Arnold Knodel, my dad, grew up on a North Dakota farm back when tractors were replacing horses. My grandfather made the switch before I was born. Farming was probably easier, but I bet it was sad not to have horses anymore.
My parents were working their own farm when my brother and I were born. Our fields touched my grandparents’ fields. We had cattle, chickens, pigs (briefly), barn cats, two house cats, and a collie named Cindy. She and my grandpa’s dog, Lizzie, regularly went out to the fields with Dad and Grandpa. Sometimes, one dog would go to the other’s farm to play, but Cindy always made it back in time to help my dad round up the cows at milking time.
When my uncle, David Hinn, was a boy, he won a Shetland Pony in a grocery store raffle. How wild is that? Dave would put me on Thunder and walk him around their farm, but I was probably just a toddler; I don’t remember it. When Dave got too big for the pony, he traded him for a Pinto named King. This must have been a dream come true for a Dakota kid, raised on Westerns.
After my maternal grandparents moved their family to town, King stayed on our farm a while. I only remember riding on him once, at about five. My mom’s big family was visiting. Dad road King to tire him out a bit. Then, he lifted me way up onto the Pinto’s back and led him around the house a couple of times. Being up so high made me a little nervous, but I loved King’s smell and his snorts. I put my hand on his neck and felt the force of his movements. He was amazing!
My dad must have enjoyed having a horse on his farm. Dave says he loved riding King and sometimes road him out to bring the cows in from the pasture. My town grandpa would drive Dave out to our farm and they would both take a turn riding. When that wasn’t possible, Dave would bicycle all the way from town to ride his horse.
One day, I got up the nerve to ask my dad if I could have a horse. I got a really quick No. Horses are expensive to care for. But what about King? Nope. King was just visiting. With all the childish cleverness in my limited arsenal, I argued that he grew up with lots of horses. My dad calmly countered that Grandpa’s horses earned their keep. I should have asked more questions, but that wasn’t going to get me a horse. Such is the world-view of a six-year-old.
When I was seven, my parents moved us to California. It took years to forgive them for ripping me out of the arms of our family. I also hated leaving my farm. I loved everything about it. And now, I would never get a horse.
Every August, we vacationed in North Dakota so Dad could help Grandpa harvest. They were in the fields constantly. He was happy, back in his element. I was happy, too, back in the Midwest, with most of my family. That was my element. Every year, I cried when it was time to leave.
A year later, in Big Bear for a weekend, Dad spotted a stable that rented horses. He drove my uninterested mom and brother to our hotel and me back to the stable. Waiting to be assigned a horse, stable hands asked people about their riding experience. I begged him not to say I had never ridden a horse on my own. Nope. He wasn’t going to lie.
My dad unabashedly revealed my embarrassing secret. What kind of farm girl has never ridden a horse? I also worried that my dad’s vast experience might somehow separate us, you know, like elementary students during math, who were grouped by aptitude. One year, the smart kids were “Bluebirds.” I was never a Bluebird. And I didn’t care. Here, however, I was afraid I’d land in the “Petting Zoo” group and my dad would happily ride off with the “Cowboys.”
But we did stay in the same group, all in a line actually. I was third to last. My dad was asked to lead us out, so he rode away to take his position. I could barely see him. Off we went, horses nose to tail, plop, plop, plopping along. After we hit the trail, my dad turned around and patted the backside of the horse directly behind him to signal it to keep moving forward. Then, he came to get me, took my horse’s reigns, and pulled me out of line.
He snapped a flimsy branch off a tree, made me a small whip, and handed it over. I was told to hold my butt up off the saddle when the horse gets going. When I was very little, I cried at the horse races because the jockeys were hitting their horses. He assured me they were not being hurt. I trusted him at the track and in this meadow and I did as I was told.
The horse went through several phases of movement: a hearty walk, a mild trot, a teeth-rattling trot, and then – boooom! – a gallop. That was the moment.
You know how in an outer-space movie, inside a ship moving through space, a large number of white dots (stars) move towards and around the spaceship to suggest forward movement? As the ship’s speed increases, those dots move faster, right? Then, the captain commands, “Warp Speed Ahead!” and those dots instantly turn into streaks of white as the ship soars over, under, around and through the stars. That’s what it felt like when my horse broke into a gallop. Wooosh! My dad was beside me as we seemed to fly over the terrain. Together.
We stopped to rest the horses under a cluster of shade trees. The smell of earth was thick in the summer air. Our conversation was simple chitchat, nothing memorable, like any normal day, out riding with my dad. We were content, in our element.
Sadly, we never got the chance to ride together again, so I treasure this memory. I got to see my dad’s connection to horses, his competence and caring, his quiet way of fixing things and teaching me. I could imagine him as a child on his farm. I wish I knew more.
As much as I have always dearly missed my farm and family, the Midwest in general, the sparkling night sky, thunder storms that would shake the house, small towns, even the crunch of gravel roads, it might seem strange that I didn’t move back after high school. But by then, I had grown accustomed to a different pace, to being close to stores, entertainment, friends, the ocean, and college. I had also decided that I’d rather vacation in snow than live in it.
When I go home to visit my dear ones, I always stop by my old farm even though all the buildings are gone now. I love to drive around Fessenden and Harvey, to pay homage to the few remaining houses where people I love so very much once lived. Occasionally, I wonder what life would have been like if we hadn’t moved to California. I wonder if I might have eventually gotten a horse. Imagining is easy and cozy, and a little melancholy. But regrets are useless. Life moves on. And yet, no matter where I am now or have ever been, there will always be a little farm girl living in my heart.
