Crazy lady: diminutive, red-headed, smoking a stogie, trailed by a dog, painting gear in a traveling box, putting a hat on my head. She lives alone in the Brewster Hotel, and often stops to greet me, but this!
Being a horse means often being forgotten, left standing outside at some hitching post, and if the sun is blazing, well, a hat, absurd as it looks to the people who walk by and snigger, is welcome relief for the burning head and the dazzled eyes. Yes, horses get hot too.
She patted me and looked into my eye and said, 'Old nag, you make me think back 70 years to the lively horse I used to ride with Lola. I, only about seven, perched in front of the saddle, and she, five times my age, would spur wildly along the lanes of Grassy Valley in California's Gold Country, our hair flying in the wind, hers black as black, mine red, both of us laughing uproariously. She lived in a small house close to the boarding house my parents ran, or rather my mother, since my father was either out mining or drinking.
'All the children would flock to her but it was me she took a shine to, perhaps because she saw the potential in me. She called herself a Spanish dancer, though she was Irish as were many of the navvies were in the workings, and she taught me a few ballet steps, her fandangoes, highland flings, everything she knew, except for her notorious spider dance--you know the one where she shook tarantulas out of her costume, and showed a good bit of herself in the process. Together we would practice the intricate steps over and over, swishing our skirts, tossing our heads, laughing. She had a quick step, but, really I was quicker.
'She taught me to sing ballads which we'd warble together, putting in lots of sassy innuendo. She taught me to ride and when I got a pony, we'd ride all over the forested hills together. She taught me to smoke cigars, which we'd enjoy with the fellows at places like the blacksmith's shop in Rough and Ready. I remember she plunked me down on an anvil and clapped her hands as I danced for the enthusiastic audience of tough men. 'You've got to come to Paris with me,' she said panting after the wild performance.
'I didn't know then any of the things going on her life then, her failing marriage, her murdered lover, or what had gone before, the mad love affair with the deposed king of Bavaria that had made her a countess, nor yet the disastrous adventure (no underwear, really?) she was about to have in Australia. Our time was just a short interlude in her hectic life, but how it changed me. She took a quick-footed little red haired girl with a merry laugh and a little talent and made me a performer of me.
'She had a ferocious temper, could be obstinate as a stone, and was by a self-destructive recklessness; if I'd gone with her, I'd have been exploited or abandoned.'
She patted my neck, 'Just as you and your kind have been, old Dobbin.'
'My mother, just as strong-willed, put her foot down. If I had talent, it was going to be managed by her. We moved forty miles away to Rabbit Creek where I learned jigs and reels, songs, and how to play the banjo from a saloon owner, plus some soft shoe from a Negro up from the city. My mother dressed me in green like a leprechaun and put me on stage. Not shy at all, I sang, danced, postured and chatted with the audience, and soon had all the grizzled and lonely men shouting appreciation and throwing money and nuggets on the stage--which my mother swept up into her apron and kept in a leather pouch.
'The star of the camps, the queen of San Francisco, the darling of the nation, they called me a lot of things: eternal child, mischievous, impulsive, unpredictable, teasing, piquant, rollicking, cheerful, devilish. They said I had the face of a beautiful doll and the ways of a kitten. I truly loved my audiences and they, me. My ever-prudent mother was in charge of my career and fortune, and I made the smart move of retiring at my peak.
'Lola, the word 'adventuress' was invented for someone like you. Sometimes almost ridiculous, never even remotely respectable, you were always on the edge, not at all tame. I knew you when you not as scandalous but playmate, a kind of big sister. What would she think of what I've become.
'Yes, old nag, the sight of you takes me back. How about this. I've given one fountain already to San Francisco--they love it--and I'll give another in my will to the working horses of Boston like you--a basin of cool water where on a hot day you can dip your velvety muzzle and quench your thirst.
'Bye for now, she said. 'I'm off to catch the light in Gloucester,' and she picked up her gear and walked off, dog at her heel, cigar smoke wafting over her shoulder.
Being a horse means often being forgotten, left standing outside at some hitching post, and if the sun is blazing, well, a hat, absurd as it looks to the people who walk by and snigger, is welcome relief for the burning head and the dazzled eyes. Yes, horses get hot too.
She patted me and looked into my eye and said, 'Old nag, you make me think back 70 years to the lively horse I used to ride with Lola. I, only about seven, perched in front of the saddle, and she, five times my age, would spur wildly along the lanes of Grassy Valley in California's Gold Country, our hair flying in the wind, hers black as black, mine red, both of us laughing uproariously. She lived in a small house close to the boarding house my parents ran, or rather my mother, since my father was either out mining or drinking.
'All the children would flock to her but it was me she took a shine to, perhaps because she saw the potential in me. She called herself a Spanish dancer, though she was Irish as were many of the navvies were in the workings, and she taught me a few ballet steps, her fandangoes, highland flings, everything she knew, except for her notorious spider dance--you know the one where she shook tarantulas out of her costume, and showed a good bit of herself in the process. Together we would practice the intricate steps over and over, swishing our skirts, tossing our heads, laughing. She had a quick step, but, really I was quicker.
'She taught me to sing ballads which we'd warble together, putting in lots of sassy innuendo. She taught me to ride and when I got a pony, we'd ride all over the forested hills together. She taught me to smoke cigars, which we'd enjoy with the fellows at places like the blacksmith's shop in Rough and Ready. I remember she plunked me down on an anvil and clapped her hands as I danced for the enthusiastic audience of tough men. 'You've got to come to Paris with me,' she said panting after the wild performance.
'I didn't know then any of the things going on her life then, her failing marriage, her murdered lover, or what had gone before, the mad love affair with the deposed king of Bavaria that had made her a countess, nor yet the disastrous adventure (no underwear, really?) she was about to have in Australia. Our time was just a short interlude in her hectic life, but how it changed me. She took a quick-footed little red haired girl with a merry laugh and a little talent and made me a performer of me.
'She had a ferocious temper, could be obstinate as a stone, and was by a self-destructive recklessness; if I'd gone with her, I'd have been exploited or abandoned.'
She patted my neck, 'Just as you and your kind have been, old Dobbin.'
'My mother, just as strong-willed, put her foot down. If I had talent, it was going to be managed by her. We moved forty miles away to Rabbit Creek where I learned jigs and reels, songs, and how to play the banjo from a saloon owner, plus some soft shoe from a Negro up from the city. My mother dressed me in green like a leprechaun and put me on stage. Not shy at all, I sang, danced, postured and chatted with the audience, and soon had all the grizzled and lonely men shouting appreciation and throwing money and nuggets on the stage--which my mother swept up into her apron and kept in a leather pouch.
'The star of the camps, the queen of San Francisco, the darling of the nation, they called me a lot of things: eternal child, mischievous, impulsive, unpredictable, teasing, piquant, rollicking, cheerful, devilish. They said I had the face of a beautiful doll and the ways of a kitten. I truly loved my audiences and they, me. My ever-prudent mother was in charge of my career and fortune, and I made the smart move of retiring at my peak.
'Lola, the word 'adventuress' was invented for someone like you. Sometimes almost ridiculous, never even remotely respectable, you were always on the edge, not at all tame. I knew you when you not as scandalous but playmate, a kind of big sister. What would she think of what I've become.
'Yes, old nag, the sight of you takes me back. How about this. I've given one fountain already to San Francisco--they love it--and I'll give another in my will to the working horses of Boston like you--a basin of cool water where on a hot day you can dip your velvety muzzle and quench your thirst.
'Bye for now, she said. 'I'm off to catch the light in Gloucester,' and she picked up her gear and walked off, dog at her heel, cigar smoke wafting over her shoulder.
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