Food wasn’t the only thing Dad was bent on raising on that almost-ten-acres of land that had been his long-time dream. The most important thing he wanted to raise was his four daughters. That made the food necessary, but there were other things that were important, too.
Being from a generation that wasn’t too far from pioneer days, Dad put a good amount of value on hunting as a way of providing for his family. He was a skillful and careful hunter, had a modest collection of hunting rifles and shotguns, and appreciated the value of a good hunting dog; in his case, beagles, born to hunt rabbits. He had tried other breeds; I remember a pair of curly-haired, rat-tailed water spaniels when I was just a toddler, then a pair of beagles who produced a large litter of adorable puppies. After the move to the acreage, Dad got serious about raising dogs for sale and, dachshunds being popular at the time, he purchased four for breeding and we began to go to dog shows and learn about the characteristics of different breeds.
We girls dreamed of possessing a Collie like Lassie the famous movie dog. We acquired a half-grown Standard Collie pup we named Rex who grew to an impressive size with an overly-enthusiastic love for our milk cows and their calves and spent most of his days in the pasture, apparently guarding them. I admired the good-matured Dalmatians with their bright spots and was delighted when Dad presented me with a spotted pup for my birthday one year. I promptly named him Buttons and assumed that, as they were known to be “one-man” dogs, Buttons would be devoted to me and that I would be able to train him and teach him tricks. That turned out to be a myth as Buttons chose Dad as his “one man” and deigned to obey me only when it pleased him.
Early in our years on the acreage, Dad had promised us a pony and had kept his word in the form of an elderly retired circus pony named Champ who supposedly knew many tricks. We never knew what those tricks were supposed to be and Champ made no effort to clue us in, so our dreams of putting on our own circus remained mere dreams. We did try, though, and since Champ was old and tired (or lazy) he was content to stand quietly in the shade of our big maple tree while we practiced what we perceived as “trick riding.” This involved standing on his back while we imagined him galloping around the center ring of our pretend circus and doing somersaults over his rump and landing on our feet with a sweeping bow to the invisible audience.
Buttons was to be included in this circus act, and while I did manage to get him to stand and sit on Champ’s broad back, I couldn’t devise any impressive feats for him to perform on horseback, so my “Sensational trained horseback-riding dog” remained only a coveted fantasy.
Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were the popular stars of those Saturday afternoon westerns we loved at the time. I had a guitar, though I’ll be the first to admit that I never learned to play it very well. My music teacher taught only classical music and would not concede to my desire to learn to play those cowboy songs that were so popular in the movies. There was also the blunt fact that I seldom practiced the things my teacher assigned and merely strummed a few chords to accompany my singing. My daydreams were always well beyond my reality and I imagined myself clad in Western regalia, astride Champ with an elaborate, silver-encrusted saddle, strumming my guitar and mesmerizing an admiring audience. I had borrowed a REAL Stetson hat from one of my uncles and, although it was too large for my head, I wore it hanging down my back by its string, and imagined it made me look sufficiently authentic. I spent more than one summer afternoon living this fantasy beneath the big silver maple tree in our backyard. I never mastered the art of playing and singing to the rhythm of hoof beats though – Champ was uncooperative, and it took all my attention and energy to get him to shuffle along in the pasture for a few minutes – no way would I ever be able to ride and play the guitar at the same time.