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Regional,
Monthly All-Breed Horse Magazine • Since 1993 |
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Copyright 2011 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
When
I was a little girl, I wanted a horse. When I was nine years old (in 1953), my
wish for a horse came true. This is the story about my first horse
— the beginning of a long
love affair with horses. I
can’t remember when I first fell in love with horses. My parents told me that
before I could walk or talk, I liked to look at pictures of horses in
storybooks. My favorite stuffed animal was a funny-looking, long-necked horse
with a string mane. I called him “Shore-shay,” which was the closest I could
come to saying “horsie.” My
parents lived in Salmon, Sometimes
we pretended to be wild horses, snorting and galloping around the back yard, or
else we rode broom-handle stick horses, playing cowboy. I had a sleek, black
handle from an old janitor’s mop; in my vivid imagination this was a fiery
black steed with a long black mane and tail.
I
wanted a real horse, but we didn’t have a place to keep one. My dream seemed
impossible, but I started saving all my pennies, nickels and dimes (allowance
money) and birthday dollars from grandparents, in hopes that someday I could buy
a horse. My
parents were probably exasperated sometimes, wishing that I could be more
interested in sensible, practical things like learning to cook or sew, or music
lessons. They wanted me to learn to play the piano (like my mother), but I
preferred to spend as much time as possible outdoors instead of taking lessons
after school. My
father even bribed me a little — promising to get me a horse (and I wanted a
black one or a palomino!) if I could learn to play the piano as well as Mom did.
So for a while I resigned myself to the lessons, but my heart wasn’t in it. I
daydreamed about riding horses.
Finally my father must have realized that the piano would never be a
serious interest, and maybe he and mom got tired of my constant badgering for a
horse. Maybe they sensed that my desire might not be just a passing fancy. For
whatever reason, they eventually decided that I could have a horse. The
spring I turned nine, my dad started looking for a horse. A retired rancher,
Fred Kohl, lived on a few acres at the edge of town, where the mountain behind
our town got steeper, and he agreed to pasture a horse for us. After looking at
several horses, my father found one he felt was suitable for a child. One warm
afternoon, a few weeks before school ended for the summer, my parents took my
little brother and me to see the horse. The
horse’s name was Possum — perhaps because he was lazy and often pretended to
be asleep. He was owned by a teenage girl who was buying a younger, faster
horse. Possum was a medium-sized, bay gelding with a white face, and a blue eye
on the side of his face where the white marking surrounded the eye. He was calm
and gentle and very accustomed to being handled by children.
He’d
been retired from a riding stable in a larger town some years earlier because he
was getting old, had been purchased by a family with young children, resold when
those children grew older, and resold again. It would be hard to guess how many
children had learned to ride on him. It
was also hard to tell how old he was. The present owners didn’t know, and it
was difficult to tell by looking at his teeth. He was long past the point where
a horse’s age could be accurately determined by the teeth. He was somewhere
between 15 and 25 years of age, probably in his early 20’s. But in spite of
his advanced age, he was healthy and sound, and seemed to be a very safe mount
for a small, nine-year-old girl. Linda
Jo, the teenager who was selling him, put on his bridle, and my dad boosted me
up onto Possum’s broad back. I rode him slowly around the pasture bareback,
after a few instructions from Linda Jo about how to pull on the reins to stop
him, and how to make him turn right or left. It was so wonderful to be sitting
on a real, live, furry horse! He
was lazy and wise, very accustomed to children who didn’t know how to ride,
and at first he just stood there — until Linda Jo told me I had to kick with
my heels or slap him on the rump with the reins. I finally got him into a
plodding walk, but I didn’t care if he was slow and lazy. I was just so happy
to have a horse. It was love at first sight. My
dad paid for the horse ($50), and I chipped in my life savings ($5.55) as part
of the payment. This was the happiest day of my life. My dad went to the saddle
shop in town and bought a bridle. He adjusted the headstall to fit old Possum,
boosted me onto him again, and I rode him out of the pasture and along the road
— with my parents and brother following slowly in our car to make sure I
didn’t have any trouble. I rode Possum the two miles around the outskirts of
town and up to Mr. Kohl’s pasture, which would be Possum’s new home. Possum
and I had an immediate understanding. I didn’t care if he went slowly, or if
he stopped now and then to eat grass. I was just so happy to be up there on his
back. The old horse was wise and experienced and didn’t pay any attention to
all the cars and trucks going by. In his long life he had encountered many
things and had been ridden by so many children that nothing bothered him. He
was a perfect horse for a beginner like me. [to
be continued] Heather
Smith Thomas is the author of numerous articles and 20 books. She and her
husband ranch near Salmon, Heather’s
blog online is: heathersmiththomas.blogspot.com.
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Rocky
Mountain Rider Magazine • Montana Owned & Operated |
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