Greenhorns

When my parents moved our family to Idaho, they weren’t horse people. But Mom had a fantasy of owning land and riding horses just for the romance of it, so they bought the home at the end of Riverview Lane that included a pasture and barn. It was there, Mom was sure, our idyllic country life would blossom, each day’s sunset casting a golden haze over the pasture as the sweet smell of hay infused the air.

Mom signed up my older sister and me for 4-H Club so we could learn how to ride—a natural prerequisite to becoming horse people. We already had one hand-me-down horse, Cassidy, for my sister to ride. For me my parents bought a retired barrel-racing horse named Slick, so old he was on arthritis medication. Thank goodness I was only an eighty-pound nine-year-old.

When practices started that summer, Mom was pregnant with her fifth daughter. We practiced twice a day, two times a week. Each day of practice, Mom hitched up her maternity britches, loaded the horses into the trailer and her four daughters into the truck, and drove twenty minutes to the home of our 4-H riding coach, Jolene.

Jolene lived at the top of an upswing on a roller coaster road. It was a small house next to a large, groomed arena. When she wasn’t teaching young cowgirls how to ride, Jolene sewed sequined costumes for the rodeo drill team. Her yellow cottony hair stood straight up and she had long fake fingernails (despite which she deftly cinched my saddle at each and every practice).

I’m sure Jolene pegged us as greenhorns the moment we arrived at her house. We drove a nice truck and had a junky trailer. Everyone else had junky trucks and nice trailers. But if Jolene shook her head or clicked her tongue or crossed herself, I never saw it. She welcomed us and nurtured our farm life fantasies in that generous yet no-bull way of a true country woman.

The rest of the group was a bit more wary. Of the several 4-H horse clubs in town, we had unknowingly joined the most prestigious one. The other kids’ moms were rodeo queens, their grandparents horse trainers, their great-grandparents actual horses. They weren’t there to have a good time. They were there to win. And they’d have their chance for glory at the county fair in August.

Our rusted and creaky blue horse trailer was not the only indication of our outsiderness—it was also noted that my sister and I didn’t wear the right blue jeans.

“I’ve got some old Wranglers my daughter’s grown out of if you need ‘em,” one of the other moms offered. It might have been the woman whose daughter’s name was Chevy.

Wranglers or not, our lessons began and I was surprised at how easy it was to ride a horse. When I laid the reins on the left side of his neck, Slick turned right. When I laid them on the right side of his neck, he turned left. When I gave him the smallest tap with my heel, he started walking, and when I pulled back and said whoa, he stopped right away. Riding Slick was easier than riding a stick horse around the living room.

The only thing I couldn’t get Slick to do was lope. All summer I tried, but even with child-size spurs attached to the back of my cowboy boots, I couldn’t get him to go faster than a trot. Jolene told me to kick harder, harder—and maybe I tried, but I didn’t want to. The old boy was doing his best, I figured.

So was Mom. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning and evening that summer, she got us to Jolene’s—loaded and unloaded horses, buckled and unbuckled seatbelts and carseats, zipped jeans and cinched saddles. It was my sister and I on the horses, but Mom watched everything.

One of our 4-H requirements was to give a presentation to a panel of judges on a horse-related topic. Mom had the idea that for my demonstration I should show how to make oat-and-molasses horse muffins. She insisted I begin my speech by exclaiming, The muffins are ready! and though I was mortified to do it, she was right—the judges loved it and I clinched the win, despite my t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, while the horse people’s kids were dressed in western best. The prize was a silver dollar.

The summer came to an end and it was time for the county fair. The horses got a bath and I got a pair of Wranglers and a cowboy hat from D&B Western Supply. There were two miracles at the Payette County Fair that year. The first was that, after several good kicks to the ribs and a pleading C’mon, Slick buddy, I finally got Slick to lope. The second was that Slick and I won Reserve Champion in the trail competition, for which I was awarded a pleated pink ribbon with three streamers. I pinned it to the outside of his stall, daring anyone to think we didn’t belong.

As autumn arrived Slick’s arthritis got worse and his ribs showed through his skin like washboards. My parents decided to put him down. For years I didn’t ride much because I was afraid of other horses.

Fifteen years later Mom inherited another tired, old horse and I guess it’s true that you never forget your first love because here I am in the saddle again. Mom rides next to me and I’m finally starting to see her clearly. She’s no rodeo queen. She dreams like a child with an energy to match.

This woman could grow tulips in the desert.