This is Chapter 31 - The Horses - from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”
“No one can teach riding so well as a horse.”
—C.S. Lewis
Of all my childhood memories, my horses seem to evoke some of the strongest and most special feelings about growing up in the country. I find almost every major event in my life during my early years can be traced to and recalled by thinking about a particular horse I had at the time.
When I was around four years old, my daddy bought us a little Shetland pony. He was white with red spots or red with white spots, depending on your point of view. Since he was to be our very own pony we had the privilege of naming him. What do you think we called him? If you guessed “Spot” you are correct! Spot was his name. Because we were so young, Spot was the perfect size for us and was very tame. After Daddy taught us to ride, he would allow us to ride all by ourselves in the cow lot. The cow lot was the fenced-in part around the barn and seemed like the wide-open prairie as far as my little brother, Paul, and I were concerned. Many happy hours were spent on Spot’s gentle back.
One day, a stranger came to our house bearing bad news. He said he had been driving down the highway in front of our house when a little red and white pony had run out in front of him. I remember my heart sinking with the first tinge of grief I had ever felt. And, I could tell that my daddy and mama were very upset. They felt the same way we did. They were upset that our Spot may have been hit and, I’m sure, were even more upset that we would be sad if he were killed. We got into the old red jeep my daddy drove (it had plastic windows for the winter) and drove down the highway toward the south end of the Tree Patch. Sure enough, there was our little pony, Spot. As we came close to him, I could tell he was still alive. As far as I could tell, there was only one little scratch on his side. But from the sad expression of Spot’s eyes I could see he was in pain. Daddy said he had been wounded very badly on the inside, and that Spot would not be able to live. All I could do was cry. Mama tried to comfort us as she took us back to the house. Daddy had stayed to care for Spot.
Soon Daddy came home and told us Spot had died. I am sure he must have taken his gun and put Spot out of his misery. Looking back I know this was a kind thing for my daddy to do rather than let Spot suffer any longer. Still, as a little boy, I didn’t understand. I just wanted my Spot to be alive again. After a few days or so, when Daddy thought we could handle it, he took us to the ditch up on one of the higher terraces where he had taken Spot’s body so we could see it. In some odd way this was very healing to me. I accepted the fact that Spot would not come back and that I would be all right. Over the years it became a very special adventure to go back to Spot’s “grave” and see his bones. Somehow it always made me feel warm inside that I had not forgotten Spot and I was always sure the Lord would let him know that we still loved and missed him.
Over the next few years, Daddy bought us other horses, but Spot was hard to replace in my heart. Another horse that stands out in my memory is also a little Shetland pony we called Silver. I met Silver for the first time at my cousin’s house in Sapulpa. The Wilsons lived on top of a big hill outside the city and had kept Silver there for the Wilson children to ride. They called him Silver because he reminded us of the Lone Ranger’s horse, Trigger. Even though Silver was white with dark spots and not solid white like Trigger, Silver did have one thing in common with Trigger. Trigger liked to rear up on his hind legs as the Lone Ranger shouted, “Hi! Ho! Silver! Away!” Silver, too, liked to rear up on his hind legs, whether we wanted him to or not!
I don’t remember the reason, but one day, Silver came to live on our farm and became our pony. I can still see him in my mind’s eye as if it were yesterday. Because he was new to our farm, we kept him in the little pen that led up to the milking shed. We didn’t want him just running wild in the pasture until he was used to being around us. The first time I sat on Silver’s back was one of the most memorable times of my youth. Silver was known for his ability to do things his own way. He had a reputation for being a bit rambunctious before he ever came to live with us. Even though I mounted his little back with caution, he immediately began to rear up and to buck in an effort to send me flying through the air! Sure enough, I was airborne almost as quickly as I had sat down on him!
My brothers and cousins were all standing around watching me as I picked myself up off the ground. I was very embarrassed and angry and, though I would never admit it, very frightened to try that trick again. But, my daddy encouraged me to get right back on him again, as many times as it took. He knew that if I didn’t get right back on the horse and conquer my fear I would always be afraid of horses. Horses can sense fear, and if they sense your fear, they can control the situation. A good rider is always in control and can “read” his horse. In this way, the horseman can see to both the horse’s safety and his own. So, I did it. I got right back on Silver’s back, and this time, he sensed I was not going to give up. So, can you guess what Silver did? He obeyed me! He stood there until I gave him a little nudge with my feet and loosened the reins. Yes, I had conquered fear in relation to Silver, yet the beauty of the situation was that I had not damaged Silver’s spirit by lashing out in anger when he disobeyed.
This was to become a recurring theme in our horse and rider relationship over the next few years because Silver had a way of testing how far I would let him go to see how much he could get away with. Yes, he tried to throw me from time to time, but I learned how to hang on until he could see I was not going to let go. He knew other tricks to try on me, though. One of his favorites was to be galloping along through the pasture and suddenly stop and lower his head. This would almost always send the rider flying through the air in front of him. At that point, Silver would run for the barn. If you didn’t let go of the reins, Silver would surely end up dragging you there with him. Sometimes, Silver would make it very hard to get on his back, like when we would tie him and the other horses to the fence so we could fish. When we were through fishing, he would just move from side to side to make it as difficult as possible for the rider to get on. If you weren’t careful he would try to jerk the reins out of your hands and make a quick getaway.
Then, there was the time I was riding through the Tree Patch on one of our secret trails that ran right next to the barbed wire fence on the south side of the trees. Silver decided he was tired of me being on his back and that he was ready to go home. Do you know what he did? He began trotting as close to the fence as he could. He knew that if he could get me close enough my jeans would snag on one of the barbs and drag me from his back. Even though I tried to rein him away from the fence, Silver won this particular battle and left me hanging in midair while he merrily trotted back to the cow lot. It was as if we always played this little game between us to see who could outsmart who. I’d have to say that Silver had his share of victories!
Next in the long line of Jernigan horses came a beautiful, gray Welsh pony (Welshes are a little taller and stockier than Shetlands) we called Robin. Robin was a tame and gentle horse, perfect for children. He was very patient and long-suffering, considering some of the trials we put him through! My favorite memory of Robin also concerns our little red Radio Flyer, our little red wagon! My brothers, Paul and Bobby, and I decided Robin would be the perfect pony to pull our wagon. We would saddle Robin and tie one end of Daddy’s good strong cattle rope to the saddle horn and the other end to the tongue (the handle) of the wagon! We would then take turns riding in the wagon. One boy would ride Robin and pull the others through the pasture. Because the pasture had been terraced, we were never lacking for a thrilling ride. All day long, it seemed, we would ride over the terraces and around the pasture. Many times the rider would guide Robin to make such tight or quick turns that the wagon and all its passengers would go rolling end over end through the tall grass. In fact, after a few days of rough riding, the wagon had taken so much of a beating that the front end came apart, wheels, handle and all! Do you think our wagon riding days were over? No way! Our daddy was one of the best welders around. We would simply take the wagon, the handle and the broken wheels to him and he would weld them right back on the wagon. I don’t recall exactly how many times we had to go through this repair process, but I do know that after a few more broken wheels the wagon was beyond repair! What a wonderful memory this is to my heart. What a patient daddy to keep welding a wagon that became harder and harder to fix. And, what a special horse to be willing to keep making the same treks over the same pasture day after day after day! Thank You, Lord, for this time in my life.
If you could see the three-inch scar on the inside of my right leg just next to my knee you would have a better appreciation for this next story. When I was almost six, we had a big race horse we named Big Red. Big Red was gentle enough but he also had his cantankerous side! We used to feed him apples and sugar cubes so we could pet him. One day, I decided to go pet Big Red by myself. He happened to be in the pasture just to the east of the Tree Patch, so off I went with sugar cubes in hand. As was always the case, Big Red quickly came to inspect my presence and to see if I had any treats for him. The only problem was that I soon ran out of sugar cubes and Big Red did not run out of his desire for more. He began to bite at me. Because he was so tall, I felt as if I were being attacked by a T-rex or some other gigantic monster! He could probably sense my fear, because I began to run! The quickest way of escape, in my own estimation, was to get out of his reach. Because I was so close to the Tree Patch, I decided that climbing a tree would be better than becoming horse food! I finally made it to a mulberry tree which was part of the fence line surrounding the Tree Patch. Instead of just crawling through the fence to safety, all I could think of was getting high enough to get away from his gnashing teeth. But, it seemed the higher I climbed, the higher he could reach. I had no other choice. I would have to jump! I held my breath, leaped toward the ground and landed straddling the barbed wire fence. My screams of pain and terror must have scared Big Red away because I have no other recollection of him trying to bite me anymore! My mama heard my screams and came running to find me with a deep gash torn in my leg from one of the barbs on the fence. To this day, I bear the physical scar of the stitches I received that day along with the tell-tale fear of having lived through yet another adventure of life on the farm. That scar, like the spiritual scars of my life, declare that I went through something difficult and lived to tell about it!
Through the years, there were other horses that came and went, but none were more special to me than my horse, Sugar. Because of Sugar’s place in my life, he will get his own chapter!