Kye Rieff — Missouri
We called her Diamond. She was a royally-bred mare who foundered a few years before we got her. Miss Alberta, who we went to church with, had raised Diamond. Her husband had been successful raising and showing cutting horses, but had unfortunately died when Diamond was just a weanling. Miss Alberta took care of Diamond — the last physical piece she had of her husband — for 12 long years.
Somewhere in those 12 years, Diamond had a bout with laminitis. Miss Alberta did everything in her power to give Diamond the best care possible, but eventually the time, energy and finances required to care for a foundered mare took its toll. Knowing we had horses, and dreams of raising some nice colts, Miss Alberta offered us the mare.
Diamond was never a mean mare, but she wasn’t used to anyone but Miss Alberta when she first came to live with us. She was hesitant to load in the trailer and very watchful of our daughter when she was running around her, playing. My daughter, Lizzy, who was 3 years old at the time, took it upon herself to make Diamond like people.
Every day at chore time, Lizzy would dump Diamond’s feed, with me standing right behind her, then turn the bucket over and sit on it while Diamond ate. In a matter of weeks, Lizzy moved the bucket closer and closer until she could sit on her bucket and scratch Diamond on the head while she ate. Diamond had never been ridden before we got her. Her feet still bothered her a little, even with constant care, but we felt she needed to get out of the stall and stretch her legs. We would throw Lizzy up on her back and go for walks out in the pasture. Lizzy and Diamond were buddies.
We tried breeding Diamond the first year to a Shining Spark son, but unfortunately she didn’t settle. So, we had a year of Diamond just being part of the family. When our son, Tryan, was born, Diamond was even in the family pictures. The next year, we tried breeding her again, this time to Spots Heff. We were very excited about breeding and waited anxiously for the colt to make his appearance.
April 11, 2001, I was checking mares around midnight and found Diamond laying down in full labor. I ran inside and got my wife, Kasey, and the kids, and we all ran back to the barn. The kids watched with excitement as one more push brought a little sorrel colt into the world. Diamond was exhausted and took a few minutes to get to her feet. Lizzy helped me rub the colt down with a towel while Tryan kissed his nose and told him how cute he was. When Diamond got to her feet, she was everything a momma should be. As the colt nursed, we all stood in silence and soaked in the beauty and magic of the moment. Diamond weaned a big, healthy horse colt that we registered as Alberta’s Blessing. As the months went on, however, her feet got bad again.
Through sleepless nights, prayers and vet appointments, we fought back against founder. Unfortunately, we lost. Diamond had not tasted fresh green grass in years. The day we had to put her down, tears crept into my eyes as I let her graze the lush, green grass she had been denied so long. Alberta’s Blessing is still here. We hope he is everything his momma was, and will grow into our future sire. Cow horse training and ranch work loom in his future as he approaches two years old. For now, though, it’s enough that he’s just here, and a little piece of Diamond is still with us.
Cynthia Frederick — New Mexico
As I led Splash to the mounting block, I tried to be prepared for anything without getting myself so wound up that he would feed off my nervousness. As smoothly as I could, I put my foot in the stirrup, stepped up and swung over the saddle, settling down gently. No reaction. Splash stood there, calmly, for a second. Then, he stepped out, and I did my best to remind him that I hadn’t asked him to go anywhere. Reluctantly, he listened, and when I felt settled, I nudged him with my heels and away we went down our long gravel drive. Head high, ears forward, he was alert to everything around us — the green junipers, the greener spring grass, the breeze, the birds — taking it all in.
He’d only been at our place for a couple of weeks, and on this first ride since he arrived, he was still getting used to a new home with new humans, a new climate and no herd. When we got to the road, he politely followed my cue to turn right, and we walked down the dirt road, past the neighbor’s house and past the next vacant lot. All the while, his head bobbed, ears forward, framing my view of the road like I’d never seen it before. Splash stepped along like he’d been there before. He stopped when I asked and turned as I asked, and I started to relax and enjoy the ride. With a brilliant, blue New Mexico sky over me, and a handsome paint horse under me, the day was approaching perfect.
We came to the end of the road to a wide-open gate with a posted “No Trespassing” sign. I know this sign is mostly just a suggestion, since there are several more neighbors living past the gate. The gate is always open, and beyond it, their road dips in and out of the arroyo several times before reaching their homes. Splash was dubious, but after a moment’s hesitation, we passed through the gate and turned back toward our own property by way of the dry river bed. Splash walked down the arroyo, passing from deep sand to rocky banks, keeping a steady pace, until we reached the first of many rusted out Detroit sandbars.
Over the years, locals have abandoned one car after another in arroyos up and down the state. Some have rested, undisturbed, for decades, sinking into the riverbed until only a taillight or part of a roof is exposed. Others have been used for target practice until they were more holes than steel. All lie at rest, submerged in sand, waiting to devour unsuspecting horses.
Splash is no fool — he saw the first car and immediately planted his feet, snorting and staring. After giving him a chance to out-stare the dead car, I urged him to pass it from a safe distance. His previous owner described him as “too smart” for his job as a dude-ranch trail horse, and he showed his smarts by keeping his head in the face of this clear and present danger. We got safely by without getting eaten, and both of us breathed a deep sigh of relief.
As the arroyo reached a straight point, I wanted to see what else we could do. Dredging up a long-past lesson, I settled myself and shifted my hands and seat, gave him a leg cue. After some consideration, Splash executed a respectable side-pass! It might not have scored points in an arena, but I felt like like we’d won a blue ribbon. Whether or not he’d ever done it before, he was willing to give it a try for me, and who could ask for anything more? As we meandered back home, Splash showed me what we could do together. His confidence, curiosity and self-control got us past the rocks, scrub and rusting wrecks, back to the road and home with no drama. It was as if this was our thousandth time out, on this very first ride.
I woke up that Saturday like a kid on Christmas. After months of texts, emails and phone calls, Splash was coming to our house! The weeks before had been a blur of preparation. I dug out and organized tack and gear I’d collected over untold years.Each piece was a reminder of how long I had hoped and dreamed this day would come — a saddle purchased sight-unseen from an Ebay seller that turned out to be a perfect fit for me (and, I hoped, for the horse I did not even dream of owning at the time), a water trough and feeder scored for free on Craigslist and Freecycle, a used halter and lead from a dusty bin at a resale shop, a collection of snaffle bits I found at an estate sale and, best of all, corral panels loaned by a neighbor two lots away when my dream of owning a horse, once so impossible, came miraculously true. Trying to keep myself under control, I checked and rechecked to make sure that all was ready. My ever-patient husband helped. Bales of hay? Check. Water in the trough? Check. Carrots and treats? Of course! Lastly, I posted a hand-lettered sign at our gate, pointing the way to our house so the delivery driver would not miss our turn.
Finally, right on time, a truck pulling a stock trailer turned down our drive. I heard Splash winnie as the truck pulled to a stop — he’d just rolled through our neighbor’s property with about 20 resident horses, and I’m sure he was convinced his driver had gone too far and gotten lost. When he stepped out of the trailer, I couldn’t help but wonder — was he looking for his old herd-mates? Was he wondering about those horses on the other side of the hill, that he could smell but not see? In his new life at our house, he’s an only horse, for now. I hope he’ll be ok with that. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he’s ok with that. I’ve taken to trolling Craigslist for entertainment, shopping remotely through other people’s random items for sale. I especially like looking at the “Farm and Garden” listings. Tractors, pigs, rusty yard art, free-range eggs, this city girl has learned an awful lot about how other folks live by seeing what they find useful and what they no longer have use for.
Of course, along with kittens for free and puppies for sale, there are listings of horses to fuel my dreams. Knowing that we don’t have the budget for a horse, I would read the ads and play “what if.” What if: mare or gelding, young or old, priced too high or suspiciously low, free to good home, but not rideable — each ad was a tantalizing possibility, but ultimately just daydreams.
Then, I scrolled to an ad for a “gorgeous horse, free to exceptional home,” with a photo of a brown and white paint horse with gentle eyes and perked ears. I had to remind myself to keep breathing, as I read the rest of the post. I passed my phone to my husband, showing him the ad without speaking. He read it, passed the phone back to me and said, “The price is right.” After a lifetime dream that seemed impossible, came a flicker of possibility. I sent my email response to the poster, and anxiously waited. The reply was what I expected — I was too late. Someone else slated to pick up the horse that weekend. I put the excitement back in a box and moved on. Two weeks later, an email came: “Are you still interested?” Am I? Am I! After a quick consultation with my husband, I responded, and the dream I’d denied for years burst into reality like fireworks.
Driving home from his daughter’s wedding, our conversation wandered aimlessly. Out of the blue, John declared, “I’d like to be able to say I can sit a horse,“ and by the time we got home, I had googled lessons in our area, found a community college riding class that was close and affordable, and we agreed we would both take lessons. I had never considered riding lessons before; riding regularly was the same to me as learning to fly, or sailing around the world — a nice idea, but not within my grasp. Now, suddenly, my horizon expanded. Each horse gave me its best lesson. Sinatra, who bit me hard. Wicked, who looked at me like I was crazy, picking myself up off the ground when all she did was give a little bounce to her canter. Clyde, who gave me respect sometimes, when he wasn’t being crabby. Reggie, who kept me on my toes, jigging all the way back to the barn. Chaser, the polished everything-horse, who responded willingly to cues the first time, every time, helping me be consistent. All the lessons, all the hours, all the challenges — I was closer to my heart’s desire, but never to the center or to the connection. Lessons are like speed-dating — full of possibility, but, with no relationship, ultimately unsatisfying.
High school was a time of glorious freedom — my friends and I all had good grades, part-time jobs and parents who knew we could be trusted. Weekends were full of adventure — trips to the mountains, the beach and, during one magic summer, we rode at a rental stable nearly every weekend. We asked for the same horses each weekend as though they were our own. Linda had ridden for years and loved to spook her horse with weird sounds. She would laugh as he jumped and ran, not really scared. Tina and I did our best to keep up with Linda, hanging on and eating her dust. In the turn toward the stables, the tables were turned as well. My horse, Smokey, who was pokey heading out, would take the lead and not let the other horses pass. The three of us careened down the trail, slowing just before the stable, so we wouldn’t get in trouble. A flashback of a sign posted: “No Galloping.”
I was my mom’s sidekick. As the youngest of four daughters she raised by herself, I was the one who went along on all errands, while my older sisters were out doing their own things. I would sit, gazing out the car window, as we headed from the grocery, to the car wash, to the library, to wherever our business took us. I’m sure my mom saw my head swivel as we passed the pony ride that had been there forever along the highway in our town. One day, we didn’t pass. Without a word, my mom turned the car into their dirt parking lot, and I’m sure I floated through as I followed the attendant to a very fuzzy pony. As he lifted me into the saddle, I was in a daze. As the pony walked around the circle, I was amazed he knew where to go without anyone telling him. He followed the pony ahead of him, making a lazy circuit around the ring. This little pony knew his job — having made it around the fenced ring, he headed right back to his station, stopped and waited for the attendant to lift me down. I think I was a little stunned — it had been a moment beyond my wildest dreams, and over so quickly. Then, the impossible happened. My little pony turned around and started off again. I had the best pony ever! He knew I didn’t want to stop, and he turned around and took me for a second trip around the ring! It took me years to realize. I didn’t see my mom pay the attendant to send me around again. I didn’t see her. Maybe it didn’t happen? Maybe I really did have the best pony ever — one who wanted what I wanted, and went where I wanted to go at just 4 years old.
We had a clay project in preschool — what will I make? There’s only one thing — a horse! A blue horse. A squished lump of clay with two stumps — no, four muscular legs — to stand on, and two pointy bits — no, two perky ears — on a lumpy extension — no, a shapely head with a delicate muzzle. I could see it clearly, and my mother and grandmother could see it, too. At 2 years old, riding my “wonder pony” in a party dress and patent-leather shoes (no chaps and boots). Springs squeaking as my horse gallops, suspended in a metal frame he could race away from, if he chose to. Clutching his neck as I sit, grinning. Some girls go through their horsey-phase and move on. For some of us, it’s not a phase; it’s part of us. Whether or not we ride, there is a horse in our soul.
Splash has lived with us for 6 months now. At 58, I am still 2 years old, hanging onto my horse’s neck as he races through the living room. I am still 4 years old, wanting to make a lump of clay into that magical partner I know a horse will be. I am 6 years old, riding a pony that knows my thoughts and agrees our ride is not over. I am 16 years old, almost grown, riding with my posse as we race toward the barn. I am 30-something years old, realizing I have met a man who shares my dream of being able to sit a horse. I am now standing in our corral at midnight, with Splash breathing in my ear, as I see my first ever shooting star. My whole life has been an adventure in the saddle. Giddy up.
Beverly Henry — Texas
My horse was my high school graduation gift. She was a buckskin mare named Cricket. One winter day, we went out riding. Some melted snow had frozen with more snow falling on top of that, so we were walking along on a dirt road. About a mile into the woods, suddenly, she swapped ends and headed for home at full-speed. To get home, there was a 90 degree turn coming up, and I just knew we would go down as fast as she was going. Well, she made the turn, scrambling to stay on her feet. The barn was straight ahead. My dad had the tractor sitting in the doorway, with the barn doors closed on either side of it. The snow had melted on short uphill grade into the barn and I could feel her trying to decide which side of the tractor she was going to go. She chose the left side. As soon as her front feet hit the bare ground, she planted them and came to a very abrupt stop. I rolled right onto the ground over her left shoulder. Dad said there had to be a reason she did what she did, so we got on the tractor and went back to where she turned around. The reason was quite clear. Right beyond were the hoof prints stopped, there were fresh bear tracks in the snow.
Jessica Gilbert — Washington
I worked on the racetracks across the Pacific Northwest for many years, until I realized it was time for me to move on. I got a “real job” and I left my dreams and passion behind. Years later, I couldn’t take it anymore, driving past Portland Meadows regularly while working but not being involved. So, the first morning of training for the 2017 race meet, I went to the backside and started chatting with an old trainer I had previously ridden for. I told him I just wanted to get on a few head a day, and he told me to go tack up the little bay colt in the first stall. He was a bit skittish, but kind, and when I got that leg up, I knew I was back where I belonged. He was an absolute gentleman out on the track. When I brought him back to the barn, I couldn’t stop smiling. I had found a piece of myself I had lost. The trainer then told me I might remember the colt’s dam, One Fast Cowgirl. I sure did. I had galloped her regularly years before for another barn. She had been a favorite of mine. I formed a bond quickly with the little bay colt, and even came to help paddock him for his first three races. I had to work the day he ran his fourth time and he got claimed. I never galloped a horse at Portland Meadows again. I was heartbroken. Fast forward to December of 2018 at the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, Nevada. Fallon Taylor told me she wanted to compete in the 2019 Retired Racehorse Project Thoroughbred Makeover show and she wanted my help finding a horse she could win it with. I looked her dead in the face and told her I knew exactly which horse she needed, it was just a matter of getting him bought & to her. We were able to purchase him off the track in January and got him shipped to Texas within a couple weeks. Fallon worked hard with him that spring and summer. In October, they went to the Kentucky Horse Park and were not only the champion Barrel Racers, but were also voted the Overall Makeover Champions. I saw Fallon again at the 2019 NFR a couple months later and she asked me if I wanted to bring that little bay colt home for good. DUH. We arranged for shipping once again, but this time, he was never going anywhere without me again. When he stepped off the trailer, I was still in disbelief that he was really mine and was finally Home. We have worked so hard together these past 3 years and clawed our way from the bottom of the 5D to regularly placing in the 1D-2D event at large races. He makes my heart so happy and full everyday. My little bay colt. Cowboy Swagger.
Jennifer Boyd — Arizona
My late father had bought our second horse. The horse was from a community called Esketemc (Alkali Lake, British Columbia, Canada), where it’s known for cowboys & ranch land. This big beautiful horse was a gelding and a former saddle bronc used in rodeos. We were told the history of the horse we named Country Boy, or “C-Boy.” I heard my father was the first to get bucked off after he bought him, wanting to see if the horse still did his job; he did. I was about grade 11 at the time my girlfriend and I decided to go riding horseback. She rode a beautiful, big Quarter Horse paint with such stamina. I saddled up Country Boy, unafraid of the possibility he’d buck me off. As we were in beginning of our horseback adventure for the day, two young guys talked us into giving them a short ride by doubling. The Quarter Horse paint starting leading with my friend, and I followed behind. I was feeling positive that Country Boy didn’t even buck once with the guy I was doubling with. Both guys had no experience riding horses and just wanted a short ride. So, about few short minutes into our ride, I looked down at the ground and it seemed like I was bungy flight. My rider passenger was bucked off, while Country Boy was full rodeo circuit bucking. I was still riding past 8 seconds. I must’ve rode for about 3 minutes when I looked down at the ground and that’s when I was thrown in the air — a full 360, about 6 feet and landed on the ground right beside Country Boy. I couldn’t breathe for few minutes and my glasses were broken in half. My passenger was still laying 5 feet away, groaning on his back. I found out after we both could breath that he was holding Country Boy in the flank with both his feet, trying to hang on, and Country Boy went rodeo-saddle-bronc-mode. It’s the unexpected experience which creates such detailed memories. We owned our first horse my late father bought and she was a beautiful purebred Quarter Horse. She would’ve made a time breaking in barrel racing. Anyway, that’s another story. I did better riding a horse that bucked than a steer who threw me off the second I came out of the chutes. The picture I submitted is my mother. I’ve lost pictures of Country Boy, so I honor my mother, who grew up with horses. I chose Arizona to honor Ty Murray. I just wanted to share my story. Thank you.
Jerilyn Johnson Houghton — Missouri
The Reunion
by Jerilyn Johnson
One of my favorite memories from my childhood days on my grandparent’s ranch was the Birdie-Patsy reunion. Both fillies were born in 1961 on my grandparent’s Currie Acres in the Flint Hills of Kansas. The two were half-sisters, sharing the same sire, a Quarter Horse stallion named Ready Money. Birdie was out of Grandpa Roy’s mare, Lady, and Patsy’s dam was Janie. Birdie and Patsy were pasture mates and spent two years together until the day Grandpa gave Birdie to my family and we moved her to our homeplace. A small but mighty bay with a white blaze, Birdie became a riding horse for my sister, Ellen, and me. We competed on her in 4-H horse shows and rodeos and took lots of trail rides. She proved to be a good broodmare, as well, and raised seven foals for us during her lifetime. Grandpa kept Patsy, who grew into a big sorrel beauty, as his riding horse for cattle work and competing in area horse shows. He also kept his beloved old paint mare, Judy, but soon sold broodmares Lady and Janie. After Judy was killed by a lightning strike on the ranch, Patsy lived alone at Currie Acres for the next decade. In the spring of 1975, I decided to let Birdie enjoy a little time off. My mother, Dee, and I trailered her four hours up to Currie Acres. Grandpa came out to greet us when we arrived. He looked her over, as keen-eyed horsemen do, and then softly stroked Birdie on the neck. I asked him where he wanted me to put her. He replied, “Patsy is in the West 80 pasture, better put Birdie with her.” It was more than a mile to that upper pasture, located at the far West side of the ranch. We would need to ride through the big pasture where Grandpa’s herd of Hereford cows and their black baldie calves were grazing the tall native grasses of the Flint Hills prairie. I didn’t have a saddle with me but grabbed a hackamore from the back seat of my mother’s station wagon and hopped on Birdie bareback. We walked down the barn lane, past the barn corral, and onto the winding rock road. We first passed by the creek bottom ground where Grandpa grew alfalfa hay crops. The next stop was the flowing creek where I let Birdie get a cool drink. She took a couple of long sips, then lifted her head high with ears forward. The next thing I knew, we were taking off like a flushed prairie chicken, up the creek bank and through the big pasture. I could not rein her in, so just held on tight for the ride. Birdie kept going faster and faster, jumping ditches and focusing straight ahead. When we reached the gate to the West 80 pasture, there was Patsy, nickering to us and anxiously pacing on the other side of the gate. I dismounted, opened and led Birdie through the gate, and let her loose. She and Patsy met nose to nose and then galloped off together like two frisky fillies. It had been 12 years since they had seen each other, but apparently horse friendships last forever.
