The Search for the Next “One”

Pa and the one and old TawnaMar

Most horse folks have heard of what is sometimes called the “heart horse.” For those who haven’t, it is “the one.” The one that is not only a joy to ride but a once in a lifetime horse. The one that crosses mountains for you and with you. There isn’t any other way to explain it. The horse that is “the one” is more of a feeling than a tangible thing you can identify. Usually a first horse, that horse is a partner like no other. Some have it, some long for it, and some had it once before and keep looking for it.

For Pa, that horse was TawnaMar. A buckskin quarter horse who ran races, carried Pa through battle at numerous Civil War events, and crossed mountains for him (more figuratively than literally, this is Wisconsin after all). Pa rode her though gravel pits, the up the trails at Wild Cat Mountain, and on many adventures with the old Civil War group. She was a sweet looking buckskin quarter horse with sandy muzzle, and she’s always throwing her head in the air in every photo because she wanted to go! Tawna was the fastest horse Pa ever owned and I think that was one of his favorite things about her, but there was more too. In the years when Pa was just out of high school, he spent a lot of time in the saddle and put on miles and miles and miles. Trail rides with friends included races and cracking cold ones under a shade tree on a rest stop along the way. The ladies who worked at the local A&W even kept carrots for the horses by the drive though window anticipating visits from Tawna and friends. Only the best horses can be trusted to silly business such as riding around the pasture seated astride, bareback, and backwards. And Tawna did all of this and more.

Tawna and Pa pulling up to round the judge 
during the Great Race

When out for a ride on Pa's regular route he would come to an open grassy stretch and he would ask her for a good gallop. Horses are smart, routine driven animals, and pick up on routines easily. After a few rides with this pattern Tawna began to prance in anticipation of what was probably her favorite part of the ride. Once after a long time of this routine when Pa finally let her go, Tawna lept into a gallop at a speed that likely would have won the Kentucky Derby. After that, Pa knew what it was like to fly. Fly - in a way that a horse will only do for you if they are very comfortable with you. Once in what I always hear referred to as the “Great Race” (I’m not sure how great its was since no one outside those that were there seem to know what it is) Tawna flew across the fields as if she had wings. This race was just two friends at a Civil War event. One boasted that his horse was fast and Pa noted that he doubted Tawna could be beat, so a race was called. Both reenactors and public spectators gathered to see which solider had the better horse. They were to race down the field turn around a judge positioned at the opposite end of the field and race back. The pistol sounded and Tawna was off like a rocket. Down the field she went, around the judge, and across the finish line. Meanwhile the other fellow raced down the field, missed the turn and landed himself in a trees in the fence line behind the judge. His horse came out of the shrubbery and finished the race without his rider. Pa was oblivious to most of this since he had made the turn well ahead of his opponent. Tawna won the race easily, with or without the other horse missing the turn. 

Mama says, “Tawna was not just a horse, she was Tawna.” And Mama is not a horse person in the same way that Pa and I are. Tawna colicked and passed on to greener pastures when I was a baby and my childhood memories of saddle horses are filled with quest for the next “one.” I wish I could have known her. Though Tawna was a buckskin, the search lead to a long line of mostly bay geldings, and they all sort of blend together in my head. 

Pixie was pretty chestnut mare ahead of my memory, but she is mainly remembered for being a pain in the butt, and her purchase a mistake. Judging by the short, home video of attempting to load her in the trailer to bring her home - that analysis seems accurate. I hope she found her person.

Pa and Scooper

Pa and Scooper

There was Scooper, whom some called Sunny. I only remember him as Scooper though. Pa rode at plenty of events and around the farm. Scooper was a gem of a horse. He might have been pretty near to the next “one.” I don’t remember a whole lot about him either, except that he eventually developed a bad cough. He coughed mostly in the winter when the horses spent time in the barn because of the cold and inclement weather. He was back to his usual self in the summer. Perhaps he had some sort of Asthma. The vet recommended he go somewhere cleaner, and was sold to an owner who had a newer, cleaner, barn. No matter how clean our old barn might be it is still a dusty, old barn. A short time later, Scooper ran away from his new home. He was found trotting down the road a few days later. Some thought he was trying to come home to us. 

Then there was Dimond, a lanky, bay Standardbred. Dimond is perhaps the most memorable for me and probably my favorite because he was also a buggy horse. The existence of Dimond on the farmstead meant Sunday afternoon drives. Trotting along down the road, Dimond clip-clopped along at a brisk trot, buggy sailing along gracefully behind with the steel tire rims creating a steady sound on the pavement and leaving a narrow calk line on the road behind us. This was a good time, and we had some nice rides with family and friends. We took him to a wagon train once, in our heads we envisioned clipping along with the rest of them but that was not how it turned out. We took up our usual place towards the end of the long line of horses and wagons plodding along down the road and Dimond began to put up a fight. Dear Mama was sitting on the floor of the buggy. Having had less than stellar experiences with buggies taking unplanned departures from the road she thought that was the best place to be. Eventually, we got to a place where the rest of the train was out of sight and he calmed down and went back to his usual self. We picked up a trot and caught up the rest of the group and Dimond when back to fighting. We repeated the cycle all day. The tattoo in his lip predicted this behavior. He was an off the track racehorse and being at the back of the pack just wasn’t his style, but it was Pa’s style. Dimond was eventually sold to a friend - he just wasn’t the one.

Somewhere in the line is a bay gelding named Banner. No one remembers much about him. In terms of leaving hoof prints on our hearts and memories, he comes up short. He was bay, and he wasn’t the “one,” and that’s all we need to know for now.

Standing on Smokey Joe

Smokey Joe was slower than dirt. He was a stocky, bay quarter horse that was advertised as former ranch horse, retired because he was too slow with poor stable manners. Turns out he had terrible manners. He bit, laid down on Pa a few times when he was riding, and he bucked. For Pa, these things added to his charm. Pa worked with him on these issues. He sat on his back in the slip stall and rubbed him all over. Smokey couldn’t bite him, and he learned to tolerate it, though he always pinned his ears in the stall pretty much until the day he died. Pa thought, and continues to think all of Smokey’s flaws and antics were, and still are nothing short of hilarious. A few of his first rides in his new home, Smokey laid down. Dad thought it was laughable, but the situation was remedied because he only pulled that a few times. He also wasn’t particularly fond of cantering. It seemed sometimes that he almost forgot how. The first canter of the day he would always, without fail, buck. After a few tries he would get the hang of it and there weren’t any issues the rest of the day. On long trail rides, Smokey Joe brought up the rear. Pa could stand on him just for giggles.  Smokey Joe was the next “one.” When he died, he was not replaced. 

Pa on Smokey and I on my mare Bacardi 
before one of Smokey's last rides

I, on the other hand, never had a great relationship with Smokey Joe. Sometimes when I rode him I couldn’t even get him to move. I never was particularly great at staying on him when he got the hang of his canter for the day, and he just wasn’t my favorite. For me, he even died at a poor time, just a few short months after I got my first horse of my very own. There hasn’t been a trail ride with Pa since. I like to think that someday there will be another “one.” Horses come and go, that’s the trouble with falling in love with animals with a shorter life expectancy than us. They trot into our lives and leave us with memories and stories that you would never get otherwise. Honest, I’ve never heard of an ATV with and attitude like Smokey Joe’s.