The West Old & New Vol. III Issue II February 2014 | Page 10

Bernice Ende
Long Lady Rider

“Who’s there?”
The voice rises on a curl of smoke. It doesn’t sound like Yogi or Smokey, so we scrabble to the edge of a bluff and peer over. Down below in a clearing, a gray-haired
woman sits ramrod straight, tending a pot of hard-boiled eggs bubbling over a
campfire. Three horses graze near a tent with front flap made of lace. A large straw
sombrero hangs from a nearby tree. “You must be Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
Bernice Ende chuckles. “Well, I suspect I am hard to find.”
Bob Dotson - TODAY Contributor 9/24/2012

My father milked a small herd of Holstein cows, tall, lanky cows burdened with pink utters, heavy with milk until each day,
twice a day they were brought into the barn where their precious cargo was delivered into stainless steel milk cans. What a playground. Everyday is an adventure on a small family farm. Both my father and mother rode horses, and I suppose I rode with my
mother before I even entered this world. With two older sisters, old enough to carry me out side and set me on top of old Spot’s
back, a crippled black and white Welsh pony that was more or less a lawn ornament and baby sitter for dozens of children. My
affection for horses came as natural as laughing.
It is not hard to see how and why the strong love of horses stil