The Western Horseman

Can you imagine this picture on the cover of the magazine 'The Western Horseman'. And Why not?

As you have already imagined or suspected, I have a story with this picture. This picture was taken just on the south side of the house in the driveway. Notice the soil? Remember my previous story: ' Post Mauling for Dummies' when I discussed they type of soil? Oh, you didn't read it? Well you'll have to read it to know what the heck I'm going on about. The story following is about the two main characters in the picture above. A fine looking specimen if I must say myself. Long powerful legs, straight back, fine facial features with a strong neck. Well manicured and sleek. And that was me. Thought that I was talking about the horse? NO. That was me. That friggin' horse was a man killer. If you look carefully at the picture you will see that damn horse was looking for a place to rub me out! I'll start at the beginning of this adventure.

I think that I was about fourteen years old in this picture and the story begins about a year before this picture. Dad had started doing a few odd stucco jobs around Caroline to see if he could get enough

work to be able to quit in Calgary and stay home. As it was Dad was driving back and forth from Calgary every week to work. Come home on the weekend, get a few things done and then give me multiple tasks to keep me busy. He always had some great jobs for me. One week while he was gone he wanted me to dig the septic tank. I did it, but it took a couple of weeks. Thank god for sand and no rocks. The worst thing was the roots from the trees. Another favourite of mine was the big pile of 1X6 boards that I had to pull nails from. The boards were from some deal my Dad made on an old church that had been torn down. (Dad could take all the wood home if he loaded and hauled it out of there). I wasn't to throw the nails out either. I had to straighten all those nails after I was done with the boards! I think that there is still a pail or two of those nails out in one of the old sheds. Well, I better get back to the Horseman story. So, Dad was doing a few jobs here in there on weekends. I was big and strong enough to help him on some of these jobs. I think one of the first jobs was Mike Steens house just south of town. Dad needed a labourer to bring him stucco mud. This meant running the wheelbarrow and numerous other things that I won't bore you with. So, being born in a somewhat Capitalist country where there supposedly is Child Labour Laws, I ask my Dad what he is going to pay me. Well, you can imagine the response I received. Paaaiiiidddd? Who the hell feeds you? Who puts clothes on your back? (Don't look at the picture above to see the clothes.........I asked you not to!). After some negotiating with my father we came to some sort of an agreement. He received in payment a 3/4 Charolais bull from Mike Steen (was it 3/4's because it wasn't full grown?, or what?). Dad decided that he would pay me. Here son this is YOUR bull now, for working all summer pounding posts and helping me stucco places. You have to look after it though. That means feeding it and cleaning the barn. Oh, Hooray, another victory for me! Right on! I was moving up in the world. My capitalist blood was pumping. I did the chores like a trooper all winter long, and right through the spring. Then one day I came home from school and there was my Bull....................gone! Where in the Sam Hill is the bull I enquired of Mumsy. Your Dad sold him. WHAT?!? That was my bull. She said with a nonchalant voice: "We needed the money." WHAT?!!? That was my money! You guys owe me that money. Mum never likes arguing with me. Later, Dad comes home with a horse. WHAT?!!? (I think that was Mum that said it that time). "I went and got this horse for John" was Dad's reply to Mum. I sold his bull so this is in trade. I picked out a nice horse for ya son. 3/4 Thoroughbred. Jeez here we go with the 3/4 thing again! Why is it 3/4's? Because the other 1/4 is Arabian. (I wasn't a full blown Horseman then, so, I didn't realize that what I had was a purebred KNOTHEAD!!) One of the reoccurring themes in my Dad's short life was his wheeling and dealing. He traded God knows what for this gie-normous McCullough Chainsaw with a 25 foot bar on it (I don't know; it was very long, maybe 4 foot). It would take 3 days just to sharpen the chain on it. Once Dad realized that he wasn't using the saw much (or more like, I couldn't lift the damn thing let alone start it!), he traded for a banjo (why would he get a banjo when the only musical talent that my Dad had was he could burp a few words, which by the way Arlene is very good at. If there was a competition for longest, loudest, grossest burp she could win a Gold medal for Canada!!). That Banjo didn't stick around for more than month when Dad traded that for a Violin. Geez he loved getting 'bargains'. Okay, back to the Knot-head (the HORSE! I know what you were thinking). I was pretty sceptical about this horse. I didn't think that I was a horse person. I liked dogs, but not horses. We had a good old mare out there that could be rode anytime and she was gentle. NO, I had to have this horse. IT was MINE. Ya, have to look after it though. Oh, sure Dad, thanks. Where did ya get the horse from. Oh, Hank Petersen, the 'hide buyer'. Well, I better get some use out of this horse so I

decided I would try riding the buggar. Good thing Judy lived next door. She always loved to ride horses, so she encouraged me to go riding with her. Sure, that sounds like fun. Did I mention that I had a hate on for this horse? No? Well, I think that it was a mutual thing. In fact I was pretty sure the horse made me hate it. The first time I was to go catch the damn thing it took forever. It did not want to be caught. Finally with Judy's help we catch the friggin' thing. Next the saddle. That didn't go too bad (once I figured out that the horn goes to the front.....just kidding). I don't know to this day why Dad got a 'Hackamore' (I think the principle behind the Hackamore is when you pull on the reins it pulls down on the nose or squeezes the nostrils or some very ingenious thing), instead of a regular bridle with a bit, but there are lots of things I will never know about why Dad did things the way he did. I am sure there was some good reason, ...............or NOT (probably traded a McCullough chainsaw for it and a banjo for all I know!). That Hackamore didn't help my relationship with this bloody horse one little bit. Finally, we are all put together, and I am on top of that ..Horse. Probably the picture was the only time that horse would hold still long enough to take a snapshot. So, Judy gets either Flika or Buck. I think it was Flika, a nice quarter horse. Off we go up the road to the south. Judy is one of those people that love horses. I think the French have the right idea when it comes to some horses. I think it is called 'Montreal Meat'. Judy then 'opens' up Flika and allows the horse to go at a controlled gallop. It was at this point that the Thoroughbred in my horse's pin sized brain thinks that this is a race and explodes into warp 3 without letting me know. SHIT! I better hang on because didn't matter how hard I pulled on that wonderful Hackamore we weren't going to be stopping too soon. Thundering down the edge of the road at break neck speed we go with the wind blowing my hair back out of my eyes so that when my life starts flashing before my eyes I will be able to see it without any obstructions. Thirty miles a hour, 40, 50, 60 mph and now starting to redline!!! Hey, this isn't too bad. Judy and Flika weren't seeing anything but our ass ends along with all sorts of shit and debris from 'Speedys' thundering hooves. Thankfully I wasn't too accustomed to riding horses and I had what could only be described as a death grip on the saddle horn. Did I mention in the previous story that I had to develop some muscles from pounding posts, and etc? I am sure I did. Because if I hadn't had that death grip on that saddle horn and the strength of 5 or 6 ordinary men then that KNOTHEAD would have had me peeled off that saddle and doing 27 somersaults in the ditch. Just when I was looking back to see how far behind Judy and her horse was this shithead horse of mine takes the opportunity to do an immediate 90 degree turn down off the road into the ditch. There I was out the side of the saddle hanging on like one of those fancy trick riders you see doing all sorts of fancy leg kicks or standing with one foot on top of the saddle and the other sticking straight out the back. Or one of those Western's with the good guy galloping with his horse and he's hanging off the side shooting at the bad guys, using the horse as a shield (must of been 'armoured' horses' to do that), or the guy that can drop one leg to the ground and the momentum swings him and his leg over top of the horse to the other side of the horse where he repeats the procedure with his other leg and so on. I am sure these people probably started out like me. I am sure that I did several of those fancy footed tricks on ol' Babe the Knot head horse just on this first ride. Finally I convince the horse to stop, or the horse just decided to stop so that I could shake a couple of lumps out of my pants. I was so friggin' mad at that horse that I probably could have shot it, but I was too busy cleaning out my pants (not really, just kidding).

This sort of thing went on for a few years with this horse but I was onto her ways. Shortly thereafter, that horse tried the same thing going down an old trail on the quarter and eyed up the perfect branch. It was just at the right height to rip me off her back. That was where my trick riding came in handy. That horse had it out for me, but it wasn't for about twenty years later that I found out that the horse didn't just dislike me, it hated all males. Hank had told Dad that the horse just hated me for some reason and that was why Hank got the horse in the first place. I wonder why Dad wanted that horse then?

I had a few more adventures on that horse before I left home to become a 'man of the world' (I went to BC to work for a year!). My sister Karen......yes, the 'Reluctant Mermaid' laid claim to the horse called Babe, but known to me as Knot head, and didn't have any problems with that friggin' animal. So today I have 3 horses, and I ask myself almost every day: 'Why do you have these horses?'