My First Ride

My sister Gwenny, brother Phillip and me. Carrollton, Texas

The very first thing I remember was seeing the ground moving fast, the thunder of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road, my father’s arm around me, holding me very tightly in front of him, my small hands on
top of the big saddle horn. I was, so they told me, two years old, and I laughed the whole time. The faster daddy’s horse, Red, galloped the more I laughed. That was the beginning of my life-long love of horses.

 I spent much of my young life on the back of a horse. First there was Dolly, the piebald (black and white horse) on whom all the children in my large, extended family first learned to ride. Dolly was a gentle and patient horse, up to a point. When that point was reached, she decided it was time for us to get off and either ran under a stand of trees to try and knock us off or she would fall to her front knees and begin to roll. We learned early on to duck under tree branches or jump away as soon as Dolly’s knees hit the ground.

 When I was seven years old, my dad came to school, took me out of class and in the hallway he knelt in front of me and said, “There’s a filly born on the farm this morning. She doesn’t look like much but if you want her, she’s yours.” I jumped up and down shouting “Yes! Yes, please!” After school, Daddy drove me to the farm to meet my horse. She was in the barn with her mother, Dixie, suckling, her little white tail swinging to and fro as she nursed. Daddy whispered, “We’ll let them be now, just stand and look for a spell. Have your thought of a name for her?” Just then, the filly turned her head and looked at us. She had a white star on her forehead.  “Yes sir, I’m going to name her Texas Star.”