1967 in South Lake Tahoe, California, years before the giant casinos take their hold on the community; Sam Borges enters his son's name in a raffle. The prized is a pony. That winter he starts a Lake Tahoe tradition of delighting neighbors and visitors alike with his horse drawn sleigh rides. For over 40 years, people from around the world have come to dash through the snow, enjoy picturesque views and listen to stories of a land that once echoed with the thundering hooves of Pony Express Riders and the Wild West. Sam Borges, born in 1924, begins his story when his mother, Aldina, is cured of her blindness by the power of prayer. Her life's calling then becomes a resolve to share this good news with others. Compelled, Aldina packs up her brand new Model 'A' Ford with religious book, her baby daughter and 5 year old Sam. Together they travel across these United States. But this is only the start of Sam Borges' adventures. During the Great Depression Sam decides on settling in Central California as a farmer, rancher and dairyman until a life changing earthquake drives him north to the land of the grand Sierra Mountains, the cool waters of Lake Tahoe and Bonanza's own Ponderosa Pines. His story gives hope that life struggles can present opportunities to achieve greater things. His joy of life and love for nature, animals and humanity are endearing. You will love the fun facts, history and good humor. The sleigh rides are a unique attraction that is quickly disappearing from the landscape of this county. Once a common sight, sleighs are now only images seen gracing seasonal greeting cards. Take a sleigh ride in Lake Tahoe with Sam Borges and enjoy this step back in time.

A SLEIGH RIDE IN LAKE TAHOE

MEMOIRS OF SAM BORGESBy Dianna Maria de Borges

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Dianna Maria de Borges
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-9496-3

Contents

Chapter One-In the Beginning:...............................1Chapter Two-On the Road.....................................25Chapter Three-An Easier Way.................................43Chapter Four-Forever a Day..................................67Chapter Five-Finding Home...................................87Chapter Six-If You Open, They Will Come.....................97

Chapter One

In the Beginning:

A light snow had fallen overnight. It crunches and squeaks under the stress of my heavy boots. Although the air I breathe is bitter cold, the sky is blue, and the winds are light. The meadow always seems to welcome me. It is a beautiful day in the mountains - a beautiful day for sleigh rides!

I have operated my sleigh rides in this meadow since 1969. There are not many businesses that can say that. No, not many a'tal. It's been easy for me, though. These sleigh rides are more than just a job. They are more than just a business. People use business to pay their bills or make their mortgages. The sleigh rides are more like a part of me. We live together as one would live with their own body. It is a part of me, a part that I can't live without, like my heart or soul.

I can hardly believe it's been so long. The days since I've started this business have seemed to race by me and the collection of my memories I am constantly living and reliving in every detail. Maybe it is old age? I stop, stretch and let my thoughts catch up with me.

It is good here in the meadow, cradled among the trees, the mountains and the lake. Ever present is beautiful Lake Tahoe, that jewel that sparkles in the bosom of the Sierra Nevada. My mind wanders to her, the sight of her, there, in the distance. Happy are those who know her, who respect her changing moods, who cherish her and care for her. I take in her cobalt blue color and let my worries drown in her depths. When I drink her sweet, cool waters, I can taste life itself. Here, I feel a harmony creep over me, a kinship with the earth. Here, I am complete. Here there is an oneness with nature, an oneness with God and an oneness with myself.

How many times have I come to this very spot on the globe? Can I count the hours I've worked here with my horses or tally up the memories? How many sleigh rides can one person do in 40-some odd years? I expect it's an unbelievable number, and I decide to turn my attentions to the immediate challenge - this parking lot: I do need to be careful. Walk carefully! Focus on each of my steps; do not slip and fall on this ice, Sam Borges. Old bones break too easily. They will hurt for a long time. You just got a new knee, I tell myself, and you don't want to mess it up.

A truck and trailer has just arrived with the horses. They are parked on the side of the street with flashers blinking. The crew hurries to unload the horses and cross the small street. They file out one by one. They're big horses, Belgian draft horses, and each weighs more than a ton. They are magnificent blond giants, a fittin' animal for the work at hand. How many horses are in that trailer? Six? Eight? Woo-wee!

The employees have taken to calling that truck, that fine piece of heavy-duty automotive wonder the 'Storm Trooper.' I chuckle to myself. How true that name is: It is a 2005 Ford 350 4x4 Dually Super Duty four-door extended cab, with leather seats, DVD player and upgraded stereo system, a pickup with integrated trailer brakes; and a draft-size FeatherLite trailer. My Lord, it has all the bells and whistles. That modern marvel of a truck was bought and driven all the way from Michigan herself. It's a vast difference from the 1948 Army surplus truck and tractor I drove in 1965, when I first arrived here in Lake Tahoe.

* * *

I was born on January 21, 1924, in Albany, New York. St. Joseph's Hospital was just three blocks from the Hudson River. We lived in a small house in Taunton, Massachusetts. My dad worked on the Lincoln Highway: good work in those days as the road was expected to stretch all the way to the West Coast. Bits and pieces of that road are still travel across these United States and marked in places like Lake Tahoe; carefully preserved in the pages of history. As the road was being built it became longer and longer; and the workers would be further and further from home. My father, Bernardo Borges, would take the train home to see us - my mother, Aldina; my grandmother Geralda; my aunt Delphina, whom we called Aunt Della, and me.

We lived at my grandmother's house on 80 Plain St. in Taunton, a home forever imprinted on my mind. It was a two-story house, painted white - common in those days. A family lived upstairs and we downstairs. The house held no special decoration or extravagance that distinguished it from any other, but it was all a small boy could need: woods out back with a streams running through it, friends and adventure.

Now, when my mother was young, she went blind. Neighbors would come by to visit from time to time. One day, three special neighbors came by for a visit. This one visit would change her life forever, because with these visitors came the miracle: A new chance in life. These neighbors had come by to pray and asked if Aldina would pray with them; and so she did.

Aldina was amazed by the way they prayed. She was familiar with the rote of prayers she had learned as a child; but these people talked with their Savior in their prayers, just like I am talking to you; reverently sharing their heartfelt concerns and giving thanks; and this was new to Aldina. They came over a time or two more before they asked Aldina if she would go with them to their hall.

She liked her new friends and came to love the way they prayed; however, she wasn't so sure about changing religions. She didn't want to go to another church; she was already going a church with her family. Now, as you would imagine, she didn't go; but she did continue to pray this new way and accepted her friends' visits warmly.

About two months later, she woke up and wiped the sleep from her eyes and could see. She knew in that very moment that it was because of the special praying. The power of prayer had cured her. Her friends were Seventh-day Adventist, and she would become one too.

No one blamed Aldina for her overwhelming joy. She began going to their hall and was active, too, always learning and always praying. She attended their college, the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in New York, and graduated with a nursing degree. She wanted to help others. She wanted to share her story. She wanted to praise her Savior. When she had completed her schooling, she did just that.

She bought a bicycle with saddlebags and filled them with all kinds of books, from Bibles to health foods. She carried children's books too, like Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories, each story a parable. She worked as a nurse when she could, but her greatest joy was riding around selling books, talking to people and praying, like her friends.

By now, I had just started Walker School about a mile away from my grandmother's house. My schoolteacher's name was Miss Hood - funny how I could recall her name after all these years. It is because the name of the truck that sold ice cream in the neighborhood was also Hood - Hood's Ice Cream. I couldn't forget the name of the ice cream truck. What kid would? Likewise, I never forgot my first teacher's name.

Other children in the neighborhood and I would walk to school through the woods. This shortcut was full of fun things for a young boy to do, playing games and searching for treasure. On the way, we would watch for the neighborhood milkman, who made his deliveries with a horse and a sleigh in the winter. We would hold on to the back of the sleigh and slide along until we fell off. We would laugh, lying there in the snow. Sometimes we were even late for school: fun times!

This very same winter, my mother was sent to meet a woman named Mrs. Robins in Falmouth, Massachusetts. She was a very ill woman, and her daughter, Grace, was very protective over her. Grace could see that my mom was very personable and courageous, and she liked her. Grace needed a nurse to help with her mother. Mrs. Robins wasn't expected to live long. Grace asked Aldina if she would stay and help. Mother agreed, and we moved in to care for Grace's mother.

We lived upstairs in this very nice home, much larger than Grandma's house, and we shared it with no other family. Imagine that! The winter was very cold. The temperatures were so frigid that when I wore my gloves, which had one finger missing, the skin on that finger would peel off. It was a bitterly cold winter. In addition, the snows came big that year: One winter storm came, and the snows accumulated so high that I had to climb out of the window from my upstairs room and slide down the snowbank to shovel the snow away from the doors down stairs.

I enjoyed living with the Robins. I started to call Miss Robins "Aunt Grace," and she treated me like a little brother. I always loved her special breakfast johnnycakes, light fluffy cakes cooked in a pan with molasses ... mmmmmmm, good!

Aldina and I would go to a cranberry bog not far from the house to pick berries. Those were some hard and painful berries to pick, those cranberries, because the dried leaves would give your fingers cuts and hangnails. I didn't mind the pain so much. I knew that whatever was going to be baked would be worth it. Along with that, we got paid 10 cents for a pick of berries. In those days, 10 cents would go a long ways: It could buy a haircut - with a little extra for an ice cream.

For a spell, Aunt Grace had a gentleman caller who would come by. He played a violin and was looking for a wife, but he didn't come by for long. I guessed Aunt Grace didn't really like men. I asked her why she never got married. She told me a story about how her mother spent all winter making a braided ring rug for the kitchen. When her dad came home, he was in a foul mood. He took the beans cooking on the stove, spilled them on the new rug, then took his foot and mashed those beans into the rug. He ruined it. She said that her father had a short temper when he had been drinking and she didn't need any more of that. That story surprised me!

That next summer, after Aunt Grace's mother passed on, we moved back to Taunton. My father would come home on the weekends for a visit, and it was shortly after that my sister, Rachael Otulia Borges, was born. We called her Ray.

A month or so after that, when my father came home, he found that my sister, Aldina and I were gone. My mother took out all of the money in the bank; she bought a car, a 1928 Ford 'Model A.' She filled her new car with books - Bibles, health books and children's stories - and we left. She didn't tell her mother where she was going. She didn't tell my dad. We just left.

I did not question the departure. This was just another one of our many adventures together. At least that was what I had imagined. Little do small children understand of such matters, and little do they care. I was along for the ride. However, I would learn later that my father was very upset. He searched far and wide for us, all the way to California. He never did find us. Aldina would make sure of that.

Later in my life, I would save up enough money to look for my father and with my young wife beside me; we traveled to Portugal where my father was born. We found him in the little town of Seixo da Beira: which is closer to Portugal's capital, Lisbon than not. In this little town in the mountains, I find him; my father, Bernardo Borges. He looked much older than I remembered but his eyes were bright and his mind sharp.

There I learned more about my father and his story. In 1910, Bernardo was 18 years old. He had learned to make shoes and had a small business with five employees. When World War I began, Bernardo left his business to his employees and join the Army. After eight months of battle, he was poisoned by gas and was captured. He spent 3 months in a prison hospital. He did manage to escape and headed towards Hungary. He was caught again and stayed in prison for the rest of the war.

It had been reported back to his home town that their beloved Bernardo had died in battle. You can imagine the surprised when after the war: he came home, alive and well. Everyone was so happy that they declared a week long celebration in the small town of Seixo de Beira.

Soon again, Bernardo was back to making quality shoes and he save enough money to buy ship fare to America. Like many in war torn Europe, he believed that in the United States he could realize his dreams. If he worked hard and saved his money, Bernardo would have all the things he desired: money, a family, a nice home and security.

First step, in 1922, he found a job with Lyon Construction Company building streets and road for 60 cents per hour. In Worcester, Massachusetts, he meets my mother, Aldina and together had a son and daughter. His plans started out well enough, but there his dream had ended.

With regret in his eyes he concluded his story, "I looked for you and your sister until October 1929; then once again I bought ship fare; this time, I went back home to Portugal." His head hung low as he recalled those events, then he added: "The New York Stock Market crash while I was on that boat back to Portugal."

* * *

I am no longer a boy of five holding on to his mother's skirts or a young man listening to his father's stories. I'll be 86 on my next birthday. I now live here in Lake Tahoe with my wife, Rosie; with my own sons; daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Rosie and I have been through a lot since then, what, we have been married some 58 or is it 59 years? No, I do believe this year will be our 60th wedding anniversary: Nov. 25, 1949- 60 years! I'll have to ask her about it; maybe we should do something special?

Looking up I see my youngest son, Dwight. He amazes me. For all his size and strength he is a gentle soul, much like the animals under his care; yes, gentle giants. He is the one driving the Storm Trooper today and also the controlling owner of the company now. I think he calls himself the 'President'. That is nice; I've always wanted one of my sons to be a president. He took over some 20 years ago, ever since he finished college. Time is flying!

The sleigh rides have grown and changed quite a bit since he has taken the reins. He has done a lot with the business. He has added more employees, more horses and tripled our number of sleighs since my solo days. We do weddings, hayrides and pony rides now at a couple of different locations. We have computers, cell phones, credit-card machines. Who-wee, we even have merchandise! We have come a long way; I guess young minds inspire innovation.

Dwight is the youngest of our four boys - Rosie's four boys, as she likes to brag - Dean, Don, David and Dwight. What a surprise when the news came that Rosie was pregnant with Dwight. We already had three sons, and the youngest was well on into school. Dwight was one of life's unexpected surprises. I laugh out loud when I remember Rosie telling me the news. She had cried when she found out ... cried and cried and cried. Having babies is hard work on a woman: Rosie was approaching 40, and she thought she was done. As time would tell, Dwight would become a blessing to her.

"When you are off doing your thing," she would declare with her shoulders back and head held high with pride. "Dwight is my buddy! We do everything together!"

Yes, they did. I think quietly to myself, and I am glad.

She still spends a lot of time with Dwight and all of her boys. She enjoys helping out at the sleigh rides. Even if she doesn't stay to work, she will stop by to bring lunch or get supplies. Rosie is here today, though, and is walking up right behind me. We are both going to help out today. She is taking her time as she walks across the frozen parking lot. We both know the pain of falling on the ice and we don't want any part of that.

The sleigh rides share this parking lot with the MontBleu casino. It wasn't always MontBleu, though: It used to be the Park Tahoe in 1978, then the Caesars hotel after that; before becoming MontBleu Casino Resort and Spa. The casino across the street, the Horizon, was the Sahara Tahoe in the early days; with its neighbors being Harveys and Harrah's, which have stayed true to their names since the beginning.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A SLEIGH RIDE IN LAKE TAHOEby Dianna Maria de Borges Copyright © 2009 by Dianna Maria de Borges. Excerpted by permission.
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