Charlcy and Dugout
Dugout was a good old horse. I later wondered why anyone would name a horse Dugout, but as a child I never questioned the origin of his name. I was so thrilled to have a horse that his name was not significant.
Dugout was a strawberry roan gelding. He had been my brother’s horse. I was a preschooler when my brother, Carroll Williams, graduated from high school. The horse was sold to a family for their son. The boy grew up, and my Dad bought Dugout back when I was in elementary school.
I rode the gentle horse around and around the area of the house and barns. I watched as he was caught and saddled. I helped brush him when he was unsaddled. I was too small to heft the saddle up onto his back.
I eventually grew to a size where I could saddle him alone. I was told that if I wanted to ride, I also had to catch him. This was a challenge for me as long as we had him. It looked easy when my brother or my Dad walked right up to him, but it was not so easy for me. That old horse had me figured out. I would approach slowly, talking to him in a soothing voice. He would stand still and never take his eyes off me. When I would get about 5 feet from him, he would whirl and go to the other side of the pen. I would start over. I tried holding the bridle behind my back so he could not see it and approaching with a treat in the other hand. That didn’t work. This game went on until he got tired of it. When I was about ready to give up, he would lower his head and let me slip the bridle on. I think he really liked playing the game. I would saddle him and away we would go.
U.S. Highway 183 was in front of the dairy. It had wide shoulders and wide flat bar (barrow) ditches. When I got older, I was allowed to ride along the fence in the bar ditch. I did not cross the highway. My usual route was to ride about one-half mile to a cross road and return home. Occasionally I rode further or turned and rode on the gravel road.
I was given safety instructions. I do not remember a car ever stopping or anyone trying to talk to me. A car might give a beep as it passed or someone might wave. The neighbors to the south were known to me and they would wave. I was told that if a car ever stopped, I was to “high tail it” back home.
I also knew that my Dad frowned on my galloping the old horse. I was to ride for pleasure, not to see how fast the horse could run. I was not allowed to have a riding crop or quirt. I would leave the driveway at a walk or trot and wait until I was out of sight. Then I would give Dugout a kick in the flanks. I also discovered that the ends of the reins would work like a quirt when slapped across his rear. He could fly along at a fast clip and seemed to enjoy it. When I got within sight of the driveway on the return, I would slow again. Do I think that I fooled my Dad or brother? I doubt that I did.
After Dugout decided that we had ridden long enough, he totally ignored whatever I wanted him to do and walked to the barn. He would put his head against the feed room door and would not budge. My heels would dig into his flanks and I would yank on the reins to turn his head. It was to no avail. I would dismount, turn him and walk away from the barn, remount and we would go again until he decided he was ready for the party to be over. We came to an understanding as I got older and he stopped that game.
Dugout had a bad habit. He could jump over the pasture fences. My mother had a large vegetable garden. That seemed to be the only place he wanted to go. If he got caught in the garden and someone called to him or he saw someone coming, he would either jump over the fence back into the pasture or start walking toward a gate. He was not a dummy.
my saddle
I rode less and less when I was in high school and Dugout went to another home when I was in college. My saddle hung in the barn until Ken and I retrieved it for our children. It was hanging in Ken’s workshop in Georgetown in 1987 when there was a fire in the shop. The saddle was badly scorched. A local saddle maker brought it back to the present condition. I still have it. I may be the only old lady you know who has her childhood saddle on a stand in her bedroom. The saddle you can glimpse under it belonged to Ken’s Dad. He was a Shriner and it was his parade saddle.