Old Alice

 TALKING TO MYSELF: 1 Feb 2012  Goodbye, January, and good riddance. Your temperatures were mild in Kentucky this year, but the toll you demanded in return was harsh. You snatched  too many within my circle of life who were too young to leave.  One of those was my cousin and childhood playmate, Georgia Mona Vincent (Webb.) Some years ago, I wrote a little story about an adventure she and I shared as children with a horse named Alice. I repeat it here in her memory, and dedicate it to all who grieve tonight for friends and loved ones whose lives were too soon over. May sweet memories cradle your heart.

 Old Alice

          Our grandson, Jared, recently climbed to the top of a good-sized tree, and then realized he didn’t know how to get down.  I understand that feeling.  I’ve spent much of my adult life out on a limb wondering how in the heck I got there, and what in the world I was going to do next.

          Like generations of boys before him, Jared climbed the tree on a dare.  You see, Jared still rides a bike with training wheels while his new friend handles a two-wheeler with the skill of a five-year-old Evil Knieval.  At the time the gauntlet was flung down, I’m sure Jared saw it as an opportunity to defend his manhood -- so to speak. 

          But having reached the tip-top of the tree, he noticed that it was swaying in the wind.  The way back down looked much longer than the way up, and it wasn’t clear what limbs were in reach of his feet. 

          His cries for help brought us running from the kitchen to the back yard, and we immediately began to give him advice.    Put your foot here, Jared – or maybe over there.  Breathe deeply, and calm down, boy.   

          But he didn’t want advice.  He wanted to be rescued.  We eventually came around to his shrill point of view, and the most nimble among us shinnied up the tree to save him.  Soon, he was back on the ground, with his manhood – so to speak – even more tattered than when he accepted the dare.

          I wanted to console Jared, but words failed me.  His escapade had pushed me back to my ninth summer when my town cousin arrived at the farm for her annual vacation.  I looked forward to her coming because she was great fun, but I dreaded her visits, too.  More adventurous than book-wormy me, and raised with an older brother to boot, she was a daredevil by my standards. 

          To make matters worse, she was obsessed with riding our ancient workhorse.  She saw herself as Elizabeth Taylor and our Alice as her ticket to the Grand National.   She saw Black Beauty,  but I saw a disagreeable, old nag who’d been displaced by a tractor.

           Furthermore, I chose to give all the barnyard animals as much room as possible.  Early in life, I’d been kicked by a cow, flogged by a rooster, butted by a ram, and chased by a bull.  (Indeed, the rooster and the ram were long-lived enemies that stalked my entire childhood.)    

          But here I was, day one, out on the hillside calling for Alice to come on in.  If my cousin thought this big, lazy horse was the greatest thing since sliced bread then I would at least make a show of trying to round Alice up.  I didn’t expect to succeed.  Alice was disdainful of us -- as she was of all riders.  Certainly, she didn’t give the time of day to young girls approaching her without bridle, bit or harness.   I could hear her laughing, “Oh, them again.  Fat chance of my letting them ride bareback on a hot day – I’m retired!”

          Personally, I thought Alice’s attitude was sensible – it was hot - but my cousin seemed so disappointed that I began to worry our farm was letting her down.   I already felt pretty dull beside this go-go cousin, and before I knew what I was saying, the words slipped out.

          “Maybe we could lure Alice near the fence with a path of corn on the cob.  Then we could jump from the fence onto her back.”

          Unbelievably, this ploy worked.   We mapped out a trail of corn in the pasture, and munching along, Alice eventually ambled over near the stretched wire fence.  But when we leaped from the fencepost onto her back, and shouted, “GIDDY-UP,” she stood as still as a statue.  Her only movement was a swish of the tail as though we were flies on her back.

          Then it came to me.  I’d seen it work on cartoons a hundred times.  If we were astride her, and dangled an ear of corn just in front of her face - an ear of corn attached by a string to a stick and held just out of reach of her mouth - she would trot right along trying to reach the prize, and we would have a grand ride.

           My cousin declared me a genius.  But then she said, “You go first – because it’s your idea.”

          There was no honorable escape.  With fake bravado, I gerrymandered the stick-string-ear-of-corn-device, and then I slipped from the fencepost onto Alice’s wide, high back.  Carefully, I suspended the ear of corn in front of Alice’s nose. 

          That  old plow horse took off like a Derby contender.  I tried to yell, “Whoa,” but couldn’t, so I sucked in my breath and hung onto her black mane for dear life.  I considered jumping off, but looking down, decided only a fool would risk that.   

          There’s an old saying about closing the barn door after the horse has run off.  Unfortunately, no one in my family ever believed in closing a barn door.  Seeking the reassurance of her stable stall, Alice made a beeline dash from the ridge pasture, past the edge of the pond, through the rocky feedlot, then into the dim cavern of the stockbarn.  I may have saved my life by ducking my head under the cross beam above the stall’s door with only seconds to spare.  In her familiar place, the old girl finally stopped, but not before I’d fallen off and ripped my knee on a swinging hinge.

          I’m still not sure what to make of that experience.  Is it better to walk away without trying, and leave the gauntlet lay where it’s flung?   Or to try and fail, and retreat with tattered pride?

          Jared did allow as how the view was nice from the top of the tree -     

Copyright © 2012 by Georgia Green Stamper and The Owenton News-Herald