Born in the Panama Canal Zone 80 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died this past August. However, he plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County since retiring in 1985. In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that addresses the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck. Rochester, George's Good Buddy

Sunshine & Moonshine

by George Zidbeck

No, no, no! The title does not lead into an article discussing weather or presenting a how-to-manual on distilling hooch. It presents the names of two horses that were a part of my adolescence. Although born in Panama, I came to California when thirteen. I, along with my mother and three younger sibs, lived with my mother's youngest sister. Aunt Sophie, and her husband, Frank Johnson, then resided in a rural, unincorporated area of Riverside County—a place called Norco.

Uncle Frank, of Iowa farm background, had a ten acre menagerie: many kinds of fowl, rabbits, a cow, and five horses—a matched set of gray Percherons, a Morgan gelding, a gelded Pinto, and a Shetland pony. He had intended the Pinto for his wife, but she didn't take kindly to animals generally, and not to horses specifically.

Aunt Sophie didn't mind if her husband wanted to play farmer over and above his weekday job as a heavy-duty engine mechanic. Also, she didn't object to her two older children riding the Shetland now and then. But struggling to stirrup herself atop an animal twice her height and over ten times her weight held no appeal.

Moreover, calling the horse "Sunshine" didn't change that circumstance.

As a consequence, I got to ride Sunshine. Well built and fast, he had one flaw that negated his providing a decent ride. Whether walking, trotting, or galloping all out, he'd spot a piece of paper ahead fluttering slightly from a weak breeze, and he'd skip to the side as if avoiding a charging rhinoceros. Even if barely walking, he'd suddenly scoot left or right to avoid who knew what. That Pinto defined skittishness. Thank God for saddle horns!

Even if my aunt didn't ride, I guess Uncle Frank still saw the Pinto as her horse. And after my family had been on the "farm"' for a spell, he thought to buy me a horse. He found a mare out Hemet way, less than an hour's drive from Norco. Another Pinto, and only $35.00.

I named her "Moonshine." She had a sweet disposition, and quickly learned to hearken to my whistle. Of course, she—as did Sunshine—observed my throwing a handful of alfalfa by the fence line before I whistled. But that didn't matter. What counted was my bringing her to me for a ride. Within a couple of weeks, Moonshine and I were regular pals. I got to where I could ride her bareback. I'd simply put a section of rope around the leather field harness, grab a tuft of mane, and jump on her back.

In the space of one afternoon, Moonshine learned that if I released my hold on the rope, she knew I wanted her to gallop. And when I gave her full lead, I soon learned why she had been sold so cheaply. Even if a gentle mare and eager to please her new young master, her lungs were "winded." She showed heart, however, in going lickety-split for short distances when given the chance. I loved that mare.

A few months passed. One afternoon, a family of three came to visit my aunt and uncle. They had been neighbors before Uncle Frank bought his ten-acre spread. The visiting couple had a daughter, Carol, about two years older than I. The parents had to leave town for two days, and asked my aunt and uncle if Carol could stay with them. No problem.

The next day, a Saturday, Uncle Frank said, "George, saddle up Sunshine and Moonshine and take Carol for a ride. She's ridden before, but maybe it's best to let her ride Moonshine."

He didn't have to explain. He'd ridden Sunshine in the past and knew that horse took unexpected sideway jumps. I therefore dutifully saddled and full-bridled the two Pintos, even making sure Carol easily got atop Moonshine.

In the mid 1940s, Norco yet had a lot of dirt side roads, and the streets ran for three-quarters of a mile. Additionally, even after World War II had ended, motor traffic in the country posed no problem.

We kept to a slow pace for the first two miles, with seldom an exchange of words. I found out, though, that her riding history had been kinda short. Eager for at least a short sprint to break the boredom, I told Carol, "I'm gonna gallop Sunshine to the end of the block, and then I'll stop and wait until you catch up. But, first, pay attention to what I'm gonna tell ya. I taught Moonshine to gallop if I loosened the reins. So, when I spurt ahead, keep a firm grip to hold the horse back. You understand?"

Assured that Carol understood the warning, I leaned slightly forward and nudged my heels into Sunshine's sides while slapping his withers with the reins. Within seconds the gelding hit a comfortable gait.

Don't tell me about being caught completely off guard. It hadn't taken Moonshine long to catch up and pass me on the right with Carol doing the best she could to stay in the saddle. Maybe Moonshine simply didn't want to be left behind. I can't say. But, pass me she did. And, maybe Carol panicked to where she couldn't bring the reins back hard enough to stop my horse. All I could think of was kicking my stirrups hard into Sunshine's side, and shout, "Come on!"

I had in mind coming alongside Carol and pulling a Gene Autry. I had seen lots of "B" westerns where the cowboy heroes rescued distressed maidens atop runaway horses. I couldn't think of anything else. I edged ever closer, but Carol fell off the horse when I still had about fifteen feet to get even with her. Stopping Sunshine quickly, and going to where she sat on the road, crying, I asked her, "You all right?"

"Yes, I'm okay," she answered, her lips quivering and her voice pinched.

"All right, you stay here while I go fetch Moonshine, and then we can all walk home."

She nodded okay, so I took off. Well, by the time I recovered Moonshine and walked both horses back to where I had left Carol, she was gone.

Not 'til I got back to the farm did I find out that a neighbor drove by, and after finding out why the young lady sat alone by the edge of a country road, he drove her to my relative's place. I knew as soon as I saw Uncle Frank by the rear door waiting for me, I was going to have a royal ass-chewing. I also knew it wouldn't do me any good to try and explain my side of the incident. Taking the horses to the tack room and removing the saddles, etc. before releasing them into their pasture, I had but one person to fault. Yep, the blame fell totally on Carol.

When entering the house, I had to pass the room she slept in. Looking inside, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed. Seeing me she said, "I'm sorry."

I shoulda let it go at that, but I did mutter, "Everything's okay. Nobody got badly hurt." Fortunately, she returned to her home the next day, and after a couple of days, I knew Uncle Frank had no intention of keeping me in the doghouse.

There, I've told the tale. And what does the telling say about me? Nothing, I guess. Everybody has a mish-mash of unpleasant experiences while growing up. Hopefully, by the time we reach adulthood, we have learned something from our youthful mishaps. Therefore, I can tell you my dear reader, even if I had an extra horse and you wanted to ride it, you'll first damn well sign a release form and post a hefty bond. Oh, and saddle and bridle the horse yourself!