What is one of the most amazing things you have seen in your life? As a boy growing up in the 1970s, I can clearly remember Marlin and Jim capturing wild animals on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Truth be told, what I remember most was Jim wrestling wild animals while Marlin stayed safely in a helicopter, boat, or jeep all the while yelling at Jim to watch out for the teeth. I also remember the adventure and amazement I felt watching Jacques Cousteau’s underwater adventures on television, as well as seeing both the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds perform aeronautical acrobatics right above my head in their sleek fighter jets.
However, it was one rainy Saturday as a teenager in the 1980s, when I was stuck inside and watching the Wide World of Sports, that I was introduced to the sport of Dressage. I can still remember it clearly, when an elegant, well-dressed lady rode out on a magnificent well-manicured horse; a horse that immediately started dancing the moment the music began! Funny thing is at this point in my life I didn’t even know horses could dance. I mean this horse was actually dancing, not doing some equine tricks I saw Trigger do on Saturday mornings while watching reruns of The Lone Ranger with my Pawpaw Boudreaux. Of course, this was after we went into Thibodaux for donuts and chocolate milk! Anyway, this horse was actually keeping time and rhythm with the theme song of the Mikey Mouse Club. The pairing of horse and rider was flawless and with the utmost precision as this horse placed hoof over hoof, crossing them in perfect timing to the song’s singing out the spelling of Mickey Mouse. Wow, I was simply amazed with the fact someone could train a horse to dance.
Years later, I was at a time in my life when I was serving in the United States Navy as a young Military Working Dog Handler, and when I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my existence here on Earth. Why the pinnacle of my existence, you ask? Well, not only was I in the prime of my life, but I was also at peak physical fitness, I had a new 25th anniversary Ford Mustang, and I was a bad-ass, gun-toting, Military Working Dog Handler as well. No wait, there was more to this thought process of mine, because I was also dating a pretty little blond lady who just so happened to also be a bad-ass, gun-toting, Military Working Dog Handler at peak physical fitness too! For the sake of this story, and all future stories, let’s just call her that pretty little blond lady.
Anyway, like every other man dating a pretty little blond lady in the military or any female on any military base with a pulse, other servicemen were openly pursuing my pretty little blond lady! One day, out of the blue, my memory recalled that most amazing Dressage moment as it came back to me just as my tolerance for this openly, disrespectful behavior of others pursuing my pretty little blond lady was finally wearing thin.
On that particular day we had just finished training with all our Military Working Dogs and were standing around bragging about how well each one of us could train dogs when a couple of the dog handlers started paying a little too-much attention to that pretty little blond dog handler lady. Overflowing with the insecurity, jealousy, and frustration of a twenty-one-year-old, I blurted out something that years later would prove the prophetic nature of what I am currently doing with the words I write. Yes, I was about to say something I was sure would send all these other want-to-be suitors fleeing with their tails tucked. And said it I did, “Yeah, training a Military Working Dog is hard, but it’s nothing compared to training a horse to dance and one day I am going to train a horse to dance!”
Well, evidently what I said impressed that pretty little blond lady, but was it because I was standing up for my commitment to her as her boyfriend or was it that one day, she would actually expect me to train a horse to dance for her? I may never know, but what I did know at that time was that all was right in the universe because just then that pretty little blond lady shot a sweet little smile my way. Realizing they had been bested, all those other mice of men squeaked and scampered away in shame, evidently embarrassed for lacking the horsemanship skills needed to train a horse to dance. And me, well I just stood there, chest puffed out, knowing she was mine. While I am proud to say I am still with that same pretty little blond lady, I must ashamedly admit I have never trained a horse to dance, nor will I ever. Truth be told, the reason for my lack of commitment to one day train a horse to dance is that I dislike horses. Don’t get me wrong, while I do recognize and agree horses are one of the most amazing and majestic creatures on the planet and deep down inside, I would love nothing more than to one day ride a properly trained Dressage horse, my main problem is I am really kind of scared of them. Not scared at the time and expense it takes to own a horse. Nope, my fear is a very real fear of equine death nurtured over the years through a few memorable experiences with horses that didn’t end so well! You may be asking yourself why and figuring that such a proud man as one who would fight for the love of a pretty little blond lady, would never admit the real reason of fearing equine death and to this I say, “Ha!”
While my pride no longer runs as deep as it used to, some unfortunate admirers of pretty little blond ladies would say my jealousy still does. However, my very rational fear of equine death happened because of events caused while horseback riding, because I was never properly trained how to ride a horse. Sure, I watched my uncles ride horses, and they did “sort of” show me what to do, but “sort of” showing me always culminated with one of them saying, “Hold on tight and don’t fall off or it’s going to hurt,” as one of them would toss me up in the saddle. On top of this quality time with my uncles, my sister and I even had a pony named Paco that was kept at my Pawpaw’s leased pasture, but still no lessons.
I had swimming lessons growing up, because the danger of drowning is real, but not horseback-riding lessons. I even had guitar lessons and painting lessons, but never horseback-riding lessons. After all, my uncles said they didn’t have any lessons growing up and neither would I because horseback-riding lessons were for sissies and at this point in my life, I just knew they were right. Who needed lessons, proper training, or qualifications when I had also been watching men ride horses on television ever since I was a little boy, and it sure didn’t look that hard, I mean you just climbed up and the horse did all the work?
My not needing to learn the knowledge that has been gleaned by mankind over the millennia that our species tamed and domesticated the horse was further cemented in my mind because I had ridden Paco the Pony in Pawpaw’s pasture while being led around by my uncles. You may say, “Hold on Scott, this cavalier attitude about training doesn’t sound safe at all.” Well, you are correct, but let me remind you this attitude was instilled in me in the 1970s and this was more of a jump in there decade, than a let’s ensure you are properly trained period in time. Thus, I went on into my teenage and adult years jumping in there and riding horses without any proper training. After all, what could go wrong by allowing an untrained and unqualified, person to do something?
THE MISSISSIPPI KID AND GREENHORN
My most memorable horseback riding experience came when I was a teenager and I was invited to a horseback-riding ranch in Mississippi during Mardi Gras break with my friend and his family, let’s just call my friend Greenhorn. I hated to miss Mardi Gras, but this was actual horseback riding and man, it was going to be remarkable with me decked out in a faded denim jacket, faded denim jeans, and being able to ride horses, I just knew I was going to be the epitome of cool.
Soon after arriving and helping his stepfather, let’s call him The Barrister, and helping set up the RV, we hurried off to the stables where the wranglers asked us about our experience with horses. Confident and looking the part in my faded denim attire, I proudly exclaimed, “I have a lot of experience, my Pawpaw had horses and I have been riding ever since I was a little boy.” I noticed the awe in Greenhorn’s eyes as he looked at me with obvious amazement, knowing he was now going to be riding with a legendary, equine enthusiast. They introduced us to the horses we would be riding for the next week and told us to lead them around the corral for a while so they could get to know us. I grabbed my horse, a sharp looking chestnut mare, and snickered as Greenhorn came out with what was obviously an old trail horse. “She’s good looking, but obviously an older model,” I exclaimed to him.
That night around the campfire I shared all my adventures as a boy on horseback in my Pawpaw’s pasture, and before we went to bed, Greenhorn told his mom not to worry because he would be riding with an experienced horseman for the next week. Yep, he was lucky because it was my vast amounts of equine experience he would surely profit from as it was my experience that would assuredly get us noticed by all those teenage girls, who not much earlier were watching us lead our trusty mounts around the corral. It was these teenage girls whose eyes were obviously on me, decked out in worn denim pants and jacket that screamed experienced horseman, or poor white boy, but hey there was no time to go into too much detail with them as it was getting late, and we were getting hungry.
The next morning it was an early rise, breakfast, and after we let his parents know we were headed out, his mother, Mrs. Sherry, reminded us to be careful. I told her not to worry as I would look after her son, after all, besides being an experienced equestrian, I was also a whole six and a half months older than him. We walked up to the barn and said howdy to the wranglers who showed their appreciation for our cowboy lingo by quickly bringing our mounts out to us. After taking the reins, we walked out of the corral, leading our horses out into the pasture, talking, and letting them graze along the way. “Hey, Scott when do we climb up and start riding?” Greenhorn impatiently asked me. At that time in my life, and before any military leadership courses, I often found it an annoying distraction when someone asked me blatantly stupid questions, especially someone who obviously should be speaking less and paying attention more to an experienced equestrian. Plus, he didn’t even use the correct terminology; “Mount up,” I questioned him? “Right over that hill over there,” I said, still in disbelief he would bother me with such a stupid question. “Best to let them settle down before we mount up,” I added, trying my best to keep my attitude positive so as not to give off any tension the horses may feel because of me having to deal with Greenhorn questioning an inexperienced horseman like me.
Then, just as we got over the hill and out of sight of the barn, the wranglers, and all those teenage girls, I told Greenhorn it was time to mount up. He nodded in agreement and climbed up on his horse, who was being openly subservient and had obviously been ridden by inexperienced riders for years. “Wow, she is just going to stand there and let you climb up like some ole trail horse,” I snarked. My sharp-looking little chestnut mare had been having a different idea about allowing such an experienced equine enthusiast as me any semblance of ease of access to her back. Letting me know she expected more from an experienced rider, she spun round and round in circles keeping the stirrup just out of reach of my foot. My foot, that I must admit, was flailing about like a Taekwondo Grand Master demonstrating his whole repertoire of kicks. After what seemed like an eternity and after several hundred feet of spinning around, my horse finally got dizzy and decided to stand still long enough as I climbed up into the saddle. “You see that is how you mount an obviously lesser-trained, spirited horse,” I quipped as Greenhorn looked on in amazement at my horse-handling skills. We rode for hours on many different trails that led this way and that through the piney woods, across streams, and up and down hills, only stopping long enough to talk to the occasional teenage girls on horseback that we came across. As we talked to those lovely ladies, I continued to hold up my end of the bargain by looking cool with my hands crossed and resting on my saddle horn. Greenhorn held his reins tightly, resting his hands on his thighs and messing up the whole cool cowboy vibe for us.
As we ended our day back at the barn, we both got down, handed our horses over to the wranglers and as we headed out of the corral, I let the wrangler with my mare know I wanted to ensure he got her wiped down properly and fed early as we were going to do some serious riding in the morning. The wrangler shot me a wide-eyed look, which was evidentially a wrangler’s way of assuring me he understood my directions. I casually sent back a nod of approval I realized would only have looked cooler if I had been wearing a cowboy hat, brim pulled down low, just above my eyes. Me and Greenhorn then turned and headed back to the RV, asses a little worse for the wear, but proud of the cowboying we had done that day. We spoke to his parents over dinner before wandering off to find the young ladies who had told us to meet them by the campfire at community center. “Man, you ladies looked pretty good out there,” I said as we walked up. “And y’all looked good too,” came the responses, of course accompanied by some giggles. “Thanks, been riding for years,” I replied as we found our places around the fire. Greenhorn just plopped down in the dirt, but me, well I casually laid back on one side resting on my elbow to better show off my faded denim jeans and Levi jacket. Like I said, cool. As it was getting late and after some tall tales shared between teenage boys to teenage girls, we went back to the RV to get some sleep, but because we were cowboying this week, we decided to sleep out under the stars. After about an hour, we got up and moved inside the RV, letting Greenhorn’s parents know we weren’t scared, it was just that we had a hard day of riding planned for the morning and we needed a good night’s rest, for safety’s sake.
I fell fast asleep and slept hard, dreaming I was one of those calvary soldiers I used to watch on television. There I was on my sharp-looking, chestnut mare riding high in the saddle, heading towards the field of battle. I gave my mare a slight spur accelerating her to a trot in unison with all the other troopers, then a canter, and finally, upon hearing the bugler play “Charge,” a full gallop, unsheathing my saber I turned my hand sideways and pointed it at the foot soldiers who were by now starting to turn and run-in fear….
The next morning, The Barrister woke us up early for what unfortunately would be our last ride because he said he wanted to leave early and head over to Mamou Louisiana to catch the authentic Cajun Mardi Gras, happening the very next day. After we ate breakfast, we stayed around the camp site and helped The Barrister get everything packed up, and finally a little after lunch we wandered over to the stables. I was a little disappointed we were leaving early, and my disappointment only grew when the wranglers took their sweet time getting our mounts out to us. I told Greenhorn I was beginning to question the experience of this outfit and he agreed, saying he would let The Barrister know on the way to Mamou. As we grabbed the reins of our mares I said, “Don’t forget to walk your horse a little bit to settle her in.” “Sure thing, thanks Scott and you be careful not to get to dizzy this time,” Greenhorn replied. I was a little taken back by what could have been misconstrued as sarcasm being directed at me from a lesser horseman, but I chalked his stupid comment up to his inexperience and replied, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to spin her around counterclockwise today,” and started walking my sharp-looking little chestnut mare toward the blind side of the closet hill. Just then Greenhorn looked over at a wrangler and said, “Man, Scott sure knows horses.” That wrangler looked my way with an expression that screamed jealousy, a look that let me know he was insecure with the fact he was not as experienced in equine behavior as me. “Counterclockwise?” he asked. “Counterclockwise!” I loudly replied, “always spin ’em round counterclockwise on the second day,” I further explained as I looked back at the wrangler, who by now was standing there in silence, his mouth hanging wide open from the embarrassment he was obviously feeling. And after sharing that little bit of advice, I disappeared over the hill and mounted my horse, as soon as she got dizzy enough.
We rode off in a new direction knowing today’s ride would be a short one. What we didn’t know was our cowboying was about to get exciting when not five minutes up the trail we found the skeleton of a big ole ram. We sat there in amazement looking down at that ram with its huge, curled horns and I wondered to myself how it died and why those wranglers would just leave it out here. “That ole ram’s skull should be hanging in someone’s room,” I said to Greenhorn. “Yeah, how about we get down and get the skull for The Barrister,” Greenhorn answered. My goodness this boy was going to drive me nuts with his inexperience! He obviously didn’t even consider the fact I was still a little dizzy from the counterclockwise dance I and my little chestnut mare had shared barely five minutes before. “Hmm,” I said, letting him think I was contemplating his shamefully stupid idea. I sat there in silence, rubbing my chin, looking deep in thought before finally saying in a disappointed tone, “If I had saddle bags I would gladly hop down off this horse and pick it up that ole ram skull for The Barrister.” Greenhorn nodded in agreement and as we sat there looking at that prize just out of our reach, I asked Greenhorn how any outfit could send two cowboys out cowboying without saddle bags. Now completely disgusted at the whole situation I said, “It’s pretty evident that those wranglers are not as good as they think they are. I mean did you see the look on that one’s face when I tried to teach him my counterclockwise technique?” Greenhorn shook his head in agreement, and we rode off down the trail. We continued riding for the next few hours of what was rapidly becoming one of the best days of my life. We stayed out a little longer than we should have, relishing our adventure as well as the amazing sight of the sun settling in over the hills. “Is your stomach growling” I questioned. Greenhorn said that it wasn’t him. “Well, if it ain’t you and it ain’t me, then it must be time to head in so these horses can get some grub.”
And with the experience of a two-day cavalryman, I spun that chestnut mare around and pointed her toward the barn barely visible in the distance through the glare of the setting sun. Just then my mare’s ears perked up, and I thought it odd that her now-perked ears looked just like the cavalry horse did from my dream when the bugler played “Charge!” and charge, she did. Her hindquarters squatted deep as her hooves dug into that red Mississippi dirt and with no further warning she lurched forward. Rushing to catch up with her forward momentum, I tilted my feet back in the stirrups while squeezing my knees tightly into her flanks all the while pulling back on the reins, but my sharp-looking little chestnut mare did not respond to me as she had evidently been possessed by the spirit of some long deceased calvary horse and just like that we were off. “Whoop, Whoop,” my friend hollered, oblivious to the sheer terror expressed on my face as I rode Satan’s steed out of the piney woods, over the hills; her hooves barely touching the ground as she leapt over one creek after another in complete disregard for my rapidly-diminishing emotional state. Flames shot from her nostrils and fell backwards across her body igniting her mane and tail, very real flames, but flames that magically never singed a single pubescent hair on my body. It must have been the tears that were pouring out of my eyes that kept me from igniting, tears obviously caused by the speed we were galloping at and because of the glare of the setting sun. Thank goodness because even though the Human Torch was always my favorite member of the Fantastic Four, I had no desire to become him, especially while I was too busy holding on tightly, so I didn’t fall off, just like my uncles had told me to do. And hold on I did as my ride continued with my equine death dealer never letting up at all, obviously misconstruing my screams of terror as joy and excitement that only seemed to drive her to gallop harder and faster as she was now fully committed to giving such an experienced equine enthusiast as me the ride of his life. As we finally came to a stop at the barn, I climbed down off of the chestnut witch, nearly collapsing to the ground as my muscles gave out and my knees buckled beneath me. I struggled to stand upright, desperately trying to regain my composure by wiping my eyes on the sleeves of my faded Levi jacket and pulling the grasshoppers out of my hair and teeth. Seeing me struggling to regain my composure, the wrangler from earlier ran over and asked if I was ok. “Of course I’m ok. Have you never ridden a horse so fast that it makes your eyes water?” I snapped back. “Have you never ridden a horse Indian style, squeezing its flanks so tightly that it felt like leg day at the gym when you climbed down out of the saddle?” I added, once again shocked at the level of incompetence of this outfit. I quickly handed the reins over to this obviously-incompetent stall cleaner and looked up to see my friend casually sauntering across the pasture taking his sweet time, evidently not in the least bit as concerned as I was about allowing his hungry horse to get back to the barn in a timely manner. As soon as he got close enough, he hollered “Man, that was impressive Scott!” “I thought at times you were riding Pegasus himself as her hooves barely touched the ground,” he added cementing the horrible memory of my equine near death experience firmly in my mind. “Thanks, man, my uncles taught me to ride like that,” I replied as that stall-cleaning, want-to-be wrangler shot me what could have been misconstrued as a condescending look, by a lesser horseman.
That night around the campfire with all the teenage girls, Greenhorn spoke of my glorious ride as if I had counted coup on an enemy while riding a painted war pony. As the flames of the campfire danced back and forth, I absorbed its warmth along with all the smiles and giggles from those teenage girls and I leaned back on my side striking a cowboy pose, resting on my elbow, and feeling about as cool as I ever had in my life, and I was thankful. I was thankful my friend invited me on this trip, thankful Mrs. Sherry and The Barrister paid for me as this was nothing my mother could afford, and yes, I was even thankful for this day. However, most of all, I was extremely thankful I would not be riding that death dealer or any other horse tomorrow.
The next morning, after waking up and while trying to enjoy a peaceful breakfast The Barrister said, “If you boys want to, you can go ahead and get a quick ride in.” As The Barrister was usually a very smart man, I chose to hide the disbelief and displeasure in my voice at the fact that he would dare interrupt my breakfast with such an ignorant statement and I answered, “Best to let’ em rest today, Barrister, so they don’t go lame.” Shocked that he didn’t recall the glory of my ride the day before, I added, “That was pretty good run I gave my filly yesterday after all.” Greenhorn nodded in agreement, and Mrs. Sherry smiled, obviously happy that her son had chosen an experienced horseman like me to come along. And as we headed off toward Mamou, I solemnly bowed my head and thanked a God I did not yet know, for allowing me to survive and I swore to this God of the universe that I would never exaggerate about my equine experience again. I just knew that I would be unwavering in my promise, a promise to God that I knew I could keep, because deep down inside I had also promised myself that I would never, ever ride a horse again as long as I lived.
Once in Mamou, Greenhorn and I wandered around the four, square blocks of town talking to teenage girls and enjoying the sights and sounds of the original Cajun Mardi Gras. I was really enjoying myself, happy to be in Mamou and relieved to be safely away from horses as the memory of my near-death equine experience just one day earlier, was still haunting me. It was such a unique experience, this original Cajun Mardi Gras, so much different from the Mardi Gras parades I was used to attending. No floats, no beads, no doubloons, no throws at all, this was merely tens of thousands of people overflowing out from the few bars located in that four-square block area, partying and every once in a while, looking out toward the edge of town. “Must be something important coming over that hill,” Greenhorn said to me. “Looks that way,” I replied and just then our curiosity was answered when over that hill came local Cajun cowboys riding into town on horseback. “Shoot, more damned horses,” I thought.
Anyway, they rode into town to the cheers of tens of thousands of revelers whooping and cheering, whooping that curiously caused a tik to develop on my face. It was an uncontrollable tik I quickly realized was tied directly to Greenhorn’s celebratory, “Whoop, Whoop,” as that chestnut hell horse took flight with me on her back just yesterday. “What’s the matter with your face?” one of the girls we met asked. “Oh, it’s nothing, caught a branch to the face while riding a not-so-well-trained horse yesterday,” I replied, quickly changing the subject back to those Cajun cowboys riding into town so she would stop looking at my facial tik which was now contorting more and more with each celebratory “whoop” that came from the crowd. They were finally here after a full day’s ride, all those Cajun cowboys that started the day off at the crack of dawn, drinking beer, mounting their horses, and riding from one farm to another collecting farm animals to use in a big ole gumbo. As the crowds continued cheering them on, these warriors of broncs and brews continued their trek into town, some riding along showing off whatever rabbit, chicken, or piglet they had taken as a prize that day. “Look, here comes another,” one of the girls said, as into town rode another Cajun cowboy, standing high atop on his saddle, reins loose, beer in one hand, and a chicken in the other. And with this sight, the crowd whooped even louder and my facial tik grew even stronger and more defined with each increase in decibel. Other cowboys followed our acrobatic rider, these were sitting high up in the stirrups hooting and hollering, waving their beers high in the air, whipping the throngs of adoring revelers into a frenzy, and then our last cowboy appeared, tied by a rope to his horse so he wouldn’t fall off in his inebriated state. His head bounced along keeping time with the beat of his horse’s hooves, clip clop, clip clop, struck the steel horse shoes on the pavement and along with each up and down bounce of the horse so did the head of our cowboy, our last Cajun cowboy, who raised his beer to his lips attempting to take a sip but instead pouring most of it down the side of his face, but nonetheless trying. Upon seeing our last dedicated rider of bronc and brew, and his attempt to keep celebrating with them, the crowd went absolutely wild, and like an Olympian who just won the gold, he threw his arm up high over his head, spilling the remainder of his beer all over himself and his majestic steed. What an amazing experience I was having and looking over at Greenhorn and the girls I said, “I could be out there riding with those cowboys, after all my uncles taught me to ride horses and I have been riding for years!”
THE GREAT PADRE ISLAND HORSE RACE
My next near-death equine experience happened when I was first working in south Texas as a project controls engineer. My family had come to visit me from Louisiana, and we all excitedly headed out to ride horses on the beach at Padre Island. The pictures online looked amazing with a young lady wearing a yellow bikini riding a beautiful little chestnut mare through the surf while the waves lapped over its hooves and the breeze blew through her hair, while tourists looked on in amazement. Because of this advertisement, I just knew my family and I were in for a magical and memorable equine experience, but this time all those tourists would be looking in amazement and jealously at me and my family riding our gorgeous little chestnut mares in the surf with the waves lapping over their hooves and the wind blowing through our hair, well my family’s hair. We arrived just in the nick of time, as we had been waiting for that pretty little blond lady with time management issues to finish getting ready, she must have been trying to find her yellow bikini. We went inside as directed, paid for the five of us, and then headed over to the safety meeting. After catching what was remaining of the already brief safety meeting and even briefer instructions on how to ride a horse, the wranglers asked who had experience riding so they could ensure they paired the right horse with the right rider. I looked around and only saw two hands go up, the first was that pretty little blond lady and she explained that she grew up on a farm in West Texas and rode horses out there with her daddy. As she was sharing her experience with the wranglers, I took the time to look around for the second raised hand and when I found it, I immediately recognized it as my own! Looking up at my hand, I wondered what cosmic force had not only raised my hand up there but was keeping it up no matter how hard I tried to pull it back down. In shock, I kept looking in disbelief at my still-raised hand and decided to chastise it much like I did when my five-year-old son had climbed high up in a tree. “Get down here before your hurt yourself!” I said to my still raised hand. I followed up with, “Who do you think you are and who gave you permission to get up there?,” but much like my son, my hand would not come down. Just then, my argument with my hand was interrupted by a wrangler who asked me, “What’s your experience?” My mind rushed backward and forward as I fought to get out, “I don’t know how to ride horses, please don’t put me on a horse, lest I die,” But, something was happening and whatever dark force had taken control of my hand now controlled my tongue and out came stupid! “I grew up riding at my grandfather’s pasture with my uncles and have even been on horseback riding vacations,” I proudly exclaimed as my shoulders arched back puffing out my chest. Crap now my whole body was in on it! “Let’s get you two up on some thoroughbreds then,” the wrangler exclaimed excitedly. My wife climbed up on a beautiful little chestnut mare as did both of my daughters, and my son. “They are probably getting my steed cooled down from a race or something,” I proudly proclaimed to my family. My adoring family’s acknowledgement of my statement first came through in barely audible snickers, snickers that rapidly turned into deep convulsions of loud, belly-rolling laughter as my steed was brought out to me – a damned swayback Clydesdale, really! The rest of my family was destined for the admiration of all those tourists, as they rode their beautiful little chestnut mares in the surf while the waves lapped over their hooves and the wind blew through their hair, while I was destined to be followed by Dalmatians and chased by drunks looking for free beer!
Off we all rode, down the trail, over the dunes, and down onto the beach as the tourists looked up at us with obvious jealousy and I must admit I felt like a proud father seeing all the other children begging their daddies to take them horseback riding. As our little group of about twelve riders and three wranglers headed down the beach, my Little Rascals horse began tripping and stumbling over individual grains of sand. One would assume a swayback, glue bag with dinner platter-sized hooves would somehow have been a little surer footed, but with each successive step he stumbled causing his old knees to collapse a little bit more each time. About the time I was sure we were just moments away from him finally finding a grain of sand large enough to take him down, my mind began to wander. I imagined how he would surely fall forward, rolling on top of me with a crushing death blow from all of his 2,000-pound frame, a death blow that would surely end my often-satirical existence on this planet. As I considered my demise, the old glue bag suddenly got a little spring in his step and found his footing, heck he even developed a bit of a trot. Finally, I could show off my vast equine experience to all those tourists and the wranglers, who had evidently given me this death trap of a horse in an obvious attempt to embarrass me and steal that pretty little blond lady away! As I pushed down on the stirrups and sat a little higher up in the sway of his back, I heard my youngest daughter giggling. I looked back to see her pretty little chestnut mare splashing through the surf as the waves lapped over its hooves, reaching out and nipping my old glue bag on his rear. “What the hell are you doing? Stop laughing, you are only encouraging your horse’s negative behavior,” I said as I attempted to rein my steed out of the way, but all my pleading had no effect on either of them as my daughter continued to giggle and her beautiful little chestnut mare kept up with us, nipping and biting away. Finally, old glue bag picked up speed and trotted forward toward that pretty little blond lady and her pretty little chestnut mare that was splashing through the surf while the waves lapped over its hooves, but in his excitement of getting away from the she-devil twins, he once again tripped, this time over an obnoxiously large grain of sand and almost collapsed, threatening me once again with equine death in the process. “Be careful not to fall off when he stumbles forward,” that pretty little blond lady said, as we continued to trip and stumble up next to her and well out of reach of the tiny terror and her demon horse. “Don’t worry, babe, I am sunken into this horse’s sway back like I was in a bean bag, there is simply no way I am coming out without expert help,” I replied as I looked around, wondering where the wranglers were and why had they had not stopped this violent attack on both an obviously-aged animal and me. Oh, there they were, all three of them riding alongside my sixteen-year-old daughter on her pretty little chestnut mare as it splashed through the surf, waves lapping over its hooves, while the wind blew through her hair. And why wouldn’t they be with her? She looked just like the lady wearing the yellow bikini in the propaganda picture that misled us into taking on this death ride as our family outing of the day. Then, about the time I was going to ask where we were supposed to turn around, all the horses, all at once, turned in unison and started heading back the way we came. “Notice how everyone recognized my equine experience?” I said to that pretty little blond lady. “Yep, I turned my steed around at the perfect time and everyone else followed suit,” I underscored, as I gave her a you’re lucky to have me look. She shot me back a look of admiration that probably came from deep in her memory of the time I promised to train a horse to dance for her, so many years ago.
On the ride back, an obviously jealous fellow rider asked me what I did to piss off that pretty little blond lady at the turn when she shot me a death stare. His trying to drive a wedge between us was obviously a self-serving attempt by a young and inexperienced young man who was obviously in utter admiration of my pretty little blond lady. Poor fellow, I quickly corrected him by letting him know that his youth had left him inexperienced in the ways of women since he was unable to recognize the look and that the look, she was giving me was clearly one of admiration. Anyway, everyone rode back with envious tourists still watching us every step of the way. “Look out for that guy on that big old horse!” One envious mother yelled at her son. As I responded to her compliment by sitting up a little higher in the sway of his back, striking the pose of a cavalryman, she added, “That horse looks like it’s going to fall over at any moment!”
About the time I was going to show off a few more of my equestrian skills, my son, in an obvious attempt to upstage me, took off at a full gallop heading back toward the barn. I recognized the immediate danger he was in as I still bore the mental scars and facial tik of an untrained horse doing the same thing to me in Mississippi, thus I looked around desperately trying to get the attention of the wranglers. Nope, they didn’t even notice this emergency, as they were all still in the same location, all around my sixteen-year-old daughter riding her pretty little chestnut mare in the surf while the waves lapped over its hooves, and her hair blowing in the breeze. Didn’t notice is putting it mildly, and these were our supervisors. These were the equivalent of a superintendent, a foreman, and a safety man on a job site. Interestingly, these distracted wranglers were acting much the same as many job site supervisors unfortunately often do. And as my son raced his way down the beach, our wranglers continued to not do their jobs, that was until that pretty little blond lady let out a tirade of motherly advice in their direction. Finally seeing the runaway horse, they dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and their horses responded, digging their hooves deep into the sand, their hindquarters almost in full squats as all three of them sprang forward into lifesaving action, probably realizing that if anything happened to that little boy they were going to be in deep trouble with that pretty little blond lady. The speed at which they finally sprang into action was a testament to the sometimes-clairvoyant nature of cowboys, as it was obvious, they had seen into their future. It was a future where a pretty little blond West Texas farmer’s daughter was sitting up on a pretty little chestnut mare, drinking an herbal tea, while watching their lifeless bodies swing from ropes as the seagulls plucked out their eyeballs out. Obviously, it was with this image that the race was on, and as my son let out an excited, “whoop, whoop,” my facial tik came back again. “What the hell is the matter with your face?” that pretty little blond lady asked. “Long story,” I replied, “Let’s just get our son, then I will explain.” I concluded. Upon seeing that the wranglers were not catching up with him, our son let out another celebratory, “Whoop, whoop!” “Stop doing that!” I screamed and realizing that she probably had access to enough rope to add me to the swinging wranglers, I dug my heels deep into old glue bag, just like I had seen so many times before in those old Lone Ranger shows, and off we went. Well, actually, my steed kept walking along at the same pace, obviously not at all intimidated by that pretty little blond lady, who had by now taken off after our son. As I turned off of the beach, crossed over the dunes, and made my way up the trail to the corals, that pretty little blond lady was executing a moving dismount that would have made any professional calf roper jealous. She hurried over to our son, who was still whooping and hollering about how he beat all those cowboys in the race. “Stop all that damned whooping.” I said, my face in full contortions by this point.
The wranglers, well they got away from that pretty little blond lady as fast as they could and rushed over to ensure our oldest daughter was able to get off of her pretty little chestnut mare safely. Looking at them helping my oldest daughter down off of her horse I thought, “Man, I just love good supervision that look out for that one person in need.” Me, well I sat up high in the saddle of that big ole swayed back Clydesdale observing the scenes surrounding me, happy to be alive and not squished under two thousand pounds of horse meat. “Are you going to get down?” that pretty little blond lady snapped at me. “As soon as I can get unwedged from the sway in my steeds back and somehow throw my leg over,” I replied. There it was, another equine experience that nearly resulted in my, and now my son’s, death, and why? Well, there were many factors that led to our near demise with the root cause being that neither of us were properly trained to ride a horse, but let’s not forget the contributing factors of the wranglers not checking my experience and not paying attention to all of those they were entrusted to supervise. While writing this, I find myself wondering if my now-adult son will one day take his family horseback riding on a beach somewhere and when asked what his experience is with horses, he too will proudly exclaim, “Plenty, been riding since I was a little boy.” Let’s hope not, let’s hope that stupidity is not generational.
LET’S WATCH DADDY – A CHANCE AT REDEMPTION
Being someone of above-average intelligence has always helped me in life and this proved evident while at a friend’s house a couple of years later to partake in some adult beverages. Let’s just call my friend Mikey for the sake of this story. With everything going about as good as it possibly could, considering Mikey and I were partaking in adult beverages, Mikey looked at me and said, “Hey, do you think the kids would like to ride a horse while they are here?” “Of course,” I replied, as I thanked him for his hospitality. Then Mikey and his wife, let’s call her “his wife” because I am kind of scared of her, called up a small, black filly from the pasture, saddled it, and carefully set each kid up on her back as they led each of them around individually for an incredible equine experience for which I will always thank them.
Then it happened, my chance at redemption, that rare opportunity fate gives you to have a redo in life. Mikey said, “Hey, how about we bring up my wife’s horse so you can ride her as she hasn’t been ridden in a while and needs a good run.” Here it was, my chance at redemption, an opportunity to get out of my seemingly, never-ending fate of near-death equine experiences. All I had to do was admit one deficiency of mine, not all of them, just one of my many deficiencies, and that was my lack of training, which had a direct effect on my lack of being qualified for the task at hand. And then it happened, “Sure, let’s do it, I haven’t ridden in a few years,” I confidently replied. Mikey and his wife called for her horse, but she wouldn’t come in, which should have been a sign that she did not feel like being ridden that day. Just then, I felt a sense of dread come across me, almost touching me, and as I turned around, I came face to face with that pretty little blond lady who immediately snapped, “What in the world are you doing?” “Riding beer and drinking horses,” I replied. “Riding what!” she snapped back. “Riding beer and drinking horses, baby, don’t worry I got this,” I confidently replied. As that pretty little blond lady continued her loving conversation with me, Mikey and his wife went out into the pasture, one on a four-wheeler and one on foot to catch this still-reluctant horse. After about ten minutes, Mikey’s wife walked her horse up to us and as she was putting on the bridle and saddle, that pretty little blond lady called our two younger children over saying, “Hey kids, why don’t you come sit down and watch daddy ride a horse.” As they scampered over to their mother, I heard her mumble in a condescending and not-very-supportive tone, “After all, what could go wrong?” I immediately shot her a glance that told her to cut out the negative vibes, knowing that they could affect the horse I was about to take for a run. Mikey’s wife then mounted her mare and as she came to rest fully in the saddle her horse started bucking. Using her training and experience she quickly regained control of her horse and settled it down. “Scott…,” Micky started to say something, but I rudely interrupted him saying, “There is no way in hell I am getting on that bucking horse!” He told me to calm down and explained to me that it was not bucking, and that the proper terminology was crow hopping. “Potato, patato,” I said accentuating the difference in pronunciations. Truth be told, Mikey could have used whatever equine terminology he wanted to but there was still no way I was getting on that bucking horse! After all, I had made a promise to the God of the universe, the God who I now knew and who could take my life at any moment. Looking over at that pretty little blond lady and our two youngest children, I saw a slight smile come across her face. To this day I still am not sure, and she will not admit if that slight smile was approval of my decision not to die an equine death that day, or was it more of a disappointed smirk because I decided not give her another entertaining story to share with her friends at work on Monday morning. As Mikey’s wife rode off on her mare, Mikey hollered, “Whoop, whoop,” and then asked, “What the hell is the matter with your face Scott?” “Nothing, just an old injury acting up, now stop all that silly whooping and get me another beer,” I replied.
As you can see, we can all learn our limitations, although we should know them before we ever decide to climb into a saddle regardless of our pride or imagined experience. Is there any training you are missing? Any qualifications you are lacking? Anything that you could spend a little more time increasing your proficiency on?
RED, PLEASE REPEAT THAT ONE MORE TIME!
My dislike of horses does not mean I do not admire those true equestrians out there in the world. There is one in this last equestrian story I would like to share with you about a young equestrian who used to work with us, let’s just call her Red. Red would always read the weekly letters I sent out about safety, quality, and leadership, and she would comment on them. One day Red came into my office and shared a quote with me that was important to her, a quote she wanted me to include in a future letter so others could glean the wisdom from it she had all those years before. She shared that she had heard this saying from a mentor of hers when she was still a teenager and then shared the saying, “Take the time it takes to take less time.” Now at first, after hearing this quote, I figured Red’s equine experience was probably nothing more than a shameful lie. My doubting her equestrian experience was not petty, but more so directly tied to that quote she had shared with me, that quote that sat there written on my white board directly in front of my desk for over two months. That quote taunted me daily as every time I looked up and saw it, all I could think was, “What the hell does it mean?” Then one day I got it, just as I was initially writing down my thoughts for A Dancing Horse, it hit me just like that tree branch did while I was flying out of those piney woods in Mississippi on Satan’s steed so many years ago. If I had taken the time to actually admit I had no idea how to ride a horse, I may not have almost died in Mississippi. Had I had only taken the time it took to actually take a horseback riding lesson I may not have actually almost died on Padre Island. If I had taken the time and put my ego aside, then maybe, just maybe, I would not have almost experienced equine death twice in my life. Maybe my lack of training was because I didn’t have time for it, maybe we didn’t have the money in our budget for the training.
Unfortunately, in industry, we always seem to be under some sort of schedule and budget constraints to get something done. We plan out the job, line up the crew, get the permits, do the safety analysis as well as all the other proper steps it takes to succeed, but do we ever question anything about the scope of work, the site conditions, or the time frame scheduled, especially after we begin, only to find out that something is not right? Remember that moving forward and completing a task with an incident, with bad quality, or even successfully with no injuries simply because of luck is not acceptable. Therefore, we need to listen to the wisdom of Red’s quote, because she took the upfront time it took to learn how to ride a horse. Thus, she can climb on a horse and ride it across the plains just like those calvary soldiers I admired on television, because it simply takes her no time to saddle a horse and ride off without incident because she “took the time it takes, to take less time.”
While I think that Red and I have a similar work ethic as well as some of the same personality traits, we couldn’t be more different in what we are trained to do. She is a trained equestrian, and I am not. No matter how much I wanted to be that calvary trooper riding across the plains or on a beautiful little chestnut mare trotting through the surf as waves lapped over its hooves and the wind not blowing through my hair, I simply was not and still am not a trained equestrian, and therefore I am in no way qualified to ride any horse, other than maybe one located outside of a grocery store that costs a quarter.
Does this sound familiar to any of you? How do you react when an employee says he doesn’t know how to do something? Do you tell them to just get it done? Do you ridicule them by saying that you will find someone smarter? Worse yet, do you threaten to cut their pay so they will never admit to not knowing something again, putting themselves and others at risk? Or do you give them the training they need to be able to complete their assignment successfully and safely?
Do you know what else I am not qualified to do? I am in no way qualified to train a horse to dance, but don’t ever share this fact with that pretty little blond lady, just in case that was the sole reason she chose me over all those other want-to-be suitors. If pride and ego can get in the way of common sense in horseback riding, then I can imagine that it can also get in the way of a lot of what we do in our day-to-day lives, including work. This is why we have policies and procedures, this is why we have lifesaving rules, this is why we have a safety department, OSHA, and so many other things that act as guard rails to keep us safely on the road. However, first, we need to be willing to admit when we don’t know something, and that we need help.
While thinking through this story I reached out and asked Red how good of an equestrian she really is, and she sent me some videos of her riding a magnificent black stallion around a covered arena. Watching those videos, it was instantly obvious that she is truly a trained equestrian, and it is a good thing she is or, from personal experience, I would have had to explain to her that a facial tik is incredibly hard to get rid of. Lastly, thank goodness I don’t have the same commitment to safety, quality, and leadership that I had to learning how to ride a horse. Some of you would say that if I had the same commitment to safety, quality, and leadership as I did to learning how to ride a horse then you would not be stuck reading one of my long-winded anecdotal short stories. However, reading one is still much better than reading the details of a horrendous incident that leaves you asking yourself, why? I thank you all for staying with me and finishing my very first short story. I am sure that many of my equestrian friends will pick out their parts in this amusing anecdote about safety, quality, and leadership. Also, I think I have covered most the equestrians I know except maybe my sons-in-law, but I am pretty sure both of them can ride as one of them grew up on a ranch with horses and the other one is English, and I assume they still ride horses while fox hunting. In the same way I assume all of you reading this short story sincerely believe in the importance of safety, quality, and leadership, however, we must go further. We must reach out to everyone who works for us, and everyone that works around us, so we can ensure they too are properly trained and competent before they climb up in the proverbial saddle.
In closing, I am not sure if Red can teach a horse to dance, but I am certain she has a better chance of doing so than me because she is already a competent equestrian. This goes the same for each of us, that is there is nothing we can’t accomplish if we are properly trained and committed. However, beware of those insecure cocky, young, sailor types bragging about their experience while trying to win a smile from a pretty little blond lady. If you run across one make you check his knowledge because he may just be unqualified, untrained, and not committed to the task. Don’t be him, take the training, understand the process, ask for assistance, and get out there and train those horses to dance!
