A Snowy, Coco-Flavored Memory
Some of my fondest memories are associated with snow and horses.In my tenth winter I’d rush outside after school to ride my handmade, full-sized, blanket-saddled, rope-bridled snow horse. Those freezing hours offered perfect happiness.
I’d be a jockey! Small and strong, I had excellent balance, and could “read” their every mood. So I worked hard, saved, and rode whenever possible. But at fifteen, to my horror, I developed an allergy to hay, and horses. It steadily worsened. Eventually I realized that even heavily medicated, a horse-y life could never happen.
I did manage one last, special ride before moving on.
A state park was located about fifteen miles away from our house in Saginaw. One cold, sunny day I wheedled the car from my mother and drove there to rent a horse for an hour. As I walked toward the privately owned stable a rebellious, too-thin chocolate-colored gelding reared and whinnied, fighting his owner, who lashed him repeatedly with his crop. “Stop!” I yelled. “Rent me this one!”Startled, the beefy, red-eyed fellow looked me up and down and sneered. “This here’s Coco—a real beast.” He guffawed at his own wit.“He’s glue factory material, kid—the wildest one I got. He’ll grab the bit an’ run like hell. That last guy got dumped. But hey, suit yerself.” I paid, and took the reins.
Coco rolled his eyes, snorted, and moved in tight, angry circles around me, still feeling the sting of the whip. Eventually, though, he settled down and cautiously approached. My ears and hair were snuffled. A carrot offering was examined, and scarfed down. “Darn. You’re too tall to mount,” I whispered. I’d never ask The Hulk for a boost, so I walked down the bridle path leading carrot-hopeful Coco. Behind me his owner, gulping a beer, yelled, “If he rears an’ bucks, I don’t do no refunds.” Cigarette-laughter. Ugh. Ignoring him, we moved into the forest.
Eventually we came to a huge, deep quarry. A large, flat rock at its edge looked right. I stood on it and maneuvered him into position. He snorted and kicked, resisting. I waited. Lined him up again. He looked back at me, clearly poised to buck. I hopped on anyway, praying I wouldn’t be chucked into the pit. He stood stiff-legged, ears flattened, debating. I spoke quiet nonsense, and rubbed his neck with my gloved hand. Years later he capitulated with a long sigh.
Coco carried me slowly toward a thinly snowed meadow, where he cropped exhausted grass, or simply moved around, nickering. I hummed, or yakked about nothing that whole, perfect afternoon. Time took a holiday. He explored paths; I was happy to let him.
Much later the sky darkened. It got colder. Ohmygod—hours had passed! The Hulk, angry but relieved, rose from his inadequate stable chair when we showed up. “Where the hell you been?!”
I knew he’d charge major money for the five-hour afternoon. When I couldn’t produce the cash, what then?
But an odd thing happened. He inspected Coco, who allowed it. When the saddle was removed he moved quietly into his stall with a soft whinny. The Hulk tossed him some hay, closed the stall door, and came out of the barn to plant himself in front of me, beefy arms folded over his stained leather coat. He didn’t speak. I nervously met his gaze. The bill would be astronomical!
Some emotion- a memory, perhaps? flickered in his eyes. He nodded to himself—then abruptly shook his head and stalked away, dismissing me with a curt, snarled “Gitoutahere!”I skedaddled, stunned and grateful.
The Hulk had a heart!
Some of my fondest memories are associated with snow and horses.In my tenth winter I’d rush outside after school to ride my handmade, full-sized, blanket-saddled, rope-bridled snow horse. Those freezing hours offered perfect happiness.
I’d be a jockey! Small and strong, I had excellent balance, and could “read” their every mood. So I worked hard, saved, and rode whenever possible. But at fifteen, to my horror, I developed an allergy to hay, and horses. It steadily worsened. Eventually I realized that even heavily medicated, a horse-y life could never happen.
I did manage one last, special ride before moving on.
A state park was located about fifteen miles away from our house in Saginaw. One cold, sunny day I wheedled the car from my mother and drove there to rent a horse for an hour. As I walked toward the privately owned stable a rebellious, too-thin chocolate-colored gelding reared and whinnied, fighting his owner, who lashed him repeatedly with his crop. “Stop!” I yelled. “Rent me this one!”Startled, the beefy, red-eyed fellow looked me up and down and sneered. “This here’s Coco—a real beast.” He guffawed at his own wit.“He’s glue factory material, kid—the wildest one I got. He’ll grab the bit an’ run like hell. That last guy got dumped. But hey, suit yerself.” I paid, and took the reins.
Coco rolled his eyes, snorted, and moved in tight, angry circles around me, still feeling the sting of the whip. Eventually, though, he settled down and cautiously approached. My ears and hair were snuffled. A carrot offering was examined, and scarfed down. “Darn. You’re too tall to mount,” I whispered. I’d never ask The Hulk for a boost, so I walked down the bridle path leading carrot-hopeful Coco. Behind me his owner, gulping a beer, yelled, “If he rears an’ bucks, I don’t do no refunds.” Cigarette-laughter. Ugh. Ignoring him, we moved into the forest.
Eventually we came to a huge, deep quarry. A large, flat rock at its edge looked right. I stood on it and maneuvered him into position. He snorted and kicked, resisting. I waited. Lined him up again. He looked back at me, clearly poised to buck. I hopped on anyway, praying I wouldn’t be chucked into the pit. He stood stiff-legged, ears flattened, debating. I spoke quiet nonsense, and rubbed his neck with my gloved hand. Years later he capitulated with a long sigh.
Coco carried me slowly toward a thinly snowed meadow, where he cropped exhausted grass, or simply moved around, nickering. I hummed, or yakked about nothing that whole, perfect afternoon. Time took a holiday. He explored paths; I was happy to let him.
Much later the sky darkened. It got colder. Ohmygod—hours had passed! The Hulk, angry but relieved, rose from his inadequate stable chair when we showed up. “Where the hell you been?!”
I knew he’d charge major money for the five-hour afternoon. When I couldn’t produce the cash, what then?
But an odd thing happened. He inspected Coco, who allowed it. When the saddle was removed he moved quietly into his stall with a soft whinny. The Hulk tossed him some hay, closed the stall door, and came out of the barn to plant himself in front of me, beefy arms folded over his stained leather coat. He didn’t speak. I nervously met his gaze. The bill would be astronomical!
Some emotion- a memory, perhaps? flickered in his eyes. He nodded to himself—then abruptly shook his head and stalked away, dismissing me with a curt, snarled “Gitoutahere!”I skedaddled, stunned and grateful.
The Hulk had a heart!