At the end of every movie, Roy and Dale sang “Happy Trails” and rode off into the sunset on Trigger and Buttermilk. Remember that? The year was 1943 and the cost of those movies was five cents. Imagine that!
Bob was a seventeen-year-old scrapper full of spit and vinegar and a real smooth cookie with the ladies. Oh yes, there were several: like the twins next door who would give him a peek at their bloomers for twenty-five cents, and Evie, the preacher’s daughter who scared him off when she chanted in spiritual reverie and tried her darnedest to save his ornery soul. But he had been romancing Grace for a few months now; she was a city gal all the way from Altoona. Sometimes he picked her up in his older brother, Ken’s, car, but ever since he and Ab sideswiped a tree and tore the door off of it, Ken wouldn’t let them use his car anymore. So on this Saturday afternoon date, Grace arrived by streetcar.
Bob met her at the streetcar stop near the Grazierville Bridge. She was a heavenly vision in jodhpurs, helmet, and riding boots. If this had been twenty years into the future, he would have thought Jackie Kennedy was in those pants. Hand in hand they walked to Hunter’s for an afternoon of horseback riding ($1 per hour) and maybe some hanky-panky in the hay field (priceless), if Bob could convince Grace that he had nothing more than gentlemanly intensions.
From the way Grace was dressed, Bob was certain that she was an experienced horsewoman, so he saddled her the big Tennessee Walker named Hank. He cupped his hands, Grace stepped in, and he hoisted her into the saddle. Her leg brushed his face; her fragrance was intoxicating. Bob sighed deeply and then saddled up Fish, the white gelding, for himself.
As they walked at an easy pace down the trail from Hunter’s barn, they heard Mr. Hunter shout, “Don’t you run those animals. I don’t wanna see them come back here all lathered up and such. You hear me, boy?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bob waved as he smiled into Grace’s eyes.
As soon as they rounded the bend and were out of Mr. Hunter’s sight, Bob urged Fish into a trot. The Walker responded likewise. Grace easily posted in the stirrups. (For those not too horse savvy, posting is to bounce up and down in rhythm with a horse’s trotting gate.) Hank pulled ahead of Fish, and the view from the rear was a pretty sweet treat to Bob’s eyes; he could watch her post all day.
Suddenly, Hank broke into a lope and then even more surprising, into a full-fledged, flat-out gallop. Grace screamed, dropped the reins, and gripped the saddle. Bob knew just what to do. After all, he had seen Roy rescue many a damsel in distress from a runaway horse. He spurred Fish onward. As the two horses came side by side, Bob reached out and grasped Grace by the waist. He pulled her off of Hank, but somehow it didn’t work like in the movies. She crashed so hard into Bob that she knocked him right off his horse, too. They went tumbling head over heels into the brush alongside the road as the riderless horses galloped off into the sunset.
The two of them lay along the roadside, stunned and breathless. Bob moaned and rolled toward Grace. His heart was pounding. What if she’s hurt really bad? How come Roy Rogers did it so easily? Dale never got mad, did she? Surely Grace won’t be mad. Bob had probably just saved her life.
“Are you okay?” he asked, gingerly.
“What the #@%% were you thinking?” Grace spat. “You could’a killed me. Just look at my new riding pants, they’re all torn. My ankle hurts. I think you sprained my ankle. Is my lip bleeding? I hope you’re happy. Putting me on a wild animal like that …” She rambled on and on and on … and the tears were flowing on and on …
It was a long hike back to the stable, especially with a ranting, raving angry woman. Bob’s shoulder was brush-burned and he limped on a bruised knee, but he still thought Grace was one beautiful little filly. Her fire made her even more attractive.
Well, Grace got over her mad spell and continued to date Bob for another year or so, until he joined the Army and got shipped off to Japan. He and Grace never became and item; it would be my guess that meeting my mom had something to do with that.
A few years after my mom passed, dad told me this story and asked me if I would try to find Grace. (At 82, dad was like a backward teenager, I had to do all the matchmaking.) After a little research, I finally found her. As I told her the story, she was quiet. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Bob who?”
Well, that took the wind right out of his sails. Perhaps if dad would’ve sung “Happy Trails”, it may have jogged her eighty-year-old memory and things may have turned out differently.
Bob was a seventeen-year-old scrapper full of spit and vinegar and a real smooth cookie with the ladies. Oh yes, there were several: like the twins next door who would give him a peek at their bloomers for twenty-five cents, and Evie, the preacher’s daughter who scared him off when she chanted in spiritual reverie and tried her darnedest to save his ornery soul. But he had been romancing Grace for a few months now; she was a city gal all the way from Altoona. Sometimes he picked her up in his older brother, Ken’s, car, but ever since he and Ab sideswiped a tree and tore the door off of it, Ken wouldn’t let them use his car anymore. So on this Saturday afternoon date, Grace arrived by streetcar.
Bob met her at the streetcar stop near the Grazierville Bridge. She was a heavenly vision in jodhpurs, helmet, and riding boots. If this had been twenty years into the future, he would have thought Jackie Kennedy was in those pants. Hand in hand they walked to Hunter’s for an afternoon of horseback riding ($1 per hour) and maybe some hanky-panky in the hay field (priceless), if Bob could convince Grace that he had nothing more than gentlemanly intensions.
From the way Grace was dressed, Bob was certain that she was an experienced horsewoman, so he saddled her the big Tennessee Walker named Hank. He cupped his hands, Grace stepped in, and he hoisted her into the saddle. Her leg brushed his face; her fragrance was intoxicating. Bob sighed deeply and then saddled up Fish, the white gelding, for himself.
As they walked at an easy pace down the trail from Hunter’s barn, they heard Mr. Hunter shout, “Don’t you run those animals. I don’t wanna see them come back here all lathered up and such. You hear me, boy?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bob waved as he smiled into Grace’s eyes.
As soon as they rounded the bend and were out of Mr. Hunter’s sight, Bob urged Fish into a trot. The Walker responded likewise. Grace easily posted in the stirrups. (For those not too horse savvy, posting is to bounce up and down in rhythm with a horse’s trotting gate.) Hank pulled ahead of Fish, and the view from the rear was a pretty sweet treat to Bob’s eyes; he could watch her post all day.
Suddenly, Hank broke into a lope and then even more surprising, into a full-fledged, flat-out gallop. Grace screamed, dropped the reins, and gripped the saddle. Bob knew just what to do. After all, he had seen Roy rescue many a damsel in distress from a runaway horse. He spurred Fish onward. As the two horses came side by side, Bob reached out and grasped Grace by the waist. He pulled her off of Hank, but somehow it didn’t work like in the movies. She crashed so hard into Bob that she knocked him right off his horse, too. They went tumbling head over heels into the brush alongside the road as the riderless horses galloped off into the sunset.
The two of them lay along the roadside, stunned and breathless. Bob moaned and rolled toward Grace. His heart was pounding. What if she’s hurt really bad? How come Roy Rogers did it so easily? Dale never got mad, did she? Surely Grace won’t be mad. Bob had probably just saved her life.
“Are you okay?” he asked, gingerly.
“What the #@%% were you thinking?” Grace spat. “You could’a killed me. Just look at my new riding pants, they’re all torn. My ankle hurts. I think you sprained my ankle. Is my lip bleeding? I hope you’re happy. Putting me on a wild animal like that …” She rambled on and on and on … and the tears were flowing on and on …
It was a long hike back to the stable, especially with a ranting, raving angry woman. Bob’s shoulder was brush-burned and he limped on a bruised knee, but he still thought Grace was one beautiful little filly. Her fire made her even more attractive.
Well, Grace got over her mad spell and continued to date Bob for another year or so, until he joined the Army and got shipped off to Japan. He and Grace never became and item; it would be my guess that meeting my mom had something to do with that.
A few years after my mom passed, dad told me this story and asked me if I would try to find Grace. (At 82, dad was like a backward teenager, I had to do all the matchmaking.) After a little research, I finally found her. As I told her the story, she was quiet. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Bob who?”
Well, that took the wind right out of his sails. Perhaps if dad would’ve sung “Happy Trails”, it may have jogged her eighty-year-old memory and things may have turned out differently.
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