Erasmus

Island Idylls: Stories of growing up in the Virgin Islands.






Erasmus.

And I'm not talking about the Dutch philosopher (1466 - 1536.)









No, I'm talking about this guy.

I have always had a deep fondness for donkeys. 

At different times during the years we lived on St. John, we owned two donkeys.

Erasmus was the first.

He was large for a donkey standing at the shoulder a good 13 to 14 hands. A male who had been gelded late in life, he retained fond memories of the ladies. At least once he took off running after a female while my sister and I were riding him. There I was on the “rumble” seat, arms wrapped around Erva's waist, hanging on for dear life.

We acquired Erasmus when I was about 6 ½ or 7 years old. Sometimes Erva and I rode him to school, a three mile journey into Cruz Bay that started somewhere around 6:30 or 7 in morning. We’d tie him up under the old tamarind tree across the street from the school and at 3 PM ride him back home.

Erasmus had a few distinct quirks. We learned early on he would chew through his tether rope and go wandering off in search of his favorite snack, a parasitic leafless vine called yellow love.

Yellow love kills what it grows on.

We soon changed the rope to a chain and often wondered what he experienced the first time he tried to chew through it.

Another quirk was what he did when we tried to mount him. He would stand patiently while he was being saddled, the epitome of good behavior. But once one of us went to put foot into stirrup he would kick his left rear leg forward, acting for all the world as if he wanted to get his own hoof into the stirrup and climb up onto his own back. We had to time getting a foot into the stirrup and swinging up onto his back between kicks. Once in the saddle he was generally well behaved.

Except when it was time for me to take my first solo ride.

On this particular day he stood patiently as Mom saddled him. I timed getting my foot into the stirrup, and voila! I was up on in the saddle. The intent was for me to ride around our large yard with Mom and Erva near at hand. But Erasmus had other plans.

Maybe he sensed I was a bit afraid. Maybe he thought, “Ha! Novice rider, I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget.” Maybe he had an itch on his back. Or maybe he was in a bad mood. Whatever was going on in his donkey mind, it soon became apparent he didn’t want to be ridden. He pulled hard against the reins, dropping his head towards the ground. Mom and Erva were both yelling at me to pull up on the reins. But I couldn’t keep his head up. I wasn't strong enough. He dropped to his front knees. I’m screaming. “He’s gonna roll!”

Mom, calm as anything says, “Just step off when he gets to the ground.” Which somehow I managed to do. And there was Erasmus rolling in the dirt, kicking his legs heavenward like a dog, until the saddle was hanging down around his belly.

When he was through he was easily caught and stood patiently while he was unsaddle, acting for all the world as if nothing had happened. And I learned I could easily step off a donkey should it decide to roll.

***

Being Thankful

Today I'm thankful that the cold weather is letting up. I'm not fond of 16 degree mornings.

***

What are you thankful for? Have you ever ridden a donkey or spent any time around one? Are you a cold weather person or could you do without it?

Remembrances of Gifft Hill - Herber Thomas

We were the first white people to live up at Gifft Hill, a rather isolated place, three miles from Cruz Bay. The road to Gifft Hill was a mile long dirt track with deep ruts and places that were more like a rocky stream-bed than a road. We had to use four-wheel drive, low transfer the whole way.

Our nearest neighbors were the Thomases who lived about a quarter of a mile away.

Old Man Heber Thomas was a tall lanky man. He talked very fast and as if he had small pebbles in his mouth. It was often difficult to understand him. It may surprise many to learn that on an island only nine miles long and five miles wide we could tell where a person was from by the way he or she spoke. People from Coral Bay sounded different from those who were from Bethany or Cruz Bay or Gifft Hill.

Heber Thomas lived in a two room shack with his wife Victoria, and Erla a girl who lived with them and helped with chores. They had a glorious view of St. Thomas and Pillsbury Sound. Victoria was bed-ridden. I think it was due to arthritis. Sometimes she was placed in a chair in the doorway to catch the sun, but most of the time she was propped up in bed. Hers was the first "old lady" smell I remember smelling. There was something musky about it, something sour and something sharp. She must have been, in her youth, a pretty woman because I remember her as having traces of pretty still lingering in her round face, peeking out from behind the wrinkles of her smile, and hiding in the tight braids of her thick white hair.

The Thomases shack, like most every one's (for most of the population, including us, lived in tiny wooden homes. We called our shack The Castle) was spotlessly clean. And their clothes, though worn and well patched, were also clean and ironed with a "goose," an iron into which you put charcoal embers.

Old Man Herber ran goats on his property along with a few cows and chickens. He also had a mule. One time either his dogs or someone elses killed one of his pregnant nannies. For some reason I was there a short time after he'd started butchering the goat, which he'd strung up in a tree. I remember seeing the pair of nearly ready to be born kids, still in their watery sacs lying on the ground. It was a sad sight, and Herber Thomas was obviously (even to me at 8 or 9 years old) very upset.

Because we had a kerosene refrigerator we had ice, a luxury back then. Almost every day Erla would walk the quarter mile to our shack with a rum bottle full of cow's milk in exchange for a tray of ice cubes. Sometimes we exchanged ice for eggs.

The Thomases didn't have a cistern, like we did, for catching rain water. What they had were four or five 55 gallon drums covered with cheese cloth and/or lids to keep the mosquitoes from laying their eggs in the water. Another of Erla's jobs was to go down to the "Monte reservoir" or catchment once a week to bring back water if there hadn't been enough rain to keep their barrels full. It was only about 1/2 or 3/4 of a mile away, but the road was very steep and rocky. Going down was easy, but coming back up...it was tough. Once we got our donkey, Erasmus, Erva and I helped Erla with the water hauling. Herber's mule and Erasmus were loaded with dumb boxes each of which carried four, five gallon tins. The tins were lidless. To keep from losing water on the return trip we put branches of genip leaves on top of the water. The leaves acted like a shock absorber and kept the water from sloshing over the sides of the tins. If memory serves me right, we set out fairly early in the morning and got back by noon.

Water was a precious commodity. Conserving it was something everyone did, not because it was the cool thing to do, but because we had to. Rain was our only source. There were no wells or springs, and if it didn't rain for a while, if there was a drought, everyone suffered.

So, when Old Man Herber Thomas told my sister and me that before the catchment had been build there was a place, a ghut with pools, where people had gone year round to get water, we were incredulous. He said slaves had hidden out there when they went maroon and that there were trails to it off of the Gifft Hill road.

Erva and I wanted to know where those trails were, but Heber Thomas kept the secret to himself for sometime. Maybe he was testing us. Maybe he was making sure we were worthy of knowing the secret. But finally, after a certain amount of pestering, he showed us where the trail head was, hidden by spiky wild pineapples and barbed catch-n-keep. As soon as we knew where the trail began, Erva and I vowed that one day we would go exploring. The idea of a ghut with year-round pools of water was hard to believe.

Stay tuned for The Ghut.

Donkeys - Erasmus - Part One

I have always had a deep fondness for donkeys. Their general behavioral traits have given them a bad rap. The most noted one is that they are stubborn. But think about this; donkeys, for their size, can carry quite a lot of weight, they are extraordinarily sure footed, they do not require a stable and are quite content to spend their lives out in the elements, plus they are not fussy eaters, eating almost anything available. In many places donkeys are used to protect sheep and goat herds from coyotes (when a donkey is raised among them they become fiercely protective; when threatened their sharp hooves can be deadly.) Lastly, they are smarter than horses. And this is where their reputation for “stubbornness” comes from.

A horse can actually be run to death. It doesn’t know enough to stop and rest. Some might call this devotion to the rider, or some such thing. I say it’s stupidity. A donkey, when it’s tired will stop and not budge until rested. If the load its carrying is too heavy, it will not move, or it may well get down on the ground and roll to get the load off its back. It knows its own limitations. Not even a beating will make it move a hoof.

The only true thing about donkeys is when you are riding them, and they run, you have to have a strong spine as theirs is a stiff legged trot that is quite jarring. However, their usual slow plodding pace is easy. Remember, Jesus didn't ride a colt into Jerusalem, he rode a young ass.

At different times during the years we lived on St. John, we owned two donkeys.

Erasmus was the first.

He was large for a donkey standing at the shoulder a good 13 to 14 hands high. A male who had been gelded late in life, he retained fond memories of the ladies. At least once he took off running after a female while my sister and I were on his back. There I was on the “rumble” seat, arms wrapped around Erva's waist, hanging on for dear life.

We acquired Erasmus when I was about 6 ½ or 7 years old, about the time we moved from Cruz Bay up to Gifft Hill. Sometimes we rode him to school, a three mile journey into Cruz Bay that started somewhere around 6:30 or 7 in morning. We’d tie him up under the old tamarind tree across the street from the school and at 3 PM ride him back home.

Erasmus had a few distinct quirks. We learned early on he would chew through his tether rope and go wandering off in search of his favorite snack, a parasitic leafless vine called yellow love.

Yellow love kills what it grows on.

We soon changed the rope to a chain and often wondered what he experienced the first time he tried to chew through it.

Another quirk was what he did when we tried to mount him. He would stand patiently while he was being saddled, the epitome of good behavior. But once one of us went to put foot into stirrup he would kick his left rear leg forward, acting for all the world as if he wanted to get his own hoof into the stirrup and climb up onto his own back. We had to time getting a foot into the stirrup and swinging up onto his back between kicks. But once in the saddle he was generally well behaved.

Except for once. I don’t think it was too long after we’d moved to Gifft Hill and we had acquired him that Mom decided it was time for me to take my first lesson in riding him solo. Now I had already ridden him many times with Erva, mostly riding on his rump while she was in the saddle. But sometimes, with her in the rear, I rode in the saddle and learned how to handle the reins.

On this particular day he stood patiently as Mom saddled him. I learned how to time getting my foot into the stirrup, and voila! I was up on in the saddle. The intent was for me to ride around our large yard with Mom and Erva near at hand. But Erasmus had plans of his own.

Maybe he sensed I was a bit afraid. Maybe he thought, “Ha! Novice rider, I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget.” Maybe he had an itch on his back. Or maybe he was in a bad mood. Whatever was going on in his donkey mind, it soon became apparent he didn’t want to be ridden. He pulled hard against the reins, dropping his head towards the ground. Mom and Erva were both yelling at me to pull up on the reins. But I couldn’t keep his head up. I wasn't strong enough. He dropped to his front knees. I’m screaming. “He’s gonna roll!”

Mom, calm as anything says, “Just step off when he gets to the ground.” Which somehow I managed to do. And there was Erasmus rolling in the dirt, kicking his legs heavenward like a dog, until the saddle was hanging down around his belly.

When he was through he was easily caught and stood patiently while he was unsaddle, acting for all the world as if nothing had happened. And I learned I could easily step off a donkey should it decide to roll.