Remembering the farm

Sitting here on a cold day in January in northern Illinois, I've thinking about the farm. The horses, The old house. The addition with the fireplace built by real craftsmen. The old barn. And the flowers that Mom painted around the base of the toilet in the new bathroom. Didn't she paint a snake, too? Or a skunk?

Remember the horses? Itsy Bitsy. Sonny Peavine. Rusty. Billy, the retired St. Louis Police horse. And Denver.

Remember when Billy got his leg caught in the barbed-wire fence? And how he just stood there until we found him? He didn't pull at all. He didn't have one cut.

I think Denver was the horse with the reputation for dumping riders. When he was at Missouri Stables, one renter always took bus fare with her, because she knew she was going to get dumped halfway around Forest Park. I rode him one day. When we crossed under the highway through the tunnel and came up on the other side, I kicked him into a gallop as we passed the old quonset hut. Then he suddenly planted his front feet and whirled around to go back. I don't know how I stayed on, but I did, and he never tried that with me again.

And the nasty old barn that was falling down? Where the saddles were kept? And where Dorothy had to sleep. Yikes!

When I was at Stephanie's in Columbia, S.C. last September, I rode a horse that was taller than Itsy Bitsy, who was 16-2 hands. This horse was 17-2 hands. That's way up there! Good thing there was a mounting block nearby.

I remember one time at the farm when Mom was going run to Wetzel's Grocery. She told me to stay off the horses. Naturally, as soon as the taillights of the Ford wagon went out of sight, I was out in the  front field grabbing a horse to ride. Mom was smart. She turned around and came back. And caught me!

Someday I am going to dig into some boxes I've got and see if I have old family pictures. Then I'll find out if they can be digitized.