Banjo was unruly, pig-headed, and fat, and determined to get rid of anyone who had the temerity to get on his back. I loved him.
Banjo succeeded in sending every male in the family flying,including Uncle Eldon, cousin Merle, Dad, and both of my brothers. With me, however, he was not so lucky. I was just as determined to stay on him as he was to get rid of me.
My success, I’m convinced, was in my well-thought-out technique, as well as understanding his take-no-prisoners psychology. Whenever I wanted a ride, I would lure him into the barn with a bit of grain, tie him to the stanchion, and, using the cross-pieces of the stanchion as a ladder, I’d climb onto his wide bare back. This technique was demonstrated to me by Barbara, my childhood girlfriend and Banjo's main squeeze, the real ‘owner’ of Banjo. I think that being another pre-adolescent girl made him only slightly less hostile toward me than he was toward boys and men.
The amateurs all tried riding him with a western saddle, which he detested and which made it that much easier to unseat an unwanted rider: slippery leather and no real contact with the horse. Grabbing a hank of his mane and holding tight, I’d reach down and untie him, and give him a kick in the ribs. We’d be out the barn door and off across the field in an instant, with me squeezing my abductors as if my life depended on it. (Because it did!) Banjo raced for the trees at a full gallop, hope filling his equine heart that he could knock me to the ground. Fully aware of what was coming, I flattened myself against his neck and held on with every ounce of strength in my substantial 10-year-old body. At the last moment Banjo veered left — hard — to avoid running squarely into the fence, trying with all his will to knock me to the ground, as limbs and leaves scraped against my back.
We emerged from the trees with me triumphant and Banjo resigned to carrying me until dinner time. What a thrill: pure speed, muscle, and horse-breath running with all his might, and me on his back. I’m proud to report that he never succeeded in tossing me and that, once he got it out of his system, he was a pure joy to ride and very cooperative. You just had to prove yourself first, I suppose.
We would walk and trot and gallop around the field until we both grew bored,which took a while. The wonders of nature and potential fantasies were endless. I was an explorer, or a scout for a wagon train, a romantic heroine, or my favorite: an Indian brave hunting for his tribe and on the look-out for explorers, romantic heroines, and wagon trains: a Möbius strip of fantasy adventures.
Banjo and I would complete our journey with another visit to the barn, which he was eager to reach for two reasons. One, his servitude was about to be over, and two, he was always given grain as a reward for his efforts on my behalf. I would curry him for a bit, which he seemed to enjoy, sighing and snorting and shifting from leg to leg, before being released into the field to wander on his own until the next time a human decided to interrupt his horsey ruminations.
Because of this, I hold the opinion that every girl should have access to a horse for even a short time in her life. This, and other childhood experiences of pure physicality, gave my neurons and muscles a taste of power and freedom and fearlessness that have moved me through much of my life and are, I believe, essential qualities for an artist.
I am grateful for them.
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