When my father was 15, he and his family (parents, brother and sister) emigrated from a city in England to rural Alberta, Canada, to live on a farm with some family friends. It was no doubt challenging for them, leaving behind all they knew and transitioning to a completely different environment and lifestyle, but to hear my father tell of it, it was an enjoyable and peaceful time in his life. He liked working on the farm, and he liked walking through the country, birdwatching and climbing trees and doing all the stuff kids did back in the midcentury to amuse themselves. Isolated and austere as life on the farm was, he found ways to have fun.

Our story begins when some wild horses were spotted near the farm. Though not a terribly unusual sight on the prairies back then, such spectacles drew the attention of the residents on the farm, particularly the newly landed Britons- and especially, my father. He had grown especially fond of the farm's workhorses and had taken up most of their grooming, feeding and other care during his stay. Though the long time residents of the farm told him to forget about it, for it was impossible, my father was instantly determined to tame one.

Early every morning he would go out to observe them from a safe distance, sometimes walking long treks to find where they had bedded for the night, with pockets full of oats and apples. After a few days he determined that one of the horses- a grey mare- seemed more curious of him and less frightened than the others. He would approach her slowly and offer her treats in his cupped, outstretched hands. After several attempts and lots of patience, she cautiously made her way over to him and munched up his gifts.

My father repeated this process over several days, until the mare seemed comfortable eating out of his hands, and tolerated him stroking her head and sides. Once he was sure she felt safe in his presence... he made his move. With great swiftness, he slipped a bridle over her and leapt up on her back. The mare immediately bolted, with my father clinging to her for dear life. He clung to her with his thighs, arms around her neck, every muscle in his body working to keep him on this horse. She bucked, and ran, bucked and ran, for hours, racing up and down the prairie, whinnying and snorting in panic. My father said he had never been more scared or exhausted or exhilarated in his life, and if he wasn't so afraid of dying he would have given up. But finally- after what must have seemed like ages- the mare relented, no doubt completely spent by the exertion. It was at that point that my father took her by the bridle and led her back to the farm, to everyone's shock and awe. The owner of the ranch said he had never once heard of anyone succeeding at taming a wild horse- though many had tried.

From that day on, the mare was my father's horse. He called her Stormcloud. She was always a fussy, sassy horse, and not 'good breeding stock' according to my father, but she learned to be gentle, and was soon as tame as you could hope for. My father said she was his favorite horse to ride, because she could run like no other, and riding with her across the prairie was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced. After a few years, my father's family left the farm and moved to a different province, leaving Stormcloud behind, but she lived on the farm until the end of her days.

We lived on a horse ranch when I was a kid, and I don't remember much about those days- but I remember my dad and his way with horses. He could call them with a sharp whistle. He could calm them with a few words and reassuring pats. He could ride them bareback to the stables. I didn't realize it at the time but he was a proper cowboy, just lacking the hat. He, and my grandparents, have told me about the time he tamed a wild horse more times than I can count. It's almost legend at this point, and honestly I never tire of hearing it. Which is why I wanted to share it with you all today.