I feel as if I have scored the post position for the
Belmont horse race.
Let me explain, please. A week or so ago I volunteered
to write a monthly blog for Prairie Rose Publishing and chose the second
Monday. Little did I know that two days before my blog was due American Pharoah
would win the Triple Crown of horseracing and thus thrill millions of horse
lovers.
The race and its incredible winner (yes I'm gushing)
has given me the perfect opportunity to wander down memory lane about my love
of horses. I have an early memory of sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table
with a collection of small plastic horses in a variety of poses. As I moved
them about the table I imagined my tiny steeds racing with the wind. Some
belonged to Native Americans, some to pioneers. Some were valuable because of
their speed while others pulled covered wagons or helped plow fields.
Another memory: my sister and I are straddling the
wooden railing on Grandma's front porch pretending we're on horseback. Those
particularly horses weren't
comfortable to sit on which made fantasizing about racing them difficult. Maybe
that's why we came to the absolutely logical conclusion that we WOULD own and
run a large thoroughbred farm once we were grown up. We glossed over the
financial considerations and our laughable knowledge of how to train a race
horse because we were convinced that our love for the animals was all we'd
need.
A very few years down the road we actually owned a
mare—or I should say she owned us. As I recall, our mother used a $25 savings
bond to buy a three year old mare 'guaranteed' to be gentle and broken to ride.
Not. Of course we in our ignorance didn't know we were being scammed. My mother
was overwhelmed, my sister afraid of the big beast, and me enthralled. I was
also nervous, not that I let them know.
Love didn't win the day with Trixie—so named because
she loved to pull a fast one on us. She hated to be caught, either that or she
knew she held the upper hand in the game, but once I'd finally gotten my hands
on her halter, she pretty much did what I wanted her to. Unfortunately I didn't
know what I was supposed to do. Because I fancied myself an Indian of course I
wanted to ride bareback and often barefoot. One of her favorite tricks was to
clamp the bit between her teeth, take off at a canter, and head right for the
low-hanging branch on an oak tree in her pasture that she used to scratch her
back. Off I went. Repeatedly.
About the barefoot—I was leading her along the country
road where we lived when a car pulled around us. Either Trixie was startled or
I pulled on the rope to get her closer to the side. Whichever it was, she
stepped down on both of my feet. Crying, I shoved and shoved until I got her to
move. Then because I knew I had several broken toes, I clumped along on my
heels guiding her to a wooden fence and used that to climb on her back. About
the only good thing that came out of that accident was that I had a perfect
excuse for going to school scans shoes for several weeks.
Of course my sister and I wanted Trixie to have a foal
so we kept after Mother until she agreed to have her bred. We weren't allowed
to watch the deed being done but it took, and eleven months later Beauty was
born—the most loved-by-girls-filly the world has ever known.
Two days later Beauty was dead. I found her in the
pasture on Valentine's Day. Trixie grieved as much as we did and went into what
I'll inelegantly call major heat. The leader of the local 4-H group brought a
stallion to Trixie and Trixie just about ravaged the stallion. My sister and I
got a lesson in the birds and bees that day all right.
Eleven months later Misty came into our lives. We
nearly lost her to what we called joint evil but the three of us took turns
being in the stall with Trixie and Misty, getting the little filly on her feet
and supporting her every few hours so she could nurse. Misty never got as big
as her mother and wasn't solidly built but she considered my mother, sister,
and me part of her family and loved us as much as we loved her.
Maybe that's why I watched American Pharoah cross the
finish line with tears in my eyes.
You had me crying. This sounds dumb, but I sometimes forget what a wonderful word artist you are. :)
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely story about Trixie, Beauty, and Misty. Even though some tragedy was involved, I still think you were mighty lucky to have these horses. Being a city raised girl, my sister and I never got the horse we asked for. You were quite the lucky girl to have those memories.
ReplyDeleteWhen I heard the news about American Pharaoh winning the triple crown, I was filled with joy. It's been such a long time since we've had a Triple Crown winner.
This was a wonderful blog to start off your Prairie Rose Blogs. I look forward to your contribution next month.
Thanks, Vella. One thing many people don't know is the ability of these animals to express love. Belle Amie was a beautiful Morgan cross and my first horse. There were times I didn't have time to ride, but it was still so calming to come home and just brush and talk to my girl. All the stresses of running a business would melt away. We would "talk" and I swear, she loved the hugs on her neck. On the trail, that horse always took care of me.
ReplyDeleteOne day it was necessary to sell her. I found a wonderful home to a teenage girl taking riding lessons. I gave Belle a last long tearful hug and she trustingly loaded up to go. When the horse trailer pulled out with Belle in it, she stuck her head out, looking at me she whinnied the whole way out of our long driveway. To this day, if I allow myself to remember those last moments, my heart hurts.