One of my earliest memories is exploring our farm in South Dakota. We lived 50 miles from the Black Hills and 25 miles from Bear Butte which jutted up from the flat prairie. The history of the area was filled with stories of Indians and Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley. We had a horse when I was small. I was too young to ride and old enough to wish I could. The horse belonged to my sister Kit. Her real name is Katherine, but because she wanted to be Kit Carson, she demanded we all call her Kit. (She is still called Kit.) When she was 7, she and our cousin Scott ran away on their horses. They were headed for the Black Hills. When it got dark, they stopped at a cabin along the river and asked to spend the night. The man who lived there welcomed them in, and called their dads…who picked up two very angry 7-year-olds. I still remember our dad proudly telling the story and having tears in his eyes from the humor. My dad always cried when he laughed.
I don’t recall the story, but the horse I do remember, riding behind Kit down by Horse Creek. Nostalgia strengthens and warms the soul like a shot of Tennessee whiskey.
What a wonderful story and art. I remember our family drive to the Black Hills from our home in Minneapolis in 1957. With a stop at the Corn Palace in Mitchell. Your story and art brought back great memories.