Mari Collier's Blog - Posts Tagged "pets"
A Horse Named Betty
I had started a blog about the pets that impacted my life through the years. That document rapidly became far too long. I’m going to concentrate on as individuals, starting with the longest lived one who wasn't brought to the farm as a pet, but as a work horse.
Betty was not as large as some farm horses. She was part Morgan and part Quarter Horse. She did have the wide massive chest of the Morgan breed, but her hind quarters were more like the Quarter horse of a century ago. She was coal black except for the white blaze running down her face.
Papa must have bought her in 1936 or 1937. It soon became apparent why the price had been so reasonable. When they released her in the field she gave a demonstration of the wildest bucking bronco ever featured in a movie theater. Rodeos were never big in the Midwest until much later. Most of the farmers assumed a horse like that would be dangerous, and/or ruin equipment or the barn. Whenever Papa harnessed her, she more than pulled her weight, often outdoing the larger Percheron or Clydesdale breeds.
My oldest brother decided to break her to ride. Rein was the athletic one, the one that could tap dance up and down the stairs, jump on a chair and off and never miss a tap. He did not have a saddle. All he had was the bridle from her harness. That meant he had to hang onto her mane to stay on her while she bucked upward and downward. Both of my parents in later years while recounting his feat, mentioned that he had blood coming from his nose and from his ears when Betty stopped bucking and let him ride her.
She would still buck out in the pasture, but both of my older brothers rode her. When she was in the barn she loved to be curried and she knew there would be the special allotment of oats, corn, and wheat that my father ground for horse feed.
Betty did have an instinct for what was needed while working the fields and became Papa’s favorite horse over the years. She did have one trick that would set him off. My father possessed a voice that would project. He never swore around women or children, but when it was corn harvesting time his voice could be heard from the fields. He would set the wagon to go down the rows of corn and the horses would move when commanded while he picked the ears and tossed them up into the wagon. While still at home, Rein would be the extra hand helping with the picking and tossing. Later it would be me. Betty, however, wouldn't wait for the command. When she felt the time needed to pick was sufficient she would move forward dragging the other horse and wagon with her. Back at the farmhouse or garden, we could hear every curse word my father would yell at them. He used English rather than German because English words were stronger and more varied.
When I was five and my youngest brother was four, we were allowed to go with them as both my older brothers were home and could help keep an eye on us. It was a beautiful fall day, warm and fresh, the smell of earth, sky, and corn enveloped us in the field. After one-half hour of starting, stopping, hearing the plop of ears landing in the wagon, Betty started sooner than wanted. I let rip with every word I had heard from the fields. Time stopped.
My father turned beet red, my little brother was looking at me with awed brown eyes, Rein was doubled over laughing, and Norman was sputtering and laughing in short yelps. Then Papa began laughing. It was too much. I stomped home.
Mama looked at me as I marched into the kitchen. “Why are you here?”
“They laughed at me.” I fled up to my room. Yes, I had the lecture about WORDS.
It was about a year later that Papa decided that Molly, the Clydesdale, was growing older and had a stallion brought over to service Betty for a colt to eventually replace Molly. I, of course, wanted to see the mating. That didn't happen. “It’s too violent,” my mother sniffed. I decided it would have to remain a mystery. We all heard Betty’s screams from the barnyard. Almost a year later, Betty produced one of the prettiest roan horses I have ever seen. We named her Ginger for the unique color she sported. My youngest brother and I were even permitted to taste mare’s milk. It was far too sweet for my taste.
Molly lived about six months after Ginger had taken her place in the harness. As my brother and I grew older we would curry the two horses while they were in their stalls munching on hay and grain. We pet them and even brought special treats like carrots or apples from the garden. My youngest brother claimed Ginger because of her looks. I choose Betty because she seem to like me best and would nuzzle at my neck.
We must have been about eleven and ten when two of the neighbors bought ponies for their children to ride to our country school. We would ride them during lunch hour. Of course, we begged our father for a pony. Not our old-fashioned father. He refused to have an animal that wasn't “useful.” It was a waste of grain and food. We had heard the tales of Betty bucking and were reluctant to mount her.
Finally, it was too much. I took her out of the barn and mounted her. I even forget how I managed that without a saddle. I probably used the water tank or a crate. I picked up the reins and said, “Giddyap.” She started off with a nice smooth gait and I rode her down the lane and around the curve to a dirt road that no one used anymore. Then I turned her around toward home.
She took off at a gallop. It was all I could do to hang on and pray that the Dutch door to the horse stalls was open. She cleared the step up through the door with a smooth leap and waited patiently for me to dismount. There was no taking her out again that day as she refused. After that we were clever enough to close the barn door when we took her out.
Papa complained that we were making “pets” out of his horses, but he never said we could not ride Betty. Ginger we did not try to ride as that was forbidden. Papa did buy a modern tractor, but he still used his horses for planting corn and for the last harrow through the cornfield to dislodge weeds as the tractor would have squashed the immature plants.
Ginger died before Betty. Papa did not buy another horse, but put Betty “out to pasture” and would bring her to the barn when necessary. She fooled everyone and lived to be twenty-eight years old. We were all in Phoenix when the letter came from my Uncle Oscar that Betty had died in the fields. Mama put her head on the table and cried.
Betty was not as large as some farm horses. She was part Morgan and part Quarter Horse. She did have the wide massive chest of the Morgan breed, but her hind quarters were more like the Quarter horse of a century ago. She was coal black except for the white blaze running down her face.
Papa must have bought her in 1936 or 1937. It soon became apparent why the price had been so reasonable. When they released her in the field she gave a demonstration of the wildest bucking bronco ever featured in a movie theater. Rodeos were never big in the Midwest until much later. Most of the farmers assumed a horse like that would be dangerous, and/or ruin equipment or the barn. Whenever Papa harnessed her, she more than pulled her weight, often outdoing the larger Percheron or Clydesdale breeds.
My oldest brother decided to break her to ride. Rein was the athletic one, the one that could tap dance up and down the stairs, jump on a chair and off and never miss a tap. He did not have a saddle. All he had was the bridle from her harness. That meant he had to hang onto her mane to stay on her while she bucked upward and downward. Both of my parents in later years while recounting his feat, mentioned that he had blood coming from his nose and from his ears when Betty stopped bucking and let him ride her.
She would still buck out in the pasture, but both of my older brothers rode her. When she was in the barn she loved to be curried and she knew there would be the special allotment of oats, corn, and wheat that my father ground for horse feed.
Betty did have an instinct for what was needed while working the fields and became Papa’s favorite horse over the years. She did have one trick that would set him off. My father possessed a voice that would project. He never swore around women or children, but when it was corn harvesting time his voice could be heard from the fields. He would set the wagon to go down the rows of corn and the horses would move when commanded while he picked the ears and tossed them up into the wagon. While still at home, Rein would be the extra hand helping with the picking and tossing. Later it would be me. Betty, however, wouldn't wait for the command. When she felt the time needed to pick was sufficient she would move forward dragging the other horse and wagon with her. Back at the farmhouse or garden, we could hear every curse word my father would yell at them. He used English rather than German because English words were stronger and more varied.
When I was five and my youngest brother was four, we were allowed to go with them as both my older brothers were home and could help keep an eye on us. It was a beautiful fall day, warm and fresh, the smell of earth, sky, and corn enveloped us in the field. After one-half hour of starting, stopping, hearing the plop of ears landing in the wagon, Betty started sooner than wanted. I let rip with every word I had heard from the fields. Time stopped.
My father turned beet red, my little brother was looking at me with awed brown eyes, Rein was doubled over laughing, and Norman was sputtering and laughing in short yelps. Then Papa began laughing. It was too much. I stomped home.
Mama looked at me as I marched into the kitchen. “Why are you here?”
“They laughed at me.” I fled up to my room. Yes, I had the lecture about WORDS.
It was about a year later that Papa decided that Molly, the Clydesdale, was growing older and had a stallion brought over to service Betty for a colt to eventually replace Molly. I, of course, wanted to see the mating. That didn't happen. “It’s too violent,” my mother sniffed. I decided it would have to remain a mystery. We all heard Betty’s screams from the barnyard. Almost a year later, Betty produced one of the prettiest roan horses I have ever seen. We named her Ginger for the unique color she sported. My youngest brother and I were even permitted to taste mare’s milk. It was far too sweet for my taste.
Molly lived about six months after Ginger had taken her place in the harness. As my brother and I grew older we would curry the two horses while they were in their stalls munching on hay and grain. We pet them and even brought special treats like carrots or apples from the garden. My youngest brother claimed Ginger because of her looks. I choose Betty because she seem to like me best and would nuzzle at my neck.
We must have been about eleven and ten when two of the neighbors bought ponies for their children to ride to our country school. We would ride them during lunch hour. Of course, we begged our father for a pony. Not our old-fashioned father. He refused to have an animal that wasn't “useful.” It was a waste of grain and food. We had heard the tales of Betty bucking and were reluctant to mount her.
Finally, it was too much. I took her out of the barn and mounted her. I even forget how I managed that without a saddle. I probably used the water tank or a crate. I picked up the reins and said, “Giddyap.” She started off with a nice smooth gait and I rode her down the lane and around the curve to a dirt road that no one used anymore. Then I turned her around toward home.
She took off at a gallop. It was all I could do to hang on and pray that the Dutch door to the horse stalls was open. She cleared the step up through the door with a smooth leap and waited patiently for me to dismount. There was no taking her out again that day as she refused. After that we were clever enough to close the barn door when we took her out.
Papa complained that we were making “pets” out of his horses, but he never said we could not ride Betty. Ginger we did not try to ride as that was forbidden. Papa did buy a modern tractor, but he still used his horses for planting corn and for the last harrow through the cornfield to dislodge weeds as the tractor would have squashed the immature plants.
Ginger died before Betty. Papa did not buy another horse, but put Betty “out to pasture” and would bring her to the barn when necessary. She fooled everyone and lived to be twenty-eight years old. We were all in Phoenix when the letter came from my Uncle Oscar that Betty had died in the fields. Mama put her head on the table and cried.
