Hope is a rascal

I bite my nails.

It’s a terrible habit I’ve had since grade school. My parents tried scolding me out of it. I have purchased every bitter, sour, and sticky deterrent available; and I’ve invested in enough false fingernails to envy Kim Kardashian. Yet, even now, as I pause in thought while typing this column, I impulsively nibble, nip, and gnaw.

I am also, however, an optimist, and “stop biting my nails” is (once again) at the top of my New Year’s resolutions list.

Second chances, do-overs, and try-try-agains are necessities in life. We all want them, even when we may not deserve them. They give us hope for new outcomes, better circumstances, fresh starts. That’s why we love stories where the lost is found, good overcomes bad, forgiveness is granted, and the underdog gets the bone. And that’s why resolutions repeat themselves. 

I was once told doing the same thing over-and-over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. Hope says it just wasn’t the right time.

When I was in elementary school, my father bought my siblings and me a wild pony, because it was less expensive than a tamed one. We named him “Rascal,” and every Saturday, we’d pile into our big, blue Plymouth and drive several miles out of town where the young, spotted appaloosa stood waiting in a corral. My mom would caution us kids to be careful as we climbed onto a wooden fence to watch.

Dad would slowly approach Rascal, gently slide reins and bridle over his head, lay a blanket across his back, and sinch a saddle on top. Our anticipation grew with every, “Kumbas!” he called out to calm Rascal’s jitters.

Hope grew further when Dad laid himself across the saddle like a huge bag of potatoes. Rascal would circle the corral in a slow trot, teasing us and our father into believing this endeavor would work. Then, he’d stop, and Dad would slide off only long enough to put his big work boot into the stirrup and lift his six-foot-two frame onto the small horse. Our hands – initially poised to applaud – quickly clenched in prayer as that colt darted, kicked, and cavorted hysterically until it catapulted my father into the dirt.

Rising to his feet and dusting himself off, Dad would give a couple of whistles and slowly approach the horse again. We’d watch the twirl and tango repeat a few more times before Dad would unsaddle the appaloosa, lead him back to a shed, then walk stiffly to the car.

“We’ll try again next Saturday,” he’d say, and I’d look wistfully out the back window as the corral disappeared from view, hoping to one day ride Rascal myself.

While that didn’t happen, and we sold the unbroken pony to the next enthusiastic owner, I never perceived the family experience as a failure. Trying to break that horse was one lesson among many my father taught us about love, determination, and trying to do your best.

Throughout my life, Rascals have come in a variety of shapes and sizes. Sometimes they were on my resolution list, like nail biting; other times, they appeared unexpectedly, like Mom’s cancer; and while I got bucked off several times and needed numerous do-overs, I am pleased to say I also tamed quite a few. I’m sure you have, too.

So, here’s a toast to whatever is on your resolution list this year: “May you mend your fences with kind words. May third charms come in packages of ten. May you give and receive seventy-times-seven second chances, and may you end the year sitting strong in the saddle.”