Out and About Kentucky Style: My younger years with Lucky

I’m not saying I’m old, but I am saying I’m old enough. If I had my choice I’d stop aging right now. When I look in the mirror I realize I’m old enough… don’t need anymore. Heck, I can remember when automobiles were advertised as having a radio and heater. Although I never drove one that didn’t have one of those taken-for-granted accessories, I do remember my grandparents having one. Now all we do is press this or turn that. With some of our modern tech all we have to do is speak it and we get results. It won’t be too far in the future when all we have to do is think it.  Now that’s scary, because I’ve had too many people in my life who have told me they know what I’m thinking.

Gary West is an author and News Journal columnist.

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 “throw-back,” maybe living a life style my great-grandparents did. But notice I said moments, not days. Those thoughts quickly pass, however.

The fact is I’m not sure how good of an early day guy I would have been. My exposure to farm life as a little kid did not do much for resume building in that lifestyle. Although my roots were in Smiths Grove, Kentucky, and I guess I was counted among the 700 population the sign at the edge of town proclaimed my family was “town folks.” It seemed like that sign was there for years, even after my family moved to Elizabethtown. I guess whoever was in charge figured others took our place so there was little need in changing the sign.

My grand-dad tried, but the farm thing just didn’t take with me. Of course, I have total respect now for anything that happens on a farm. I envy those that had that experience. But, as an eight-year-old the only thing farm related 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, he would follow my command… even made the “click-click” sound with my tongue on the roof of my mouth, following by a loved “giddy up” letting Lucky know it was time to go. 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 park Lucky in the nearby smoke house, until my return.

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.

No, I’ve never baled hay, hung tobacco, or plowed a field, but I’ve watched others do it. And I’ve got to confess, 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 a majestic animal, 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 on it, Lucky was my cowboy stick horse, never a race horse. But, mind you, he could have been. He was always fast enough to get me where I needed to go.

Riding Lucky was just as real to me as the horses Roy and Gene rode. And like them I rode with a couple of six-shooter cap pistols belted around my waist. Trigger and Champion had nothing on Lucky. 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 thousands of others. It may not have been a just-perfect tobacco stick with a just-the-right grass string, but it was something. He may not have answered to the name of Lucky, but whoever or whatever it was, he could be counted on. He could be depended on. He was there when needed.

Perhaps there really is some truth in the saying, “I’d rather be lucky than good.”

Everyone probably has a Lucky in the echoes of their mind. But my horse was perfect… followed by 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 out on Little Knob Road at my grandparents house.

But on one summer visit, I forgot about Lucky, faithfully waiting for me as he stood 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 now lately I’ve begun thinking about the little things, the things that were so important to a little kid of seven, eight or nine-years-old who wanted only to get as close to a farm or my stick horse Lucky.

When is the last time any of us saw a kid riding a stick horse in their front yard? Maybe it’s the pull of an X-Box or cable TV that has sent the Lucky’s of days gone-by to the barn.

There’s no excuse, get up, get out and get going! Gary P. West can be reached at westgarypdeb@gmail.com.