There is a picture of me and my mom that I was too young to remember taking but is my all-time favorite. The backdrop of the picture is our house in northwestern Illinois in a newly formed subdivision aptly named Cherry Dale which came to represent a time of near mythological greatness in our family’s young life. It sat atop a hill, and the bucolic landscape consisted of a rolling pasture populated with delicate pink and white spring beauties, then fragrant sweet dandelions whose yellow heads shone beatifically against their dark green bodies. In our provincial world sat a slightly rusted metal swing set which wobbled like a tottering baby but never fell. I can’t help but think – maybe the world would be a better place if these once universal sets were still a prominent fixture, crisscrossing all locales. At the bottom of the gently sloping hill was a valley of sorts, complete with a weeping willow tree where my brothers frequently played Tarzan and a small reddish-brown barn that housed our beloved Welsh pony, Goldie. As the legend goes, Goldie was given to our family by a cousin of Dad’s because every young family needs a pony to complete the panacea. For years when we would see this cousin (who I fittingly no longer remember her name) we held her in esteemed reverence as the “giver of the Goldie.” Goldie was aptly named when she arrived, and appropriately so. An aura of earthiness, of all that was good in the world seemed to emanate from her. One look in those luminous chocolate eyes with lashes that seemed to caress the clouds, and you knew there was peace and harmony abound. Nothing could make a day more perfect or fix a broken day like time with our golden girl.

This photo is of me and Mom sitting on Goldie and it is quintessentially faultless and of remarkable quality in the early age of snapshots. Although I do not know what precipitated the event, I imagine the sequence in my head. My brothers must have been doing their afternoon duty of caring for Goldie and brought her to the front of the house. I envision Mom was in the throes of domiciliary when Goldie appeared in the yard, but she quickly dropped everything for a chance to hop on her with me. Mom would often leave the house a mess, the kitchen undone for more pleasurable activities, and as a teenager, I found this to be a source of embarrassment. Other moms had very tidy houses; ours was far from it, but my own journey into motherhood taught me to admire this simple revolt against domestic oppression. The other scenario in my head is that maybe the early summer day was as incredibly perfect as those early summer days can be, raw in their birth while the grinding unforgiving winter still haunts a body, mind, and soul. Late blooming lilacs and freshly born foliage not yet baked in the heat hang suspended in the air and speckled butterflies drunk on nectar fly haphazardly in the soft light. So perhaps this day suddenly overcame Mom’s controlled wanderlust, and she asked for Goldie so she could take a carefree romp even just around the yard; that would not surprise me either. She often did brazen impulsive activities that breathed life into mundane routine. To her, routines were made to be broken. A cloudless azure sky spreads out behind us and to the right, the slightly burnt toast colored house makes a striking contrast of blues and browns flawlessly arranged in the photograph.

Those colors are so perfectly coordinated from the sky to the house, to Mom, to Goldie, to a tiny me, it seems almost staged, but this could not be further from Mom’s genetic make-up. At the time of this photo, the early 70’s, it was still commonplace for women of suburbia to wear dresses during the day, or at least a stylish pantsuit and while I do have memories of Mom dressed as such, her clothing on this day reiterates her consistent mutiny against what she was supposed to be. Ironically, her rebellion is not the hippy flower child that history calls to mind, Mom did not even participate in that. Shockingly, she wore what was comfortable. A navy-blue baggy short sleeve sweatshirt piles carefully around her waist and elbow length sleeves hang carelessly on her arms. Cut off blue jean shorts, rolled tightly at the knee are a lighter shade than her sweatshirt and her shockingly milk-white legs dangle loosely at Goldie’s coffee and cream-colored well-fed belly. And she is barefoot; her Geisha-like tiny feet are not even hugging Goldie; they simply hang uncovered in their brashness. The only thing that resembles tradition is Mom’s bouffant hair, piled relatively high in stiff auburn waves that contrast her naked face, but it is her blue eyes that match her shorts, the shirt, and the sky that shine with alacrity. She holds me snugly in front of her, one arm wrapped around my waist and another loosely on the reins. A wispy cap of straw blonde hair covers my head and the yellow bounces impetuously off Mom’s indigo sweatshirt. My eyes are cast down to my hands that are buried, seemingly nonexistent, in Goldie’s lusciously coarse honey colored mane which forever remained a source of wonderment to me. 

Goldie stands perfectly still like she knew the photo was important and would live forever serving as a memory of a life well lived. I can still smell her when I look at the picture like a scratch and sniff in my memory. When we moved three hours from our beloved Cherry Dale, she went with us even though she could not be housed at our new lake property. As a child, it was given that all pets would move with us, including our pony. As an adult, I appreciate the formidable challenge this event was for my parents, but Dad found Goldie a home not far from our house. In exchange for her boarding, the property owner’s children could ride her, and she adapted seamlessly into her new environment. She still had a lovely barn, a pasture, and young ones to live out fantasies in her charge. A lightweight bare back saddle was all a rider needed, more for us to feel like true horsemen. And she always willingly opened her mouth with laughable exaggeration, showing her gargantuan teeth, to slip in her bit and bridle. We never arrived without apples or carrots and when her tender lips grazed and tickled my hand, the sticky slobber working to paste my fingers together made me squeal with glee.Her long Rapunzel tail nearly reached the ground and more than once I begged Mom to let me trim it, but she had seen the repercussions of a style gone wrong on many a Barbie so of course the scissors were far from my reach. Goldie knew her role in our young family and she played it to perfection. She was Silver when my brothers played Lone Ranger, whisking them away from peril, sometimes Trigger untying their hands after the bandits robbed them. She was Bunny to me as I played Little House on the Prairie and made my way to the hay fields with lunch for Pa or to town to the Olsen’s General Store, albeit for a confrontation with Nellie. Whatever we dreamed; Goldie cheerfully provided.

The only difference in Goldie’s new residence versus her previous was the pasture. While ours doubled as a backyard that was always kept neatly trimmed, the new location was a true farm pasture and was often overgrown with an abundance of wild things both identifiable and not. A few times a year, the farmer would mow, but it was often overgrown with an assortment of native plants. Tall grasses with feather soft tips tickled dangling legs and mismatched patches of wildflowers dotted the landscape. Goldie often found herself with fragrant Sweet William woven into her mane, or a crown of clover atop her ears.Intermingled with these idyllic grasses were more threatening species which served as a reminder that although a landscape may appear tranquil, it is never fully tamed. Among the downy reeds were those with toothy nettles that covered jeans like an outbreak of chicken pox or embedded unfortunate bare skin with smatterings of welts. Other similar varieties sliced tender surfaces with thin razor-sharp cuts that burned maleficently accidentally or purposefully. Allergens made up of semi harmless poisons often attacked without qualm leaving us itching and then covered in pink Caladryl. Our red sofa was usually spotted with pink dots and the eucalyptus-like medicinal smell wafted from the cloth on humid days for years to come. But the time on Goldie pre-empted any peril we may incur.

My brothers are older than I am and Goldie would trot and gallop for them, but she would not for me, not even as I grew heavier and bigger which she had to notice as I sat atop her expansive back. For years, when I was riding Goldie, the only way she would move was if Mom walked in front of her. For a while this suited me but as I aged, it angered me prodigiously. Because we often made our trips to see Goldie together, I would be forced to watch my siblings’ charades, my envy seething as they indefatigably romped through the uncut trails while I was relegated to the sidelines waiting my turn with Mom. No amount of prodding with my small heels on Goldie’s sides or clucking and tugging on the reins would make her proceed at any pace. So Mom diligently trudged in front of us, sometimes with a stick to chop down thigh high straw and hopefully ward off any terrifying serpent hidden in the dense vegetation. Though Goldie was typical pony size and in horse terms, about eleven hands, she was taller than my short Mom. Consequently, I felt like Cinderella on my giant steed gazing down at my stableman.

To get Goldie to trot, Mom would have to jog in front of her, and Mom was not a jogger. But, she bore through the pasture methodically, her stubby legs like a hay thresher, chopping the way for both horse and rider. Dust particles flew into the air creating miniature cyclones that plugged our eyes and nose. Even on cool spring days or crisp fall days, the pasture held the heat of the sun which made Goldie slightly lather but drenched Mom in sweat. The only part that did not seem to mind the heat was the unyielding tawny bouffant which railed up and down in the glistening sun like a drill bit ceaselessly working to penetrate a board. Nonetheless, Goldie’s trotting only increased my need for more, so I called incessantly “Go faster Mom, go faster!” And Mom bore down with the might of an Olympic race runner gunning for the finish like her life and honor of her country depended on it. The sprinting of both Mom and Goldie caused such buoyancy, such unapologetic euphoria that in my hubris I often forgot to pay attention to the reins. As Mom ran, Goldie ran, and I bounced, whooped and cackled with glee. My short stick hair blew straight back; my eyes watered from the gale force wind slapping me relentlessly and sheer happiness streaked my cheeks making white stripes on my slightly pink dusty face. However, one fine day during this moment of rapture, suddenly without warning, without provocation, I was on the ground.

I did not land explosively, rather I simply slipped off the oiled saddle and landed with an abrupt thud on the parched ground. However, Mom was so intent on the run, and so obviously intent on finishing the (albeit excruciating) exercise neither she nor Goldie noticed I was absent. Threatening spiky towers of terror loomed over me and vines immediately sprang to life and began to wind themselves tightly around my ankles choking off circulation. Panic swelled in my chest and beat in my head which quickly mixed with fury and embarrassment. Immediately, tempestuous thoughts of an icy solitary night with horrific beasts lurking in the shadows filled my thoughts. I was terrified of the dark and the now eclipsed sun ignited my fear and fury. How could they not notice I was gone? That idea was so unbearably foreign, so insulting to my core, that I began the long, slow, tortured steps to a sheer unabashed tantrum. With painful measures, I gathered my strength to sit on my knees and wail. I howled like a coyote wailing at the moon, and the anger and terror in my own voice startled me. However, it quickly became clear that Mom nor Goldie could not hear me and though their gait was in reality rather slow, it did not take long for them to get some distance between us.

I am unsure what finally made Mom look back, but when she turned her head, our eyes met and locked and what passed I know was nothing less than a showdown of sorts. Instantly, Mom lit up like fireworks with amusement, her face broke into a wide smile, and her body shook with laughter. My angry sobs increased as Mom ever so slowly turned Goldie and their previous jog turned to a languid stroll. It was like a contest of who could cry louder and who could walk slower- both of us determined to win. What a sight I must have been – wide wild eyes peering through weeds, my skin covered in chalky grime and sporadic cockleburs adhered to my clothing and hair; my face drenched with tears and inflamed with rage. Customary of Mom she continued to slow her pace, giggling harder with each exaggerated step which hindered her rescue even more.

When Mom finally reached me, I imagined she would gather me into her arms, cover my stained face with calming kisses, patiently pluck the burs from my hair, then lift me carefully atop Goldie all the while telling me how absolutely precious I was, and would I please please forgive her for this awful transgression? Instead, she met me with even more cackling, more guffawing at both my outlandish outburst and appearance. As I fumed and weakly lifted my heavy arms, exhausted from my own hysterics, she put her hands on her hips ever so deliberately delivered: “Listen, you can lie there bawling like there’s no tomorrow and ruin this perfect day, but nothing bad has happened. Either get back on that horse or sit there crying. The choice is yours.” I sat on the ground and continued to stew; the afternoon sun began its ritual descent and powdery particles from spent blossoms swirled in the air. Insects taunted Goldie and she swatted them nonchalantly with that lovely tail while she munched as best as she could on the grasses as though nothing had happened. She was a traitor too.

Mom sighed heavily, crossed her arms, and just looked at me. At last I stood, ambled over to my pony, and rested my head against her chest, feeling the reassuring thump of her heart. Mom made a make-shift stirrup with her hand which allowed me to clamor ungracefully onto Goldie, and then she lightly patted my back and whispered “that’s my strong girl.”

That’s my strong girl.

Our afternoon ended, and it did not end as cheerfully as it had begun. We gingerly walked back to the barn, all three of us knowing something had shifted in our day. It was like an old party balloon that had lost most of its air and lay insipidly in a corner. But what Mom was trying to teach me on that day, and she continued to teach me, was quite plainly- grit, self-reliance, independence. Obviously, she knew the world could be and often was a very cruel place. I suspect she already thought about a day when she would not be around to rescue me, or maybe even when I would not want her to do so; isn’t that the goal? I am still not sure of that. When I look at the photo of us on Goldie, I am reminded of the lesson, and I remember “you can sit there bawling or get back up.” When Mom died, I felt as if both Goldie and Mom were pulled from under me, and that I was free falling in an abyss that seemingly had no end, no ground. When I did land, I felt so broken; I felt like I didn’t know how to move again, because I still desperately needed her. But also when I look at that picture, framed on my mantle, I feel her, I feel that day. And I get back up, dust off myself, and get on that horse.