Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .
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Is it normal, was it normal, for a 13-year old to be having sex in 1972? I try so hard sometimes to remember. And then I run; in my mind, I run. I say, "No," very firmly. I don't say it, so much as I feel it, like a blockade. I tell myself that my childhood was happy.
And it was, wasn't it?
This past year someone stated that they feel comfort when they recall their childhood and their home and their mother; they feel secure and safe. When I heard the statement I wondered what that is like, to feel safe when thinking of one's mother? At the time I asked myself, "Where do you find comfort Carol, when you think of your childhood?"
My answer, "Horses! I feel comfort with the ponies and the horses."
I remember when I got my first pony, Dynamite. Dynamite was a Shetland pony with a cream-colored coat which would be thick in the winter. Dynamite was stubborn. I often just sat on him while he grazed. But I was fine with that. I loved to groom him. I think I was 6 years old when I got Dynamite? Maybe I was 7. I had gotten to know Dynamite before he officially became "mine."
It was Christmas. I didn't much believe in Santa as a child; I mean how could a big fat guy come down a chimney? But I liked to play along. When I was 6 or 7 I received a note in my Christmas stocking that told me to look out the window. There, tied to the giant oak tree, was Dynamite! Dynamite, the pony I had spent so many hours sitting on as he grazed. I walked out to the tree with my mom; Dynamite tried to kick her.
After Dynamite I got Princess; I was around 8 years old then. I don't know what happened to Dynamite; perhaps my parents worked a trade with Mr. Abernethy. Mr. Abernethy lived next door to us with his wife. He was a horse trader. I always thought the big pastures belonged to him, but I found out decades later that he rented the land. His house is gone now and so are the riding areas and the stables. The pastures are now vacant, overgrown property between the backsides of newer and older houses.
Mrs. Abernethy used to make homemade popsicles in small Dixie cups. They, Mr. and Mrs. Abernethy, just the two of them, lived in a small house; seems it had green siding with a gray or off-white roof. They had a gravel driveway where I learned to ride a bicycle. Between our house and their house was a horse riding area; muscadines grew on the side where the public road was. The road is still there, the muscadines and the Abernethy's house are now gone. The Abernethys were old, like in their 60's. Mrs. Abernethy used to play the piano. She would play the piano at our house sometimes at Christmas. I remember we sang songs. That's a good memory too.
I never knew any of my grandparents; they died before I was born or when I was a baby. The Abernethys were like grandparents I guess. So were Uncle Russell and Aunt Flossie, like grandparents. But Uncle Russell and Aunt Flossie didn't have horses and ponies. Uncle Russell died when I was little; when I was 5 or 6 or 7, maybe 8 years old? He and Flossie never had children. I wonder why they never had children? I wonder if it was because Aunt Flossie was the oldest of 12 siblings and felt she had already raised a family. My mother, one of Flossie's sisters, was next to the youngest of the siblings. Mom was the last to die; she died January 31, 2009. She lived until she was 83.
I found comfort in ponies. Almost every day I'd be with the ponies and horses. Sometimes I'd even ride before school. I never recall having any riding lessons; it's like I just knew how to ride. I rode Western and bareback. I was never in any horse shows, except that I'd be the ribbon girl who would walk out and present ribbons. I never felt good enough to show the horses. But I loved to groom them and pretend I was an Indian and ride bareback through the different pastures and over to Geitner Road. In the Pines also, before there were so many houses, there were trails. All the trails are gone, along with the pasture that went way over to Geitner Road. Big 1/2-million and up dollar houses are there now. The developments are called Pines I and Pines II, with Roman numerals.
My friend, Marie, and I would sometimes pretend we were in the Old West. We'd saddle our ponies, put beef jerky in saddle bags, and hit the dusty trail. We felt important in our petite, elementary-age physiques astride our saddles with their leather smell and saddle squeaks. When the ponies learned neck-reining we really felt like young Annie Oakleys.
After Dynamite and Princess, I got Black Eagle. Black Eagle was more of a Welsh-type pony, taller than Dynamite or Princess. I think I was around 10 when I got Black Eagle. I also broke my arm when I was 10; I was breaking in one of Mr. Abernethy's horses, Mary Jane. She took off running; I think a mini-bike scared her. Instead of staying calm, I freaked which scared her more. I woke up by a tree after momentarily being unconscious. I started screaming, "My arm's dead! My arm's dead!" I thought it was dead because it was numb; I'd broken the humerus bone and some ribs. Mary Jane was nowhere in sight. She was later found some miles away in downtown Hickory.
I found comfort with the ponies. Maybe it was the ponies, or maybe it was the freedom I felt. I loved to play in the woods and at the creek, and it seems a pony was almost always by my side. I didn't like the stable area though; there was lots of manure. When it would rain it would be manure slop and would stink horribly. I don't know why it was like that, but it was. I wonder why we didn't keep it cleaner?
I remember my first real kiss; I was in 6th grade, or was going to be in 6th grade. Mark was one year older than I. We secretly met in the woods, on the other side of the creek in the pasture; the creek where I'd wash the ponies and pretend to be an Indian making clay bowels, painting them with the purple juice of polk berries. It must have been late spring or summer; the woods were thick with foliage. I knew the kiss was real because Mark opened his mouth and I opened mine, like I'd seen in the Monkees movie "Head."
I liked it.
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Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
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