From the day I was born, the stars indicated I had “equine” in my blood. Of course, I didn’t realize this until I was at least 6, and then it would take years to realize the dream of really owning my own Equus.

In the meantime, I lived on a double-seated white rocking horse until I was old enough to devour books about Black Beauty, King of the Wind and Dobbin, the old fire horse. I had pictures of horses and pages torn from Arizona Highways on the walls of my room. I knew Arizona was the true West and that when I grew up, I’d move there and have my horse ranch.

But growing up in a small-town-like suburb outside of Washington, D.C., in the ’40s and ’50s meant living a slower pace and believing in having a part of the American dream. Post-war bungalows and detached garages dotted the suburban landscape. Everyone in my neighborhood had a fenced backyard and a dog, but no one owned a horse. I wanted a horse in my backyard, and I was determined to get one.

It was the time of the Saturday afternoon Western serials at the local movie theater. Every Saturday, I’d take the bus to the Maryland town of Clarendon. Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassiday, the Lone Ranger, or the Cisco Kid rode into my world at the Ashton Theater, a.k.a. “Ashcan.”

Horses were a way of life for these rugged guys, and that’s what I wanted–the horses, not the rugged guys, although I was madly in love with Roy Rogers, who could do no wrong.

I had all of the right attire: cowboy hats, six-shooter cap guns, boots, fringed jackets and shirts, and even Dale Evans-type culottes, just in case I stumbled across a glamorous movie set somewhere along the way.

So, for every holiday, every birthday, and every weekend for most of my young life, I asked my dad if I could, please, have a pony. My father was a pretty quiet guy who could fix anything, and of course, could get me anything I wanted or needed. That was just a fact. Even though my dad continued to just smile at my repeated request, I set about cleaning out the garage for my new pony.

The Perfect Spot
We had a detached garage with a dirt floor where we stored the lawn mower, lawn chairs, and other seasonal odds and ends. I knew it would be perfect for my new steed, but because there were no windows and no heat, it was hotter ‘n hell in the summer and like the Ice Age in the winter.

So I wondered if my pony could survive his new abode. I figured in the summer, my pony would be in the backyard in fresh air, and in winter I could put some type of space heater in the garage and throw a big blanket over him just in case. It was a grand plan, and I worked hard at cleaning up the place. I think my dad really liked this part!

When I thought the garage was up to snuff for my new pet, I took my dad out to look at it. He was pretty impressed, but I could see a look of disappointment in his eyes too. He tried to explain to me about zoning codes in residential areas, but, as an 8-year-old, all I knew was that someone I didn’t know had come up with this great conspiracy to keep me from having what I wanted most in the world. I was devastated.

As a consolation, my father promised to take me to Bernie’s pony ring at Baileys Crossroads in Virginia every Sunday until the end of time.

Bernie’s was a place he’d taken me pretty regularly before. There was a motley selection of average ponies that you could ride in a circle–three times around for a quarter. For a short time every Sunday I rode with the greats–Hopalong and Roy had nothing on me! It was great fun, but a quarter’s worth wasn’t quite enough for a cowhand like me.

Still determined to have my horse, I came up with another scheme. I’m not sure how or when, but miraculously I inherited a beat-up cavalry saddle–a McClellan, I later learned. This antique had one nice, big wooden stirrup with a leather strap and a hard, open seat. Really, they must have been “wooden” soldiers to have survived riding in this thing. Until my brother corrected me, I called it my “Calvary” saddle. Well, I was only 8.

I figured if I couldn’t get a real pony, I’d go one better and devise a life-sized horse. Not like the one from Troy; I just didn’t have time to deal with building that type of thing. I had riding to do, places to go and see.

My Stately Steed
The fence around our yard was the four-foot chain-link variety common in the neighborhood. Pretty skinny and short for a horse, I thought. But near the garage–I mean the “barn” area–there was a tall six-foot section of fence built with wooden posts, which also had a wide top rail and wide, square wire up the sides. “Hmmm, this could work,” I thought.

I threw an old towel over the top rail as a saddle blanket and lugged the dilapidated saddle to the fence. I tossed it up and over the top board onto the blanket. I ran the cinch through the wire on the fence, and, voila, the saddle was on my stately steed. For the reins, I tied an old jump rope with red handles onto a post in front of the saddle.

One Saturday, I skipped the movies. I donned my old corduroy pants, black cowboy hat, green leather boots, and green-and-white Western shirt, and six-shooter. I was ready to ride. I sauntered (that’s what cowpokes do, you know) out to the barn and took a look a “my horse.” He was pretty tall and the single stirrup was on the wrong side for mounting, but none of that deterred me. Heck, I’d seen Roy leap from the ground to the back of Trigger and into the saddle while his horse galloped 20 miles per hour. This would be a piece of cake!

After about five minutes pondering my options, I decided the best approach would be to climb up by putting one foot at a time into the open wire fence. I got to be quite good at this and could take a running start and then leap into a one-two foothold and throw myself into the old saddle.

When he wasn’t covered with a plastic tablecloth in rain and snow, I spent every afternoon riding my horse. What was so wonderful about this was that my horse was different every day. He was golden like Trigger, black like Beauty, or a white like Silver, and I was always the good guy and hero, just like in those old movies.

My dad was happy too. At least for the time being, I wasn’t begging him for a pony, although he wasn’t off the hook for Sundays at Bernie’s.

It wasn’t until I was 24 and newly married that I bought my first horse. I’ve had several since and learned life lessons from them all, but it’s the childhood memories of my “backyard horse” that I remember most fondly.