2004 Entries
2003 Entries
2002 Entries

2003-09-03 - 1:27 p.m.

Move Over, Calamity Jane; Make Room For Calamity Willie

Galloping around on a stick horse chasing imaginary Indians was one of my favorite childhood pastimes.

Before we moved to “the ranch” where I could stable a real horse, Dad nailed a wooden cutout horse’s head to a 2X2 and attached one of mother’s braided mop heads as a mane; I charged my mighty steed round and round the yard, hot on the trail of Chief Sitting Bull. My stick horse, red leather holster and six-shooter provided hours of make-believe fun. Looking back, I’m sure my mother was mortified that her “Willie” was romping around the neighborhood yelling “Giddy up” to a stick while the other little girls played with their baby dolls, held tea parties or practiced piano.

The first winter after we moved from the neighborhood to our 10-acre spread in the country my folks gave me a real horse for Christmas. I retired my long-time stick horse companion and waited out the long winter months in anticipation of the cowgirl and Indian adventures I had planned for the happy-go-lucky days of summer. But hunting Indians on the back of my mighty mount proved to be anything but happy go lucky. For one thing, Dad said I was too young to be galloping around on the horse when he wasn’t home, so I had to limit my raid on Indian villages to evening hours and weekends. And then there was the bigger problem of catching the horse.

Pat was a sorrel with a white blaze running the length of her face. She was a mutt in the equine world, but probably more quarter horse than anything else. Dad was no horseman and it was easy to sell him a pig in a poke, or more accurately: a headstrong, cantankerous nag. And that’s exactly what my cowgirl pony was. Whenever I wanted to saddle and ride her, the chase was on. Hours were spent running her down, or trying to trick her into the barn (with mother’s homemade German chocolate cake) where she could be captured and saddled for riding. Accomplishing that, I had to always be on the ready for her hurtling u-turn that would take me back into the barn. I became very adept at flattening myself down onto her neck, the saddle horn jabbing and threatening to crack my ribs, to keep from being decapitated.

Despite her mulishness and the time spent running through the pasture corralling her, I had many escapades in imaginary Indian lands atop her slightly swayed back. However, the obstinate nag caused Dad a great deal of grief. We lived across the highway from the Country Club, and those lush greens and fairways must’ve held an allure for Pat. Anytime she would break through the fence--over and over again--we’d get the frantic call telling us she was running in a full gallop at the Club, wrecking the manicured greens and scaring hell out of the gentlemen golfers. Dad, who was shy and unassuming and had little to do with the Country Club set, would go sheepishly across the road, capture the runaway nag, repair fence and pay to have the Club grounds repaired.

Anyone else would probably have put a bullet in the horse’s head, but Dad was a gentle soul and could never harm animals; the old mare lived with us for another 11 years. I was at college the spring she was struck by lightning. Once again, the horse had caused a dilemma for Dad. But he solved the burial problem by calling a friend with a bulldozer; a grave was dug and Pat was finally put to rest.

There have been times in the past, fall days when I see horse and rider enjoying rides along trials, when I think it might be fun to again own a horse. Fortunately, the rational part of me (no matter how small) gains control and I remember the havoc Pat wrecked and the hardship Dad endured so I could have a cowgirl pony and amuse myself in my childhood fantasies

Previous -- Next