The Book Block and Clyde

Last Christmas my roommate, Jas, gave me The Writer's Block. It is a wonderful little block book with 786 ideas to write about. I decided that this is a great time to start using it. The first page is a prompt asking the writer to describe their first brush with danger, so here goes.

The first memory I have of danger left an impact for sure. I don't think anyone ever forgets the first time they found themselves looking at the sky when only seconds ago they were sitting atop a horse. I loved days like that day so many years ago when Kendall Ward would trail his cows from Bloomington to Paris. It seemed like a long trail to me, but looking back now it was at most two miles with the majority being on highway, but from my young eyes I felt like I was John Wayne. I had to have been very young, since for the most part my dad was still leading my horse from his. I remember the rope even. It was a white, thick, cotton rope that was at least ten feet long with a big knot at the end he would hold. Sometimes my dad would loop it around the horn of my tiny kid saddle and I would reign Clyde, but I also had a short attention span and would forget to reign or drop the reigns, so from the back of our yellow palomino, Bo, he would lead me and Clyde along. We were nearing the end of our trail when my dad needed to ride ahead and help at the front of the herd. He looped the big rope around the horn, and told me to slowly bring Clyde to the corrals. I told him I would meet him there, and in a flurry my dad whipped Bo around and spurred him into a gallop across the field. I knew something was wrong the moment Bo dropped down below the hill's horizon. I could feel Clyde tense. His ears pricked up, his nostrils flared. He side stepped and tried to go faster than I was willing to let him. I pulled as hard as I could at the bit, but it was no use. Clyde bolted up over the hill and I remember thinking how mad I was at my dad for leaving his tiny daughter alone to handle this rather large, mostly fat, horse! Clyde didn't jump, and he probably wasn't even running that fast, but as we cleared the top of the hill I fell off the left side. It was a long way to the ground. I remember watching the stirrup flap past my face and Clyde's four white stocking feet flying past my nose. I landed hard on a rut and among the dirt and grass. Before I could really register that it was over, my dad was helping me up. He had heard my yells and watched Clyde peak over the hill with me flopping around on the saddle. He picked me up off the ground and turned my palms over to see the scrapes in them from the dirt. I'd like to say I wasn't even crying, but pretty sure I was and I just blocked that out. That was the last time I would ever ride Clyde for many years. I was at least 14 before my dad finally convinced me to get back on Clyde--he had been branded as a wild demon in my eyes!

Clyde and I spent five years riding in 4H and trailing cows until his back leg became infected. It was serious enough that he would never put weight on it again. I remember stopping at the vet's when my dad bought a huge syringe filled with bubblegum pink liquid. Euthanasia looks beautiful for such a deadly drug. My dad brought home a back hoe one day and dug a large pit in our lower fields. The next day a man came and helped my dad lead Clyde into the pit, and place the beautiful, pink syringe into a vein. Clyde was not a wild demon. He was beautiful, and I will never forget the feel of his mane in my hands or the way he took flying leaps over the tiniest of puddles. He hated flies, and he loved eating. He is my first memory of danger, and also some of the best memories from growing up on a farm.