My Friend Laddy

My first ride on horseback was around the time I was four. My cousin Carrie and I were the only girls in the family (mom's side). She was three years older and came up with a lot of clever ideas that I was more than willing to help her execute.

It all started when my grandpa put us up on Laddy, a large white Arabian gelding, and let us ride him around Laddy's stall. It didn't take Carrie long to figure out that adults were an unnecessary part of that equation. By holding a handful of grain, we could easily coax him close enough to the feedbunk for us to slide right onto his back. Laddy was, by all accounts, one of the most intelligent and obviously easy-going horses known in Central Illinois. So, for a while - I don't remember how long, weeks or months, we were satisfied to "ride" Laddy in his stall from feedbunk to water bucket, all the while us bouncing uncontrollably, as if that would make him want to do more laps.

From there, we began riding him in what seemed to be much larger pastures. Still bareback, with only a halter and leadrope. Those pastures don't seem so large any more, but as long as we could get him up to a gallop for a couple of steps before we reached the opposite fence, we were content. More than content really. Laddy tried his best to dissuade us from our new hobby. He frequently rubbed against fences so we had to raise our legs on one side, then he'd start to trot. Off we tumbled. We got wise to that after a few falls. Then he tried the clothesline. I was the one in back, so I think I fell victim to that one a time or two more than Carrie, but it stopped working after a while too. Double bareback is tricky, and he knew it. When he was getting bored with us, he would sometimes just make a quick, unexpected turn. Off we went. Still, we persisted. Even falling was fun, really.

Without exaggeration, my fondest memories of childhood take place on that dear horse. After years of bareback riding, we learned of a thing called a saddle! Imagine our delight at the decreased falls and bumps. Of course, then we had to take turns on Laddy's back or one of us was relegated to a less cooperative horse. Being younger, I almost always rode manageable Laddy. Carrie and I were nearly beside ourselves when Grandma and Grandpa offered to load up the horses for the short trip "up north," where the four of us rode along Cedar Creek and between growing corn fields on our own little trail ride. Those were the most beautiful of all beautiful afternoons. There were many times when I visited the farm without my cousin. I always missed her, but it also meant no taking turns and much longer rides. I know she would agree with the mixed feelings. Those days alone on horseback were filled with freedom and independence. Laddy was a good companion. When I had a story to tell, he was kind enough to turn one ear to me with one alert for all the dangers of an Illinois farm (the occasional sparrow or gaping posthole). It was a lovely relationship. All the advantages of a listening ear and none of the disadvantages of another's input.

I realize how incredibly fortunate I was to have such a gift. Freedom. Peace. Danger, although never as much as in my imagination. In my horseback daydreams, Laddy was a half-broken cowpony. I was the cowgirl destined to tame him. Another day, I might be a fair maiden, graciously astride my noble steed. We had many adventures, and even though he was often reluctant (his grain and hay were always more appealing than a jog with a kid), I like to think that he enjoyed his role in them. Winston Churchill was right when he said, "When you are on a great horse, you have the best seat you will ever have." From his back, I could see everything and had to think of nothing.

When I was 13, we moved away from Illinois. Instead of being 30 minutes away from all that Laddy meant, I was 8 hours. Less than a year after we moved, Laddy died. He had gotten old and foundered several times. Grandpa found him one morning and buried him on the farm. That is far from the norm, and I'm grateful for it (even if it happened to be a story told to spare some of our tears). I did cry, but recently I realized that I only cried for the horse. Looking back, I cried again - this time for the freedom and the friendship. Sappy, I know, but how often does one actually get to live out a childhood fantasy? Because, after all, he really was my noble steed.