The Horse Trader's Son

Growing up the eldest son of a genuine horse trader (my Mom), I’ve accumulated a wealth of stories surrounding horses and horse people. Some are funny (at least in retrospect), and some are touching or poignant. Some of these stories are even true. Well, mostly true. Some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty, and to compensate for my failing memory. I certainly wouldn’t guarantee the historical accuracy of anything I say or write.

Ah, Winter in Michigan. Such a lovely season. I love riding in the freshly fallen snow. Of course, that’s something I haven’t been able to do since I broke my foot in November. But the Doctor says I can start putting weight on my foot, so hopefully it won’t be long before I’m back in the saddle. Hey – I even drove my own tractor the other day – something else I haven’t been able to do because of the clutch. So things are looking up.

My kids don’t like having horses in Michigan in the winter time nearly as much as I do. That’s because this year it has been up to them to drag the water hoses in and out of the basement so they won’t freeze between filling the water troughs. And chipping the ice out of the troughs when Georgie unplugs the heaters. And feeding and grooming them in sub-zero temperatures.

Well, I did all that when I was a kid, and look how well I turned out. Wait – never mind. Let’s just say that Michigan Winters help kids build character, and leave it at that.

My Brother Matt’s problems with goats began when he was just three years old. We raised nubians, and when one of the nannies gave birth, Matt seemed to enjoy chasing it around with a stick. Not actually beating it, mind you – just terrorizing it. We made him stop, but that goat had a longer memory than the we had.

About a year later, when Matthew was four and beginning to spend more time in the barn doing chores with the rest of us, he walked by that same goat, now fully grown and sporting a fully developed set of horns. Not realizing what was about to happen, I watched “Gertrude” as she watched Matthew approach. When he was right next to her, she reared straight up on her hind legs, where she poised ever so briefly – just long enough for Matt to register what was happening. Alas, not long enough for him to get out of the way. Matt found himself on the receiving end of the hardest head-butt I have ever seen, which drove him straight to the ground on his rear. Once my brothers and I ascertained that he was not out cold, we all expressed our deepest sympathy for his pain – by rolling on the ground and laughing hysterically. Psychiatrists might point out this episode as having something to do with the way Matthew is today, but hey, what do they know.

Moving forward in time two more years, Matt is only six, but I’m 18 and my friends and I consider ourselves rough, tough cowboys. We’ve ridden broncs in the local rodeos. We run riding stables where “city slickers” try to prove they can ride, but we like to show them what real riding is like. We crack bull whips in ways that would have put Indiana Jones to shame, except “Raiders of the Lost Ark” was still two years in the future. In short, we aren’t scared of anything or anyone – except my Mom. Naturally, Matthew looks up to us, and announces that he wants to become a rodeo star.

That weekend we had over a thousand bales of hay to put up, so I invited my best friend Tim over to do some trail riding. When he arrived early Saturday morning ready to ride, I explained to him that we just had a few bales of hay to pick up and stack in the barn first. It shouldn’t take too long, and then we can go riding. The next afternoon when we finished up, there was hay stacked in both side lofts of our old hay barn, and in the center on the floor was a stack that reached all the way to the ceiling. I said “Well, that didn’t take too long now, did it?” Tim, being the good humored sort that he is, refrained from beating the tar out of me just then – barely. Read more…

As the son of parents who bought, sold, traded, and trained horses, I had plenty of opportunities to learn the proper way to fall.   Naturally, some of these were counter-examples.  Some time pursuing a rodeo career added immensely to my ability to fall with grace and style.  Since my rodeo experiences weren’t very financially rewarding, at least they were educational, and the better I got at falling, the better the entertainment I provided the spectators.

So why is it that all this falling experience didn’t prevent me from breaking my foot Thanksgiving Day?  I slipped off the snow-covered roof while replacing bulbs in Christmas lights.  Even doing my best “crumple and roll” didn’t completely save me.  I sit here now in my easy chair with my elevated foot in a cast, contemplating the surgery the Doctors say I’ll need to repair the Lis-Franc fracture.  And do you want to know the worst thing about it?  The entertainment value was completely wasted, as there was nobody around to see it.

In every herd, there seems to be one horse with more personality than its herd-mates – a horse that seems to stand above the rest in terms of intelligence and sense of humor.

The best example of a horse with a sense of humor was Thunder, AKA Houdini. Thunder was a horse from my childhood, who was a trickster and an escape artist. He holds the record for the best practical joke played by a horse, but he has a contender vying for that honor.

We now have a horse on the farm named Georgie (pictured). He’s a handsome Tennessee Walker, and like Thunder, he seems to have the uncanny ability to let himself out of his stall, the barn, and even the pasture. He also fancies himself a bit of a jokester. Read more…

When I was a youngster, my parents were good friends with another couple active in the horse circles. They ran the local horse auction every Saturday night. Gene was a truck driver, rodeo rider, horse shoer, and a trainer. He also was and still is a consummate story teller.

Disclaimer: I can’t swear that the following tale is true. I’m relaying it here the way I heard it, and within the same context. I tell it strictly for entertainment purposes, and specifically do not recommend or advocate the training method employed in the story.

I was about 16 years old, and Gene had contracted to break and train a horse. He frequently did this, and usually boarded the horse with us for the training period. He knew we would take good care of the horse. He cut my Mom in for some of the proceeds of the contract. And he usually put me on the horse after a few days of ground-work. “Uncle” Gene was one of my childhood heroes. In exchange for helping him train horses, I could earn a few dollars and, more importantly, reap the benefits of his vast wisdom and remarkable tales.

As we finished up the day’s session with a young bay mare who was displaying some difficulty learning to stop on cue, I asked him how he planned to deal with her in the next few weeks. He said, “Well, we’ll be patient. She’ll get the hang of it. She’s young, and hasn’t really developed any bad habits, yet.”

“OK, but what if she had? What if she was already trained, but didn’t have any brakes? How would you correct her?”

Gene grew pensive for a few moments, then, as if he’d come to a decision, he started. “Let me tell you, son, about one I got just like that one time. This one was a black gelding, but like you said, didn’t have no brakes. I tried a hackamore. That didn’t work. I tried all different kinds of bits. He would work OK at a walk, but ‘soon as you got him into a canter or a run, he’d just run off with you and not stop ’til he got to the barn.” A grin spread across his face as he said, “I finally managed to break him, though.” Read more…

During our trip to Arizona this past spring (see pictures), the visit to Tombstone inspired in me a renewed interest in the famous Gunfight at the OK Corral and the surrounding events. After some research, I wrote a quick little article entitled Surprising Facts about the Gunfight at the OK Corral. I wasn’t quite satisfied with that one however, so I sat down and wrote a more extensive article called Behind the OK Corral – the Legend and the Legacy, which goes into more depth and discusses the prevailing attitudes and histories of the combatants. It also covers some of the alternate interpretations of history as maintained by the surviving members of the Clanton family. Give it a read and let me know what you think.

My mother was a horse trader. Not one of those that gives horse traders the reputation for fleecing unsuspecting horse buyers (and less experienced horse traders) by representing three-legged man-hating horses as kid-safe and sound. Still, sainthood will forever elude her.

My family engaged in pretty much any horse-related activity that can turn a profit. We rented, boarded, bought, and sold horses. We supplied ponies for pony rides at parties and events, and horses for the judges at field dog trials. And for a fee, we picked up dead and injured livestock from the homes of distraught owners. Most of these were anxious to get the ordeal of a dead or terminal horse over with as quickly as possible. They were content to have us pick up their animal and leave with as little spectacle as possible. Some were not quite so accommodating.

The phone rang one morning. In a tearful voice, a woman spoke to my mother. “My name is Rebecca Rhoades, and my horse Charlie just d-died,” she sobbed. “I have no idea what to do with him now. Do you pick up d-dead horses?”

No funeral mortician who ever consoled a grieving patron could exude more sympathy and compassion than could my mother, the horse trader. “Yes, we do pick up dead horses. Judging by the pain evident in your voice, you obviously loved Charlie very much. How long did you have him?”

“I’ve had him since I was 12 years old. I grew up with him. He was 10 years old when my Dad bought him for me, but he’s 29, now. Well… I mean he was 29.”

When horse owners called and said their old horse had died, or that they had one that was terminally ill and would need to be put down (euthenized, if you prefer), they occasionally asked what we did with the body. My mother would describe our farm, and explain that we had a special section of the farm where we buried the horses. Few people ever elected to have any kind of marker or memorial. Indeed, nobody ever visited the graves of these horses. Fortunately. Read more…