I can remember how mortified I was when my mother exclaimed, “You’re just jealous of your sister.”
“No, I’m not,” I lied.
My father used jealousy as a clever tool, a major psychological weapon in his arsenal. He used it to protect himself. He used it as a smokescreen, setting us up like figurines, moving us into position, so that we would be jealous of each other, instead of focusing on his faults. But I was tired of being pitted against mother and sister, for what? So he could have his illicit freedom—running off to Paris or San Francisco for some dangerous fun?
For a long time our family dynamic had been distorted, and no one had been honest about the source. All anyone ever did was complain about Mom, and finally, I had to ask myself—why was she so hostile and angry? I think my father had to take some responsibility there.
I wasn’t standing in judgment of him. I knew he preferred a life of fun and games, sneaking around. I could sympathize with what he had had to juggle throughout his life, but when secret desires and needs for escape dominated reason, when naughtiness and rebellion against the maternal were continually acted out, there could not be a clear sense of boundaries, where the adult cares for and protects the child.
Of course, I am only realizing this now, as a woman and a mother. As a girl I just went along with whatever unsettling schemes my father had. Throughout my childhood, I never asked, “Is this normal? Is this parenting what others experience?” Only the adult-child in remembrance tries to put the pieces together.
I remember when Geoff, my first husband, and I were having a difficult time in our marriage, my father offered to send us to Door County for the weekend, while he took our three-year-old Clovis to the Wisconsin Dells. We agreed, and had a terrible time. When Clovis returned from his outing, he ran wildly into my arms. I looked up at my father wondering— what’s wrong? “What happened?”
“Popi threw me into the pool,” Clovis said.
“He doesn’t even know how to swim!”
My father looked sheepish, but I was aghast.
And why did my father want to terrify me in the waves of the Atlantic when I was a small girl? He put me up on his shoulders and went out deep—the salty water going up my nose, making me gag. I have been a coward in the surf ever since.
When I was eight, my father put me on a city bus in downtown Milwaukee and told me to get off at the Downer Avenue stop, our neighborhood. This ride must have taken a full half-hour or more, and all along the way, I felt displaced and anxious, wondering if I would get lost. Would I recognize the popcorn stand, the bike store across from St. Mark’s Episcopal? Once I got home, I was rattled, as if I’d been put in harm’s way.
Many years later, I heard my sister’s story. She and our younger brother, David, were having their childhood European tour with our parents, and while in Venice, my father let go of her small hand in the middle of the Grand Piazza. He told her to stand there, alone, and he would watch from a distance. He wanted to see who might try to pick her up. Cia went along with the game, uneasy, yet acquiescent.
I remember how he left my twelve-year-old brother, Georgie, in the middle of Dublin, all alone in a large strange city, because he was lagging behind. I was alarmed that he would abandon my brother, and was probably even more upset than he was. Luckily Georgie had a book of matches in his pocket with the name of our hotel.
And why would my father want to subject me, a lithe, attractive teenage girl, to a dinner with a well-known sex offender? David Tallmadge was a Schlitz beer heir and my father’s client. The three of us sat together at the Oconomowoc Lake Club, and during the whole meal, Mr. Tallmadge leered at me from across the table. I had never experienced this kind of lasciviousness, and it made me extremely uncomfortable.
Cia and I agreed that we were not well-protected as girls, and perhaps we were overreacting as adults, but maybe that is the see-saw of generations: Much passes from one to the next, like a ledger book, until someone finally does some accounting.
It’s not as if our father was a tough guy, but perhaps because he was the opposite of tough, he wanted to harden us up, so we wouldn’t end up being sissies. Was he afraid of appearing to be one?
As a child, I was comfortable being father-identified, claiming I wanted to be a cowboy, never a cowgirl. I always took the male part during my all-girls’ school square dances, dressing up in blue jeans and handkerchief scarf. I only put on girls’ clothes for Sunday school, holidays, and Christmas cards, where I might be seen playing with my baby sister on the Oriental carpet before a roaring fire. I didn’t feel like myself in crinoline, and there was little nurturing of my femininity. My mother was not eager to doll me up. Dresses felt unfamiliar, wrong. I was eager to get out of them as fast as possible, comfortable in my brother’s hand-me-downs. I was even put into his swimming trunks, while my cousin, Helen, one year younger, wore a frilly, girlish one-piece.
No childhood is ever perfect. But in retrospect, I am still grateful for the smell and taste and feel of mine. Despite the cruel teasing and horrible pranks, I enjoyed most of our boisterous family fun. I wasn’t a sissy. I was a tomboy. But a tough exterior can hide a sad vulnerability beneath.
Sometimes I felt like I was looking back at my genetic stream under an archaic microscope, seeing at last, the source of my gifts and my failings, little signposts, forgotten memories, stumbling blocks, egg on shirt, spills, and stains, unburied treasure.
I had always been a “daddy’s girl,” but deep down, I wanted to win the heart of my mother. I’d pull up lilies of the valley from their sucking stems to make a fragrant handful for her. I’d write her a poem or make her a picture. I was always trying to please her.
Abigail and I clamber over a loose rubble of rock and keep going until the road runs out. Down below, we can see the rooftops of the Blackwell Ranch, as well as the pink octagonal home of our closest neighbors, and there in the distance, the tiny town of Patagonia. I feel exhilarated, especially nice to take this ride with my beloved niece early on Easter morning.
We return home to rest up for our midday feast at the Hard Luck Ranch, home of Gayle and Bob Bergier. Jim Harrison has his writing studio up at their place off the Salero Road, and we have all shared this Easter meal together for years—a fine repast of smoked Virginia ham, German potato salad and Gayle’s exceptional coleslaw with sliced peppers and jicama. Gayle is also an exceptional baker. Her cupcakes with a light lemony buttercream are the icing on the end of a great visit with Abigail.
At the Gate
Hog Heaven
Finally, a calm day and I am off to ride with Peter Phinney in Hog Canyon. When I arrive, Peter is already riding Wesley out in the working arena, which has nice soft footing with a clay base. I unload and saddle up Barranca, but when I come around the side of the barn, Peter’s horse spooks and spins, throwing a shoe. Does this mean we will have to cancel? Peter goes looking for his tools and manages to pull out the remaining nails in Wesley’s rear hoof. He thinks that if we stay on the dirt, we can still have a short ride. So we head down this little wind-protected valley full of dense oak trees. The oaks, which lose their leaves in the spring, are now turning a russet-golden color in preparation for their false fall. The old brittle leaves can leave quite a mess, but I must say that it is nice to have their greenery all winter long and to see the fresh soft leaves appear in early spring like cut velvet.
A large trough by the second gate has a handy little in-and-out ramp for any animal that might get trapped in the water. Peter’s two dogs run up it and have a drink but Barranca is wary of the huge slimy tub. Back East, I put a long branch in my water tank so that squirrels and chipmunks can rescue themselves. There is nothing more disturbing than finding a dead, bloated animal tainting your horse’s water supply.
Peter is especially happy that I have come out to ride with him as it gives him a chance to make his gelding pay attention to him rather than to another horse. Peter likes the looks of Barranca and how he moves, but because of Wesley’s lost
shoe, we don’t ride up on the ridge or go too far. Instead, we head back to do some flatwork in the ring. I push Barranca into figure eights, cantering him slowly, while Peter practices spinning his horse.
In the show arena, reining horses are spun around four times in each direction. They also have to know how to do a sliding stop, and some horses can slide for almost twenty feet. “It’s kind of silly,” he admits, “because there is no real need for a sliding stop. It’s all for show. And each year, there is some new horse that can go even further.”
Peter offers to let me use his wash stall, and it is warm and cozy from the heat lamps above. He even has access to hot water and a nice spray hose that you can adjust. We cross-tie Barranca and wet him down before applying shampoo with a sponge. Then I rinse him thoroughly, mane and tail and all. Scraping off the excess water before using the shedding tool, I get a lot of his loose winter coat off until it looks sleek and shiny. Peter sprays Barranca’s tail with a generous amount of a detangling product, and I work on the long strands. There is something satisfying about cleaning a horse—it makes the inside of a woman feel good.
I ask if we can measure Barranca, as I want to know if he is actually 15.3 hands, or possibly taller. Measuring to the middle of his withers, it seems clear that he is a good 16 hands. My Big Boy. We leave him tied to the fence to dry while Peter shows me his Turnbow trailer. It must be the most elegant trailer I’ve ever seen, deluxe. It has a side ramp, which allows a horse to enter with his head toward the rear. If given a choice, a horse will usually stand with his head going toward the back rather than toward the front, as most trailers are designed. I wonder why horses would prefer riding backward. Maybe they are trying to avoid the wind of the road. Horses always seem to turn their rumps to an approaching storm, perhaps for the same reason.
In Sedona
Ready to Roll
So much planning for our trip to Sedona—Helen and I load up the night before—measuring grain into baggies, stashing hay in the back of the truck, getting all of our tack into the trailer, both coolers, not to mention our suitcases, as well as my humidifier and espresso maker! We want to have an easy and smooth departure the next morning. Kathleen James, our friend, will drive her own car up to Sedona and meet us there for dinner.
We eat sandwiches along the way and only stop once near Picacho Peak to fill up the truck and give the horses slices of apple to moisten their mouths. Climbing out of the congested Phoenix traffic, we leave Highway 10 and enter a barren high plateau that reminds us both of Scotland.
Helen amuses me with tales from her childhood. How her parents would dock five cents from her twenty-five-cent allowance if she said the word Gol (too close to God) or shoot (too close to shit). We talk about our grandmother, Alice, mother to both of our fathers. Helen says Gramma’s funeral was more green than black because there were so many Girl Scouts present. Helen’s memories are always different than mine. I think I was grieving too much over the loss of my grandmother to notice what anybody was wearing.
Papa, Gramma, Laura
Soon we see Sedona’s red rock mountains in the distance. I had forgotten how grand and awesome this area is. As we pass through Cave Creek, we find the turn off for Jack’s Canyon Road, and then the final righthand turn into Horse Mesa Ranch—a lovely boarding situation for our two boys. I think they feel like they are at summer camp, happy to settle into their adjoining stalls with fresh hay and water.
The owner of the facility is there to greet us. The place has a relaxed atmosphere, with about fifty or more horses in regular boarding. Dogs and mules roam about the lot. We uncouple the trailer from the truck, leaving our horses in their open-air stalls. It feels light and free traveling the next stretch without a load behind us.
Mounting Rock
My Birthday Ride
Helen, Kathleen, and I are all staying in Mom’s comfortable two-bedroom casita at the Enchantment Resort outside of Sedona. Her place is currently up for sale since she never uses it anymore. It is a wonderful spot, far from the tourist shops, with winding trails beneath the dramatic cliffs and hoodoos where “vortex” energy supposedly exists.
Today is the thirteenth of April, my birthday. Fresh orange juice has been delivered to our door in a little wicker purse. I make eggs with green chile, and we have a leisurely breakfast out on the deck. The red cliffs are just across the way, and the air smells full of fresh pine.
Back at Horse Mesa Ranch, our big boys are waiting for us. Once saddled, Barranca seems especially excited this morning. He dances around while we wait for our guide to get ready—then we follow her down the drive, passing through the surrounding suburbs until we find the gate that leads us out toward Bell Rock. Here we thank our guide and say goodbye. She has filled our heads with so much information about various trails that we have not been paying much attention to the route. We figure we can just follow the paths and pick our way back.
Heading out over a flat plain, we take various turns on red earth that is luxuriously soft after the hard-packed trails of Patagonia. It is a perfect riding day with bright blue sky, warm but not too hot. We canter along these flat, comfortable paths, passing hikers and mountain bikers—a lot of people out enjoying the scenery in this glorious terrain. Bell Rock does indeed look like a big earthen bell, or maybe a teapot without spout or handle. At first, the horses seem a bit unnerved by all the foot traffic, but soon they settle down and are good company for each other, as are we. I feel lucky to have my closest cousin as a regular riding companion.
Helen always came through for me, remembering my birthday and Christmas, traveling across country to attend my father’s memorial.
We almost didn’t have a service because Mom insisted that there would be none. She didn’t want to come back to Milwaukee. Scheduled for knee replacement surgery, she didn’t feel up to the trip, even though her doctor had told her that she should be up and walking, leading a normal life.
The four of us siblings had a conference call and decided that we had to have a proper funeral for our father. He had been too important to the community, and our extended family needed a time to come together and grieve. “Closure” was not really the point. For some, there would never be closure.
Together, we decided to override our mother’s wishes. When we told her of our decision, she went ballistic. How dare we go against her! I urged her to join us. Mason and I could take her to the airport and fly with her. It didn’t seem right that she would boycott her husband’s funeral. We would have to make excuses for her, as usual.
But her decision, oddly, felt normal. Popi might have even appreciated her egocentric ways, for it confirmed what everyone thought—that she was impossible and that he was a saint for putting up with her. It was quite a role she had served as his foil. People rarely suspected him of being anything other than a cross between a perfect prince and the good-time guy who always picked up the bill.
The funeral was held on a sunny, balmy mid-March day, and most of our family was present. The mild-mannered Broadoaks caretaker (labeled by Mom as “a moron”) had managed to bring a well-groomed llama and horse by trailer from Oconomowoc into Milwaukee. The animals stood outside the front door of the church with leis of flowers around their necks. True Popi style!
My brother, David’s, eulogy was a highpoint: “Dad was a joiner who relished the dynamics of the group. He was a habitual includer (never an excluder), and his motto whenever asked if one more person could come out for the weekend was always immediate and predictable—‘The more the merrier!’ He cut a swath through the world and had enormous fun doing it.”
Abigail, my niece, also took a turn. “When we were little,” she began, “my grandfather would on occasion turn into a polar bear. He would get down on all fours, roaring, and chase us around the house. For my grandfather, every moment was a potential adventure, every stranger a potential friend. He may have been a respectable lawyer and investor in the eyes of the community, but to his grandchildren, he was a hero.”
Tw
o weeks after our father’s funeral, Mom was going through her own private season from hell. She went in for double knee-replacement surgery. I think it came as a relief to exchange her emotional pain for physical suffering.
I came up to Scottsdale numerous times during her recovery. Once banished by my mother, she now encouraged me to come, as if it were the most natural thing.
Clambering over rock, picking one path or another as the trail splits, we find ourselves on the less inhabited Llama Trail, which makes me think of my father, who raised llamas in Oconomowoc. People always stopped by the field to ask, “What are they?” Llamas. “What are they like?” Gentle, alert, prancy. How he would have enjoyed riding here in the Munds Mountain Wilderness. We feel at ease picking our way as we ride along with no concern about how we will return.
My cousin points out grey-blue juniper berries that have fallen on the red earth with little pokes of fresh grass finishing the picture. There are lots of one-seed junipers with leaves called scales instead of needles, pinion pine, and manzanita, which have a sensually smooth, red-brown bark. The winter rains have brought out a scattering of wildflowers—purple dick, Indian paintbrush, and little yellow daisies.
The horses drink from the shallow water of the rock pools, slurping it up between their teeth. We choose a high, flat area to tie them up for lunch. In the middle of this open space, there is one large rock where Helen dismounts. The horses are used to getting a treat at their rest stops, and I have a couple of carrots and nibbles in my saddle pack. Loosening their girths, we tie them up in what has to pass for a bit of shade, then we settle down for a rest.
Riding Barranca Page 8