The Strawberry Roan

The Strawberry Roan
Based on a true story.

They unloaded her from the truck, a breathtakingly beautiful, Strawberry Roan filly. Her coat was an evenly distributed mixture of red and white hairs, while the head, lower legs, mane and tail were more solid red in color. Dad bought her at an auction in Gothenburg. He often went there on Saturdays, looking for livestock bargains. I had never seen him ride, but this wasn’t the first time he had purchased a riding horse. We already had four in our pasture. He had three sons and he must have felt that owning a horse was a rite of passage for a country boy. At sixteen, I was the oldest son. My two siblings were five years and nine years younger.

         We were all excited and anxious to ride her. Dad knew horses well, having worked them in the fields earlier in his life. As we bridled and saddled her Dad could tell that she was nervous. He decided that he better ride her first, to see how she handled. He rode off, down our lane toward the nearest county road. Two rows of fruit trees, apple and cherry, lined one side of the lane. I can testify from experience that low hanging branches on those trees were the bane of anyone riding a Shetland pony. The trees blocked our view as Dad rode away.

         Somewhere during his ride Dad decided to have a smoke to relax. It didn’t work out that way. When he flipped open the lid of his lighter it made a clicking sound. That, seemingly trivial sound, caused the filly to lurch sideways, almost throwing Dad from her back. It took a moment to calm her. When he returned to his waiting sons he dismounted and said, “No one is riding this horse, she is too skittish.” What a disappointment that was. I had dreamed of riding her, claiming her as my own, and giving her a name. I already had “Dynamite” in mind. My siblings probably had similar thoughts.

         Dad released her into our pasture and forgot her. But, the saga of the Strawberry Roan was far from over. The pasture was a utopia for animals. It was a grass and tree covered ravine running through our property. There were meadows on the rim and at the bottom as well. A spring-fed creek meandered quietly through it. Our horses and a few milk cows had the pasture to themselves. Dynamite, as I called her, or Lightning as one of my siblings called her, fit in nicely with the other horses. At times I would see her running freely across a meadow, with the other horses following her. She ran with her head held high and her tail flowing gracefully behind her. It was the kind of sight you see in movies about horses.

         Then one day a violent storm occurred. Lightning lit up the sky followed by mighty claps of thunder. Lightning must have struck near Dynamite, for she ran with abandon directly into a two wire, barbed wire fence. She hit the fence so hard that posts holding the wires were broken like match sticks. One of the wires tore a huge gash in her neck, laying the flesh open. The lower edge of the wound was peeled back like the page of a book. Once we found her we chased her up to the barn and hustled her inside. A veterinarian cleaned the wound, but wouldn’t stitch it closed. He said that if he was to close it infection might take hold and we might lose her. We fixed the fence and turned her out to pasture again. In time, the neck healed just fine.

         A couple of years later, Dad offered to sell her to a farmer, a Mr. Foster, who lived only a few miles from us. We didn’t know the Foster family, they had recently moved in. Dad probably met Mr. Foster at one of the Saturday, Gothenburg livestock auctions. Mr. Foster told him that he wanted to buy a horse for his youngest son, Toby, to break-to-ride. Dad told him that he had a horse that hadn’t been ridden in so long that it would have to be broken again. Mr. Foster and his two sons, Toby and Eric, drove over to look at Dynamite. When he first saw her, Mr. Foster was upset, saying that he thought he would be buying a horse, but this was only a mare. Dad told him that he could bring her back if she wasn’t enough of a challenge. We got her into the barn and were able to halter her, though she didn’t want it and rared into a roof beam at one point. In those years that she hadn’t been ridden she had become as wild as a mustang.

         The Fosters drove home in a car… a car mind you, with Dynamite trotting alongside at the end of a short rope. We never saw her again.

         Years later, I asked Dad if he had ever heard any more from Mr. Foster regarding Dynamite. He told me that he had. Mr. Foster told him that Toby tried to ride Dynamite but was thrown off every time he climbed aboard. So, they saddled two other horses, Mr. Foster on one and Eric and Toby riding double on the other. They managed to sandwich Dynamite between the other two horses (knowing Dynamite’s nervous nature, she had to be extremely anxious at this point). Then, Toby climbed from behind Eric onto Dynamite. Mr. Foster told Dad that Dynamite went crazy, knocking Eric’s horse over and throwing Toby off onto the ground. He said that Eric’s leg was broken in the process.

         This was the end of the road for Dynamite. The Fosters didn’t bring her back to us. She was led her into their hog pen; there was a clicking sound; Mr. Foster assured that Dynamite, the nervous Strawberry Roan, would never be anxious again.

         I wished I had never asked.