I readily confess to enjoying modern-day conveniences, while at the same time considering myself a bit old-fashioned. There are moments when I get carried away and think of myself as a throwback, maybe living a lifestyle my great-grandparents did. But notice I said moments, not days. Those thoughts quickly pass.
The fact is, I’m not sure how good of a back-in-the-old-days guy I would have been. My exposure to farm life as a little kid didn’t do much for résumé building in that type of lifestyle, although my roots were in the rural town of Smiths Grove (Warren County). I guess I was counted among the 700 people the sign at the edge of town proclaimed lived there. My family was composed of “town folks.” It seemed like that sign was there for years, even after my family moved to Elizabethtown. I guess whoever was in charge of the sign figured others took our place when we left, so there was little need to go to the cost and effort of changing the sign.
My granddad tried to make a farmer of me, but it just didn’t take. Of course, I have total respect now for everything that happens on a farm. I envy those who had that experience.
As an 8-year-old, the only farm-related thing I enjoyed was my favorite tobacco stick horse named Lucky. I tied a grass string around the big end of the stick, so when I rode it, Lucky would follow my command. I made a “click-click” sound with my tongue on the roof of my mouth, followed by a loud “giddy-up” that let Lucky know it was time to go. Upon hearing my command, my grandmother knew I was on the move. It worked for me and seemed to work for Lucky, and at the end of each summer visit to my grandparents’ farm, I would “stable” Lucky in the smokehouse until my return.
Now I see that riding a stick horse—or a hobby horse, as they now call it—has become a competitive sport and may be under consideration for the 2028 Olympics. You’ve got to be joking.
• • •
Lucky wasn’t one of those fancy, city-slicker horses. You know the ones I’m talking about—those with the padded, stuffed heads that seemed to smile all the time. No, sir, Lucky was a farm horse, and if I wanted to get somewhere in a hurry, I rode Lucky. Those hobby horses would have been no match for my Lucky.
I’ve never baled hay, hung tobacco or plowed a field, but I’ve watched others. And I’ve got to confess: I’ve never milked a cow. I love horses, though, as long as they’re on the other side of the fence, where I’m in control and pet them. Horses are such majestic animals, all powerful in their graceful gallop that seems to make the ground beneath them shake. Just thinking about them makes me want to find a $2 window. Looking back, I realize that Lucky was my cowboy stick horse, never a racehorse. Mind you, he could have been. He was always fast enough to get me where I needed to go.
Lucky was just as real to me as the horses Roy Rogers and Gene Autry rode. Trigger and Champion had nothing on Lucky. Like those cowboys, I rode with a couple of six-shooter pistols (cap pistols, that is) belted around my waist. When I dismounted to get a drink of water out of a nearby garden hose, my loyal horse waited right there by my feet.
I’m sure my memories are no different from those of thousands of other now-grown stick-horse riders. Lucky may not have been a just-perfect tobacco stick with a just-right grass string, but he was something. He may not have answered to the name of Lucky, but whoever or whatever he was, he could be counted on. He could be depended on. He was there when needed.
• • •
Many people probably have a Lucky in the echoes of their minds. But my horse was perfect—followed my every command, never complained about not getting enough oats or water, and was always ready for whatever adventure I had in store for the two of us at my grandparents’ house out on Little Knob Road.
On one summer visit, I forgot about Lucky, who was faithfully waiting for me, standing patiently in one corner of the smokehouse. Suddenly, I had outgrown Lucky. It just happened. I never went back for him, never even thought about him again until years later. The progression of life separated us physically. But lately, I’ve begun thinking about the little things, the things that were so important to a little kid of 7, 8 or 9 years old who wanted to get only as close to farm activities as riding a stick horse.
When is the last time any of us saw a kid riding a stick horse in the front yard? Maybe it’s the pull of an Xbox or cable TV that has sent the Luckys of days gone by to the barn.
But some older kids are riding stick horses in competition. I wouldn’t have believed it had Inside Edition not aired a segment on cable TV about it. Maybe one of the horses will be named Lucky.