Lisana's Lines

On my St. Patrick’s Day “Sunday exploration drive,” I visited Cheyenne.

My first stop was the Wild West Museum. All of the carriages brought back memories of one of my grandfathers. He owned a prized horse named Rusty among other horses. He also owned a fancy buggy that he would have a couple of his horses pull into town.

I remember these things, and I even rode to town in the buggy a few times. I remember Rusty also, but I was never able to ride on him; he was too big as I was only about three or four. From my recollections, he was a Tennessee Walker.

Rusty was famous around my hometown. He was featured in the local newspaper many times even after my grandfather stopped entering Rusty into horse shows, because he was such a beautiful horse.

One thing that I remember most was the two large trash bags that were filled with ribbons that my grandfather had won at horse shows all over the region. Most of them were blue ribbons.

Most of the shows were during the decade before I was born, so I missed out on many horse shows and horse stuff. My older cousins took part in the shows also, and one of them continues to participate in shows to this day.

My dad and grandfather purchased a saddle for me when I was around the age of four or five. It was black with a red seat. Yes, I picked it out myself. When I would go to visit my grandfather, he would drag out the sawhorses and put the saddle on them so I could “pretend ride” a horse.

I really didn’t ride my cousin’s pony often until I turned nine. Beginning then, my grandpa would take me to ride one of my cousin’s ponies weekly. Within about a year, my pony adventures ended after I fell from the saddle when it turned upside down on the horse.

The only horse that I have been on since that day was of the iron variety, my Harley that I used to own. If my grandfather would have been alive during my Harley days, he probably would have worried himself sick over me. When I owned my Harley, I would take off to a bike week somewhere alone if no one could go along with me. I camped out alone during the bike weeks also.

My Papa and I were close. I think that I might have been his favorite grandchild, but of course, I wouldn’t tell my cousins that. I will say that he was my most cherished grandfather. He was the grandfather who I knew better than and was closer to than my other grandfathers.

My dear grandfather, my Papa, died at the age of 91 just weeks before I turned 22. He was a Methodist minister for more than 60 years as his father was before him. He had a fourth grade education but could read anything from the Bible and he would never mispronounce words. His memory stayed sharp through his last days. And he always had a story from “the olden days.”

Lisana Eckenrode can be contacted at [email protected].