I grew up watching Western movies. Every Saturday afternoon I hightailed it down
to the Lyric Theater in Earlville,
Illinois for The Kiddies
Matinee. There I spent a thrilling,
popcorn-fueled 90 minutes vicariously riding along with Roy Rogers, Gene Autry,
Hopalong Cassidy, The Lone Ranger, Tonto, and the rest of their fearless,
rootin' tootin', cow punching compadres.
I cheered them on as they chased outlaws and renegades back and forth
across the Technicolor expanses of the Great American West.
With my weekly allowance and ample
help from Woolworth's Five and Dime, I outfitted myself in my heroes'
images. I sported a matched set of
nickel plated cap guns, genuine imitation leather holsters, a two gallon hat,
plastic spurs that didn't jangle but did glow in the dark, and an oversized
pair of tan corduroy slacks which, if you squinted and used your imagination,
resembled chaps.
I always lacked the one essential
cowboy accessory I wanted more than any other; a horse, a trusty steed,
preferably one named Trigger, Champion, Topper, Silver, or Scout. I longed to sit tall in my very own saddle,
wave my hat in the air, shout "Whoopee-ti-ti-yo.", spur my mount, and
ride off like the wind. Palomino, pinto,
bay, paint, I loved them all. Any size,
any breed, any color, didn't matter. I
wanted a horse of my own.
I never got one. The closest I came were my yearly trips to Chicago's immense and wondrous Riverview Amusement Park. Forget the roller coaster, Tilt-a-whirl,
bumper cars, and fun house. I went for
the merry-go-round. Specifically to ride
one magnificent wooden horse. He stood
strong and proud on the outside row. He
was jet black. His tossed mane, barred
teeth, flared nostrils, and wide-open eyes gave him a savage, fearsome
expression. He had a rifle tucked under
his blanket and a coiled lariat looped over his pommel. He was everything a budding cowboy could
want. I named him Lightning and rode him
to exhaustion (mine, not his.) once every summer. I never forgot the thrill I got from sitting
astride that beautiful wooden steed, and I never will.
I gave up on my fantasy of owning
a real horse. I had to. I now live on the top floor of a high rise
co-op. I suspect my downstairs neighbors
would strongly object to the clip clop of horse hooves overhead, let alone that
pungent manure smell wafting through the hallways. Even worse,
turns out that exposure to horse hair gives me a severe case of sneezing
fits. A singing cowboy, yes. A sneezing cowboy? I don't think so.
Instead of a real horse, I now a
merry-go-round horse. Even though I may
never ride my beloved Lightning again, I can still climb aboard his first
cousin. My merry-go-round horse was hand
carved by the very same fellow who created that fantastic animal I remember so
well from my youth.
A friend who knew of my interest
in merry-go-round horses once sent me a photo showing a rather goofy looking horse. All white from head to foot. missing both
ears and one front leg. The horse’s real
horsehair tail stuck up at an odd angle high up on its rump. Somebody had gouged out the eyes and had
replaced them with red bicycle reflectors.
The saddle had been wired up so anybody sitting on it would get a shock
when the leads were connected to a battery.
Still, the horse had charmingly dainty lines. I suspected thick, multiple coats of paint
might be covering up a rather nice piece of carving. The horse was for sale, so I bought it.
Through research, I discovered
this horse had been part of a long-dismantled carousel which had operated at Riverview Park
(a different Riverview, not the one of my boyhood memories) in Aurora, Illinois.
When I told my mother about my new
acquisition, she remarked that she and my father had visited that park many
times when they were courting. Her
favorite animal had been a zebra. She
rode the zebra every visit, the same way I had ridden my favorite Lightning.
I turned this odd-looking animal
over to a carousel restorer. The
restorer took one look and told me why this was such an odd looking horse. Because this wasn't a horse. This was, surprise, surprise, a zebra.
As merry-go-rounds aged, and park
attendance declined, carousel owners could no longer afford to maintain the
rides in pristine shape. When time came
to repaint a thirty or forty year old merry-go-round, rather than laboriously
redoing the zebra's stripes, owners eliminated the stripes and turn the zebra
into an ersatz horse. This necessitated
cutting off the wooden zebra tail, drilling a new hole, and inserting a horsehair
tail. That accounted for the tail’s weird
high-up angle. The rest of the
alterations, the eyes and the hot-wired saddle, came when the zebra-horse
eventually landed in a college fraternity's rec room.
I called my mother and asked her
to describe that zebra she had ridden so long ago at Riverview.
She had no trouble
whatsoever. She still remembered that
animal vividly, especially the monkey heads carved on either side, just behind
its saddle. When I checked. I
discovered, low and behold, twin monkey heads behind this zebra’s saddle. I had purchased the very same animal that had
enchanted my mother so many years ago.
My restorer put the animal back
into original condition. New ears, eyes,
tail, and leg finished off with an authentic zebra paint job.
After the zebra was completed, I showed the animal to my
mother.
She started to cry.
“Yes,” she said, “that’s the same zebra I rode when your father and I
were courting.”
I helped her climb up and sit in the saddle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.
What’s even more amazing is the fact that no other animal
from that Riverview carousel has ever surfaced.
Only this one. My mother’s
favorite.
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