CREEK ROAD GANG
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Dreaming of Horses
Joan G. Andersoncopyright 2011
I was on the upper floor of a huge hotel – maybe twenty stories up -- trying to find my way through a network of unfamiliar corridors. In a lobby at the front of the tower, I came across a beautiful red horse -- agitated, panicky, pawing and wheeling about. Suddenly the creature bolted through an open window. Horrified, I ran down a stairway – down, down, down, what seemed like a hundred flights. Finally I reached an exit and tore outside, fearing the worst.
There stood the horse, grazing on the front lawn, as though nothing had happened. My relief was so intense that it woke me up.
I have always been drawn to horses, though I never owned one, and never overcame my wariness around them. From an early age, I thrilled to the sound of clippity-clop and thundering hooves. The Lone Ranger and Tonto galloped out of our little radio and through the living room – now as vast as a prairie. With my eyes shut, I could almost reach out and touch their snorting steeds, Silver and Scout. At the Saturday afternoon matinees, I fell in love with all the heroes sitting tall in the saddle: Tom Mix, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers. But I only loved them because of their horses, which I thought the most beautiful, noble creatures in the world. At ages six and seven, I borrowed a toy six-shooter from my boyfriend and rode pell-mell across the mesa in our garage loft, on barrels and chairs turned on their sides. I longed to own a rocking horse with stirrups and saddle, but lacking this, I galloped around the yard on my own two legs, riding a palomino across the open plains. Palominos were my very favorite.
My fantasies continued unabated on frequent car trips across the continent to visit our California relatives. Dad liked to fill the tank at Mobil Gas stations; it was music to my ears when he’d shout, “Look for the flying red horse!” Then my big sister Carol and I would search the road ahead, hoping to see the winged red Pegasus – symbol not so much of gasoline, but of freedom from the confines of the back seat. We could run around, go to the restroom, examine the candy counter. Maybe the attendant would be giving away little plastic toys; maybe Mama would buy us a lollipop or some Chiclets. As I peered down the highway, I imagined myself sitting between the wings of that red horse, hanging onto the thick mane and soaring high above the fields.
When we visited our cousins at the family ranch in Hanford, California, I discovered that I also loved the smell and feel of horses. Uncle Harold let us ride bareback on a gentle old nag, who obligingly walked around the back yard for us. But I never got to ride by myself. Once or twice I got to sit in front of Carol, but usually I had to sit behind and hang on to her waist. I didn’t like having to hold on, so one time I didn’t... and slid right off the rump when the horse started forward. The fall didn’t hurt much, but it made me painfully aware that I was just an add-on... not a real rider.
Occasional pony ride at fairs were not much better. I got to sit in the saddle by myself, but my pony was always led by a big kid, and at a slow walk. This was not riding. I longed to be able to get on and off a horse whenever I wanted, all by myself, and to make the horse go where I wanted – preferably at a gallop, like in the movies. Fantasy was my only option: I drew and painted a lot of horse pictures, trying, but never managing, to get the proportions right. My best effort was from a paint-by-numbers kit, using real oil paints that smelled intoxicating – and probably were.
When I was eleven, my parents signed me up for a series of riding lessons. The reality of riding proved as daunting as it was exciting. For one thing, I was more scared than I had intended to be; I worried that the horses would sense my anxiety and take advantage of me. They did. It turned out that horses were bigger and far less cooperative than in the Westerns. Indeed, they were not at all interested in working out a partnership with small, trembling riders. I’d kick the creatures’ sides with all my might, slap the reins across their necks, make clicking and giddyap noises for all I was worth... but to no avail. They’d either ignore me altogether, or slowly rotate the head to give me a weary look. It was only when other horses began to walk toward the ring that mine would get moving.
The horses at the riding stable were peevish, and tended to lash out with their hooves when others came too near. This made me very anxious. I was afraid of getting kicked, and afraid of all the jostling and bumping. Maybe they’d start bucking... I’d heard that a girl got thrown off during one of the scrambles. In the outdoor ring, I could try to keep my mount at a distance from others, but on rainy days we were herded into a scary indoor ring, where you couldn’t see around the curved walls. I’d round a bend and find myself jammed in between a couple of other riders; or I’d be trotting along in peace, and suddenly a couple of riders would overtake me from behind. Then there’d be a jumble of large, kicking animals and panicky little girls.
I still loved horses – their look, their smell, their air of nobility. And despite their bad attitudes, I learned to mount and dismount, to sit upright in the saddle, to manipulate the double English reins. I spent many bumpy hours trying to get the rhythm right in posting a trot, and many hours at home discovering just how sore inner thighs and rear ends can feel. But there were rewards. The rhythm started coming more naturally, and as I progressed, I was allowed to kick and coax my steed into the magical rocking gait of a canter. That was bliss.
At the end of the beginners class, my parents’ funds ran out. Equine beauty and nobility aside, I was kind of glad that I wouldn’t have to deal with the ornery creatures any more.
But riding lessons paid off the very next summer, during our family camping trip to California. On the way, we spent a week in Estes Park, Colorado, where Carol and I were treated to a few trail rides. The combination of horses and mountain trails was exhilarating, but once again, the reality of riding was less so. Our group was supposed to stay together, single-file on the trail. The horses took this to a perverse extreme: they liked to walk as close to each other as possible, nose-to-rump. When the horse in front lifted his or her tail, you had to strain to hold your mount back, in order to avoid nosing right into a cascade of poop. It was gross! And there were the usual anxious moments when irritable horses lashed out with an impulsive bite or kick. But the occasional rewards were intense: now and then when we came to a clearing, Carol and I would lag behind and then urge our horses into a canter or even a gallop to catch up. That felt just like it looked in the Westerns!
At age nineteen, I took a semester of “Intermediate Riding” at Carlton College in Minnesota. The course should have been titled “Demystification of Horses, Intermediate.” For one thing, it involved getting overly personal with our mounts. I had to shove a metal bit into the mouth of a very large animal, who was clenching his teeth shut with grim determination. Then I had to put a saddle on that same surly beast, and wait to tighten the cinch until he stopped holding his breath and puffing his belly out. If you didn’t wait until you could get the cinch tight enough, you became the comedian of the day. Horses got a lot of laughs watching a rider put a foot in a stirrup to mount up, only to slide sideways with the whole saddle onto the ground.
Not long into the semester, I was assigned to ride an extremely large horse, appropriately named King. King was not in the mood for a bridle, nor was he thrilled with the saddle. But I managed to get him geared up, with myself on top. Our class set off single file for the training field. To get there, we had to traverse a deep, narrow ditch. One after another we eased our horses down one side of the gully and up the other, taking special precautions not to fall off the front of the animal going down, or the rear end going up. (You’ll soon see why I describe this obvious maneuver.) On the other side of the ditch, we entered the practice field – deep grasses with a well-worn trail around the circumference. Just to make things more fun for our mounts, in a few places the trail was edged closely by thickets. The horses loved to brush up against branches and briars, hoping to dislodge irksome riders.
Despite my usual insecurities, I still craved cantering and galloping. On this early spring day, the teacher cautioned us to keep the restless horses to a walk, especially when rounding the far end of the field. But when King and I approached the far end, his spirits picked up. For the first time, he was raring to go. Walking and trotting were pretty boring, so I let him slip into a nice, rocking canter. The canter quickly turned into a rousing gallop.
I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “like a horse heading for the barn.” As King and I tore around the field and headed for the “home stretch,” it dawned on me that he had no intention of doing another lap. I pulled as hard as I could on the reins, but it didn’t faze him. This was a very large, exceedingly determined animal. He tore through a break in the hedge and tackled the ditch at full speed. Kathunk… he hit the bottom, and crash... he leapt up the other side, never losing his stride. I don’t know how I managed to stay on. Gleeful by now, he raced for the barn, heading for a small side door -- which looked very small indeed. Desperation gave me new strength: I pulled the reins back so his head was almost to his chest and hollered, “Whoa, King!”
Amazingly, he stopped.
After a few conciliatory pats on the neck, I headed him back to the field at a nice, slow walk. The teacher simply raised an eyebrow at me. I only got a B- for the course.
I didn’t get an opportunity to ride for the next decade or so – years of academics, marriage, babies, and work on my B.A. Around age thirty, as my marriage disintegrated, I took refuge in art, creating strange batik “dreamscapes,” which prompted a few people to ask if I had ever been psychoanalyzed. The bizarre wall hangings fit right in with the psychedelic Seventies, so I did pretty well. My first major showpiece was a three-by-six-foot batik entitled “Dream of a Falling Horse.” Meanwhile, I set up a separate, happier life for my young sons and myself. Since we had very little money, I traded my “Falling Horse” masterpiece for a nice stereo system – definitely a good deal.
When my divorce came through at age thirty-five, a friend invited me to go on a trail ride at a local stable. It seemed to me that this would be a meaningful celebration. She picked me up on a lovely fall afternoon, and off I went to relive past fantasies.
The autumn woods were beautiful, but I found the trail ride very dull. It was the same old thing: the single file walk, nose to rump; the peevish kicks, the attempts to scrape riders off on tree branches, the barrage of horse poop. I don’t know... it just didn’t do anything for me.
After we dismounted, I told the stable owner that I was disappointed we hadn’t done any cantering. The good man said he had a couple of horses that needed a workout, and asked me to wait a few minutes while he saddled them up. Then he emerged from the stable with a pretty little horse that he said was a real cowpony... a dream come true! Now it became clear to me why riding the range looked so easy in the movies. This horse followed the slightest touch of the reins; we cantered and trotted and wheeled about in the practice ring just as I chose – in fact, just as I’d always fantasized.
Then he brought out a second horse – a bigger one that was snorting and prancing with excitement. Rather reluctantly, I dismounted from the cowpony. The owner held the new horse firmly by the bit and grinned in a way I didn’t quite like. “I’m going to head you into the ring,” he said, “but you’ve got to get on fast!”
Wow! The second I hit the saddle, that horse flew into the ring. We raced around and around, not even slowing at the oval ends. The ride felt completely out of my control, but for some reason, not scary. It’s impossible to describe how high I felt.... All I can tell you is that I laughed and laughed the entire time. I had no idea how I could ever bring this amazing creature to a stop, but when I felt too tired to hang on any more, and pulled back on the reins, he graciously obliged.
I haven’t had much contact with horses since that climactic celebration. But occasionally when I’m asleep, a friendly palomino noses up to me in an enchanted, night-time meadow. It’s obviously a dream, because the horse is so willing to let me clamber on and grab hold of the mane. Cowgirl once more, I gallop away into... what else... a Technicolor sunset.
My fantasies continued unabated on frequent car trips across the continent to visit our California relatives. Dad liked to fill the tank at Mobil Gas stations; it was music to my ears when he’d shout, “Look for the flying red horse!” Then my big sister Carol and I would search the road ahead, hoping to see the winged red Pegasus – symbol not so much of gasoline, but of freedom from the confines of the back seat. We could run around, go to the restroom, examine the candy counter. Maybe the attendant would be giving away little plastic toys; maybe Mama would buy us a lollipop or some Chiclets. As I peered down the highway, I imagined myself sitting between the wings of that red horse, hanging onto the thick mane and soaring high above the fields.
When we visited our cousins at the family ranch in Hanford, California, I discovered that I also loved the smell and feel of horses. Uncle Harold let us ride bareback on a gentle old nag, who obligingly walked around the back yard for us. But I never got to ride by myself. Once or twice I got to sit in front of Carol, but usually I had to sit behind and hang on to her waist. I didn’t like having to hold on, so one time I didn’t... and slid right off the rump when the horse started forward. The fall didn’t hurt much, but it made me painfully aware that I was just an add-on... not a real rider.
Occasional pony ride at fairs were not much better. I got to sit in the saddle by myself, but my pony was always led by a big kid, and at a slow walk. This was not riding. I longed to be able to get on and off a horse whenever I wanted, all by myself, and to make the horse go where I wanted – preferably at a gallop, like in the movies. Fantasy was my only option: I drew and painted a lot of horse pictures, trying, but never managing, to get the proportions right. My best effort was from a paint-by-numbers kit, using real oil paints that smelled intoxicating – and probably were.
When I was eleven, my parents signed me up for a series of riding lessons. The reality of riding proved as daunting as it was exciting. For one thing, I was more scared than I had intended to be; I worried that the horses would sense my anxiety and take advantage of me. They did. It turned out that horses were bigger and far less cooperative than in the Westerns. Indeed, they were not at all interested in working out a partnership with small, trembling riders. I’d kick the creatures’ sides with all my might, slap the reins across their necks, make clicking and giddyap noises for all I was worth... but to no avail. They’d either ignore me altogether, or slowly rotate the head to give me a weary look. It was only when other horses began to walk toward the ring that mine would get moving.
The horses at the riding stable were peevish, and tended to lash out with their hooves when others came too near. This made me very anxious. I was afraid of getting kicked, and afraid of all the jostling and bumping. Maybe they’d start bucking... I’d heard that a girl got thrown off during one of the scrambles. In the outdoor ring, I could try to keep my mount at a distance from others, but on rainy days we were herded into a scary indoor ring, where you couldn’t see around the curved walls. I’d round a bend and find myself jammed in between a couple of other riders; or I’d be trotting along in peace, and suddenly a couple of riders would overtake me from behind. Then there’d be a jumble of large, kicking animals and panicky little girls.
I still loved horses – their look, their smell, their air of nobility. And despite their bad attitudes, I learned to mount and dismount, to sit upright in the saddle, to manipulate the double English reins. I spent many bumpy hours trying to get the rhythm right in posting a trot, and many hours at home discovering just how sore inner thighs and rear ends can feel. But there were rewards. The rhythm started coming more naturally, and as I progressed, I was allowed to kick and coax my steed into the magical rocking gait of a canter. That was bliss.
At the end of the beginners class, my parents’ funds ran out. Equine beauty and nobility aside, I was kind of glad that I wouldn’t have to deal with the ornery creatures any more.
But riding lessons paid off the very next summer, during our family camping trip to California. On the way, we spent a week in Estes Park, Colorado, where Carol and I were treated to a few trail rides. The combination of horses and mountain trails was exhilarating, but once again, the reality of riding was less so. Our group was supposed to stay together, single-file on the trail. The horses took this to a perverse extreme: they liked to walk as close to each other as possible, nose-to-rump. When the horse in front lifted his or her tail, you had to strain to hold your mount back, in order to avoid nosing right into a cascade of poop. It was gross! And there were the usual anxious moments when irritable horses lashed out with an impulsive bite or kick. But the occasional rewards were intense: now and then when we came to a clearing, Carol and I would lag behind and then urge our horses into a canter or even a gallop to catch up. That felt just like it looked in the Westerns!
At age nineteen, I took a semester of “Intermediate Riding” at Carlton College in Minnesota. The course should have been titled “Demystification of Horses, Intermediate.” For one thing, it involved getting overly personal with our mounts. I had to shove a metal bit into the mouth of a very large animal, who was clenching his teeth shut with grim determination. Then I had to put a saddle on that same surly beast, and wait to tighten the cinch until he stopped holding his breath and puffing his belly out. If you didn’t wait until you could get the cinch tight enough, you became the comedian of the day. Horses got a lot of laughs watching a rider put a foot in a stirrup to mount up, only to slide sideways with the whole saddle onto the ground.
Not long into the semester, I was assigned to ride an extremely large horse, appropriately named King. King was not in the mood for a bridle, nor was he thrilled with the saddle. But I managed to get him geared up, with myself on top. Our class set off single file for the training field. To get there, we had to traverse a deep, narrow ditch. One after another we eased our horses down one side of the gully and up the other, taking special precautions not to fall off the front of the animal going down, or the rear end going up. (You’ll soon see why I describe this obvious maneuver.) On the other side of the ditch, we entered the practice field – deep grasses with a well-worn trail around the circumference. Just to make things more fun for our mounts, in a few places the trail was edged closely by thickets. The horses loved to brush up against branches and briars, hoping to dislodge irksome riders.
Despite my usual insecurities, I still craved cantering and galloping. On this early spring day, the teacher cautioned us to keep the restless horses to a walk, especially when rounding the far end of the field. But when King and I approached the far end, his spirits picked up. For the first time, he was raring to go. Walking and trotting were pretty boring, so I let him slip into a nice, rocking canter. The canter quickly turned into a rousing gallop.
I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “like a horse heading for the barn.” As King and I tore around the field and headed for the “home stretch,” it dawned on me that he had no intention of doing another lap. I pulled as hard as I could on the reins, but it didn’t faze him. This was a very large, exceedingly determined animal. He tore through a break in the hedge and tackled the ditch at full speed. Kathunk… he hit the bottom, and crash... he leapt up the other side, never losing his stride. I don’t know how I managed to stay on. Gleeful by now, he raced for the barn, heading for a small side door -- which looked very small indeed. Desperation gave me new strength: I pulled the reins back so his head was almost to his chest and hollered, “Whoa, King!”
Amazingly, he stopped.
After a few conciliatory pats on the neck, I headed him back to the field at a nice, slow walk. The teacher simply raised an eyebrow at me. I only got a B- for the course.
I didn’t get an opportunity to ride for the next decade or so – years of academics, marriage, babies, and work on my B.A. Around age thirty, as my marriage disintegrated, I took refuge in art, creating strange batik “dreamscapes,” which prompted a few people to ask if I had ever been psychoanalyzed. The bizarre wall hangings fit right in with the psychedelic Seventies, so I did pretty well. My first major showpiece was a three-by-six-foot batik entitled “Dream of a Falling Horse.” Meanwhile, I set up a separate, happier life for my young sons and myself. Since we had very little money, I traded my “Falling Horse” masterpiece for a nice stereo system – definitely a good deal.
When my divorce came through at age thirty-five, a friend invited me to go on a trail ride at a local stable. It seemed to me that this would be a meaningful celebration. She picked me up on a lovely fall afternoon, and off I went to relive past fantasies.
The autumn woods were beautiful, but I found the trail ride very dull. It was the same old thing: the single file walk, nose to rump; the peevish kicks, the attempts to scrape riders off on tree branches, the barrage of horse poop. I don’t know... it just didn’t do anything for me.
After we dismounted, I told the stable owner that I was disappointed we hadn’t done any cantering. The good man said he had a couple of horses that needed a workout, and asked me to wait a few minutes while he saddled them up. Then he emerged from the stable with a pretty little horse that he said was a real cowpony... a dream come true! Now it became clear to me why riding the range looked so easy in the movies. This horse followed the slightest touch of the reins; we cantered and trotted and wheeled about in the practice ring just as I chose – in fact, just as I’d always fantasized.
Then he brought out a second horse – a bigger one that was snorting and prancing with excitement. Rather reluctantly, I dismounted from the cowpony. The owner held the new horse firmly by the bit and grinned in a way I didn’t quite like. “I’m going to head you into the ring,” he said, “but you’ve got to get on fast!”
Wow! The second I hit the saddle, that horse flew into the ring. We raced around and around, not even slowing at the oval ends. The ride felt completely out of my control, but for some reason, not scary. It’s impossible to describe how high I felt.... All I can tell you is that I laughed and laughed the entire time. I had no idea how I could ever bring this amazing creature to a stop, but when I felt too tired to hang on any more, and pulled back on the reins, he graciously obliged.
I haven’t had much contact with horses since that climactic celebration. But occasionally when I’m asleep, a friendly palomino noses up to me in an enchanted, night-time meadow. It’s obviously a dream, because the horse is so willing to let me clamber on and grab hold of the mane. Cowgirl once more, I gallop away into... what else... a Technicolor sunset.
* * *
Biographical Note for Joan G. Anderson (in brief): Joan holds a B.A. and M.A. in French and German Literature
from Oberlin College in Oberlin, Ohio, and an Ed.D. in Adult and Student
Education from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. While pursuing her doctorate, she served as
residence hall director and taught classes in Social Diversity Education, as
well as classes in ballroom, aerobic, and line dancing. Prior to that, she raised two sons while
pursuing a career in graphic design, photography, and promotional writing. While living in Ohio, she created and
exhibited large-scale fabric artworks; nowadays, in Pennsylvania, she dabbles
in watercolor. She recently retired from
the workforce to focus on fine arts, dance, writing, and other delights. See Author Index Prose A-K for more of Joan's work.
