Eighty-Six and Fearless

For the past five years that we have been living together, my companion, Ron-a retired engineer-periodically visits his mother, Sally, and her husband, Ben, who live in Wickenburg. I stay at home because we have a few animals, and it is hard to find someone who will tend to their individual needs. Among our menagerie, there is one prima donna. His name is Marino, and he lives in a stall with a twenty-foot run that travels along a line parallel to our bedroom wall. If a measuring tape were applied, Marino's quarters would be about four feet from our bedroom.

Prior to meeting Ron, I was married to a lawyer for thirteen years. When I told a friend of my love for Ron, my friend said, "You have gone from the abstract to the concrete." My friend, a contractor, did not enjoy working with lawyers or engineers. For me, the relationship with the engineer has been fun, while my marriage to the lawyer was a struggle from start to finish. The lawyer liked to argue just because. Ron likes to "explore" issues, but he does not like to argue. This summer when he started talking about going to visit his mother, he was right on schedule, but when he mentioned me going with him, I was surprised, then annoyed. Some psychologists believe that sooner or later guilt transforms into some degree of anger. With me, the transformation is immediate. Ron has never been happy with the fact that I stay home with the animals while he visits Sally and Ben, but he accepted it, or so it seemed. Wrong! I was about to be introduced to the persistence of an engineer. Ron's strong will was not unknown to me, but I had blithely attributed this force to his education as an engineer. We all know how engineers are. This was my thinking before becoming entangled with the roots of this will.

"What if you could take Marino along?" These words pierced the heart of my argument against going to Wickenburg, which was that I could not leave Marino. Ron had given this issue some thought. No, he had given the issue a lot of thought. Ron worked for Motorola for twenty years, and he was good at managing other engineers. He compares engineers to cats, and maintains that the best way to control a cat or a herd of cats is with a can of tuna. I am a neuropsychologist, and, apparently, a neuropsychologist is just as cat-like as any engineer. When he mentioned packing up Marino and taking him to Wickenburg, there was the unmistakable aroma of tuna in the air.

Marino is the horse into which I have poured the last five years of my life. He is an athlete-in-training, and his workout schedule does not include four-day lay offs. Miss one day of riding and he is looking for something to do. By the second day he is trying to gallop around in his fifteen-by-twenty-foot pen. When he gets going, he sounds like an elephant on crystal-meth. Since this fifteen-hundred-pound beauty lives less than ten feet from our bedroom window, we are kept informed as to his every mood. Ron is well familiar with my commitment to training Marino. In my defense, Marino was bred to be a Grand Prix level dressage horse, which means that he has a lot of power and energy. He is a papered Hanoverian warmblood that has a sprinkling of handpicked Arabian blood. He can display the best and worst of both breeds. To explain this adequately would be an article in itself. At best, the Hanoverian is an obedient powerhouse; at worst, it is a recalcitrant, bully. At best, the Arabian is an elegant, athletic creature worthy of anyone's fantasy; at worst, it is an air-headed klutz. It is no wonder that Marino's ancestry has not produced a casual horse suited for a relaxing trail ride. During the initial year of his training, he regularly spun out from under me. When I found myself on the ground looking up at him for the fifth time, I stopped counting.

While Marino is on the impulsive side, Ron plots and plans before taking a step. He knew that taking Marino along was just the beginning, but he also knew that if I accepted the idea he would have what he wanted, which was my company during his visits to his mother's home. The reader may wonder what kind of woman appeals to a trial lawyer and a systems engineer. I would describe myself as mild-mannered, but this is probably less than accurate because people seem to love me or hate me, and, whichever feeling I engender in someone, it is instantaneous and permanent.

Sally Graves and Susan Downs Parrish at the Simpson Ranch in Wickenburg, Arizona, summer 2002. Photo by Ron Isaacson.

Larry Simpson's mother lives in the main house, which was built in the 1920's by the F.X. O'Brien family. The house is beautifully maintained. Grassy lawns, a few towering palm trees, and topped-off, leafy eucalyptus trees provide a tasteful background for the tan colored home. The eucalyptus trees are at least nine feet in circumference. Too bad these old trees cannot talk. The Simpson home does not appear old, but it has the look of an earlier time. The walls are adobe brick that is two feet thick.

F.X. O'Brien was born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1848. In 1877, he and James Mahoney discovered the Gold Bar mine in the Wickenburg area. O'Brien was an associate of Horace Tabor, one of the wealthiest men in the country during the latter part of the 19th century. In 1878 when Leadville was incorporated, Tabor was the postmaster. A flop at the gold mining trade, Tabor sold goods and services to miners and staked some of the poor-but-ambitious prospectors for a share of their profit. One day he traded two German immigrants shovels, whiskey, and other necessities for a share of their find. As luck would have it, the inebriated Germans stumbled onto what would become the Little Pittsburg mine. In two months time, the Little Pittsburg was yielding enough silver to earn $100,000 a month. Soon Tabor had an income of four million a year in this mining town where the leading cause of death according to the coroner was "maimed and crippled." He created a bank, started two newspapers, and built an opera house. A big spender, Tabor continued to invest in other lodes. His best investment was in the Matchless mine. The Matchless added two thousand dollars a day to his bank account. He became Lt. Governor and, for a brief time, State Senator before dying broke in 1899. Such was life in Leadville at the end of the nineteenth century.

F.X. O'Brien's primary residence was in Leadville, where he was invested in mining and gambling. In addition to the Gold Bar mine, O'Brien owned the largest cattle ranch in Wickenburg. O'Brien died in 1926 and his wife converted the ranch into a dude ranch. Simpson's maternal grandmother, Mrs. Pouquette, bought the ranch in the late 1930's.

The Simpson's raised cattle and sheep on the ranch for thirty years. They still run cattle, but not sheep. Six years ago, they added an RV park. Starting in late October and ending sometime in the spring, ropers from around the country arrived at the Simpson Ranch, driving RVs with horse trailers attached. They spend their days honing their roping skills, competing in jackpot ropings, or exploring the 100 sections of ranch property. Our trip was in the late summer, so the hustle and bustle of the winter months was only an echo. Other than twenty or so permanent boarders, Marino and I had the place to ourselves.

The drive to Wickenburg was uneventful, if you do not count Marino's attempt to go home at the corner of McKellips and Gilbert. He untied himself and turned around so that he was riding backward in the trailer. My heart was in my throat when I looked out the side-view mirror, and saw his head rather than his tail bobbing around. He does not like to leave home. Overcoming the impulse to stop immediately, I pulled into a bank parking lot, flew out the door, and entered the escape hatch at the front of the trailer. Terrified that he might actually try to jump out, I grabbed the lead rope and pulled him around. With my heart pounding, I re-tied him-this time with a Marino-proof knot.

Although I anticipated that the highlight of the trip would be riding along the Hassayampa River, it turned out to be secondary to another event. When we arrived at the Ranch, Sally and Ben were waiting for us. We took Marino out of the trailer, unwrapped his legs, and hosed him off. He was intact and interested in his new surroundings. As I was taking him back to his pen, Sally asked if she could lead him. Most of the time, Marino is a perfect gentleman, but he can put his head and tail into the air with no warning and walk around on tippy-toe, a la his diminutive Arabian ancestors. Of course, there is nothing diminutive about Marino. Suspension-the ability to move with an air born quality-is highly desirable in dressage horses, but it has its downside. It is not fun to be on the end of the lead rope when Marino feels uppity. This was the first time Sally had seen Marino, and she was seeing only the perfect-gentleman side. When she asked to lead him, my first response was a gasp. Then I said something really dumb. "You don't have gloves!" Sally glanced at my gloves. I countered her unspoken thought with, "Even if you had gloves, I couldn't let you lead him."

"Oh, o.k.," she said. Sally's disappointment was obvious, but she was gracious. I felt like a child who would not share her special bicycle with her next-door neighbor, but the fact is, I never share my horse with anyone. In the words of Charles de Kunffy, an internationally known author and riding instructor, "There are two things you don't share with anyone-your toothbrush and your horse." These words convey the intimate partnership that develops between a horse and rider. This relationship is hard for non-riders to conceive, but every horseman knows this truth. I felt selfish; however, in addition to my well-established habit, the risk to Sally was sobering. I could live with feeling selfish, but I could not live with Marino hurting Sally. At eighty-six, standing five feet, five inches tall and weighing less than one hundred pounds, Sally was no match for Marino's alter ego, which is always present even when he gives no hint of being anything other than obedient. His nature, which has been hundreds of years in the making, is always a heartbeat away.

The next day, I spent three hours allowing Marino to adjust to his new surroundings. I lead him around, turned him out in a small round pen, and rode him so he would be less ambitious the next day, when I planned to ride down the river for the first time. I became acquainted with Sandy Durreau. She and her daughter boarded their horses on the ranch. Sandy was trying a new horse, a refugee from a dude string. The horse, Apache, was too smart for the dudes. He followed his own agenda, which was generally to meander back to the barn. He had a gliding gait, which was what Sandy needed because she has a sensitive back that objects when she rides a rough-gaited horse. I got to know both Sandy and Apache. Both had a special role to play during our visit.

Apache was people oriented rather than horse oriented. Every time I came near his pen he "talked" to me. He had a low-pitched nicker that touched my heart. Sometimes horses talk because they are trying to persuade someone to give them food. Apache nickered to me as he was eating his hay.

Sandy told me that she was thinking of changing Apache's name to Willard if she kept him. The name Willard has special meaning to me because it was Ron's deceased father's name. The horse would be Willy for short. I hoped that she would keep Willy. He deserved a good home. I wondered if his longing looks and sweet talk touched her.

The next day was the big day for the trail ride down the Hassayampa. Ron and Sally walked down to the river with me. Once through the gate that separated the ranch from the river, I got on and headed out. The Hassayampa is about 400 feet across. I no sooner got to the middle of the dry bed, than a herd of ATVs came along. No problem. We live across the street from a family of five children, and they have at least three of the noisy, smelly vehicles. I walked over every log I could find so Marino would have to pay attention to what he was doing rather than find something to worry about. At one point, a dog barked from behind some bushes. I never saw the dog. It scared me more than it did Marino. He handled all the new sights and sounds like he had been a trail horse all his life. He did not mind when two horsemen came into our view and continued on their way. Horses, being herd animals, usually prefer to be in the company of another horse. Marino, like Willy, a.k.a. Apache, prefers the company of people.

When we went back to the ranch, I was ecstatic. The way Marino responded to the unfamiliar situation validated my training and his good breeding. We were on track, and he had some more experience to add to his repertoire. A well-trained horse, regardless of the particular specialty, should be able to handle new situations. It was a great day for me. What I did not know was that the best part of the day was yet to come.

Once back at the ranch, I hosed Marino off. Sandy was there, and asked how the ride went. After hearing about the success of the ride, she offered to let Ron ride Willy. Ron no sooner declined the offer, than Sally said, "Ron, I would love to ride him." We were all dumbstruck, but out of my mouth came, "Let's do it, Sally." My response was driven by my memory of the look on Sally's face when I told her that she could not lead Marino. Willy was not Marino. I put a lead rope on Willy's bridle, lead him up to the mounting block, and said, "Hop on." Sally wanted to get on from the ground. "No Way," I said automatically. Having lived with a lawyer and an engineer, I have learned to stand my ground and how to use leverage. I told Sally that it was easier on the horse to use the mounting block, which is true. Once in the saddle, Sally, Willy, and I headed into the roping arena. What a thrill. Sally used to ride her horse, Trixie, to school. Sally confirmed what every horseman knows: we never out grow our love of riding; the feel of a horse under us always feels right.

Until now, I have avoided thinking about what it will be like to be eighty-six. My only positive response to the idea of growing old has been that it beats the alternative. Sally is unfettered by images of what she should be. This may have something to do with being eighty something, but it probably has more to do with her nature. Ron tells me that his mother has always been fearless. When Ron was on the brink of adolescence, she dove into the ocean to save his friend from drowning. "She was going to come back with him, or she was not coming back," is how Ron remembered the rescue. Then there was the time that she was seen chasing the bear out of their campsite. The bear knew he had met his match.

Sally represents what we can be in our twilight years, but she is a reminder that we are not magically transformed into a person who commands respect. It is a process of growth based on action and reflective thought, and it is never too early to start working on this process because the future is uncertain. It is possible that we will be lucky like Sally and live to be a ripe old age. But the question for each of us is: What will our ripeness reveal about who we are?

Wickenburg Trip
Susan Downs Parrish, Ph.D.