Frustrated Cowgirl

 

My dad was born in the Oklahoma Territory in 1898.  Sixty two when I was born, I am sure I was a tremendous shock to his system.  Dad had grown up in the tiny town of Watonga, where his parents settled after the Land Rush of 1892.  His older brother was born in a “soddy”, a cave-like home cut and built into the side of a hill.  Watonga was situated on the former Cheyenne-Arapaho Reservation and was still full of cowboys and Indians in my dad’s day.

 Growing up, I pestered him continually for stories of his youth in that Western town.  Dad had had a string of “ponies” when he went off to join the Navy in 1917, and I never tired of hearing of his escapades with them and with his Cheyenne and Arapaho companions.  Between that and a steady diet of Zane Grey and Louis Lamour I always felt that I should have lived back then.  The painful reality is that my eyesight is so bad I’d have been lucky if they were willing to feed me as I sat in my corner trying to earn my way by feel.  On the frontier I’d have been pretty much blind.  Oh well, a girl can dream, right? 

To my everlasting (it seemed then) frustration Dad wouldn’t  let me learn to ride until I was ten years old.  He maintained that any younger was too small to handle a horse and he never trusted ponies.  So I sat steaming on the sidelines as my little horse-loving friends told of their lessons and horsey exploits.  When the magic age finally rolled around Dad found that there were no “Western” riding stables in our area, so to his consternation he had to let me go for English lessons.  He made me take weekly lessons for two solid years before he’d get me a horse, and while it frustrated me no end at the time, I now think it should be a blueprint for most parents.  But that’s another soap box.  I always knew that Dad thought those slick little postage stamp saddles were “sissy”, but he went along with it all anyway, patiently providing me with boots and a hard hat, both several sizes too big.  I was the little geeky looking kid in hand me down black boots way over my knees, that I was so proud of!  My hat pretty much prevented me seeing anything but the horse, but I didn’t care---I was riding!

So I grew up riding “English” out of geographical necessity, but at heart there was always a little cowgirl, waiting for any half-assed opportunity to show up.  We rode bareback like Indians, looped hay strings around our patient horses’ heads and rode bridleless through the neighborhood, and swam them in every pond.  We terrorized  chickens and drove dogs into a frenzy on a regular basis. 

 Dad thought the only proper western saddle had a hard seat and eventually he found me a used one of those little youth western saddles that Western Auto used to sell from their all-purpose catalog.   When I wasn’t trying to jump everything in sight I’d be in that western saddle with a rope around a log, dragging it around, pretending it was a cow.  I looked forward to Christmas all year just to have a legitimate excuse to drag a tree home behind old Jim, or Tonka. 

Once I learned to jump, that became my big love and it still is.  Every place on the trail that had a tree on either side became a jump, as I hammered huge nails in to hold my “jump rails”.  Of course, I tried jumping in a Western saddle, but hooking my bra on the horn cured me of that quick.   Eventually, I  went to work, and then to college, still mostly riding on those little postage stamps.

But the cowgirl still lurks in me.  Yes, I’m the one ponying my horse through my pick up window back to the barn after an event.  In my defense, it was Woody, and I just knew he’d handle it fine, traffic held no bugaboos for him, and being shod only in front gave him some traction.  Yes, that’s my Stubben-clad bronco tied by his snaffle rein---I know I know--- to a springy limb out back of the convenience store, and that was me chasing pursuing dogs back to their home, “cutting” style, dreaming of cows.  It’s amazing the look on a dog’s face when it realizes the game has turned and it’s become the prey!  Usually doesn’t take too much encouragement to get them back to their own yards, but some are more persistent and good for several minute’s fun ! 

At one of the first horse trials---we used to call even the little ones “events”---I took Woody to, we were walking along a trail through the woods from the stable yard to the cross country start box.  Woody hadn’t quite figured out the program yet, so he wasn’t anticipating the gallop to come, and walked nicely.  A big-name trainer and her student followed us by twenty five yards or so when I started to hear shouting from up ahead, “Loose horse!”   Pounding hooves foretold the coming arrival of a sweat-flecked dapple grey, wild eyed and reins and stirrups flying as he belted toward us.  He was coming our way, and I heard people holler, “don’t try to grab him!”, but my sleeping cowgirl woke up and overcame any common sense I might have had.  I sat down and sunk my heels and took a firm grip on Woody, with one hand on the reins and a big handful of mane.  The grey broke to a post-legged trot, and came right at us, thinking he knew Woody I guess, then squealed and prepared to blast off again as I reached out and hooked his rein.  He hit the end of it but Woody was dug in like the cow horse he could have been, and practically sat down, resulting in the grey doing a quick one-eighty and coming back up beside us.  I know it was stupid, and believe me, I heard about it, I guess I could’ve been yanked off, or pulled over, but if I never get another chance, I was a cowgirl once.