The Horse: Why Do They Continue To Capture Our Hearts?

One thousand pounds came racing towards us at full speed. I could feel the vibrations in the ground as my three-year old daughter and I stood waiting by the wood fence. Getting closer with every second, I could see muscles rippling with the force it took to move the large body swiftly across the field. My 25 lb. daughter, dressed in her pink tutu, three beaded necklaces, and pink cowgirl boots, deftly climbed the wood fence with no discernible angst, awaiting the arrival. Within moments, she was face-to-face with the large gray horse. The smile that emerged on my daughter’s face was one of amazement, delight, and maybe even love.

As my daughter leaned over to get closer to the gray mare, the horse’s nostrils flared while breathing in the scent of her small hand. Large hooves stepped closer allowing my daughter the pleasure of stroking the mare’s warm, strong neck. With a quick jump, my daughter was on the ground grabbing large handfuls of long grass that had been out of reach of the horse’s hungry mouth. Standing up, she opened her hand, skillfully flattening out her fingers so the horse’s teeth wouldn’t accidentally find them, and fed the gentle giant the fresh, green grass. Shortly thereafter, my daughter and I continued on our way, but before we left, the sweet mare lowered her head down as my daughter snuggled in close for a heartfelt goodbye.

Three years later – my little girl still visits the gray mare and her friends almost every day.

I see so much of myself in my daughter.

Growing up, all I did was dream about horses, read books about horses, watch movies about horses (Black Beauty, The Horse Whisperer, and Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken), while saving my birthday money to buy a horse. Unfortunately, I grew up in the suburbs of St. Paul, MN, so there was no room for a horse on our typical 1/3 of an acre lot. Doesn’t hurt to dream, right? But, I did as much as I could to be around horses. I went to horse camp, visited horses at local fairs, and stayed with my great-aunt and uncle up in Cambridge, MN for a week almost every summer. This yearly tradition is still one of my favorite memories.

My dad usually drove me up to the farm on a warm summer day as soon as he finished work. We looked forward to leaving the hustle and bustle of the cities to savor the lazy, country roads. With windows rolled down, the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay permeated the air, and the sound of katydids graced our ears as we watched the rows of corn race by our windows. When we arrived at the farm, my great-aunt was there to greet us with a warm hug and homemade goodies – I can still taste the warm, buttery homemade yeast bread, fresh from the oven. My great-uncle would appear from his office with a smile on his face – ready with a witty joke. His easy chuckle always filled the room. My dad would leave shortly thereafter, and I would race out to the horses and stay there until darkness fell and I was summoned into the farmhouse for the night.

Waking up to the sun rising over the country fields, as I sleepily gazed out of the second-floor farmhouse window, put a lazy smile on my face. I remember laying in bed in the morning daydreaming about living in the country while I waited for others in the house to awake – I was too excited to sleep. What I wouldn’t have given to spend every day caring for the horses, running wild through the fields, picking wildflowers, and learning to bake homemade bread. Within moments of emerging from my daydream, I would bound out of bed – excitedly running downstairs and out the door to see the horses. Waiting was no longer an option.

My second cousin and I spent hours each summer day riding horses, braiding manes, brushing tails, spraying fly repellent on coats, filling water troughs, and feeding the horses crab apples that had fallen from the old crab apple tree. These things may seem like chores to many, but to me it was more of a paradise. Many times I walked out to find the horses in the field, where I would simply sit and observe them from a distance. I loved watching the horses eat the sweet clover, scratch their necks on the rough bark of a nearby tree, twitch their coats to rid themselves of pesky flies, and sporadically startle and take off at a full gallop. Again, I’d find myself daydreaming, but this time it was about jumping on a horse and taking off into the sunset. There is no magic combination or special play of words that can describe what these summer memories at my great-aunt and uncle’s farm have meant to me, but they most-assuredly have contributed to my love of horses.

My daughter and I are not the only ones to have horses capture our hearts in the family. My mother owned her own horse and kept it at my great-aunt and uncle’s farm when she was growing up. Ironically, her horse’s name was Sunset. Fitting.

My great-grandfather, Roy Falk, was an ardent writer, and many entries in his memoirs include horses, much to my surprise and pleasure. Some stories have brought me to tears – no surprise to those who know me. I can’t get through a great horse book, movie, or story without bawling my eyes out. Yes, I’m one of those. Don’t get me started on the time my kids jumped on a horse for the first time. Geez! When I see the relationship between horses and their humans, it gets me right in the ticker.

Anyway, my great-grandfather and his family had quite the relationship with one of their horses named Rowdy. Let’s begin with a story about how this horse was given his name – not very pleasant. This story involves my great-grandfather’s uncle, Pete West. My great-grandfather wrote:

One Incident that I wish to mention here is of a terrible thing that happened to Pete West when he was a young man. Just south of my father’s farm, about 2 1/2 miles, there was a dance hall. Well, Pete took his horse and buggy and danced with the girls of that community. This angered the boys so they ganged up on Pete. Some beat him, but one fellow, John Lundquist, stabbed Pete 22 times with a pocket knife. Mother nursed him back to health. They [the attackers] also cut up the harness on his horse. Sheriff Claus Johnson wanted Pete to name his attackers, but Pete refused, saying he wanted to do his own punishing, which he did. Well, he finally recovered and one-by-one the rowdies who had beat and knifed him were severely beaten by Pete himself. The last one to be punished was John Lundquist whom he met one day near Cambridge. Pete picked John off a high wagon and pretty near finished him, so now the score was settled. John Lundquist lived to murder his own nephew, Raymond Widell, with a shotgun in 1927.

The day Pete punished John Lundquist, he had been to Cambridge where he bought a horse for my father. He was a dark gray bronco about 1100 pounds. Pete named the horse Rowdy because of the fight. [Rowdy] was an unusual horse with a horseshoe brand. He was shipped in with a carload of broncos which were auctioned off in a corral behind the Arlington Hotel in Cambridge. Rowdy never needed breaking, he was very fast and gentle, and he was our pet buggy horse. I rode Rowdy bareback an awful lot, and used him to haul the eggs and cream to Stanly Store and Creamery. Our family loved this horse and used him sensibly although he would start from home and run all the way to Cambridge, but this he did because he loved to run. He lived with us for 28 years and was in good health when my father retired him. He did no more work, but ran in the pasture and enjoyed himself.

My great-grandfather continued with a pretty amazing memory:

“I remember when Russell [my great-grandfather’s brother] was an infant and Mother helped with the chores, she would put Russell in Rowdy’s manger while she worked and [Rowdy] would play with [Russell] with evident pleasure.”

Evident pleasure. Those two words alone explain the loving relationship between Rowdy and the family – and the fact that my great-great-grandmother entrusted her baby to the care of their beloved horse while she worked. Can you imagine?

This story has touched everyone in my family, especially when we found Rowdy’s stall and manger still intact in the old barn. As I took the pictures below, I imagined little Russell being entertained by the 1100 pound Rowdy in the manger of hay.

My family and I also found a sketch of a horse head in the granary. Could this sketch be of Rowdy? I like to think so.

At the end of my great-grandfather’s memoir, he wrote:

A final note on Rowdy: When Rowdy became too old to enjoy life, my father hired an uncle of mine to take Rowdy away from the farm and shoot and bury him. The general practice at this time was to sell horses to the fox farms where they were fed to the foxes and, of course, [my father] did not want this to happen. This was in 1928 and I happened to come to Cambridge at the time so Uncle Henry told me about it. I still have precious memories of Rowdy as he really was a great friend of my boyhood.

Even though I have never personally owned a horse, my dream of doing so has never waned. Why? I have no idea, but I can’t get the yearning out of my heart. What is it that makes horses so special? It could be their large eyes that seem to bare their souls, or the gentle nudge they give you when you walk beside them as if they’re saying “Thanks for being here.” Maybe it’s the strength, warmth, and connection you feel as you sit atop their broad backs, or the way they run to you from the other side of the field to say “Hello!” I hope that one day my family will own a horse or two so that I can take that bareback ride into the sunset. If my daughter has anything to do with it, the horse will come sooner than later.

I want to ask you, dear readers, what is it about horses that captures our hearts? If you have insight into this question, please comment. If you have a horse story to tell, I’d love to read it.