When I was nine years old I was riding Rusty, a chestnut gelding, a compact, strong quarter horse. My double cousin, Suzy was riding Trixie, a sorrel mare with a blaze down her nose and a nasty temper. We were racing down a road on the farm, headed for the deep forest of the Trinity River Bottom. Our horses got the bit between their teeth. Suzy yelled, "I can't stop her!" I couldn't stop Rusty either. As we approached the barbed wire fence, Suzy finally managed to get Trixie to slow down but Rusty bowed his strong neck and headed straight into the barbed wire fence. I flew over his head and landed in the fence in a terrible tangle. Decades later, I still carry the scars on my backside of the vicious barbs that cut into my small body.
When my wounds finally healed my dad took me out to the farm and saddled up Rusty and his horse, Red. He gave me a leg up onto the saddle, never saying a word about my trembling or my silent tears. I was terrified to be back on a horse, especially this horse but I didn't say anything and he didn't say anything. Daddy demonstrated on Red how to stop a horse who has the bit between his teeth and then asked me to show him the two techniques.
We rode through the Sudan pasture and then through the Pecan forty pastures, on our way to the Trinity River woods. When we approached the steep chasm of Barkstle Creek, I watched Daddy and Red as the big horse slid down the steep embankment, jumped over the creek and clambered up the other side.
I sat, frozen on Rusty, literally shaking in my boots.
"I can't do it, Daddy. I can't!"
And this is what he said to me:
"That's fine. You don't have to but if you don't, you'll never be able to get on a horse again." He sat, perfectly at ease, one leg slung over the saddle horn as he and Red waited for me to gather my courage. Rusty began to paw the ground and toss his head. I took a deep breath, kicked Rusty's side, made a clicking sound and sat well back in the saddle, squeezing my knees to stay upright while Rusty slid, and jumped and climbed up to the top of the creek.
Daddy and Red took off in a hard gallop. I kicked Rusty's side and then we were flying down the road, heading once again for that same barbed wire fence. As the fence loomed closer and closer, I did what Dad taught me, I took one rein and pulled it to the side as hard as I could, bringing Rusty's head around and forcing him to slow to a trot and then a walk.
Daddy opened the dreaded gate and then we were riding through a field of beautiful, tall white grass, the soft heads brushing our horses' necks.
I sat very straight in the saddle, small hands sure on the reins.
I asked him, "What do you call this kind of grass?"
Dad paused, "Weeping Love Grass." I said the name over and over. "That's beautiful! Wonder where that name comes from?" He looked over his shoulder and grinned,
"It could be that I just now made it up." Then he winked and kicked Red and we were off again, galloping through the woods, our horses jumping over fallen logs while we ducked under low hanging branches.
XXX
Happy Heavenly birthday to the man who taught me a great life lesson: When you're frightened, unsure, and shaking in your boots, GET BACK ON THE HORSE!