There Once was a Boy
Happy New Year!
I’m excited about this year’s Women Honoring the West guest authors and artists.
To kick off 2026, I’d like to introduce a sweet friend of mine, Charissa Cunningham. She’s a horsewoman, dog breeder, and photographer in the Pacific Northwest. One of the kindest women I know, she’ll make you laugh and warm your heart.
So let’s get to it and meet Charissa.
“Tell me a story, Mama!” Five-year-old me sat in our Saskatchewan farm kitchen, begging my mother to regale me with yet another tale.
She paused from the grand-scale preparation of a “field meal” for the harvest crew. Soon she would be back behind the wheel of the grain truck, navigating hilly terrain, watching for the combine operated by my dad to come over the rise, ready to unload bushels of wheat.
Despite her pressed schedule, she turned to me and said, “There was once a boy who loved cattle and horses very much.” The story she shared captivated my young imagination…a boy born in South Dakota, the child of Swedish settlers in the 1800’s.
This boy knew with certainty that his life’s journey would be filled with livestock and working the land. That dream unfolded in chapters, with homesteading in the Dakotas and then on to the Canadian prairies. Which beckoned with the promise of acres of soil and was available to those willing to work relentlessly, braving elements seemingly set on freezing all life to the ground.
My mother’s story continued. The boy grew into a strong and kind man, one who would turn the unforgiving but rich prairie sod into a livelihood and legacy for his family. He loved his cattle beyond measure.
At the end of this story, my mother looked at me with intent green eyes and said, “That boy was your grandfather.”
The land and cattle herd at the heart of my family’s existence was the fruition of that sandy-haired boy’s dream. This shaped me, with something deep in my soul stirred by the sound of a cow calling her calf to her side and the sight of freshly turned soil in the Springtime.
My memories are etched with the scent of mint in our meadow on a moonlit night and the dusty murmur of cattle moving homeward through our Big Valley in the Fall. I can picture my grandmother’s weathered, capable hands on the truck steering wheel as she maneuvered it over rugged rangeland.
Age and a knee injury had robbed her of the joy of being on horseback, but she fearlessly drove during round-ups with the confidence of one who knew every rock and gully. As a child, I perched on the seat beside her, wondering if the next steep sidehill would send our truck hurtling into the ravine below.
In my memory, I can hear the wolf willow scraping the underside of the truck, and see my family working tirelessly until nightfall, then gathering around the farm table to regale each other with the day’s highlights over a heavenly meal.
Fast forward to my early 20’s…our hearts had been shattered when the land had to be sold.
A new life had begun on the West Coast of Canada, in a completely different urban environment. My days were now spent in corporate settings, contending with endless traffic.
It was a meaningful life, yet one that felt like wearing someone else’s clothing. Through the years, it often occurred to me that my saddle might as well be sold. It was unused, and the proceeds could certainly help to pay rent. At the end of a tired day, I strolled through a bookstore. A title caught my eye: “I Never Sold My Saddle,” written by musician and rancher Ian Tyson.
His lyrics were seamlessly entwined with all my memories. I was certain then that my saddle would remain with me, even if my days were lived out in the city I’d resignedly made my home.
Through the years, I held onto the words of Psalm 37: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” I then realized the lifestyle of the West was in my DNA. I carried that long-ago legacy of my grandfather regardless of where life took me.
Fast-forward again to another decade, and a new chapter unfolded – back to my ancestral country, in northeastern Washington state, raising a family. Psalm 37 unfolded in living detail. The desires of my heart, tucked away in longings for livestock and fresh air, once again became my existence.
In my life today, there are no cattle (yet!), but there are horses who are my heart’s home and daily solace. There are also beloved purebred Keeshond dogs we’ve raised for the past nine years.
I’ve come full circle to the life I love, this time with a mountainous backdrop instead of a prairie horizon.
There is office work and homeschooling, but in every available moment, I’m outside drinking in my surroundings, camera in hand, pursuing my passion of capturing the West through my lens, or burrowing my face in a horse’s mane, savoring the sweet, comforting aroma.
Now, I tell my daughter, “There once was a boy who loved cattle and horses very much,” and I thank my Heavenly Father that He cared enough about that braided-hair prairie girl to give her this life.
Charles M. Russell, the artist who captured the essence of the West in the era before barbed wire, once said:
“You can see what man made from the seat of an automobile, but the best way to see what God made is from the back of a horse.”
My heart echoes that sentiment to the fullest, and I am thankful for the sisterhood of Women Honoring the West.
About the Artist
Charissa Cunningham has lived in Northeastern Washington State since 2009. She works alongside her husband, running a family consulting engineering firm. She also raises purebred Keeshond dogs, homeschools, and has a passion for all things equestrian and photography related.
Connect with Charissa
Thanks for taking the time to get to know Charissa. She’d love to hear from you, so drop your questions in the comments.
