It was 1930, and I was almost ten years of age, a skinny kid with too much hair and very little flesh on my bones. Mom used to say I looked like nobody owned me, though Dad always told her I would fill out in a few years. I still hear his wicked laugh from all the times he chased me with a wooden spoon, threatening to play a tune on my ribs. We had fun. I try to think about the fun, but nightmares still haunt me. My life may seem strange when you read this, but I was happy most of the time, and I was loved. Dad was working early mornings and evenings with horses, his favourite job, and I went with him occasionally. My father respected the noble beasts (his lovely Irish term) and refused to run them in the heat of the day. When it was hot, he did general jobs round the ranch. I recall occasions on which he took wet cloths and used them to cool down ‘his’ horses. There was an ice house under the ground in a kind of cave, and the ice man filled it twice a week.
