When I was a little girl I fell in love with horses of every size and every colour. I yearned for the life of a cowboy from the time I could walk; spent hours riding my imaginary, fiery, black stallion (to and from school most days.. left him outside, tied to a sturdy post); even had a wheeled sawhorse mount complete with mane, tail, stirrups and reins for shorter rides around the backyard.
Then, finally, for my eighth birthday, I actually got to not only sit upon but also ride out on a real, live, chestnut mare... along with mom, dad and a few friends. The stables were named Silver something and my future as an equestrian was born. I hounded mom and dad relentlessly after that and, by the time I was ten, I was taking riding lessons at the Vancouver Pony Club, down on 'the flats' of Vancouver... a six-block square patch of city sandwiched between the Fraser River and West 49th Avenue and housing about a dozen horsey real estates, the largest being the Southlands Riding and Polo Club.
At first I just took the Saturday morning lessons. Mom would drop me off with a bagged lunch and clad in my, often leaky but ever so practical, gum boots, and my awesome brown fringed 'cowboy' jacket, I learned to ride under the tutelage of Miss. Barbara Baker. She was a fearsome instructor with an imposing yell and a very stern demeanor. Round and round we'd go, posting on command ("up down, up down, knees in, up down") circling the riding ring in one direction against the rails and then, after a cleverly executed cross-ring change of lead, the other.
As my skills slowly grew I worked my way through the teachings of Dixie, a large and loving, slow moving pinto mare; Friar Tuck, a dashing black pony quite well mannered but fairly energetic; Bandit, truly a skew-balled pinto with a screw loose in his head.. seeing as he'd been a chuck wagon pony in the Calgary Stampede; Little Fellow, an aggressive pony with long flowing mane and tail, whose specialty was bucking kids off if they were 'heavy in the hands' or even dared to touch his mane; and finally Traveller, a beautiful bay coloured pony, larger than the rest, with a mind of his own, a flare to his nostrils and a glint in his eye. Although I rode Little Fellow steadily (learning to sit a buck very well as he honed my 'hands' and balance), it was Traveller with whom I was paired for future shows and, ultimately, competition in the PNE several years later.
Just going to the PNE in those days was a pretty big deal for a young kid, but in the early years, to actually be asked to go for several days and help care for the horses from Mrs. Sutherland's Vancouver Pony Club... well that was 'over the moon' and an opportunity that even Black Bart (yet another story) would never turn down. And so it was, on the eve of my care-giving debut and with what felt like the most important morning of my life just hours away.. I was startled awake with the shocking realization I had forgotten to bring my bag of brushes (for grooming) home from the stables, and... I was supposed to be ready to leave for the PNE right after breakfast! The horror of that moment, the recognition of my failure, lives with me today; I remember it well.
Now, here's the thing. In those days (we're talking late '50's and early '60's) we lived on Pine Crescent just north of 36th Avenue. To get down to the stables on the flats I would walk up to 41st Avenue, catch the bus and ride as far as Blenheim St. Then I'd walk down Blenheim, cross 49th and continue walking to the stables on W. 61st.. This was not a short jaunt by any means.
On that fateful night, when I awoke in the early hours and realized I'd forgotten my kit, I had only one choice. Of course I had to go and get those brushes... and I had to get there and back before it was time to leave. Without a thought for my safety, or anything else really, I dressed, scribbled a note (just in case I never got back) and snuck quietly out of the house. Not walking, but running, I pushed my skinny little frame to its limits and made it to 41st Avenue in record time. It was dark, very dark, and for a young kid like myself quite terrifying. So you can imagine the sinking in my pounding heart when I realized to my horror that there were no buses running at that hour. Again, there was only one choice. Off I trotted, down through Kerrisdale and along the only route I knew. I ran all the way from home to the Stables... well ran and walked, jogged and walked... it's a wonder my ragged panting and the songs I sang to keep my spirits up didn't wake each house as I passed.
Arriving at the stables, after what seemed like hours, revealed the next challenge. It was dark on the street and it was dark in the barn... pitch black. I found my way to the tack room (quietly so as not to disturb the horses) and I found my tack box (a beautiful wood box with brass coloured trim and handles that dad had made for me). That was about when I realized there wasn't a light (that I knew of anyway) in the tack room. By day it was a gloomy, small room where we kept the tack (saddles and bridles) and our tack boxes, wherein we stored our grooming supplies of brushes, hoof picks, saddle soap and other paraphernalia. On this night of nights, in this blackest of black, dark room... and to my increasing alarm and disappointment I discovered I had dutifully LOCKED my tack box (as I was supposed to) at the end of my last 'tour of duty'.
Mom had been pretty smart when she'd bought that lock. Knowing kids lose things and the likelihood of my losing any kind of key (we kept the house key on a nail under the back porch in those days... same reason) she had cleverly decided my tack box should be secured using a combination lock with no key to lose. Now, don't get me wrong, combination locks are great... three simple numbers to remember and a couple of spins, and you're in. There was only one problem this night. I couldn't see the numbers to open the lock!
I tried everything. I tried listening to the clicks and counting them as I turned. I tried 'feeling' the clicks. I tried pulling as hard as I could. I even groped around looking for a tool I could use to pry the lid off the box. Finally, with no other option, and sobbing with exhaustion and frustration, I dragged my, too heavy to carry, (did I mention I was a skinny little kid?) out of the tack room, down the aisle in front of the box stalls, out into the back yard of the barn, through the back gates, out onto the road, and then down the road to the pale light of an old street lamp (the only one working in that block). I was there, fumbling with the combination lock, when my mom and dad turned the corner in the family car... scared to death for me and very glad to see me... all at the same time. I received quite a lecture as you can imagine, but the relief for all of us was palpable, and with the entire tack box secured in the car and the barn gate closed and latched, my pre-arranged ride to the PNE began, from a slightly different address and with a little less sleep than had been originally intended.
I did well at my fledgling assignment to the Agradome that summer. As I write this first story, many others flood my mind.. like the grey mare that near bit my ear off while I was feeding her... and having only enough money for a scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy, once each day... but they're for a different day, a different telling. For now, I'm content to let this yarn stand alone, as testament to the lengths a skinny little kid will go to in realizing their dreams.
C.J.D.
