Jaci Dawn

I think he is a World War 1 cavalry soldier. He is made out of cast iron and the paint is chipped and his horse is missing the off hind leg from the hock down.

That’s the right side, from the knee down.

Here’s the story:

I was a toddler. We lived in Jarbidge, Nevada in the summers and wintered in Elko. I remember that we were in Jarbidge and that my grandparents on my mother’s side were visiting us. That would make it about 1959, when my little sister was born, but it could have been 1958 because there are a lot of family photos of relatives from that side of the family visiting us in Jarbidge in 1958.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s the memories that matter.

We were on a picnic. I remember my dad had a bota bag full of wine and he offered me a drink but I turned my head and the wine squirted into my ear. Everyone seemed to think that was very funny.

I remember the colors: the brown of the earth covered in pine needles and the sunlight filtering through the aspens and evergreens. Yellow-green-light. I remember the sounds of laughter around the camp fire, the picnic table, the other children.

And I remember wanting to be alone.

HSPs are like that, even early in life. I was overwhelmed and needed a moment just to myself. So I was there, on the far side of the station wagon, kicking at the dirt with my toe and listening to the older kids run and laugh and the adults talk.

In my mind, it seems like I was there for a very long moment in time. I believe it is just that time sometimes becomes transcendent and a moment is suspended in our hearts and mind forever. This was one of those moments, and then it was over as my grandfather scooped me up in his arms, declaring, “Here she is!”

OK, I am not certain anyone was even looking for me or that I was missing, so I made up that bit about my grandfather.

What I am not making up is what my foot kicked loose in the dirt. The little soldier on his cavalry mount, minus that bit of leg.

I remember all the adults were impressed with the find. He was an antique then.

And he was mine. No one ever tried to take him from me. And somehow, I have managed to keep him all these years.

I saw one for sale at an antique mall once, many years ago. That soldier was complete and the dealer wanted a lot more money than I was willing to pay. And a lot less money than I am willing to accept for my soldier.

He’s still proud.

He’s so brave.