“Dixie”

A memoir

By Sara McDermott

I was the brat and Donnie was the quiet one.  I was born on her sixth birthday and, in childhood pictures, she was often holding my hand or standing protectively near me.   Even in kindergarten it was always Donnie who rescued me if I got in trouble, and  explained my little problems to the nuns.

As quiet children sometimes do, she loved animals and, as she got older, she especially loved horses.  She had “horse” statues and “horse” pillows, and once she even bought a pair of jodhpurs and went around in them as if she had just come in from a ride.  I was rocking and rolling by then and thought her swing music and jodhpurs were dumb, but I could envy her curvy figure and long,  dark wavy hair.  She had beautiful arched eyebrows and smoldering green eyes, and I secretly wished for looks like hers instead of my round Irish face and mousy brown hair.

She was the first of us to get a good job.  She worked at the courthouse where she rubbed elbows with the city politicians.  And, oh how she loved her independence!  She bought an old green Plymouth and could come and go as she pleased.  Then, to top it all, she bought a horse.  She rented a stall for it at a farm near Ely.  She would drive out there in that old Plymouth every night and come home smelling like a stable.  She took me out to see it once.  It was a big gray Tennessee walker, and I thought it was ugly.  I was afraid of it too, so I just stood outside the stall while she fed and groomed it.  I think she was disappointed that I didn’t like the horse but, as usual, she didn’t say much.

I think that horse was her best friend then.  She wasn’t really outgoing.  Often she was sober and sometimes moody.  I wonder if she was lonely too.

Soon she was talking about raising horses.  She saved enough to get the mare bred, and finally she realized her dream of owning a colt.   I went to the country again to see it.  I thought the colt was much prettier than the mare.  It was brown all over except for a white spot on its nose.

This time I tried to show some enthusiasm.  I still didn’t get near, but Donnie was so proud of that colt she didn’t even notice.  She was as openly happy as I had ever seen her.   Those horses could have been her family and she spent more time than ever at the farm.

The colt had to be named and registered.  Dixie’s full name was “Dixie’s Golden Jubilee” and it fit her well, for sometimes in the late afternoon the sun would touch her with gold as she played in the pasture.

I went out to the farm occasionally, and I began to get a glimmer of why my big sister liked horses so much.  They were un-questioning friends,  and she was easy and affectionate with them.  She sometimes held her feelings back, but not with the mare and Dixie.  She talked gently to them, and they ran to her at once when she approached the fence.

Dixie was a frisky colt, and she often ran too fast and played too hard.  Donnie got a call at work about the accident.  The little horse had gotten caught in the fence and had a broken leg.  She would have to be shot.

Donnie handled it all.  She was strong and independent, and made the arrangements herself.  She did what had to be done and came home alone.

I misjudged her behavior.  She was in cool control of herself, and I couldn’t see the hurt.  I thought, “Doesn’t anything touch her?”

That night something woke me.  At first I thought someone had left our new television on.  Then I realized the muffled sobs were coming from her room.  She cried for a  long time, and for a long time I couldn’t get back to sleep.  My guilt, when I remembered my silent criticism of her, made me sad and uneasy, but I also began to respect her courage while I cursed my shyness.  I wasn’t brave enough to offer her comfort.

Donnie didn’t let the loss embitter her.  She raised her family in the country and instilled in her children a love and respect for all animals.

Note:  My sister, Donna Hernandez (Donnie), passed away on August 17, 2019.  This posting is to honor her memory.     SM