Junior came into the world on a day that went down in infamy.

Already spunky on Day 1!

It’s April 19 as I write this, a day that always gives me pause.

In 1995, I was a police reporter at the Times Record News in Wichita Falls, Texas, and life was good. I loved that job, and I was engaged to be married the following month. Plus, my beloved mare, My Quick Love, was pregnant with my dream baby. On April 18, she began waxing up, and my fiancé, Chad (who’s now the Dear Hubby), and I decided to spend the night at the barn where we had her boarded. Her foaling stall was in the corner, and there was a stall across the aisle with a knothole we could surreptitiously look through. It was our first night to camp out there, and we were determined to be there when baby Junior hit the ground. (We’d been calling him “Junior” in utero all through the pregnancy.)

Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long. I had just dozed off in the tack room when Chad thundered in with the news that our mare’s water had broke. He’d been watching through the peephole when he heard a rush of water and realized the process was beginning. “Blue” was a maiden mare, but she did a phenomenal job. As Junior made his way into the world, I grasped his front feet and applied a little traction when Blue pushed. Although I’m giving her most of the credit, it was truly a joint effort. As Junior’s slimy little head came all the way out, with a slimy blue tongue hanging out of his mouth, I was so thankful for the foaling book I had just reviewed earlier that evening in the tack room that assured me blue tongues were normal. Chad pulled the membranes away from Junior’s nose, giving him his first real breath.

At one point shortly thereafter, about 3 a.m., I called my vet’s cell phone, certain that things weren’t proceeding quickly enough. He assured me that they were. It felt like the birth took forever – and I’m sure Blue felt the same way. But before long, we had a healthy baby boy, trying to find his feet. He tumbled, he bumped clumsily into the stall walls, and once he finally was upright, he looked for the udder in all the wrong places. I wish we’d had a video camera … but we did get photos, which are still displayed in my office.

We watched as he had his first meal and passed his meconium. The much-anticipated Junior was here, in the flesh.

By now, Chad and I had just enough time to go home, grab a shower and breakfast and go to work. New parents aren’t supposed to get much sleep, right?

I rolled into the newsroom shortly after 8 a.m., still high on adrenaline. I regaled my co-workers with the story, then settled down with a Coke to read the Associated Press wires and see what was going on in the world. Shortly after 9 a.m., the AP started spitting off urgent updates: There had been a bombing in downtown Oklahoma City. There would be numerous casualties. The city was on red alert, not sure who had attacked or why. Our newsroom – staffed with several Oklahomans, including me – pulsed with tension.

It wasn’t long before copycats began calling in bomb threats in Wichita Falls. The police and firefighters, of course, had to respond to the threats. And, as a police reporter, so did I. The downtown post office had to be evacuated, and when it re-opened, I interviewed the postmaster about the ordeal. Sleep-deprived and starting to feel it, I communicated with our team of reporters and supervisors in the newsroom over a squawky walkie-talkie. That was before the days of company-issued cell phones.

As the threats subsided across our city, the reporters reconvened in the newsroom and compared notes. Who had gathered what information, and how would we compile it into a cohesive story about what had happened in Wichita Falls that day? Our story was, of course, greatly overshadowed by the events in Oklahoma City. As the days wore on, we’d learn that 168 people died in the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, one of whom was a 50-year-old Secret Service agent named Mickey Maroney, a native of Wichita Falls. It fell to me to interview his sister, who still lived there, and later to attend his funeral in Oklahoma City.

Writing this takes me back to that day. I remember what the church looked like as I walked in, how flower arrangements were stacked wall-to-wall across the front of the large church. I sat quietly in the balcony, not wanting to intrude on the grieving of the family and friends. (As a sidenote: Mickey’s sister had invited me to the funeral, so I wasn’t there against the family’s wishes. Even as a pesky newspaper reporter, I always tried to be respectful of people who had been thrust into the public spotlight against their wills.) The sadness was overwhelming … even more so because it was repeated 167 times across the city, as bombing victims were laid to rest.

Today was the 14th annual remembrance ceremony in downtown Oklahoma City, which included 168 seconds of silence. I didn’t attend but obviously did spend time reflecting. And – as he has done every day for the last 14 years – Junior provided a welcome respite. He has been a calming presence through some much more personal tragedies in my life, a few triumphs – and just the everyday stresses of life. And I’ll never, ever forget his birthday. Happy birthday, big man!

Happy riding!
Holly Clanahan
Editor, America’s Horse magazine

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