Horses

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I’ve always loved horses, like most little girls do.  But I studied them like some kids studied in school.  I knew every muscle, joint and bone on a horse.  I knew how many “hands” tall I wanted my horse and what color I wanted it to be. . .chestnut with a tiny white blaze down the face.  No white boots, just that rich, red-brown of a slightly moist, newly cracked chestnut.  Perfect! 

My mom had a metal stand on spinning wheels that held the rinse tubs of her wringer washer.   When the tubs weren’t on it, I’d lace up a wash line to the front of that contraption, halter-like (sort of), mount the thing and wheel it all over the basement, pretending it was Lightening, my horse.  Cut me a break!  I was a kid!  The wheels spun easily which allowed me to turn fast and stop short, just like I was in a show ring.  I’d ride that “horse” for hours.  Confessions of a horse-crazy nut case! 

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Wednesday, December 10, 2014

 

Today I am grateful for horses, whether real, sculpted, painted or whimsical.  I love them all.  By now you must be wondering exactly how many pictures I took at Epic Systems in Madison, Wisconsin.  Lots.  If you’re bored go shopping, but don’t ask me to come along.  I hate shopping.  No duh!

 

 

 

I’ve always loved horses, like most little girls do.  But I studied them like some kids studied in school.  I knew every muscle, joint and bone on a horse.  I knew how many “hands” tall I wanted my horse and what color I wanted it to be. . .chestnut with a tiny white blaze down the face.  No white boots, just that rich, red-brown of a slightly moist, newly cracked chestnut.  Perfect! 

 

 

 

My mom had a metal stand on spinning wheels that held the rinse tubs of her wringer washer.   When the tubs weren’t on it, I’d lace up a wash line to the front of that contraption, halter-like (sort of), mount the thing and wheel it all over the basement, pretending it was Lightening, my horse.  Cut me a break!  I was a kid!  The wheels spun easily which allowed me to turn fast and stop short, just like I was in a show ring.  I’d ride that “horse” for hours.  Confessions of a horse-crazy nut case! 

 

 

 

My grandparents lived on a farm.  Every year my parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas and every year I’d say, “A horse!”  They’d laugh and say, “Who has money for a horse?  What are you going to do with a horse?”  I’d answer, “Love it!”  They’d say, “Where are you going to keep a horse in the city?”  I’d say, “I’ll keep it on the farm at grandma and grandpas. In the barn.”  They’d roll their eyes and shake their heads and laugh that fugetaboutit laugh that parents think is funny, but kids hate.  I wasn’t discouraged because I was a wide-eyed believer in dreams coming true and I KNEW one day. . .

 

 

 

We’d pile in the car and head for Christmas Eve at Grandma’s and my heart would palpitate like I had a pacemaker on overdrive.  I was sure that “this” year I’d get the horse.  Every year.  For over fifteen years.  Until I was twenty and married. . .but I still went out to the barn poking around, looking for “my” horse.  In later years my cousins had horses so I had some in my life.  I vividly remember a rare occasion when I was riding Tana, my cousin’s horse and my grandpa said, “Boy, that Mary sure can sit a horse!”  I have no idea what that means but it sounded good.  At least I took it that way.

 

 

 

The closest I got was a series of Trixie Beldon books.  Trixie’s friend Di had horses.  But I never got a horse of my own.  I’m almost over it.  Oh, who am I kidding?  You (I) just don’t get over some things.  Moving on is not the same as getting over.

 

 

 

So when we entered the western section of Epic and I saw perfect picture of the horse in a stall lining the elevator, my pacemaker skipped a few beats.  Isn’t she/he beautiful?  Such majesty and perfect hair!  I’d take the Trojanish horse any day and I think the bust is great.  But you don’t get much better than a crayon-colored, psychedelic, op-art rocking horse.

 

 

 

So today, packed full of confessional nostalgia, I am grateful for horses.  And maybe this year Santa will really listen and some other little kid will get their hearts desire, no matter how impractical it is.  I sure hope so.

 

My grandparents lived on a farm.  Every year my parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas and every year I’d say, “A horse!”  They’d laugh and say, “Who has money for a horse?  What are you going to do with a horse?”  I’d answer, “Love it!”  They’d say, “Where are you going to keep a horse in the city?”  I’d say, “I’ll keep it on the farm at grandma and grandpas. In the barn.”  They’d roll their eyes and shake their heads and laugh that fugetaboutit laugh that parents think is funny, but kids hate.  I wasn’t discouraged because I was a wide-eyed believer in dreams coming true and I KNEW one day. . .

We’d pile in the car and head for Christmas Eve at Grandma’s and my heart would palpitate like I had a pacemaker on overdrive.  I was sure that “this” year I’d get the horse.  Every year.  For over fifteen years.  Until I was twenty and married. . .but I still went out to the barn poking around, looking for “my” horse.  In later years my cousins had horses so I had some in my life.  I vividly remember a rare occasion when I was riding Tana, my cousin’s horse and my grandpa said, “Boy, that Mary sure can sit a horse!”  I have no idea what that means but it sounded good.  At least I took it that way.

The closest I got was a series of Trixie Beldon books.  Trixie’s friend Di had horses.  But I never got a horse of my own.  I’m almost over it.  Oh, who am I kidding?  You (I) just don’t get over some things.  Moving on is not the same as getting over.

So when we entered the western section of Epic and I saw perfect picture of the horse in a stall lining the elevator, my pacemaker skipped a few beats.  Isn’t she/he beautiful?  Such majesty and perfect hair!  I’d take the Trojanish horse any day and I think the bust is great.  But you don’t get much better than a crayon-colored, psychedelic, op-art rocking horse.

So today, packed full of confessional nostalgia, I am grateful for horses.  And maybe this year Santa will really listen and some other little kid will get their hearts desire, no matter how impractical it is.  I sure hope so.
 

Each and every day I find something to be grateful for. My gratitude's are heartfelt, personal, moving and often humorous. Facebook followers have encouraged me to branch out. I hope you will relate.

The opinions expressed herein are the writer's alone, and do not reflect the opinions of TAPinto.net or anyone who works for TAPinto.net. TAPinto.net is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the writer.

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