We Were a Viking Family Long Before Jolene

I usually write about living things, but today I want to write about a beloved Halloween costume. Leave it to me to get sentimental about plastic weapons, fake fur, and a rubber werewolf head. Sentimental about all the animals that shared it with me.

It started at my first dressage barn. To say we over-celebrated Halloween was an understatement. All my best costumes started there. The Rodeo Queen. The Dead Elvis. But my favorite was the Viking Princess costume. I asked people to call me Hilda. It was the kind of costume that reincarnated from species to species. But in the beginning it was for my horse, Dodger.

My part of the costume didn’t change over the next 30 years. It has a quilted metallic bodice with wide shoulders and two huge silver and gold conical domes, like targets. You know where. Then a full skirt, gold and silver, that floated when we galloped, and a fake fur cape over one shoulder. I had a plastic sword at my waist. Fat yellow yarn braids, attached to the largest horned helmet available, completed the ensemble.

Dodger wore the breast collar from my parade saddle. Always a fashion plus. He sported a fake-fur saddle pad with a rubber werewolf’s head stitched on and metallic flames in his mane. Fake fur leg wraps for a finished look. This was the only time I ever rode a freestyle to classical music, but only because Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries was undeniable. 

You can’t just buy an outfit like this one off the rack. When I grew up, sewing clothes was cheaper than buying them, so girls in my income bracket all learned. By the time I got to high school Home Ec. class, I was cooking dinner every night and sewing all my school clothes. My mother hoped against all odds that she was raising a good wife. The problem with training kids anything is that they’ll learn it, but then use it in any off-label way they like.

On Halloween in 1999, I moved to my farm. Within a few months, I was looking at llamas. They are more like extraterrestrials than any animal I’d known. I started with a pregnant female and a neutered male named Thisby. Sadly, he was the first animal to die on my farm. The next day, the breeders came over, apologized for the unpredictable, rare condition that killed him, and brought me Sebastian, who lived to 26. 

Llamas are fascinating creatures, gentle and curious. Easy to transport, brave with obstacles, and easier to hike with than dogs. I trained Sebastian to drive. We did llama agility. As I wrote in Stable Relation, Sebastian was even a ring bearer in a wedding. The best thing about llamas is what happens if you try to coerce them, even very gently. They cush; lay down and refuse to move. 

I joined the local llama club and went to the National Western Stock Show with Sebastian and our cria, Belle Starr. The following summer, our club was invited to the Colorado State Fair. They asked our group to walk through the midway in costume. With the crowds, it seemed dangerous in a hundred ways, but Sebastian stayed at my side, quietly enjoying the show. 

I wore the usual, and Sebastian wore the fake fur saddle pad layered with contrasting fake fur. He was my weapon bearer, carrying every plastic weapon ever produced. I just kept buying them over the years because you never know what you might need. 

What I didn’t expect was the utter awe in the young boy’s eyes. They envied my arsenal. Sometimes a man made a humorous comment, and I’d stop to draw a sword or battle ax. Costumes are best when you stay in character. I stepped closer, weapon high, and Sebastian sniffed the man. I demanded that he look at what was in my hand. It was a laminated photo of my other llamas. Is there a greater punishment than having to look at someone’s animal pictures?

The next costume outing was a few years later with my first rescue donkey, Ernest. He had the same weapon bearer job, but being shorter, the costume was more dramatic. The parade saddle breast collar was large, and the saddle pad came lower than his belly. And with those long ears, he could wear a plastic helmet with smaller horns, but the same yarn braids. When he trotted next to me, he made a wondrous clatter.

But don’t underestimate Ernest. He won the obstacle driving class that year. Churches hired him during Easter season when there are few things scarier than Easter hats on giggling little girls. We cantered our cart over hill and dale; we drove along on trail rides with horses.

Getting out with Ernest was a celebration, considering the shape he was in when he arrived. Just like llamas, donkeys refuse domination. We call them stubborn, but they require civility. Winning his trust didn’t come quickly. Affirmative Training is the antidote. It isn’t a quick fix; nothing is. Costumes are a great barometer of how it’s going. Even wearing the costume takes partnership, but your animal being frightened by other costumes is the real challenge. Ask Dodger when he saw the green frog-woman with flippers in her stirrups.

It was fitting that Dodger’s last freestyle was in this costume. I always wore a helmet by then, and thought it dramatically improved the costume, horns on top. And this time he picked the music. Sinatra’s version of My Way. Rest well. We remember you every day.

Some say competition is horrible cruelty. That animals hate it, and I know some certainly do. Maybe we look silly to those railbirds, but a solid foundation of trust holds us up. Any competition was with myself. Could I maintain my methods, stay positive and not let the surroundings change our partnership? Animals get nervous around people who take themselves too seriously, so they were my judge.  

I was a kid who dreamed of being National Velvet but couldn’t always load my horse in the trailer. I knew things would come apart once we left home. Could we work it out? It was a private question, just between us, but asked in public. Could we trust each other enough to cope with change? 

Now my large animals are retired or passed on, my life has taken turns I’d never dreamed of, but I still have the costume. I pull it on like an old prom dress, the ghost herd cat-calling from beyond. The breast-domes are as spectacular as ever. They seem to make men nervous, but women can’t keep their hands off. Go figure. 

It’s Jolene’s first Halloween. Mister wants you to know none of this was his idea. Mister struggles, because as we all know, he doesn’t have a great sense of humor. Since taking over the mantle of being the farm’s moral compass once Edgar Rice Burro retired… well, it’s a quandary. Jolene and I routinely fail to meet the mark. He does what he can but comes off like a stuffy old Victorian vicar.

Jolene yips at him with her Viking battle cry of a bark, tattling that he has stolen the chewy. Mister looks at me with pleading eyes. Can’t you do something about this upstart? Why would I? Jolene makes a great two-headed werewolf. Really well done, young one. Welcome to the family. 

Halloween is a bittersweet holiday, a warning that the year is coming to a close. Too much change happening too quickly. I’m still shoulder-deep in serious competition. It’s the grudge match between me and technology, but donkeys have taught me well. I was victorious, manipulating the three of us in a photo because that is the only way we can all be in the same frame, even though we are clearly the same family. Who knew Affirmative Training worked on technology, too? 

The world is a pretty scary place these days. Work for the planet, help where you can, but don’t forget to celebrate life. In honor of the Day of the Dead, some traditions are worth keeping. We can at least do something to embarrass our mothers.

…

[Part 24. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers on Substack.

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