AUGUST 1, 2022 – (Cont.) On the subject occasion, whoever was leading—it might’ve been one of the hired hands—had the bright idea that when we reached the last field before returning to the stables, we should canter across. At the mention of the bright idea, Buster and I were in the middle somewhere—our usual placement. When everyone but I said, “Ready!”—off we went. Except . . . in keeping with his reputation, Buster was readier than all the other horses. More to the point, he thought it was a horse race and was determined to extend his muzzle across the finish line before anyone could say, “Whoa!” To win, he instinctively shed all excess baggage, though by then I no longer weighed as much as a large sack of potatoes, which is how I appeared in all my toddler pictures. Without notice and certainly without caring about me, Buster bucked me off and tore across the field. A minor miracle left me bruised and full of sand burrs but not trampled by the horses that galloped past.
The experience traumatized me pretty much until lunchtime, when back in the safety of our own home, Mother slammed together a baloney sandwich, two carrot sticks, cookies, and a glass of milk. We lived on Rice Street along the lazy Mississippi in the City of Anoka, a safe distance west of “cowboy country.” Time cures all, even fear, and in time, I was back in the saddle, though that saddle was on Blaze, not Buster.
At about this time, my dad had his own horse tale to tell. Actually, I had it to tell as well, since I was an eye witness to it.
Our nei-ei-ei-ghbors across the street, the Moore’s, owned a couple of horses that they boarded on a farm out in the country on the other side of the Mississippi. All I remember about its location is that you had to take the Ferry Street bridge across the river, then turn right and drive until you were in farm country, which didn’t take long. In fact, it was so close, there were occasions when the Moore’s rode their horses into town and down to where we lived on Rice Street—or where we “lived on rice,” as Fred Moore used to joke.
One fine, warm summer evening, the Moore’s invited us out to the farm to ride horses. I’m pretty sure it was before Mother started taking us to “Circle Pines.” I vaguely remember climbing up on a rail fence so that with the help of one of the grown-ups, I’d have an easier time climbing into the saddle. In fact, as I think about it, I think my mother was already in the saddle and I was placed in front of her. We didn’t ride very fast or very far, and however eventful the experience would’ve seemed otherwise, it was wholly overshadowed by my dad’s unintentional “Yee haw! Ride ‘em cowboy!” brush with certain death. (Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
