Eric Takes a Ride

My first wife Gail loved horses and had two, Lady, a very gentle mare and Rodan, a large stallion. Not very friendly, Rodan did not tolerate carrying fools around on his back, a fact I quickly learned during my first visit to Gail’s home in Chalmette.

During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.

Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.

I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.

Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.

Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.

The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.

I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.

Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.

Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.

Louisiana Mystery Writer