GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Page 10

  I guess I didn't notice that much that for some reason Missy seemed to get caught more and more frequently by my cousin Duane. Then as a cold spring moved toward summer, she didn't come outside as much during recess but chose to stay inside listing to records with other girls. She and my cousin became better friends and they didn't mind eating lunch together in the classroom/slash cafeteria, while I read yet another horse tale. The shocker came later toward the summer break. The new thing in school was to lock a boy and a girl in the closet in Mr. W.'s room and hold the door shut on them while they sat in the dark. As a late bloomer it took me another two years to realize why when they locked Duane and Missy in there she didn't immediately scream to be let out.

  Sindbad’s Dance

  Most people will tell you that Sinbad is a big, black, stallion that was given to me, but that is only partially true. Sinbad is in fact most likely a Morgan, TennesseeWalker crossed, mahogany bay, with a slightly lighter brown muzzle, and a touch of tan around his flank, a deep mistrust of all things human, and spectacularly bendable spine. It was summer and I had indeed been given this unwanted horse called at the time 'Buddy'. He was a stallion and the rescue who had taken him in felt that he was not safe, especially in the presence of so many young and eligible mares, which at best can make a male turn his head. We hauled him home, Tanner was at Ron and Sue’s, and began the rehabilitation process. The first thing was to have him 'cut' or gelded which was quite a fascinating process especially when you discover that a horse drugged up to the gills moves like a drunken sailor. After a brief recovery period, I gently began working with the horse who had now been re-christened Sinbad. (Black as sin and twice as bad).He didn't mind me too much and seemed alright around women but he did not like men, and even my good friend Rickey had no luck making friends.

  Little by little I worked with him teaching him some manners, and soon it became apparent to me that he was at least to some degree broken to ride. Ronda and I both had a chance and he did all right, but then I pushed too hard. My sister Cleo was home and I told her we would go riding. I'd brought Tanner back down the mountain and tossing a saddle on to his back and then one onto Sinbad we struck out. Moving along the familiar paths, all went well. Tanner always polite, kept Cleo cool and protected from the warm summer sun by staying near the tree line, while Sinbad, tossed his head and stepped out smoothly. All was well until we came to Michael’s field and I decided we could canter, I leaned forward slightly and touched my heels to Sinbad’s flank and he exploded. His first leap took us straight up, and the twist he lunged out with to the side rocked me to the right while most of him went left, he then tucked his head between his heels and went to the real bucking.

  I have never in my life sat a horse that could contort his whole frame in the way that deep mahogany horse could. First his heels were up then they were down, the front would go one way the other would fishtail up into the sky exposing his belly to sunlight. He stomped, he snorted, and he plunged four feet straight into the hard ground, jarring me to my teeth. I have no pride in the way I stay on a horse, and with legs clamped tight, I yanked hard on the old hackamore's reins slowly drawing his head to the left as he continued to dance, leap, plunge, zig, zag and generally thrash like a nine-pound bass on a ten-pound line. I gripped the saddle horn for all my life as I fought to pull the animals head out of the ground and gain control. Finally, with a bone rattling, splayed footed leap, he landed stiff legged on the green grass, paused, tossed his head, and as I pulled his nose up and around to his left shoulder, the entire saddle slid slowly down his belly, like frosting off a too hot cake. I sat, sprawled legged on the ground, white knuckles still grasping the leather traces as he ducked his head and huffed like a freight train. From the corner of my eye, I could see my big sister, wide eye, and still astride, my timid palomino. Tanner stood just under the tree line, with all four feet spread out like pillars that had become rooted to the ground as he tilted his head toward the sight that was Sinbad. Somehow, I managed to get the saddle back in place and, wobbly-legged, climbed back up to ride the whirlwind. This time he decided that as long as I didn't ask him to run, we would be fine. At this point Cleo began laughing. I was too stunned to really comprehend what she said.

  Scared Horseless

  Sinbad is the only horse I've ever met who could have his chin on his chest and still 'hop' like a doe, all four feet straight up like Pappe, La Pew. Sometimes when he 'danced' he could do the most amazing things. He was graceful and smooth but was really fighting me to have his own way the whole time. He would side pass down a narrow trail, do a complete standing canter, switch leads with every step, and just generally jig around endlessly. Somehow we usually managed a compromise. I've done a lot of things on horseback and have been thrown, stepped on, kicked, bitten, even rolled over on and dragged by a bridle, and he is the only one who ever really scared me to were I didn't mount back up. We were headed up 'blueberry hill' right behind the Eden church. Back then you crossed a tree line on the top of a short knoll and then broke out into the sloping field covered in grass, and vetch, and bordered by locust trees. Lee T. was with me mounted on Tanner, and Sinbad was in the lead. I'd just topped the little knoll by the tree line, and swung Sinbad toward Tanner to wait for him to catch up.

  Sinbad seemed to think that the faster he jogged and jostled you, the sooner the ride would end, so you constantly had to stop him and wait for the others. I swung his head around and he decided he didn't want to go on up the trail and reared straight up, one hind leg bent on the up hill slope and the other on the down hill, leaving his weight unevenly distributed. I felt him rise smoothly on his hind legs, raise his nose in defiance and then lose his ability to maintain the stance; his whole body started tipping backward with me perched atop the old black, wide horned western saddle. In a split second everything turned as my hand hit the cantle, my feet flew from the stirrups and as I propelled my body off of his back in the same instance, his legs buckled and he sagged belly down onto the ground. For those few tense moments, as I teetered on the brink of destruction I could see myself pinned under that massive weight of dark horse, my chest crushed by the saddle horn. As I hit the ground Sinbad was not the only one whose legs wouldn't hold him. I slumped tothe earth hauling in great gulps of spring air.

  Then did something I've seldom ever done. I lashed out at the horse. I raked the reins across his neck and yelled. Lee sat rooted to Tanner and was as white as the clouds drifting overhead. Calming down and with all of us standing on our own respective number of feet, I led Sinbad back toward the barn. A few hundred yards away, on the crest of the Knobs, I somehow managed to find the strength, courage, or stupidity to re-mount and ride calmly back to the cool stalls. I put Sinbad up and grabbing a rope halter swung a long leg over a too-short Jo-Jo and Lee and I went for that ride. I wasn't even close to that scared when I rolled the car. And maybe something of the incident sunk in because Sinbad never went vertical again.

  Dark Night, Dark Horse

  I didn't actually have Sinbad very long. Technically it was a summer and a year but since I was away at college for most of it, just the summer. Sinbad had been a rescue horse and whatever his circumstances, he came with his own set of issues. The summer I was home, Sinbad stayed in croft with me and Tanner stayed at Ron and Sue’s, my parents-in-friend via Missy who had taken Tanner to live with them while I was away at school. Sinbad settled in pretty well with only flashes of complete genius, or insanity, now and then. Things had been pretty quiet. I rode in stages getting him used to the whole routine. Another horse-woman loaned me her old cavalry saddle to use and things got on all right.

  Then there was a huge flash from my past. It must have been midnight or a little later when our good friend Jack S. called to inform us that for some strange reason Sinbad had let himself out of the fence and meandered his way to Michael's field where he was contentedly munching sweet summer grass. The night was glossy black, the sky only a lightly lighter shade of navy than the dark earth. Its sparkling
jeweledreaches,twinkled down on me as I quietly walked out to see a large dark mass grazing in a wide open field. Sinbad being a non-trusting soul never would have come when he was called. So standing there quietly talking to Jack with lead rope in hand we discussed how best to approach this issue. I knew that if we tried to corner him he would run, and I also knew we needed to make sure he didn't head for the road. Our first plan was to attempt a pincher move, where we would come at him from two directions forcing him toward the garage so we could flank him and get a rope on him. Needless to say that didn't work, Cerberus, I mean Sinbad, just pranced right past us time and again. Then we tried sneaking up on him. He would let us get very close then toss up his head, pick up his knees and dodge away. Finally, I resorted to the old Indian trick of moving in on Buffalo.

  I had no hide to cover myself in but I pulled my jacket up over my head and began worming my way silently through the dew damp grass. Bit by bit, I inched my way toward the dark figure, head bowed in reverent noshing over his early breakfast.Slowly, painstakingly, I got close enough to reach him. He sniffed a bit but by then I think I smelled just like the field. I reached my hand up just behind his jaw line and snake-quick grasped his halter. He jerked his head, lounged sideways and pulled me, death grip and all, into the air. Fortunately, by then I had the lead rope on him and giving him some slack I let him calm down and graze a little longer before starting the damp, chilly trek home. I can't remember what Jack had to say about this midnight adventure. But I do remember very quiet sniggering. The next time, and there were several next times, that trick didn't work. The next time happened when I was riding up to Hemphill's to do some work with Tanner and when I gave Sinbad his head on the hill trail to the coal tipple, he dove straight out of his saddle and left me behind. There is a definite reason cavalry saddles came equipped with chest straps. That time Sinbad made it all the way to Lee Condon road where I, carrying said saddle, found him nose deep in alfalfa. I put the saddle down and Sinbad and began our little waltz slow, slow, quick, or was maybe quick, quick, slow. Either way I couldn't catch him. Finally I gave up. Well, at least I pretended to. I lay down in the middle of the field and played dead. There is something about a living object that when very still intrigues a horse. Eventually, after many bugs crawled across my face, and the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky, a soft black muzzle wriggled around my blonde head. Sniffing and snorting he made his way along my body until one of the dragging traces touched my hand. I snatched it up and he was mine! Tossing the saddle back onto his back, I made it to Hemphill’s. I really appreciated the use of that cavalry saddle and was privileged to actually get to use one, but it went back the very next day. I've never in my life see any other horse that could physically kick a saddle off his back, over his haunches and onto the ground. I guess I'm just lucky nothing was damaged.

  Painted Glass

  My senior year in high school I had three art classes and one crafts class. I had pretty much completed my credit requirements and was enjoying the extra electives. Art was always one of my favorite subjects and I wheedled away many an hour drawing horse after horse. At Christmas time being an art student at Clearfield High had an extra bonus though. For two years in a row several select art students were chosen to go to businesses in town - namely the Clearfield Mall and Truck Stops - to paint the windows with holiday scenes. One of the best parts of this very special treat, aside from getting out of classes for two days, was that Missy always got to come along. I don’t remember what everyone did but it was always amazing to see a plain glass plate window become someone’s canvas. Every student would have to provide a basic sketch of what they planned on displaying, and, once approved, we were bussed down town to get started. I suppose one of the reasons I do not remember exactly what everyone did was that each of us, including me, was totally focused on our own work.

  My art in these cases was somewhat predictable given my chosen specialty. It usually involved a Currier and Ives type scene with a conspicuous horse-drawn sleigh, but it was always fun. I remember that on the trip to the mall, Missy did a Snoopy on Skates, and someone else did a rock and roll Christmas scene. The Truck Stop was a different place altogether and I must confess that at times it was tough to stay focused on your painting with the rather colorful patrons passing by and commenting positively if somewhat gruffly on our endeavors. The other big distraction was the food. We were provided lunch and usually topped it off with a cinnamon roll. I don’t know about now but back then they had the best cinnamon rolls: hot, chewy, gooey, and smothered in dripping frosting and butter! I wonder if they still make the annual trip to paint glass back home or has this tradition been relegated to the non-educational realm, pushed aside by standardized testing and the ever-present wringing of hands when a student is not under the nose of a trained professional. For me they were a tradition that each of us felt proud to participate in.

  I’m always surprised when students are surprised to find out that at one time you had to learn to dance as part of your Physical Education. No one really liked it or at no one ever admitted that they did, but we all performed anyway. First we would all learn the steps one at a time for the Fox Trot, the Waltz, and the Cha-Cha-Cha. But eventually we would graduate to square dancing. Square dancing became an instant favorite with everyone, not because it was such a great dance, but because we got to dance with the boys! I don’t know how the teachers felt about this coed endeavor but I am sure of one thing: they must have been glad the gymnasium walls were padded. Square dancing was nothing new to me, nor was it new to my cousins who were also in the class, so we were often called upon to lead the square.

  More often than not, with a full contingent of students on the floor, we would have four squares. Each square had four partners and when the scratchy PA system kicked in, the dance would begin. We would bow to our partners, then bow to the square, we would promenade , and à la main left or right, but real fun began as the twangy voice called out “swing your partner”. After only perhaps the second dance, this line was rewritten by the whole class in utter hilarity to “swing your partner, round and round, trip them up and knock them to the ground” for when Duane swung his inexperienced partner, she lost hold of his elbow, spun around twice and slammed then bounced off the blue padding behind the basket ball hoop. Duane turned bright red, but he nonetheless bent down and lifted her off the floor where she had landed in a dazed heap.

  For us the square dance was usually a grange affair. The farmer’s grange is an ancient community center among farmers where they would have a chance to pull together and find resources to improve their life, but as we knew it, it was a place to eat, laugh, play music, and square dance. My uncles and many others would turn up as the women laid out the food and soon enough squares were formed.

  My uncle John was in a country western band. He played guitar and sang and his little crew could often be found playing at weddings and small parties around the county. Occasionally my brother would pile a load of teens in his car and we would go to listen to the music. Eventually we even put together a square dance. This time it was David who swung too hard. Cowboy boots are notoriously slick and their leather soles have almost no grip on a polished concrete floor. On the second swing, my feet went up and the rest of me went down, for a moment I sat stunned among the sudden gasps, then the whole floor burst into huge guffaws of laughter. Slightly red around the ears, I couldn’t help but laugh too.

  Counting Back

  Children are always learning and it is an observant adult who takes advantage of those teachable moments. I was 13 and had just stopped down at the little white store at the bottom of the hill on which Mahaffey church camp resided to pick up a couple of snacks. The lunch rush was over and only one of the heavy wooden shutters that encased the sprawling wooden structure was still propped open. I walked up to the counter, where an older pastor stood in shirtsleeves and white apron. I knew his face, with his dark salt and pepper hair and full beard. He wore those heavy dark plastic glasses that eve
ryone seemed to have in the eighties and a bright smile. “What can I get you he asked?” as I stepped up to the heavy wooden counter. I place my order for just a few sweets and waited. Carefully he laid the items out across the bar and announced “That will be $1.78 cents please.” Dutifully I handed over my 5 dollar, which he then counted back to me with a tally of the change. He had just pressed the money into my hand; placing the first three bills down firmly on my hand, with a clear call of “ 3”, then “and .22 makes 5.” I smiled and prepared to pocket the money but before I could, his wise brown eyes twinkled and he said, “You have no idea what I just did do you?” I looked into his kindly face and with only a little embarrassment shook my head. Math and I have never gotten along. I have always struggled with even the basics of Mathematics and end up with a severe headache when trying to do any sort of complex arithmetic.

  I only have three good memories of Math class from my full 12 years of school The first was counting the brightly colored oranges in the nifty little workbooks in Ms. Daniels’ class, the second was when Mr. Matlock informed me at the end of 9th grade Algebra that “I’m passing you just because you try so hard, but please promise me you won’t take Algebra II.” And the final was my senior year in skinny, Mr. M. practical Math class, where the curly-headed teacher was prone to reminding us: “Don’t make me angry, you won’t like me when I’m angry.” But I stood there at Mahaffey camp and waited to see what the man behind the counter had to say. Patiently, and without being patronizing he explained how he rounded everything up to the nearest ten. This I had learned in 2nd grade while counting oranges so I understood at least this first part. “First,” he said,“just round up to the nearest ten. You gave me a Five and so I rounded your total charge up to $2.00. How much is 2 out of 5?” He then asked. Subtraction wasn’t too taxing and I quickly replied “ 3”. He smiled and nodded then went on. “Right so I gave you back $3.00, but now I have to make change. To do that you need to round up the .78 cents to the nearest ten, which is .80 cents. Now how much is 8 out of 10?“