Queen

I loved horses from a young age. Pa, with his hair-raising cowboy yell and Wild West spirit, helped me into the saddle practically as soon as I was walking. Sitting on top of those big strong animals and jouncing in sync with the horse’s gait was the best feeling in the world. Moving around a lot meant we couldn’t always keep our horses, unfortunately, so when we moved to Belize, we said a sad goodbye to Annie and Dixie, our two mares, and left them behind in the States. 

Belize was a cowgirl’s heaven. Spanish Lookout, in particular, was chock-full of cowboys, cattle, and plenty of big open pastures and roads for whatever horse I was on to bolt off with me clinging on for my life. For a while, we borrowed other people’s horses whenever we went riding. Moving to Belize had been a kind of starting all over for our family, and it was only once we settled down in my grandparents’ house that our lives really started to become patterned and regular. My grandparents had a cow pasture and corral right next to their house, which meant I was right next to all the action. I would watch my older boy cousins riding their horses, yelling at the cows and whooping them through the corral, and generally having the best time of their lives. 

On one of those warm, summery days, Pa decided to go to a livestock auction, one that was being held at Joe Jr.’s farm. Joe Jr. was a notable rancher in Spanish Lookout, and he looked it too—long, rough hair, cowboy boots, fancy buckle. He also had an amazing amount of horses, which always delighted us when we passed his ranch on our way to Belmopan and played the “how many horses can you count” game. The auction turned into a family occasion for us, and my brothers and I got to watch the proceedings. 

Cattle and horses were noisily bid on inside the sturdy wooden corral. The animal in question would be let into the corral to be viewed and considered by numerous Mennonite men in plaid shirts. The young ones of us sat on the round concrete posts that stood at board-length intervals all around the corral. These held the structure together and kept the Brahman, Angus, and other livestock inside the enclosure. These posts were perfect for a birds-eye view of the action as well as a place to keep us safe from wild cows with pointed horns and trampling hooves. 

While I was perched on top of my post, a girl about my age rode into the corral on an older mare, a dark brown quarter-horse who had seen her years of chasing unruly cattle and racing through green pastures. The auctioneer started his spiel.  

“This horse is very good for children! Older, nice and steady, friendly old mare. Goes by the name of Queen!” I watched as the horse and girl, both appearing relaxed, paced around the dusty, dung-littered corral. 

That girl couldn’t be so much older than me, I thought. Maybe I could do that someday. 

As the girl, whose name I later learned was Cordelia, rode “Queen” around, the bidding began. 

“200 dollars, can I get 200 dollars?”

“200 dollars!” 

“250, can I get 250?”

“250 dollars.”

“275? 275 dollars for this good old mare.”

“275 dollars.” 

“300 dollars!” Wait a minute. That was Pa! He was buying a horse! 

Excitement rushed through me. Questions swarmed my head. Were we really getting a horse? Whose would it be? We were about to take home a horse! 

I hardly remember anything else that happened in the auction. It all became insignificant after what had just happened. 

When we stopped our auction-observing for lunch break, Mom brought out the food she’d packed for us to have as a picnic. As we munched on whatever good stuff she had brought, I couldn’t resist asking, “Whose horse is it going to be, Pa?” 

He looked at me, a twinkle in his light blue eyes. “Well, I thought maybe I’d give her to you.”

I stopped eating. Could this be happening? Pa was giving me a horse?! Imagine the sheer joy that filled my heart to bursting at having a horse that was mine to pet, ride, and feed carrots! 

So began many adventures with my old mare. Queen sure had plenty of spunk left in her, despite being “good for children.” And she could gallop, a.k.a. go fast.  

If you have never had a living, moving, independent-minded animal speeding you down an active road at 25 miles an hour, you have not experienced life at its finest—or its most terrifying. There’s a reason horses were domesticated—and a reason they’re used for races. When I was 11 or so, Pa and I went riding with Queen and “Moonshine,” another horse we kept on my grandparents’ ranch. We took the “out” part of the journey down Bee Lane toward Reimers’ Health Food Store, and then we turned around and started on the way “back.” Now, when a horse knows she is on the way back home to her comfortable pasture and saddle-free relaxation, she tends to be in a hurry to finish up the ride and get there. 

So when we decided to speed up our pace, Moonshine and Queen were more than happy to oblige. Their hooves clattered faster and faster over the gravel and grass, and the squeaking saddles and bouncing Jessica moved faster and faster too. 

I was so terrified, I nearly screamed my head off. “I’m dying! I’m dying!” We whooshed past people’s houses as I continued shrieking my heart out while Pa tried to get the horses to slow down their frantic pace. By the time we reached the corner where Bee Lane turned off into Riverside Road, he’d managed to pull on the reins enough for the girls to ease up on their speed. 

I stopped screaming at some point. I lived, also. 

But boy, that incident has been in my memory ever since, and Pa never fails to mention my poor terrified screams with a good chuckle whenever the opportunity arises. 

To Queen’s credit, though, I never once fell off her. She always kept me in the saddle, no matter how much it felt like I was about to fly off her back and away into glory right then and there.  

As the years went by, though, and she got older, she developed some sort of sickness. I’m not sure what it was, but there were little swollen lines on her stomach, and she was suffering. One morning, I went out and put the rope around her neck, as if I was going to ride her. She came along willingly, the good old girl. I led her into the little shed beside our barn, the tears pushing up behind my eyes. I reassured her she was a good horse. I patted her one last time. Then I left her in the shed and went to school. 

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Jessica Koop, an English major at the University of Belize, lives in Belmopan but grew up in Spanish Lookout. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and riding horses.