The Horse
Secrets stood silent around the homestead. They watched never moving, with furrowed brows, scowling and sniggering at my failures. Everyone could feel them, they affected our behavior, but they remained just out of sight. They poised under the giant Live Oaks where they once butchered hogs. They loitered near the out - house and lounged against the smokehouse. Those close to the house were spoken about often by family members.
Instincts made me look for them and on occasion one moved in my peripheral vision; like a copperhead coiling be - side a cow trail. The secrets lived in purga - torial comfort. The hill top received the prominent Gulf Coast draft that was further cooled by the shade of the big trees.
It's a place where the sky is a natural element. The Span - ish moss alerts wind direction,
clouds announce rain; and mi - grating song birds, humming - birds, and geese tell the chang - ing of the seasons. A simple school urchin knows when the dog days of summer are about to break and the grandmas that cooked on wood stoves begin unpacking winter clothes ahead of the first Norther. Another contingency of se - crets were in the horse lot. These were curious, less angry, and subject to putting a kind word into the breeze where an astute child may hear and for a moment be blessed. My countless questions were whispered and cried into the air. But, many of my prayers had no answers. Or, they were delivered as lessons for an older child, an adolescent, an adult, an old guy. Nevertheless, my compa - ny was welcome amongst the spirits that inhabited the barns, trails, and pens. They helped me hone my few limited natural skills. In 1954, Grandpa Herman Brune left behind two horses. Twelve years later his horses accepted my elementary educa - tion on his behalf. Nap was the elder. He was kind and gentle but somewhat hard-mouthed. His trick was to swipe me against whatever was handy. On Christmas Day, 1966, I was nine years old and Grand - ma Brune/Santa Claus provided me with a brand new Hereford brand saddle. Me and Ol' Nap took a tour of the hill top. This was my first experience in understand - ing that a horse knows when a nincompoop has the reins. Despite my gee-hawing and last minute yells he took me under the clothesline. It hooked under the saddle horn and we tore down 30 feet of line and broke two tall cedar posts. The blessing Daddy gave me was not the good kind. The quiet by-gone mentors pursed their lips and shook their heads.
Nap died and Pony Boy took over. Whereas Nap didn't get past a pounding trot, Pony Boy had a healthy gallop. Mom and Dad instructed that I was too young to saddle a horse, but that did not keep me off. On the contrary; learning to ride bareback the first few years put me way ahead of the game. Every evening after school me and Pony Boy penned Daddy's replacement heifers and then made laps around the Hog Pas ture. A few dead logs became wor - thy "jumps". My legs grew strong and my hands learned about "feel" and communicating with reins like phone lines. Me and Ol' Pony Boy got to be buddies. The Hog Pasture was too constrictive and we ventured back into Grandma's yard. This included the clothesline but it was no longer in danger. Instead we made our formation at the edge of the hill top and faced off with Santa Anna's Army that was approaching from the creek. Not being satisfied with hold - ing the high ground we charged down the slope to meet the in - vaders. Sometimes, I got shot off my mount in full gallop but always managed to fight my way back to my steed that inevitably had stopped to graze. Through the gunfire we loped back up the hill while the disar - ray of survivors in Santa Anna's Army retreated to Mexico. It is unknown whether the quiet voices from the horse barn en - joyed my imagination. Likewise, Grandma Brune viewed my escapades from her back porch. She seemed most happy when knowing I was loving life full blast. Her only words were, "Her - man Willie, you be careful." The immediate older two gen - erations feared horses. Grand - ma's brother, Uncle Theodore Kuhn, went fishing astride a hard-mouthed runaway. With a fishing pole and a stringer of fish in one hand and an uncontrollable nag in the other he was destined to break his neck going under a Live Oak limb. Uncle Al Girndt wound up with the murdering communist and later told me it was never worth the nickel you'd get for its hide. This explains why the wom - en in our family were nervous about the subject.
Nevertheless, as I grew, "be - ing scared" slipped away like a notion akin to potty training.
Ladybird was my next ride and we went to high school together. Daddy bought the green-broke sugar white filly from Lester Dennis. She bit me, kicked me, threw me off, and would have filled my lunchbox with horse apples given the chance. She was also hard-mouthed and would forev - er be ridden with a mechanical hackamore. One try with a curb bit, an out-of-control race around the river bottom, and a flip off a creek bank convinced me. Ladybird was also my trans - portation for midnight visits to the Che'-Paree entertainment emporium on HWY 71. One thought bothered me. While I had mastered throwing a kerchief on the ground and picking it up again as I rode by at a dead run; most riders wouldn't try that stunt. Also, riding what we called "Indian-style" was originally thought to be a necessity. The practical application of hanging beside a horse's shoul - der and neck allowed a cowboy to chase escaping cattle through the yaupon brush shirts bedamned. My quandary was how did lesser-skilled horseman sur -
vive the horse and buggy days? At this juncture it was a se cret. (To Be Continued)
