Memoirs of a Horse Trader's son

A while back I wrote a story entitled ‘The Great Rodeo Trainers’, which was sold to a Helium Marketplace publisher with exclusive (I thought) rights. Now I see the story has reappeared on Helium’s website, so I’m thinking it was only sold with first publication rights rather than exclusive. I could never find it on-line, so I’m glad it’s back on Helium because it’s one of my favorite stories. Read The Great Rodeo Trainers and let me know what you think.

The Field Car was a beater. It was a 1971 Maverick, which I bought in 1980 while in college. It wasn’t really a beater then, but it didn’t take me long to turn it into one. With dedication and determination, any car can be turned into a beater in a matter of months.

The transformation on the Maverick began when my room mate Tim came home with me for the weekend, and I had to repair the fences around the horse pasture. My parents left for the day, and we didn’t want to carry fence wire, tools, and extra posts around a 200 acre pasture, so we put it all in my car and headed out. All was well for the most part, until we got bored and decided to see how well the Maverick would take the hills. The educational opportunities in this type of exercise cannot be overstated. Not only did we get most of the fences fixed that weekend, but we learned how to replace shock absorbers, too! We could have learned to do some body and paint work as well, but we decided that the little scratches and dings just added character to the car. Tim dubbed it the “Field Car,” a name that has stuck with the Maverick ever since.

Beatership wasn’t bestowed upon the Field Car all at once. Sometimes days or even weeks would go by without it acquiring a single new distinguishing feature. Then just when it seemed like progress had stalled, an opportunity for further customization would present itself, although I seldom recognized it as such until after the fact. The distinctive markings on the roof of the car for example came about when Tim and I were on our way to meet some friends and didn’t want to wait for a train. When we saw the lights start flashing at a crossing up ahead, we were sure we could safely beat the on-coming train. Indeed, we beat the train with a hundred yards to spare. It was the descending barrier that proved to be the real challenge. We actually did beat it… mostly.

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I have a new story published on Triond (AuthSpot), with a copy also on Helium. It’s entitled “Poor Old Charlie’s Wake,” and gives a good example of the extents to which my mom, the horse trader, would go to make a living. Here’s an excerpt:

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 ponys 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 accomodating.

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.

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I was not quite as happy about this story as I’ve been with the others. It is a bit heavier, more introspective and less humorous than most of my stories. That in itself was somewhat enlightening for me. Putting this story down made me consider how my mom must have felt about some of the things she did. Please let me know what you think about it.

The Wild Horse Race is a thrilling rodeo event at which 10 wild horses compete for audience applause by racing around the arena and trying to stomp the tar out of 30 lunatic cowboys. These cowboys (and the occasional cowgirl, but most girls are too smart for this) are tricked into participating by letting them believe they are racing to see which 3-person team can be the first to saddle and ride one of the wild horses.

The first time I saw this event, I was just nine years old, and was pretty smart for a kid. I remember thinking, “Why on earth would anyone enter in this event?” As I reached my late teens, however, my brains began vacationing in the same crevice that most teenagers’ brains do, and I found myself anxiously awaiting my 18^th birthday. Not because I could vote or drink legally, but because I could finally enter the Wild Horse Race in the annual 3-day rodeo held every Labor Day weekend in western Michigan

That first year, I recruited two of the toughest guys I knew, who happened to be pretty good horsemen. At the rodeo grounds where we camped for the weekend, we met some of the other Wild Horse Racers the night before the first performance. They were nice enough, and gave us one piece of advice. If we drew a horse named Trash, we should just let her go. She’s wicked and mean, and there was no sense in us getting hurt our first time out. We thanked them, but amongst ourselves we figured we were tougher cowboys and better horsemen than they realized, and agreed that if we drew Trash, we could win with her. Of course we did draw Trash. Read More >>

I’ve submitted an article (a story, really) about an uncommon rodeo event called the Wild Horse Race to AC. Eventually I’ll post all or part of it here, but I want to see how it does there, first.

From ‘Memoirs of a Horse Trader’s Son’

The Great Rodeo Trainers

Update 10/12/2007 - this story has been selected by ‘Western Lifestyle Magazine’ for publication in an upcoming issue. I’m an actual published author - in print!

Update 12/12/2007 - OK, ‘Western Lifestyle’ was a pseudonym for someone wishing to remain anonymous, and it’s going to be published on their website, not in print.  Bummer.  At least they paid for it.