I was three-going-on-four, and I wore cowboy boots, checkered shirts, holsters with two six-shooters, and a ten-gallon hat

Trigger: My rocking horse

 Location: An avocado grove in Fallbrook, California

Usually, the first week we visit my mother in Los Angeles, the kids don’t make trouble.

The summer of 2019 was different, though. I’d come from Israel with my younger kids and older grandchildren for a month-long visit, and from the very start, I sensed animated, whispered conferences behind my back. When I accidentally interrupted, the kids, who ranged in age from two to 20, pasted on innocent smiles. By the time I spotted the paint smears on Batya’s skirt and eyebrow, the deed was done.

The six of them grouped together and herded me to the backyard, practically shoving me out the door. I slowly walked into the sunshine, and saw my childhood rocking horse — but it looked different. My old friend shone. Its light brown coat, black mane and tail, brown bit, and red saddle, all looked fresh and clean, and just the sight of my rejuvenated rocking horse took me back to the three years I spent as a cowboy in the 1960s.

I

was three-going-on-four, and I wore cowboy boots, checkered shirts, holsters with two six-shooters, and a ten-gallon hat (probably more like a two-gallon hat; I was pretty small). At first glance you knew what I was: a cowboy. I answered to “Hoss,” the name of my favorite cowboy drama character, the Sheriff of Ponderosa, and I could spell his name long before I could spell “Esther” (although the direction of the “s”s was mostly guesswork).

And I was devoted to my trusty rocking horse. It lived in our backyard, a firm hunk of plastic on heavy springs, not like the thin, cheap plastic you see today. I wasn’t really aware that he was just a toy — in my mind, he was alive, and we played together all the time, the cowboy and her trusty horse.

Being a cowboy suited me. They live lonely lives, and I liked being alone. They are men of few words, and I didn’t like talking. (As the youngest by a long shot, I knew that nobody was too interested in anything I had to say anyhow.) I was so devoted to my alter ego that for nine months a year, I had to change out of my cowboy gear every time I went to nursery school and shul.

“Are you sure cowboys wear dresses?” I’d ask Mom.

“Yep,” she answered, poking her finger into my back as if it were a gun. “Hands up. You’re under a dress.”