Horse Tails - Part 1



Me at Riata Ranch

I've been in love with horses for as long as I can remember, which is a really long time. From a very young age, I watched every movie about horses over and over  again:  "Flicka," "Black Beauty," "National Velvet," you name it. I also read every book I could get my hands on about horses and ponies, which means I read every one of the books by Marguerite Henry, with Misty of Chincoteague being my all time favorite. I used to fall asleep dreaming about Chincoteague Ponies and begged my parents to take me there to get one of the ponies. That never happened, but at least I tried.

Then I read about wild Mustangs and I spent all my time day-dreaming about a Mustang coming out of the hills and into my backyard. I could envision a beautiful stallion jumping the five foot tall redwood fence in our backyard, yeah right, and coming to find me. That dream stayed with me for years.

The Los Angeles County Fair, in Pomona, CA, was my favorite place to go when I was a kid. Even better than Disney Land where I went on many of my birthdays. Anyway, my parents would escort me to the Livestock area of the fairgrounds and there I would be for hours on end. I'd pet and sweet-talk every single horse, from the huge Clydesdales to the golden Palominos (my favorites at the fair) and all the other horses and ponies. My parents never had to worry that I'd wander off. Just look for the horses and there I'd be.

My first memory of actually riding a horse, I was seven years old. We were on vacation at Uncle Buell's ranch outside of Steamboat Springs, CO. Buell was actually my Mom's cousin, but everyone referred to him as Uncle Buell. Anyway, "Dolly" was an old gentle mare and she didn't mind having both me and my little brother riding on her back at the same time. I only got to ride "Dolly" at a walk, but that was good enough at the time. I was in love with that beautiful mare and never wanted to leave the ranch.

Eventually, my parents gave in and sent me to summer camp at Riata Ranch in Bass Lake, CA. I was 12 years old the first time I went and stayed for a whole month. Riata Ranch was all about horses. It was owned and run by Tom and Vicki Myers. As a young man, Tom had been the stunt rider for Elizabeth Taylor in "National Velvet." For one whole month I lived in Levis, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. I rode horses all morning long and then learned to groom and care for them after.

I learned to ride both English and Western and even learned cross-country riding and rudimentary jumping, both in the arena and on the trail. I also learned some trick riding and could do a running mount, a scissors kick to reverse in the saddle and ride backwards, how to ride standing up and could even do a back-roll dismount. I'm amazed when I think back on all that. As a parent I would have been horrified to see my child doing all those things. But remember, my parents were not at the camp with me, so I could try all kinds of cool stuff. Needless to say, I never wanted to leave Riata Ranch.


"Gunsmoke" and a Pinto at Riata Ranch

When it came time to leave, gee, I had to go home and back to school, I begged my parents to buy me one of the ranch horses. Tom trained all those two and three year old Quarterhorses himself and often sold them to the kids' families at the end of the summer camp season. I'd fallen in love with a big buckskin gelding named "Gunsmoke." I was just sure I had to take him home with me. My parents pointed out that we had nowhere to put a horse and so I didn't get to bring "Gunsmoke" home. I hadn't yet figured out that a horse could be boarded out and my parents weren't about to mention that possibility. Hmm!


Another of the Riata Ranch Horses

At the ranch we often rotated the horses we rode. However, "Gunsmoke" was bigger and some of the other kids preferred not to ride him. He also had a bad habit of bucking off any kid he didn't particularly like. But "Gunsmoke" and I were buddies, so I always volunteered to be the one to ride him. He and I clocked a lot of hours together in the arena and out riding trail, where we'd jump over brush and logs. "Gunsmmoke" was so gentle with me, that I actually remember one extra hot day when I lay on his back and took a short nap.

The following summer I only spent two weeks at the ranch. Much to my dismay, "Gunsmoke" was no longer there. Someone else had bought him at the end of the previous summer. So for those two weeks I took turns riding different horses. They were all great fun to ride, but none of them ever compared to "Gunsmoke." 

Now the Shetland Ponies at Riata Ranch were another matter. They had a string of Shetlands, which they used to give pony rides to little kids. Sometimes some of my fellow campers and I would take the ponies out in the afternoons and go trail riding down to the lake and then take the ponies in the water for a swim. We rode those ponies bareback, and let me tell you, a couple of those guys were mean as all get out. You'd be riding full speed, which isn't all that fast on a Shetland, and then come to a trickle of a stream and the pony would throw you right over his head.

It never made sense to me that those ponies would swim in the lake, but had an aversion to a tiny bit of water. Go figure. Anyway, one time, when I rode one of the mean little geldings, I got thrown so many times that I got off and led him all the way back. I swear he had a very satisfied grin on his face. Needless to say, I never again rode a Shetland Pony.

I had no problem riding a Quarterhorse bareback. During all my camp days, I was never thrown from a horse. I had no problem sticking to the saddle or bareback. I was probably more comfortable on a horse than walking. So I always considered it such a shame that I didn't have a horse of my own. For that reason, I kept my dream of someday getting a Mustang. I was sure there was one out there somewhere waiting for me. (Read more in Part 2.)

Please Note - Somewhere there's an old photo of my brother and I riding "Dolly." For some reason, no photos were ever taken of me riding a horse or pony at Riata Ranch. In the only photo of  "Gunsmoke," I didn't get his head in the picture. I was just learning how to take photos back then and wasn't very good at it. Thankfully, I eventually got better with a camera.

My Mom, Jean Ruddell

My Mom is Jean Ruddell, that's her "nom de plume" of the moment. To me she's just Mom. Well, she happens to be one of the most interesting and adventurous people I know. I'm sure I got being a Dreamer from her. She's a story teller from way back. Where other kids were read Faerie Tales at bed time, my brother, JR, and I listened to colorful tales told by Mom, tales of when she was a child, or tales of colorful ancestors, because we have a lot of those.

Me as a 2 wk old preemie & Mom at 21

Anyway, after years and years of trying to get Mom to write down those stories so they can be passed down to the grandkids and great-grandkids, she's finally doing just that. The stories are every bit as wonderful as I remember them as a child. And the crazy thing is, those stories are true. It was like having Robert Louis Stevenson or O. Henry as my Mom, because her stories are every bit as good. So be sure to check out her blog "Journeys of a Lifetime" at jeanruddell.blogspot.com.

Now on to the adventurous part. My Mom lived all over the place, in the Philippines; Point Barrow, Alaska;, France; and Kuwait. At the age of 60, following the end of the first Gulf War, Mom moved to Kuwait for ten years and was a journalist for the Kuwait Arab Times. Talk about adventures! Not only did she live in cool, interesting places, she traveled so such locales as Japan, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Turkey, I could go on and on. Though she moved back to the states nine years ago, when she retired at the age of 70, her stories are told as if they happened yesterday. I'll let Mom tell her own stories. So please be sure to visit her blog.

A walk on the beach ...

Sandpiper walking on Pensacola Beach

Where to begin? My life has always revolved around the beach. From the time I was a toddler the sand and the surf has always been a draw for me. I learned to swim not long after I learned to walk. I feel grounded, at peace, when I walk along the beach, feeling the sand between my toes, stepping into the edge of the surf, sometimes warm, sometimes cold, but always there, always soothing, always a part of me. The quest for one more exquisite seashell, the smallest sampling of nature's art. I put the shell in my already bulging pocket and walk on, then bend down to examine and pick up another. I carry seashells home with me, place them in cut-glass or wooden bowls where they have a place of honor on my numerous bookshelves, dressers, end-tables. I carry sand home on my feet and wash it off in the yard.

I live near the beach, my yard is mostly sand under the sparse grass and wispy flowers. For some reason, the great old Naval Oaks can grow in this sandy soil. The trees are nature's royalty, old and regal and I hope will last forever. The flowers I mostly grow in pots, they don't much care for the sand. Go figure. I coax them along and cherish every brightly colored bloom. The birds, who call my home their's, love the flowers. Cardinals and Blue Jays, Mockingbirds and Doves, Sparrows and Finches and Wrens hop from pot to pot, inspecting each delicate flower.

The other day a pair of Blue Birds brought their baby over and showed him how to tug free a purple petunia and carry the bloom away to play with in the crook of an old oak. Butterflies of palest white or yellow flit among my flowers and sometimes land long enough for me to get a closer look. A neighbor's black cat with yellow eyes makes her daily rounds, inspecting all my flower pots as she strolls past the front windows of my house. I live in an older house that has seen better days and now has a new life with renovations inside. Lots of windows so the birds and squirrels and lizards and turtles and frogs who live outside can check on those of us who live inside. Sometimes we change places, the lizards or frogs come in and I go out.

I love the spring and fall best here on the Florida Gulf Coast. The temperature is kinder then, the Gulf sends gentle breezes inland, the humidity is just right and my hair curls just a little. That's when my dogs, Nikki and Shani, and I spend hours out on the trellised patio, listening to the birds, enjoying the antics of the squirrels, inhaling the sweet scent of Jasmine and Gardenias or whatever else happens to be in bloom. Would I move away from the beach? Not on your life. As they say, "been there, done that." I moved inland, to Las Vegas of all places, traded the tranquil beaches for a scorching hot desert and a swimming pool and a job.

Now I have the beach back, but no job. The beach is a better choice. My husband is retired now, or at least semi-retired. He always finds something to do. We live simply, frugally, stretch out our money to the last penny every month, but it's enough, just enough to get by. We're home here by the beach. Our daughter and three young grandkids live nearby. Yes, I've finally reached probably the closest I'll ever come to paradise.

I never thought I'd stay in one place for long, I have wandering feet, you see. I've lived far and wide and traveled farther. I have thousands of memories and thousands more photos as reminders of those days. I have paintings I've done to honor the favored spots, Sedona, Red Rock Canyon, Denali, Prince William Sound, Yosemite, St. Simons Island, Key West, I could go on and on. But paradise is here, now, with my family and the beach nearby. "Views from the Beach" is a beginning, a walk along the sand and surf, a tranquil moment we can share and talk and dream ... come walk with me ... let's share our stories ... our memories our hopes and our dreams ...