One of my elderwriters, Patty McMinn of Sadler, read a story to the class recently about horses that were important to her when she was growing up.  There was a mare named Comanche Angel and three foals from her. Comanche Star, Patty’s gentle favorite, was chocolate brown with a white star on his forehead. Comanche Mist (Misty) was a feisty sorrel filly with black mane and tail. Whickery, a light fawn color with white mane and tail was "the baby."

Patty sums it up by saying, “They were hours of fun for my three sisters, myself and several of our cousins and friends.”

Angel was not happy doing anything more than dutifully walking in a circle as she had been trained, so she continually managed to buck us off, or scrape us off if necessary, if we attempted anything more daring.

One mistake was trying to impress upon Angel where she could find safe haven from the winter weather, in the enclosed shed end of the old barn. The next time they tried to ride her, she promptly returned to the shed, scraping the kids off her back as she entered through the low opening. No amount of rein tugging would persuade her to change direction.

 Patty’s dad nailed some old tin pots onto a homemade bench to feed them from.

She remembers, “In the summer, I woke up at first light and hurried out to get their feed poured out before I called them, assuring myself that I wouldn't be stampeded if I had everything ready for them. I braced myself for their thundering approach and when the dust settled, I brushed combed and petted on them. I especially loved the touch of their silky hides and velvety noses. Early morning sunshine spreading aromas of horseflesh and molasses and oats got my days started off with peace and promise.”

Her story triggered a strong memory of my own about Old Buck, the first horse I ever rode.  Despite his name, Buck was a gentle horse except when he didn’t want to be ridden.  A five-year-old boy who was thrust on Buck’s back at the end of the day, when he had been ridden to a distant pasture and back by my grandfather, was an imposition.  Soon I was on the ground with a bloody nose. Having taught me and my grandpa a lesson, Old Buck got the rest and feeding he deserved. 

Julie Morris of Whitewright wrote a story entitled “Two Friends Who Never Let Me Down” about two horses she had been given by her grandparents.  Blue was of undetermined heritage and she had hooves the size of dinner plates.  She could be lured with a feed bucket and then bridled and ridden Indian-style without a saddle.  The second horse, named Smokie, was the prettiest horse Julie had ever seen, gray with black mane and tail.  Best of all, he had that smooth rolling gait called a single-foot.

Blue and Smokie became inseparable, and during Julie’s teen years they were always a welcome respite, like two human friends who understood everything and never interrupted or chastised. I wish more youngsters today could learn to ride and spend time taking care of good horses.

Jerry Lincecum is a retired English professor who now teaches classes for older adults who want to write their life stories.  He welcomes your reminiscences on any subject: jlincecum@me.com