happen are their fault.

A few months ago I was talking about Herc when my aunt, married to my dad's only remaining sibling, was around. She told me that the three brothers had hired some stock for a hunting trip and that my dad bought Herc for me because I wanted a horse so much. So there you go--after all these years. I still don't know why he left, though.

After that I got a summer job, determined to buy my own horse--a 5-year old Appaloosa gelding born on Mother's Day.

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.