Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse

Not long ago commercials were running for the movie “Hidalgo” which brought back
memories for my family, as Hidalgo is the name of our hometown. We agreed it was good our town was in the news even if people did confuse it with a horse.

In 1950 Hidalgo, Illinois, population one hundred, was a thriving little town that had at least four grocery stores—for a time our mom ran one of them. I was just five then, but I took time out from my serious work of being Roy Rogers to help Mom with the grocery business. My main duty was to run out-- cap guns blazing--to rob the noonday train. The engineer, who knew my folks and about everybody else in town, played along--held up his hands as though I were Jesse James.

A town of only one hundred couldn’t even be called a one-horse town, but thanks to my dad, we could at least be called a one-pony town. Dad brought home a black and white Shetland when I was around four. Jiggs—that was his name -- only weighed about 60 lbs.—a baby actually.


There are pictures of Jiggs and me, which showed at that time, I was taller than my mount. Jiggs was on the frisky side—he liked to jump the fence and head for downtown Hidalgo which didn’t take him long as we lived just a block off the main drag. My older brothers would be in hot pursuit with a lasso.


We eventually had to find Jiggs another home as he had an attitude problem. He apparently thought of himself—little pony that he was—as a wild stallion that wasn’t put on earth to carry little kids on his back. He was also mighty tired of having my brothers chase him with a rope every time he wanted to take a little tear through town. But he escaped once too often and was found-- with all four wheels up-- lounging in a neighbor’s prize flowerbed.

So I was a cowboy without a horse—I was on foot for a spell as it took me a while to learn to ride a bike. Even after I did learn I was accident-prone. I once was sent to buy a carton of pop at Cousin Pete’s garage. (We called it “pop”. When people talked about soda we assumed they meant something medicinal as in Arm & Hammer.)

I had loaded the pop in my bicycle basket, and taken off for home without allowing for some loose gravel. I managed to break all 6 bottles—probably 25 cents down the drain. Cousin Pete came to my rescue—helped me to my feet and put another carton of Pepsi in my basket at no charge. “Hey, Danny, accidents happen. I wish that was all the money I’d ever wasted in my life.” He gave me a wink and waved me on home, a two- block journey.

Although I was an awkward boy who fell over almost anything in his path—this was compounded when I added spurs to my cowboy outfit-- I joined the Cub Scouts at the age of 8. I wasn’t a promising recruit.

I relied on my Cousin Gary who was a couple of years older to help me with any projects requiring agility. My main physical skill was falling down. The only real job I was allowed to hold was that of Keeper of the Buckskin, the term for the recording secretary. I kept minutes in a spiral notebook and made special mention of whose mother had brought the cupcakes and ice cream when one of us had a birthday.

After three years it was time to move on up to the Boy Scouts. I ran into trouble as more was expected of me—I never made Tenderfoot, the entry-level scout position.

We camped out overnight at the Cumberland Co. Fairground where it became clear I wasn’t scout material. We had to use our hatchets to make a tent stake. This was demonstrated for us, but I was lost. Eventually I had to take my turn, which was risky, as I could have chopped off my fingers. I hacked my way through it only by wrestling the wood to the ground-- the finished product looked like a club.

After this ordeal we were supposed to scale a wall—practically boot camp to my way of thinking. I disappeared during this operation—I sat on a cot in the tent drinking a bottle of Pepsi, conserving my strength. A surviving picture of me in my scout uniform at the fairground showed me with a worried look as though I feared I might be shipped out.

We moved the year I became a Boy Scout—the Hidalgo years were over. And I didn’t join the scout troop at Greenup, population fifteen hundred—a big and scary place.

I decided to concentrate on something I was good at: playing cowboys. This phase lasted nearly until high school when I gave up my cap guns. I had the feeling that girls might not go for a guy in a Roy Rogers getup.

My family and friends still like to talk about Hidalgo and the other little towns of the area. For us, Hidalgo is still the town, not the movie. Although I’ve never seen the Hollywood version, I’m sure it’s not the picture I have in mind.

In my movie Jiggs the Pony jumps the fence and tears through town as though he’s trying to reach wild horse country before dark. He makes a pit stop at Emil’s Grocery when he spies an outdoor display of fruits and vegetables. He stretches out among the produce, and munches a few apples. It’s still early afternoon—he has plenty of time to reach mustang country before nightfall.

It was just another day in Hidalgo.