In the summer of 1977, my entire family piled into our station wagon, with our bumper hitched two horse trailer transporting my mare, Betty, to a fourteen day horse show in Crawford, Nebraska. This was an annual event for our family, and, my father had made even the trip to the show into a vacation. Back in those days, folks from the same area often traveled along the highway in caravans of multiple horse trailers, communicating via the CB radio, though we frequently forgot to use our CB handles, and would call out to each other using our given names. "Hey Jeanne," or, "Hey Meghan," was the more common mode of getting the attention of one of your fellow caravan members via the CB than the carefully thought out and often hilarious CB handles everyone had chosen.
Everyone wanted to be in our caravan on these trips, because of the adventure my father made out of the journey. He carried with him a stack of books, and, we stopped at every historical site he found within the pages of those books. Dad would announce the coming stops on the CB(dad's CB handle was St Paul--because my dad was a VERY good Catholic), and, we'd pull off down some gravel or dirt road, with six or more rigs following behind us, in search of, "The First," or, "The Oldest,"...something. The first log cabin in Nebraska, the oldest sod roof. Or, perhaps Crazy Horse had passed over a cliff just off to the left...
Crawford, where Fort Robinson stood, was in the Northwest part of the state, and, the journey there meandered across impossibly flat grassland, which, abruptly, as we approached our destination, transformed into an alpinish, very un-Nebraska like landscape. I was always certain to be watching carefully out the window, so that I never missed the sudden appearance of craggy cliffs and lush evergreens which began to appear with more and more frequency on the sandy colored plains. Even the air itself changed, and, I always stuck my head out the window to breathe in the scent.
The show was held at historic Fort Robinson, which had its own lodging for both human and equine. There were museums, restaurants, gift shops and, miles and miles of trails winding through the craggy cliffs(which were called, "buttes.") which surrounded the fort. It was the one show my entire family enjoyed. Generally, I went to horseshows without my family. I often worked off the cost of hauling with other showers by cleaning stalls in their barn, putting up hay, training horses or giving riding lessons. Showing horses was a financial drain on the family, and, a full time job for me. My father resented the horses because of the cost, and, because of the amount of time I spent on the road or working off the cost of something. I don't believe that dad ever realized that I, too, resented the showing, and, would have been far happier to just stay home and enjoy my horses the way, "normal," folks did. I suppose The Fort Robinson show was my way of appeasing dad, and, the rest of the family. I thought that if the entire family enjoyed themselves, it made my involvement in the horse business less of a burden on the family. Perhaps, then, my father would approve?
While I was showing in the hot, sun dried, dusty arena, my dad, brother and sister could wander about, exploring the museums and gift shops. It was truly a vacation for my family, and, just another hot, dusty show among many hot, dusty shows for Betty and me. There was little time for the two of us to explore, though I did enjoy riding Betty around the cobblestoned streets, watching others go in and out of the museums.
Because, at that time, we were sort of a, "Big Name," in the industry, we got to stay in the Officers' Quarters, which meant our horses were right outside our lodging in lovely stone barns, with padded stalls, which were over a hundred years old. It was like living in a museum for two weeks. The only drawback, really, was the heat, and, the moths. Lots and lots of moths. Everywhere. They came alive at night, in the officer's quarters, as the daylight faded and lights began to be switched on, and fluttered around our heads, tangling in our hair, thumping against our cheeks with their fat bodies, and causing a great deal of squealing, screaming and flailing of arms.
The first day of showing went predictably well. It was a blazing hot day, however, my homely and troubled little brown mare, Betty, and, I, won everything we entered. At the time, Betty and I were leading the nation in every event we competed in, so, the points we acquired at Fort Robinson helped us to increase our lead to a very comfortable one. Because it was such a popular place to show, the classes were huge; the more horses in a class, the more points one earned by winning.
Folks came from all over the nation to show at, "Fort Bob," and, another benefit of the show was that you got to see folks you saw only once or twice a year, normally.
On one day of showing(I can't recall, now, if it was at the beginning, or, at the end, of the run) I noticed that Betty was just not herself. Her ears were back(not so much back as...sideways), and, she was sluggish. Normally, Betty was a little firecracker...so much so that no one but, myself had been able to successfully show her. That's how we got her so cheaply(all of our horses came cheaply, one way or another). I became very concerned, as the day wore on. I knew something was terribly wrong with Betty, so, I went up, myself, and, scratched her from the rest of her classes that day, shaking with fear as I did so. Fear over Betty's condition, and, fear over my mother's reaction.
After dinner, that evening, I stopped back, alone, in the fading light, to check on Betty, and, noticed she was down in her stall, sweating and groaning. A classic symptom of the dreaded colic(the biggest killer of horses)...Betty was a chronic colicker, however, every time a horse colicked, there was always a life or death drama involved. The vet(a family friend) was called, and, I began walking Betty, which helped to move things through her body, as we waited for his arrival. At one point, Betty just had to lie down...and, I almost lost it, then. Sometimes, when they go down...they are not going to get up again. The vet arrived very shortly. He knew Betty. Accompanying the vet was a ridiculously tall young man, with brilliant blue eyes that shined brightly from underneath a tattered baseball cap. I'd seen him around, before, here and there, but, could not recall his name. He was a cowboy. He showed only in the roping and cutting events, which I had little involvement with, so I really only remembered him from fleeting glimpses. He stood slouched over, as if trying to make himself smaller, somehow, and, he was staring at Betty and I intently. I was seated on the ground, with Betty's head in my lap, feeling utterly defeated, fighting back tears. The vet had told me to just let her lie there, and, not keep trying to get her up. I was very good at doing what I was told, in those days.
I could vaguely hear my mother yelling about all the points we had lost that day by scratching out of certain classes, the insurance policy on, "the mare, "......my dad had long since retreated. I was talking to Betty, telling her she was too young to die, reminding her of all of the things she had acomplished, despite everyone writing her off. That she hadn't even got to be a mama yet. I was rubbing my thumb across her velvety soft eyelid, in a reflex soothing action, and, I saw a shadowy figure above me. The young man with the blue eyes squatted down, and, put a long, thin hand on my shoulder. "Sweetheart, why don't you try and get her walking, again. Her tummy's rumblin' real good, now, and, I think she'll git up for you, " he said, with a soft, slow drawl. Because I was desperate, because I loved my Betty, I did as he said. I kissed her face, and, murmured to her that it was time to try again, that we had a show tomorrow. After some unladylike grunting, and, well...some other sounds, Betty got to her feet, and, I began walking her.
Betty made it through that night, and, she never colicked again. I later learned that the helpful young man with the Texas drawl was a well known young trainer named Tim. My mother was more impressed that he had helped me than with the fact that our homely brown mare had rallied. Tim was the son of a legend in the Quarter Horse world; a man who was often referred to as the John Wayne of the Quarter Horse world. He was mostly known for cutting horses, and, for being able to train the untrainable. Tim was a highly respected trainer in his own right, though I believe he was just eighteen or nineteen on the occasion of our first meeting.
Betty and I had a successful run at Fort Robinson, that year...putting a wide gap between myself and the next closest competitor, for the end of the year awards, and, for the National Title of All Around Youth. We went out big, that season, and, Betty was then leased out as a broodmare, and, I got a giant belt buckle with fake rubies and gold lettering. Life began to change, again, for me(change was the only constant in my family life of turmoil), and the years that followed were difficult. We moved away from Nebraska, went through a few more horses, then, I moved back to Nebraska, while my family remained in Minnesota, trying to sell our spread, there.
I kept that meeting with that tall young man with me as a sort of event in my life; a little movie that played over, every so often, in my mind's eye. I don't know, really, why the meeting with that young cowboy was so very memorable. It just was, I suppose.
Those years of change and turmoil had taken their toll on me. It was a very different kid who returned to Nebraska in the late summer of 1979. I had missed Nebraska with it's vast fields of tall, green corn, and, it's familiar scattered horse farms, and, I very much wanted to feel like I was coming home to something safe and familiar. I no longer showed, except to show for other folks, and, I didn't have my own horses, any longer, but, trained for others, only. Very hard work for little pay. And, I had come to the realization that the horse business was, perhaps, not for me. Every horse we had sold, or, traded, was a heartbreak, for me. They were my children; I felt responsible for them, and, when they were sold, or traded away, I felt as if I was abandoning them to an uncertain fate. My heart had been broken many times, so that, by the time I turned sixteen, I was filled with sorrow, grief, and, regret. I was actually quite happy not owning any new horses, though I'd have given anything to have all my old friends back in my barn to care for for the rest of their lives.
I had also discovered boys, to a degree, that summer, and, drugs, to a greater degree. I had learned that drugs and alcohol gave me a measure of courage and confidence that I lacked on my own. I'd no idea how to fit in with normal teenage life. No idea at all. I could not even manage a normal conversation with someone my own age, and, often resorted to bizarre stories and lies in an attempt to make conversation. My peers terrified me. I imagine it was because my childhod had evolved in relative isolation, with my only friends being the horses, and, various adults who were involved with them, in some way.
And, the scrawny young girl with the stringy brown hair who had so eagerly taken the softly spoken advice of the blue eyed cowboy all those years ago at Fort Robinson had turned, miraculously, into a beauty queen. I was known, locally, as The Wrangler Girl, for one of the modeling jobs I had, at the time. The modeling job netted my family free tack and supplies, and, a small paycheck, as well. It was a television spot for a local western store, with a memorable shot of my backside, showcasing the leather, "Wrangler," logo.
My return to Nebraska should have been a triumph.
It was into this environment that the young blue eyed man I had met so long ago at Fort Robinson suddenly appeared, though I was unaware of his presence in our midst immediately. He had arrived in our little town in the fall of 1979, and, he changed us, all of us, forever, in varying degrees.
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