Lately I have had a hankering for a hat. I guess I was first inspired from watching Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman reruns, she had the absolutely coolest hats. Of course I researched these fine crafted head coverings and found out they were custom made by a famous hat maker named Jack Kellogg at Hatman Jack's. Figures. But ever tenacious, I have been searching high and low for a hat like she wore to no avail. So yesterday on my way home, I stopped at Tom's Western Wear in Ovid to see if I could find my dream hat. After all, it was my Birth Day, so lady luck should be with me, right?
The minute I opened the door and stepped into that store, I instantly transformed from a newly hatched 54 year old to an innocent, spirited girl of 13. My eyes grew wide as they traveled from left to right around this very large shop, gazing at bridles and harnesses and shiny sterling silver belt buckles. I was in heaven.
"Can I help you?", asked the first of several western-wear attired clerks I encountered during my visit. "No, thanks, I am just browsing," I lied. I was there for a hat. MY hat. But I was a bit shy for some reason, so I feigned disinterest and continued my slow walk toward the hat department. It was when I entered the saddle room that I left my body and traveled back in time to Edwardsburg.
Down the street from our house was a race horse ranch, with over 250 acres of woods and fields, a track with two starting gates, three stables, a round swimming pool for training, and a tack room. I don't recall how I met the owner, Mr. Kling, but one summer I lived a dream.
Mr. Kling taught me how to feed and water the horses, clean the stalls, rub liniment on their legs and bandage them, put them on the walker, swim them, brush them down, and saddle and bridle them. But the best thing was I learned to drive a tractor. I could hitch up the manure spreader, back it into the barns, load it up, and then drive it out into the fields where I spread the wonderful smelling dung. I also learned to drag the racetrack, which made it as smooth as a baby's butt. All this and I was only 13 years old.
My friends Kim and Kay had a part Arabian/part Quarter horse, and sometimes we would go riding together at the ranch. Mr. Kling would let me take one of the stable horses, usually a pony horse (one used to lead the race horses). One day Kim and I went up to the race track. Mr. Kling always warned us to never put the horses in the starting gates. So we put the horses in the starting gates. "Go!" I shouted, and we were off. Both horses burst from the gates and ran full speed, hooves and sand flying, and two young girls having the thrill of their lives. Soon, however, that thrill turned into momentary terror as we lost control of the large animals. We were no longer racing each other, they were. It was then I learned why race horses wear blinders.
"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" we yelled at the horses, holding on for dear life. As they made their way around the turn I was sure I would roll off the horse and into the weeds, but by some miracle I held on. After what seemed like eternity, the horses ran out of steam and began to slow down. When we finally got them stopped, we jumped off and took a few minutes to calm our wildly beating hearts. Wow. What a ride. That was a secret we never told Mr. Kling, although I am sure the next time he went out to train a horse on the track, the record of our race was well kept in the sand.
One day while I was hanging out in the tack room reading old issues of Quarter Horse Journal, Mr. Kling brought in a pair of well-worn brown cowboy boots. "Here," he said, handing me the boots. "For you." I took those boots home, shined them up right pretty, and put them on. My first pair of real cowboy boots. Of course they were several sizes too big but I didn't care. I put on two pairs of socks, pulled the boots on, and walked all the way back to the ranch, proudly strutting my shiny new boots.
Mr. Kling went out of town for a weekend and asked me if I would be in charge of the ranch while he was away. I was to feed, water, and walk the horses, clean the stalls, and keep an eye on things. He also instructed me to take the tractor and load the manure in the spreader, and take it out to the fields. Quite a bit of responsibility for such a young girl, but I eagerly accepted.
My first day taking care of the ranch in my brown cowboy boots was awesome. I backed the tractor into the barn with no problem and cleaned all the stalls, filling the manure spreader. It was when I got to the prize stallion's stall that the trouble began. This horse, named Right Turn, was not a happy horse. He was always kicking the stall and had a look in his eye that made me not trust him. As soon as I opened his stall door, he bolted and knocked me out of the way and ran out into the barn. "Oh shit" was all I could say. I ran and closed the barn door, and there we were. Me and him. It was show down time. I tried my best to get that damn horse back in the stall but he would have none of it. So after much cerebral ruminating, I figured the only thing I could do was put a bucket of oats in his stall and hope that his love of food was greater than his desire to bust out of the barn. It worked.
Mr. Kling came home from his trip and was very happy that I had taken such good care of the ranch. Everything was spic and span, the horses were well, the stalls were clean, I even cleaned up the tack room. Mr. Kling took me down to the local diner and bought me a cup of coffee and a big piece of cherry pie. I sat there in my brown cowboy boots, sipping my black coffee and eating pie just like I was in Dodge City. I loved my life.
"Can I help you?" another western wear clad clerk asked, snapping me out of my daydream. "You already have," I replied.
No comments:
Post a Comment