The Adventurous Sort

BY WALT MERRELL

I used to refer to her as my “ tomboy.” However, what was once a cute nickname for an elementary-aged schoolgirl quickly disappeared as she matured. She now stands 5’10 ½”, is a starting varsity volleyball and basketball player, and she is no longer a tomboy. She is, however … still very adventurous.

She’s always wanted a horse. We are country folks, but we are not horse people. I was raised in Baldwin County, Alabama. Where once was my dad’s pasture land and pecan orchard now stands mini-storage buildings. Where his cows and horses once roamed, there now sits endless rows of garage doors flanked by metal siding, gravel parking lots … and bay upon bay of frivolous excess, so valuable that it must be kept, but so worthless, it must be placed in storage.

Such an ironic transition … America’s heartland lost to America’s new heart.

In any event, I grew up a child of divorce on my dad’s farm and at my mom’s house. I do not mean to suggest that I am a cowboy. I am not. The fact of the matter is, I’ve never met a horse that did not try to kill me. Or at least, that’s my impression of it … Yes, I’m well aware that the horses respond to my anxiety. Unfortunately, that well-understood fact does little to soothe my feelings about the matter. They still tried to kill me …

Perhaps, though, it does have something to do with their instinctive knowledge of my maltreatment of one of their brethren. And while I am truly innocent of any wrongdoing, my innocence doesn’t change the outcome of this story.

You see, my wife Hannah and I were visiting a friend in Honduras. He lived on the coast, and the staple and mainstay of his diet was seafood. Unfortunately, I am allergic to shellfish, and consequently, don’t eat any seafood. While there, Hannah dined on exquisite fresh seafood caught daily from just outside our front door. I ate what could pass for ham. And on occasion, something that could pass for green eggs … a little fresh pineapple made it all tolerable.

Our last night there, my friend grinned from ear to ear, telling me he had a surprise. His lady friend, a Honduran native, emerged from the kitchen carrying a piping hot casserole dish. She sat it in front of me, and her grin was twice as big as his. Her English was broken, at best, so I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me when she said cheese and noodles. “Cheese and noodles,” I thought to myself. It obviously was not macaroni and cheese, for the entire top of the casserole dish was covered with cheese. I took the spatula that she handed to me and cut out a square, as if I were cutting a brownie. Then I realized … this was lasagna!

“Halleluiah! God bless this woman and this lasagna!” Us Southern boys appreciate the value of a home-cooked meal. Senora stood eagerly over me and I could sense that she was disappointed by my portion size … so, without giving it a second thought, I went ahead and got another piece.

“She has never made lasagna before,” my friend offered. “She did this just for you.”

I scooped a huge fork full … my mouth salivated in anticipation, for lasagna is my second favorite one-pot meal, right behind meatloaf. I blew on the piping hot pasta and cheese and meat medley before I engulfed it. I almost involuntarily threw up. I cut my eyes over to Hannah, and she could tell that I was in torment. Señora beckoned some response, and my Southern hospitality dictated that I not let her down … so I gulped, exclaimed, “It’s delicious!” and forced myself to eat all the rest of my serving.

The next morning as we packed up to leave, Señora brought me the remnants of the lasagna. Of course, I sheepishly nodded, thanked her, complimented her once again, and graciously took the dish. On the way, I confessed to my buddy … “That was the worst lasagna I’ve ever had in my mouth!” He started howling with laughter and agreed, adding, “though I’ll never tell her that!”

“I think what threw the taste off was the meat,” he suggested.

“I agree. That had to be the worst beef I have ever put in my mouth.”

My buddy bellowed again, but this time, his laugh had a sinister tone to it. “That wasn’t beef. Our neighbor up the road had a horse die yesterday.” My stomach almost convulsed from my throat. Needless to say, the fish ate the rest of Señora’s lasagna.

With all of that in mind, maybe horses always try to kill me because I unknowingly ate their distant cousin. Maybe, through the underground horse whisperer’s network, they all heard of my lasagna smorgasbord, and they are out to get me. And, they have recruited my middle daughter … not only to be a horse lover … but also a co-conspirator in their sinister plot! She is … after all … a teenager.

Her long-standing affection for horses started years ago. In the beginning, it was a cute letter to Santa Claus …

… aside from that letter itself, she talked ad nauseum throughout the year about asking Santa for a horse.

I was never quite sure why she closed the letter with “Amen,” but I figured we could sort that out later. It didn’t matter how much she prayed … Santa was never bringing her a horse. Every year, I wrote Santa a letter, too … after I talked about shooting his reindeer if he left a horse at my house, we had an understanding.

But I did search for compromise. Truth was … we didn’t have the means or the ability to provide her with a horse. And as for her … well, she wasn’t much for tending to things. She had a rabbit named Mr. Wiggles. He quit wiggling one day, and I am pretty sure he would have much preferred to have lived somewhere else. A horse simply was not an option.

Compromise often looked like other people’s horses.When she was about eight years old, we went to the Little River Canyon for a camping trip during spring break. We spent several days hiking and fishing. We even went swimming on the warmest day … well, they went swimming. Because it was only in the mid-60s, I did a good job of saying, “I will in a few minutes,” over and over again. On the fourth day of the trip, we had made arrangements to go for a horseback ride in the peaks and valleys around the park.

The sky was gray and overcast. The forecast called for sleet and rain … perhaps a few snow flurries, too. It was one of those cold mornings where nothing really warms you, and I hesitated to part from the warmth of the truck when we pulled up to the weathered, old barn. The horses were saddled and tied up to a watering trough. Walking up, I noticed the water in the trough was frozen over. I picked up a nearby board and spent a few minutes busting the ice.

Cape was giddy with excitement. She was already petting the horses and talking to them. Bay, our oldest daughter, was too, but she was a little more contained. Cape was grinning from ear to ear as she rubbed a particularly spry Appaloosa on the nose.

I thought back to “Dollar Bill,” a white and brown and gray Appaloosa that tried to kill me once. He was wild … had been in a pasture for three years, and nobody had ridden him at all. My daddy thought I was just the teenaged boy to break that horse … “Get up there on him. He won’t buck but for just a minute. Then he’ll settle down and remember what it’s like to ride.” Daddy was right. He quit bucking in less than a minute … as soon as I was flat on my back. My stepbrother ended up breaking the horse … for the horse broke me.

Cape looked at me with wide eyes, “This is the horse I want to ride, Daddy.” As long our host didn’t mind, I didn’t either. And so it was, Cape mounted up, and she rode tall in the saddle. Pretty as a peach, she was on Cloud Nine sitting atop that horse. I was too … for every Daddy treasures his daughter’s smile more than anything else on God’s green earth.

We rode down a dirt road lane about a quarter of a mile and came to a blacktop where we were to cross over and take to the woods. Snow was already falling, and I could feel the temperature dropping. Leaving the road for the woods would be welcomed for the shelter … but as we approached the blacktop, a distraction began to unfold.

Apparently, it was garbage day in Fort Payne, Alabama, and the big blue garbage truck came barreling down the blacktop about the time we neared. He was in a lower gear, and that big diesel engine roared as he approached. The horses all pranced with uneasiness … particularly that Appaloosa. Cape seemed unsure of how to handle the horse. Our host gave her instructions in a reassuring tone, and Cape did well to follow them. She and the horse both managed pretty well until the driver stopped and put the truck in reverse. Apparently, he missed a can.

“Beep—Beeep—Beeep ….” The engine revved even higher as he backed up the blacktop toward us. Cape’s Appaloosa danced in a circle two times, and everybody but Cape knew what was coming next. Bending his front knees that horse dug in hard with his front feet, and then bolted. Cape hung on to the reins and grabbed the saddle horn all in one swift motion, her torso and head rocked back nearly flat, before she could right herself. Her horse had two strides on me already … I dug in hard to the ribs of the big quarter horse I was riding … “Let’s get it,” I hollered, slapping his flank as I went.

The race was on … my buddy, our host, was right behind me and Cape’s Appaloosa was headed straight to the barn. Trouble was, there were a few fences and a few closed gates along the way … but I never stood a chance. That Appaloosa was Speedy Gonzales to my quarter horse’s Fat Albert. Full speed, galloping headlong into the snow, my heart raced with anxiety … but in the midst of all of that chaos, I could hear Cape laughing … and it was a sweet, sweet sound … and her laugh brought a smile to my face too.

Forty-five seconds later, and we were back at the barn. Cape was sitting proudly on her mount, grinning from ear to ear. I was already tired and winded … as was my steed … for neither of us was cut out for that kind of work. “Are you okay?” I asked, as my buddy rode up behind us. “I’m great!” Cape exclaimed, “This is the exact horse I want.” And then she turned to my buddy and asked, “How much?”

Now, as a dad, I’ve always tried to recognize my own fears and limitations, and I have worked hard not to teach my children those same hang-ups. I’m scared of heights; I’m allergic to seafood; I don’t like cats; and then there are horses … Cape jumped off the highest cliff at Lake Martin; her favorite pet was a stray cat that looked like a dinosaur furball; she loves crab claws; and she still asks Santa Claus for a horse every year …

As for me … well, I got down off that old quarter horse, and we parted ways as friends. And I’ve ridden horses a few more times with Cape, not for the love of the horse, but for the love of my daughter.

That’s why I go … shepherding outdoors.