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RODEO QUEEN

RIP, MY BELOVED SISTER

On July 27, 2020, I received a phone call—one I have dreaded for as long as I can remember. The call was to inform me that my sister, Alane Hohenberg, had died of non-COVID issues at the age of 80. I’m the youngest of three sisters, with seven and 14 years between my middle sister Mary and my now most dearly departed Alane. When it came to how we related to each other, I was always the dreaded, too loud, too demonstrative, “too everything,” baby sister.

I know that Alane often cringed about my somewhat public life, but I also know from mutual friends—and in her later years, from her directly— Alane Hohenberg at age 15 with one of her horses. that she was proud of me.

I resurrected the following piece from a play that I co-wrote and co-directed for “Theater of Process,” an anti-sexist theater group I co-founded in the early 1970s. This is from the show, “Cameos,” that we performed in Los Angeles in the late ’70s:

I talked to my sister today. I love my sister. We don’t talk enough. I’ve always wanted to be like her. My sister was a rodeo queen when I was a little girl. What a goddess. She changed my life because of her spirit and her horse.

We used to live on a small ranch outside of Denver. I remember watching her barrel-racing in the field, being thrown, chasing the darn thing, actually swearing, but best of all, coming in after a hard day, flopping down at the dinner table, exhausted, smelling like horse and leather. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was in control and totally free.

Beautiful. She wasn’t like Donna Reed or Lucy Ricardo. She was the essence of herself when she was with her horse.

I decided early on that the only way to escape the bonds of

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girlhood was to ge’ch yourself a HORSE. Heck, they’d have to give up on the starch and ribbons, if you had a horse for a friend.

HORSE meant: Transportation Freedom Sweat Wind Power Danger Dreams Privacy Competition Adventure Grace and Beauty Odors of leather and manure Nuzzles Boots and hats Responsibility Velvet Lips Love

Being a real live princess

We moved before I could have a horse of my own. I did get a full-sized bike before anyone else did, though. I named her Star. Full name: Star Schwinn Snortland. I ran faster than everyone on the block, dedicated all my art classes to perfecting a horse head, and developed nodes on my vocal cords from practicing neighs. My sister taught me involvement in my life, horse, or no horse.

Listen, the soul of many women is a horse, whether you had one or not. You’ll know who you are when you hear that, or you’ll know someone like that.

Check it out with a woman you know who loves horses. She’ll tell you.

Make sure you tell your siblings what they mean to you, now. I’ve been making a practice of letting people know what I feel about them while they are living. You could call it a living eulogy.

Ellen has been writing Consider This for decades. You can reach her at ellen@beautybitesbeast.com

CARTOON

RIP Alane, which in your case means Rest in Pastures. n