My Heritage

I saddle him near the once shabby tack shed that contains old discarded batteries.  As I stick my boot into the stirrup, he bends his blue roan neck to nip the toe of my boot.   Tapping my quirt on his hip, I turn him sharply in a circle.   The snaffle bit pulls harder to the right, but he obeys its pull.  I climb up.  He trots around the circle where the cement from an old supply tank and thousands of old pump jack belts thrown away by Dad have been loaded waiting to be hauled to the old silage pit on the 460, which  Mike has repaired many times since we first moved to the home place a year ago.  This first year after the move has been a year of many repairs, many replacements, and much rebuilding.

Suddenly,  the tin reflects off the hole of the roof of the barn as it zooms to the sky overhead.   Trees become umbrellas over Hoss’s raised hoofs.   I grab for the saddle horn,  but miss it. Pain in my knee echoes up my thigh as I hit the ground.  Looking up, I roll to miss Hoss’s front legs as he jumps down the small embankment next to the paint chipped  barn.

Our eyes meet.  His callused hands reach down to pull me to my feet.   As I gain my balance, the memory of his pipe tobacco drifts toward me.

“Well, go catch him before he gets into some barbed wire.”

Getting mud on my boots, I corner Hoss by a rebuilt waterer and grab the reins, I return to the man with callused hands in overalls over a blue snapped work shirt and straw cowboy hat with a sweat stain on it.  He is standing next to the black rubble from the burned down granary, which no longer could keep corn dry.  Hoss runs into my shoulder as I near him.  

“Jerk him.  How many times have I told you not to let a horse treat you like that?  Show him who’s boss.”

 As Hoss moves in to meet him, he immediately jerks the reins, “Okay.  Quit it.  Or I’ll start a boot factory up your butt.” 

Handing me the reins, we  again walk side by side down the lane past the barn, which will have to join the  burned granary some day.  Hoss runs into my shoulder, but immediately backs up as I turn to look up at him.  Dad’’s eyes approve.

We near the round pen, I pull the gate open, and Hoss, Dad, and I enter for the upcoming workout.   Even the new fence posts anticipate the workout to come.

“Get on him,”  he directs me.   He’s not holding the reins so I am sure Hoss will rear up again.   Since my hips can not stand more black bruises creeping up on them, I hesitate.

“Show him who’s boss and pull his head around so he gives to pressure.  That’s the only way it’ll work.”

I pull the reins several times so his nose is touching the stirrup to calm him down before I start to climb up again.    I slowly prance him both ways around the round pen.  He seems to be doing fine.  

“Okay, trot him.  Stop him and make him back up.”  

I rest my spurs to his girth.  His front legs raise up.  

“Pull his head around with the first sign of a buck or rear.”

Trying to trot him again, I sense his front end rising.  As I pull his head to meet my boot,  he gives to the pressure.    He stops on command and backs three or four feet.  Rolling around and trotting the  opposite direction, he is doing fine.

“Okay, canter him.”

“I’ve never done it with him before.”

“Do you think anyone will want him if all he can do is walk and trot?”

Suddenly a long whip with a plastic bag on the tip appears in Dad’s hand.  He starts coming after Hoss, who immediately breaks into a gallop.  I grab the reins and just stay on.  After twenty passes he tells me to stop and turn him.  Hoss is glad to stop and turn, but Dad has to encourage him with the whip on his flank again.  

“Okay, take him ten times around and turn him again.”

I do, while concentrating on staying in the saddle.  I do get my hand off the horn.  I do get Hoss into a comfortable canter. We lope around the pen as one, a perfect team.

I turn toward Dad.   He is gone.  He’s left me his true heritage one more time.

Cheri Blocher