WILD RIDE

 

Note:
I wrote this several years ago and have been reposting it at the beginning of every summer season. I think it's worth the ride.....

My cousin Nancy and I are the same age. Well, actually I'm five months older. Our mothers were sisters (both now deceased). Nancy grew up in New Jersey and I was raised in Southern California. Despite the span of three thousand miles, we always shared a close bond - more like siblings than cousins.

Now - at this late point in our lives - we both live in Tennessee (only a few miles from each other), and enjoy remembering the youthful adventures we shared.

(my hair must have been plastered with Brylcreem)

 Sixteen years old

I always savored the summers that I spent in New Jersey, staying with my aunt and uncle. It was like a prison break - - being away from my father and all the trauma, chaos, and stress he constantly caused. The freedom was exhilarating.

My cousin Nancy and I shared an inherent knack for courting adventure and getting into various degrees of trouble. On this subject alone I could write a book.

This story doesn't particularly pertain to trouble, but rather it's about a ride I'll never forget. We were sixteen years old that summer.

Nancy always loved horses and is an expert rider. She rode very frequently when she lived in New Jersey. The closest I ever got to a horse was watching Gunsmoke on TV.

It was inevitable that she'd ask me to go riding. I suppressed my intense apprehension and summoned the paltry portion of macho that I kept somewhere with my alter ego.

"I'd love to!" I lied, while visions of a premature obituary raced through my head - Headline: 
California Kid Clobbered in Colossal Riding Catastrophe.

My fear was momentarily sidetracked when we got to the stables and Nancy accidentally locked her keys in the trunk of the car. Actually, it wasn't her car. It was her parent's treasured '69 Camaro.

After exhausting every conceivable attempt to extract the keys without damaging the car, we resorted to one final desperate ploy: removing the back seat.

  I can't recall exactly how we extracted the back seat- - but we did get help from one of the young workers at the stable. The seat finally popped out and we had access to the trunk.

Putting the back seat together again was a challenge worthy of minds far more sophisticated than our own. After an hour of agony (or so it seemed) we haphazardly completed the task.

  Our inept handiwork didn't go unnoticed. Ever since then, every time the car was used, the back seat would slowly but steadily pop out and had to be forcefully pushed back into place. My aunt and uncle never knew why.

  But I've sidetracked my story.

We eventually made it to the riding trails, and I  managed to mount a horse. In consideration of my apprehension and less than minimal riding experience, I was given a horse aptly named Mule. To say that he had been ridden by General George McClellan during the Civil War might be a slight exaggeration - but nevertheless, Mule was undeniably ancient. He was slow, gentle, and clockwork predictable - - which suited my pathetically timid and sissified nature.

I won't dwell on the painful saddle sores that inflicted my tender virgin ass during our early evening rides. I will say that I eventually got used to Mule and immensely enjoyed our excursions on the trail.....

....until the fateful day when Mule was suddenly incapacitated. I don't recall why he was unavailable, but I vividly remember the substitute horse with which I was provided. His name was Pal - - and a more inappropriate name for a miserable mount was never devised.

Pal was not only mercilessly stubborn, he could instantly sense that an inexperienced sissy was in the saddle. And he was determined to make my equestrian experience as unbearable as possible.

He stopped when I wanted to go. He went when I tried to stop. He deliberately maneuvered his stride into an unpredictable clumsy pace, which elevated the pain of my saddle sores to new levels.

Halfway along the trail was a house where an old lady lived who hated horses and their riders. On previous occasions, every time Nancy and I rode by, she would inevitably come out of the house and yell at us to keep away from her flowers.

She had a large and very impressive-looking flowerbed at the front of her property. We did our best to avoid it at all costs.

Pal, as if eagerly sensing an invitation of danger, stopped by the flowerbed and began nibbling the begonias. When I frantically tried to pull him away, he ventured farther into the vast roadside bouquet and greedily chomped every flower within reach. I panicked.

"Nancy!" I yelled. "What should I do?"

My cousin jumped off her horse and took my reins - but Pal was obstinate, even with an expert. He refused to obey Nancy and wouldn't budge from the midst of the fragrant (and tasty) blooms.

Fortunately, the old lady didn't seem to be around. I figured either she wasn't home, or she saw us from the window and dropped dead.  

After Pal had his fill of flowers, I desperately tried to steer him back to the trail but he had other ideas. He headed for the open door of the old lady's garage and went right in! Fear turned into shock as Pal and I were suddenly occupying the empty place next to a big dusty Oldsmobile.

It took a Herculean amount of persuasive power to finally, somehow, maneuver Pal back onto the trail. After completely trampling the flowerbed and touring the garage, he seemed a little more calm and agreeable. I actually felt confident enough to retrieve a cigarette from my pocket and light up ("smokes" were one of our secret pleasures).

When Pal suddenly stopped and reared up on his hind legs, I choked on my smoke and realized I was in heap big trouble. Before I could get my breath, the horse did a quick about face and --Hi-Yo Silver!-- we were off!

In my wildest cowboy fantasy, I never dreamed a horse could gallop so fast. We were racing back towards the stables at breakneck speed - bounding over rocks and ruts, leaping over bushes, and zooming past dangerously close trees.

"Nancy!" I shrieked in an alarmingly high falsetto. "How do I stop him?"

Nancy was now very far behind me, but I could hear her shouting "Pull the reins! Pull the reins!"

I pulled - and the harder I pulled, the faster Pal went. I was eventually pulling so hard that his head was all the way back and I could see unwholesome details of his dentures.

The cigarette blew out of my mouth, my feet slipped from the stirrups, and I was clutching Pal for dear life as I repeatedly ducked to avoid being decapitated by low overhanging tree branches.   

My glasses (this was before I got contact lenses) were precariously perched halfway under my nose.

When I glanced ahead (through blurred double vision) and saw the tall fence that surrounded the stables, my pathetically brief life flashed before my eyes. If I wasn't so terrified I would have screamed - -  my scream was merely a silent gesture of farewell.

I opened my eyes after enduring a hard and sudden thump and saw a cloud of dust. We had successfully leaped over the fence and were now galloping toward the barn. I didn't have time to thank God that the door was open. In another instant we were inside, in total darkness, and Pal didn't stop until we nearly plunged into the opposite wall.

I slid off of that horse onto skinny legs that were weaker than two strands of over-cooked spaghetti. My knobby knees were knocking. I was shaking like a pansy in a zephyr and it took all my effort to emerge from the barn.

Nancy was there - - unquestionably concerned but erupting in convulsive laughter. After realizing that I was still alive and reasonably intact, I started laughing, too. 

If any event in my life could have been captured on video, that ride with Pal would be my first choice. It was far beyond priceless.

Did it dissuade me from ever riding again? Not much. A few days later Nancy and I were on the trail again - - and I was safely back on Mule. 

 Nancy still rides here in Tennessee.

So far, I haven't. And probably never will. 

Cheers, Jon

 

ROYALTY VS COMMONER

Veszprem/Borzavar

I'm not British.
I don't claim to be an expert on the subject of royalty.
But I'm keenly aware of the fact that many members of the royal family are marrying commoners. 

My Question:
Is this a purposeful ploy to dilute the long-inbred royal bloodline.....or do royals simply find some unnatural fascination with low-life commoners?

The trend might have begun with King Edward VIII who abdicated in order to marry the twice-divorced American Wallis Simpson.
I always held the theory that he was never really passionately in love with Simpson, but rather used her as a plausible excuse to escape from the burden of kingship.

What other British royals married commoners?
Princess Margaret, Princess Anne, Prince Andrew, Prince Edward, Princess Eugenie, Prince William.....and more recently Prince Harry.

Methinks Harry might (secretly) be having buyer's remorse. It seems that annoyingly aggressive Megan Markle is having a potent and potentially lethal influence on the former independent bad-boy. 

At any rate, commoners are drastically diluting the royal blood....and soon the royals will no longer be royal.

So, what is the purpose of all this royal/commoner stuff?

I'm suddenly thinking of my maternal great-grandfather John Gordon (Hungarian name Janos Gurdon) who married a commoner. 

 Janos Gurdon (John Gordon)

my great-grandfather

I've written about this before, but have an urge to rehash it. Here's a very brief version:
My great-grandfather was of royal blood but he was disinherited and stripped of his title when he married a peasant girl. 

Janos Gurdon was from Borzavar, a small Hungarian village in the Bakony Mountains. There were many (very many) Gurdons who inhabited the village, and I traced the surname back to Baron Daniel Esterhazy - who founded Borzavar in 1761 and built a castle near there. 

 The Borzavar Esterhazy estate

After years of unsuccessfully attempting to trace my great-grandfather's lineage, I finally found documents that list him as being a count - - and also as being a baron.

The peasant girl that he married (my great-grandmother) was always known by our family as Justinia Schmidt - but I recently discovered that her real name was Julina Schmied.
Foreign names always had a way of drastically changing during the process of becoming an American.

 The Borzavar church where my great-grandparents were married

Was this royal/commoner marriage a successful one? I suppose so. 

They came to America in the 1890's, lived in Pennsylvania, settled in New Jersey. Had a farm. They also had twelve children (including my grandmother Anna Gordon Knoll). All of their dozen offspring were known for being remarkably good-looking with unconventionally quirky personalities ( I inherited the quirky part).


Interesting side note:
In 1906 their eldest daughter Katalin was murdered at the age of eighteen. Ironically, my great-mother's brother Frederick was the murderer.

I published an article about the murder in the New Jersey Monthly (long ago). I'm considering writing a book, since I've compiled a lot of information. Laziness is the only thing that keeps getting in my way....

I never knew my great-grandparents, since they both died before I was born. They were reportedly quiet and reserved, and led a sparse and simple country life.

John Gordon was an enthusiastic drinker. In 1936 - after indulging in too many whiskeys - he was hit by a car while crossing the street and died instantly. He was 73.

My family history is admittedly colorful and intriguing. I'm related to royalty.....and to a murderer.
Heck, what more could I ask for? 

 Borzavar winter

MYSTERY WOMAN

I've been accused of being the family historian and am admittedly guilty. I know a lot about my mother's side of the family. As a child, I eagerly absorbed all that my relatives chose to reveal. As an adult, I excavated the things that they chose to remain buried. It was a colorful family, to say the least.

My maternal great-grandfather John Gordon (Janos Gurdonyi) was of royal blood, descendant of a Hungarian prince, who lost his inheritance when he married a commoner.
My great-uncle Frederick Lang was a murderer, who was executed for his crime in 1909 at age 24 - the last man to be hanged in New Jersey (I published an article about this).

My maternal grandmother Anna Gordon Knoll had eleven siblings - most of whom were flamboyant characters. 

Her husband, my grandfather Charles Knoll, came from a dysfunctional family shrouded in secrets.

 My maternal grandmother Anna Gordon Knoll (right) with her sister Lizabeth

My grandfather Charles Knoll, whose mother was Sofia Horvath

My grandfather's mother, Sofia Horvath, was an intriguing mystery. Despite extensive research, I could find no information about her whatsoever. No birth or death records, no marriage records, no grave site. I have no idea whether she was born in America or Hungary.

She is the mysterious ghost in our family - who haunts me solely because of her elusive existence.

She was described as being reserved, cool, distant. Everyone in the family agreed that she was beautiful - and it was said that my mother strongly resembled her.

Sophia Horvath was married several times and had numerous lovers. Each of her three sons had different fathers. I was surprised to discover that the identity of my grandfather's father is uncertain, and that Knoll might not even be his correct surname.

My mother said that she only saw her grandmother Sofia once in her entire life - when she was a child. Mom remembered her as being tall, slim, well-dressed, and elegant - a quiet, elusive woman who never smiled.

My great-grandmother Sofia Horvath died long before I was born. Her death was as mysterious as her life. She was discovered drowned in the Raritan River (New Jersey) - a possible murder, but most likely suicide.

A beautiful, mysterious, deeply troubled woman who seems to have left no trace....

 The Raritan River and the Raritan River Railroad Bridge

When I was twenty years old, I wrote a poem about her.

SPRING THAW

In April they dragged the river
for her body
waiting patiently under the ice

for months.

She yielded reluctantly,

still obstinate

after all these years.

On the edge

of the riverbank

yellow wildflowers nodded rumors

raising their heads to see.

I never knew her.

I only know the stories

told in sporadic whispers:

that she was beautiful

mysterious

aloof

had several husbands

many lovers

and never smiled.

The lonely secret

of her shadowed existence

finally unraveled

like a carelessly abandoned

mourning shroud.

When she emerged

from the tomb

of thawing ice,

some say her lips

bore warm traces

of an unintentional smile.

Jon V.

from Love Letters to Ghosts