My Kingdom for a Horse

I ran away from home once. Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I tried to run away from home once. This was in the early 60s; I was not yet five years old. Not sure exactly what precipitated my silly little misadventure but I’m fairly certain my parents must have made me really mad. My destination: The Horse Farm.

Back in those days, the Denver suburb where I grew up was surrounded by farmland. Just a few miles from our house, close to the Valley Highway, was a little farm that I had dubbed “The Horse Farm.” Such a pretty little place, with an old white farmhouse and outbuildings, a remnant of the area’s rural past now closed in by busy roads and a bustling highway. I remember peering out the window of our car each time we headed out to the highway. You could see that lovely little farm right down the hill, great big elm trees and horses wandering all around. It was my idea of heaven.

I never really fit in with the other kids in our neighborhood. Shy, overly emotional and sensitive, easily intimidated and regularly picked on by bullies and bigger kids, I learned to keep my distance from other children and spent most of my time playing alone. I developed a healthy imagination and found it easier to open my heart and share my secrets with animals. And I was crazy about horses.

The only ride at the amusement park that interested me was the carousel, where I would pick the tallest, proudest steed and imagine myself galloping headlong down a long dirt trail cut deep into the forest. I begged my mother to take me horseback riding at a local place that rented horses by the hour. In the mountains, while the rest of my family could be found relaxing by a stream or setting up rods, reels and tackle boxes for a day spent fishing, I was patrolling nearby fence lines in a quest for horses. Once found, I would lure the horses to me using soft, pleasing words coupled with a carrot or an apple or a handful of green grass plucked from beneath my feet.

Each year at Christmas, when my parents asked what I wanted they heard the same plea: “A horse!” And each Christmas morning, I would unwrap a gift box bearing a brand new plastic horse from Woolworth’s. Amazingly, the new horse was always exactly what I wanted. I never realized that mom had been watching me and knew which one to buy, having seen the delight in my eyes as I selected my newest favorite on the store’s shelf. Somewhere deep down inside, I knew I would never have a horse of my own. Yet in time I owned a large herd of plastic horses. I created my own little horse world in the basement, displacing my dollhouse dolls in favor of horses in the miniature living room, adding plenty of Easter grass to the dollhouse yard so the horses would have something to eat, and eventually setting up my own imaginary home on the range using Johnny West, Circle X Ranch action figures and related paraphernalia.

Occasionally my parents indulged me with a rented horseback ride while on vacation in the Rockies. My dad even built a wooden horse made out of thick tree logs, just like one he had seen in a playground. Then one day, real live horses were finally within easy reach. My aunt and uncle bought a 10-acre piece of land on the outskirts of Castle Rock, a small town south of Denver. They built a house, bought a few head of cattle, and always kept at least one horse or pony on the property. Soon I began to pester my parents regularly, thinking of creative reasons why we simply must venture some 40 miles south to visit the new homestead. I spent many school breaks and part of my summers in Castle Rock, riding horses with my youngest cousin. One time we rode the horses into town and tied them up on Main Street. It was a blast!

In my later teens I spent less time in Castle Rock. I was a bit less shy than before and had started to get involved in high school activities. Plus I also had a driver’s license now, which opened up a brand new world for me. My aunt and uncle’s marriage was on the rocks; they sold the animals and the property sometime after their divorce. I bequeathed my plastic horse collection to my young cousin, all but a few of my favorites. Today there are only three left.

The year I lost my brother and mother, Christmas was so difficult. Normally I spent Christmas Eve with my parents, opening a handful of presents on Christmas morning then visiting with family and friends all day. But that year my father was inconsolable and wanted to be alone. I left work early on Christmas Eve and decided to visit the cemetery. What should I bring? Flowers didn’t seem enough on this particular day. Digging through my Christmas boxes, I stumbled upon one of the plastic horses, a brown and white painted pony with a broken tail. I grabbed the horse, drove to Fort Logan National Cemetery, and placed that horse right on top of my mother’s grave. Now it has become an annual tradition. I prepare a lovely Christmas wreath for my parents and bring along that old plastic horse to decorate their grave at Christmas.

So what happened to the little runaway? When I told mom I was leaving, she helped me pack my stuffed animals in a small metal suitcase that once held roller skates. She asked where I would be, in case they needed to get in touch. I told her, The Horse Farm. She said goodbye and told me to have fun but be careful. I couldn’t believe it, she didn't even try to stop me! Just as I suspected, they must not love me at all. I walked to the top of the street, dropped the suitcase on the corner and sat down to ponder my situation. You see, at that point I realized something my mother already knew: I was not allowed to cross the street by myself.