Cowgirl

Cowgirl

My mother was a cowgirl. She rode horses on my grandfather’s farm outside Lincoln, Nebraska. The land was divided into three plots: the farm and two pastures where the cattle grazed. My mother drove cattle down the dirt road with her father when she was a girl. They walked down a shute and went to the Catalpas and the Evergreens to graze in the open prairie. I picture their slow gate, balancing their steps as they went down, then the slow walk down the road, dust kicking up behind their hooves.

My mother and Kathie O’Brien went out after dark on the O’Brien’s ranch. They rode blindfolded on pintos, just for fun. The pintos stopped. My mother kicked her pinto. Kathie kicked her pinto. The horses stood still. My mother and her friend lifted their blindfolds and looked down at the bluff. Native Americans ran buffalo over the edge. My mother and Kathie walked their horses to a campsite, tied up their horses, and fell asleep.

My mother did barrel racing in 4-H horse shows in Nebraska. I saw a photo of her on her show horse, a cowgirl with a smirk. She wore an egg cream western shirt with matching cowboy boots and seemed like a rebel, to me.

My mother was a cheerleader, and the newspaper ran a photo of her in a plaid skirt and letter sweater, her feet nearly touching her head as she curled into a circle doing a gymnastic jump full of girlish spunk.

My mother was on the swim team at the country club on the outskirts of town. She was an outstanding backstroker. She raced in the Midwest regional championships against Donna de Varona, who went on to win a gold medal at the Olympics. My mother was a Midwest backstroke champion and individual medley relay winner. My mother took out a box from the attic and showed me her swimming awards. She only kept the ribbons and got rid of the medals. She didn’t brag.

Author: Karol Nielsen

Photo: pawel szvmanski on Unsplash