Mini Memoir: My Dad Saddling a Horse

By the time I was five, I was riding some old ranch horse around the yard. When I was in first grade and we lived on the Seventy-One Ranch, I remember many days taking off on my own. By the time I was in sixth grade, I could saddle a horse myself. Before then, my dad would do it for me. Although he has been dead for many years, I think of my father with love, gratitude, and good memories, especially of those ranch years. One of my favorites is the memory of watching him saddle a horse for me.

I see him with the curry comb in his hand. I hear it scratch against the horse’s hide, and the slightly different sound as he combs the mane and tail. He brushes the horse’s back, reaches under the belly, softly crooning, “Whoa, boy. Easy now.” I hear his voice cautioning me not to brush the tender wedge of the horse’s withers. The horse might kick.

He throws on a blanket, releasing a whiff of horse sweat, smoothes and evens it, because another blanket will go on top, a fancier one. Somehow I know that he must smooth the blankets because a wrinkle could wear a sore on the horse’s back. Yet I don’t remember him saying this to me. Other than reminding me not to brush the withers, or, when I was very young, not to stand right behind even the gentlest horse, I don’t remember him lecturing me on how to saddle a horse. I think he knew that if he saddled a horse with care, attention, and love, then I would, too, when my time came.

He gracefully heaves the saddle onto the horse, the right stirrup hooked over the horn. He reaches up, lets down the stirrup and the cinch; sometimes the horse jumps a bit. When he reaches under the horse to grab the cinch, I think he is brave. I love the narrow leather cinch strap that he loops around and around, finally folding it through the brass buckle and giving it a firm tug.

I watch him undo the halter and buckle it around the horse’s neck, take the bridle and, with his left hand, guide it into the horse’s mouth, placing the strap around the horse’s left ear. I hear the rattling of the bit as the horse adjusts it in his mouth.

He walks the horse around the yard for a couple of minutes, maybe handing me the reins to do that job, which is to get air out of the horse’s stomach. He puts his hand under the cinch, feels the slack, and then tightens it.

He ties the reins in a knot, lifts them over the horse’s ears, and rests them on the saddle horn. The horse is still tied by the halter rope to the hitching rack.

Except when I was very young, he never helped me get on a horse. That was my job. I remember leading the horse to a rock, a hay bale, or even maneuvering the horse close enough to a corral fence so I can slide onto the saddle from the top rail. I am ready to go on my own, into blue skies and sage-covered hills of a Nevada morning. I like to think he watches me with love as I leave the yard.