Word of the day:  Arabian (ar-a’-be-en) “Any of a breed of horses raised originally in Arabia and noted for their intelligence, grace, and speed”

Last week I chatted about our move to Texas. I had quickly settled in to the routines of life in University Park. On Saturdays I had my weekly chores to do which included cleaning the bathrooms, picking up my room, and–gasp, choke, horrible– picking up the dog poop in the back yard. I also polished my beloved red cowboy boots every Saturday. Didn’t tell you about those, did I?

Among my new friends was the kid who lived on the corner. He had hundreds and hundreds of little metal toy soldiers and cowboy figures; at least it seemed like that many at the time. We played with them for hours on a big sheet of plywood resting on some sort of short legs. In his yard was a huge old horse-chestnut tree. It served us for climbing, hiding, and was a ready source of ammunition for us to lob at anyone who happened to incur our ire.

Next door was another friend. We watched television together. I don’t think we had a television at that point, so it was a treat to watch at his house. We also played cards quite often, canasta I think it was. His Mother used to lie in their backyard taking sunbaths in her bathing suit! I thought this was the craziest thing I had ever heard of. My Mother would never do anything so ridiculous!

My parents even let me sign up for horseback riding lessons. I took weekly lessons at White Rock  Stables. I suspect those stables are long gone by now. I learned to ride “English” style with a very proper instructor with a German accent. I was petrified of him and his little riding crop which might be used on a misbehaving horse or a rambunctious eight-year old, either one. I used to think he had somehow escaped from Germany to come work in the US. As I look back over the years, I suspect he was probably not quite the villain I painted him out to be in my mind. He was probably some poor soul trying to make a living and cope with annoying little kids. My love of horses kept me going despite the scary instructor, and I soon became a proficient rider.

My new-found happiness was soon to come to an end however. The summer after third grade my parents informed me that we were going to be moving to another house on the west side of Dallas. I didn’t want to move. I had new friends, the swimming pool, my bicycle, and my red boots and cap-guns. Then my Dad said the magic words. The new house was on two acres. It had a stable and a playhouse, and for the final pièce de resistánce, I could get a horse. Obviously, that quickly sealed the deal for me! How soon could we move?

Shortly thereafter we moved from University Park to the west side of Dallas, close to Love Field airport and Bachman Lake.   We lived in a semi-rural area on a short little street calked Willow Brook Road. The old white farm-house had a white fence in the front with climbing red roses all over the fence. I didn’t know or pay attention to it at the time, but my parents rented the house. They didn’t actually manage to purchase a home until my freshman year in college.

Daddy was true to his word, and soon Spot came to live with us.  Spot!  Who would ever name a horse Spot, but Spot it was.  A shaggy old white horse with a few black markings (hence the name), poor Spot was better suited to  pulling a plow than to being ridden by an eight-year old with visions of the Godolphin Arabian (Ever read King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry?), the Byerly Turk, and the Darley Arabian dancing in her head.  Spot tolerated me at best, but for some unknown reason, she took an intense dislike to my Dad.  Every time he came near her, she turned her hind end toward him and let fly with a vicious kick, several of which hit her intended target.

Spot soon left us, and was replaced by Bess.  At my age then it never occurred to me to ask where Spot went or where Bess came from.  I was simply too delighted to at long last have a horse.  Now, of course, Bess was a somewhat simple name for a horse, so I had to endow her with a bit more glamorous title.  Bess became Queen Bess.  Now, if you are wondering where in the world that came from, I was busily reading several books about Queen Elizabeth I who was often referred to as Queen Bess.  Truly a noble name for a horse!  Bess was a small, black mare with white stockings and would be my loyal companion on through my college years.  She soon learned what time I got home from school and would be waiting me at the gate, ready for an afternoon’s ride.

Since my little sister was getting bigger, my parents thought she would also be wanting a horse before long so we next acquired Princess, a young Palomino quarter horse filly.  She was only six months old when we got her.  I don’t think it ever occurred to my parents that training a horse to saddle and bridle wasn’t quite like teaching tricks to the family dog, especially for a family with little prior horsey experience.  Princess, who somehow became Princess Pat, was sent away to boarding school to learn how to become a good riding horse.  Alas, she never completely liked being ridden.  Her specialty was knocking the knees of an unsuspecting rider into the nearest fencepost.  She would then turn around and look at the poor knee-struck person to see what kind of reaction she had generated.  I think she took some sort of diabolical pleasure in seeing her hapless riders give a shriek of pain.

Princess also developed the not so nice habit of biting you on the arm or shoulder.  Now, I don’t know if you have ever been bitten by a horse or not, but it hurts.  A lot!  One day she got me a really good one on the upper arm.  In a moment of pre-adolescent anger, I turned around and bit her right back on the shoulder.  I don’t know who was more startled, Princess or me!  It is interesting to note that, although her little nipping habit continued, she never again bit me.  We had come to our own understanding of acceptable behavior.

©2015, Black Dirt and Sunflowers

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