For some reason, today I have been thinking a lot about the two horses we had on the farm when I was a teenager. I always loved horses and when we lived in the city, took private lessons in horsebackriding, English style, in a nearby community. It was a treat to attend summer camp there and to have the chance to ride every day.

My first horse, “Montana Red” was a retired camp horse. At 25 years old, he was not full of vim and vigor anymore. He was happy enough to trot, or sometimes to canter, if prodded. His pasture companion was a 3 1/2 year old gelding when I first got him. His father was an award-winning Arabian stallion named “Sardaf.”

“Lucky” knew only one speed of gait: to gallop. Yes, he was wild. I tried to train him, as best I could, and was rewarded with a kick in the head on one winter’s day, as I tried to lead him out of the barn for him to get some fresh air.

Every day, I’d come home from school and I’d head out to the barn to feed and water the horses. I was skinny but strong and thought nothing of tossing around 100 lb. bales of hay, or heavy feedbags. The mixture of oats, molasses and whatever else was in the grain bag smelled very sweet. Every Saturday, my father and I would get in his 1938 Dodge Pickup truck that he called “The Green Hornet,” and we’d head on up the road to Mr. Fife’s Country Store to buy the grain.

One day, I came home from school and when I went into the barn, there were no horses. The halters, bridles, martingales, lunge lines, English and Western saddles, etc. hung in their usual places in the barn. The horses were simply gone.

Back in the 1960s, there was a sense of “Daddy Knows Best.” No one would dare to question the decisions of a parent. The equipment was left hanging in place until I sold the farm in 1999 – in other words, more than 30 years later.

Both of my parents are now gone. I wish I had asked them what happened? Was it a financial consideration? Was it a vendetta for some unforgivable sin of mine, real or imagined? Were they afraid I would get hurt? What? This has been like a hanging question mark over my entire life, but there is no way to know the unknowable. Maybe that is ok. Maybe I would not want to understand the viciousness of the act of removing my horses, apparently selling them to a glue factory. Why else would their tack be left as a grim reminder of their fate?

Children are often victims and they don’t understand why. They don’t know what they did wrong. They don’t know why they are slapped or abused.

I have had to rethink the idea of my horses. They were a luxury for a middle-income family, and perhaps I am reading too much more into the situation. If I meet my parents again, in some after-life, I plan to ask them what happened. Until then, I can only appreciate their earlier encouragement of a little girl’s passion and love for horses.

Hear my song, “.”

Patricia Cummings

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