Nowadays, you routinely see news stories about how some elementary student has been caught at school with a concealed weapon that is “quickly confiscated by officials.” The student is expelled, the other parents are horrified, counselors are brought in, reporters do heart-felt “stand-ups” just off school property, and metal detectors sprout up to take the place of shell-shocked pre-pubescent hall monitors.
How times and reactions have changed. When I showed up at Strawberry Point Elementary School in September of 1960 for my first day of kindergarten, I was also “packing.” And we’re not talking about some puny Saturday Night Special concealed in a Davey Crockett lunch box. I had a holstered Colt 45 at my side that was fully-loaded and ready for action. But even back then, opinion prevailed that weapons had no place in the classroom, so my new teacher, Mrs. Dial, discreetly pulled me aside, informed me that toys were not to be brought to school, gently took away my gun, and let me know I could pick it up when I went home at noon.
The truth is, I never wanted to be anything other than a cowboy. Astronauts were just coming into vogue, but the uncertainty of being launched into outer space atop an exploding rocket gave me the willies. I still have the same reaction to sky-diving, bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, and most other hyphenated sports. I’m naturally scared of heights and there is just something about the all-or-nothing aspect of a controlled fall from a great elevation that makes me hesitate. No, right from the beginning I wanted to ride the range safely atop a confident and knowledgeable horse who would also be my best friend. As far as I can tell from family pictures, as soon as I got out of diapers I strapped on a gun belt. Maybe even sooner. Of course, I also had cowboy boots and a felt cowboy hat, in addition to the aforementioned “quickly-confiscated” toy gun.
Unfortunately for me, there was a distinct lack of livestock roaming the yard of our ranch-style home on South Knoll Road. I had to content myself with a yearly ride on the sleep-walking ponies at the county fair, or the two times my family actually went horse-camping in the Sierra Nevada.
My older sister, Kathy, was always the horsey one. She got to take lessons and compete in horse shows, even if she rode English saddles that came without proper saddle horns (where on earth was she planning to hang her lasso?). The only other horse I saw regularly was Blackie, the ancient sway-backed Tiburon icon, who could always be found in the exact same pasture, grazing alongside Tiburon Boulevard near the old railroad trestle. We made it a point to spot him every Sunday as we went to church at St. Hilary’s.
Our weekly visits to St. Hilary’s were the result of my adopted sister having been baptized a Catholic in Germany by her birth parents. Since the rest of our family weren’t of that faith (or any other, for that matter), it didn’t make much sense to me back then, but it did mean that I had to dress up every Sunday in clean slacks, button-down shirt, clip-on tie and shiny shoes. I politely listened to the Mass in Latin (I can still remember when they switched over to English), mumbled the hymns earnestly, puzzled over the Stations of the Cross in the stained-glass windows, and got pretty good at knowing when to kneel down and when to sit up in the pews. Beyond that, I was pretty useless in church.
One September day in 1960, as we left worship, my father announced that we wouldn’t be going directly home; he had a surprise for us. Normally, that meant stopping for donuts, or it might be time for the annual pancake breakfast down at the Bel-Air shopping center. However, since it was close to my sister’s 8th birthday, I guessed it had something to do with her.
Leaving Tiburon, we went north on US 101 through Novato and exited the highway just outside of town. Then we drove along a dirt road toward a vast open-ended Quonset hut set in a small valley. I knew where we were going now, because I had been there before. This was Meadowbrook Stables, where my sister had her weekly riding lessons. But what were we doing there on a Sunday?
We got out of the car and walked over to the nearest paddock. Of course, standing there was Kathy’s birthday present: a beautiful quarter-horse by the name of Mischief. I got very excited – we finally had a real-live horse in the family!
We walked back to the car where my dad opened the trunk and brought out all of my sister’s riding gear, which he had secretly brought for the occasion. She went off to change and I waited for the appearance of my cowboy boots, jeans and hat. Instead, he closed the trunk and went back to admire Mischief.
This simply couldn’t be happening! Here I was in the presence of a genuine horse – one who was now practically a relative – and I was shod only in shiny patent-leather shoes. I couldn’t have felt less like a cowboy if I had been wearing a pink tutu and ballet slippers. And I was mortified that this duly-appointed representative of horsedom should see me in this fashion. I stood there in shock, fighting back little cowboy tears.
I sullenly walked over to the ring, where my big sister was now mounting her new steed. I tried putting one foot up on the fence rail in true cowboy fashion, but the sight of those shiny shoes filled me with shame. Mischief glanced over my way and snorted. I don’t remember much after that, but I think I returned to the back seat of the car until the lesson was over.
I was certain that word of this cowboy attire faux-pas would quickly make the rounds of all the other horses at the stable. And though I didn’t know by what means, I was equally certain that word would somehow get out to all the horses in the county, the state, and the world. Soon, they would all hear about the wannabe with the shiny church-shoes. And they would all know that I wasn’t a real cowboy.
(To be continued.)
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