If Wishes Were Horses.......

 

If you were a horse crazy little girl (or boy) like I was, then you'll understand my story.  As long as I can remember, I've loved horses.  I begged my mother to ride as soon as I could comprehend what a horse was and when I was eight, after two very long years of ballet (which I detested) I rode two days a week.  Nothing fancy, the area I lived in was not a horsey at all.  My first horse show I still remember vividly.  My instructor told me I probably would not win the walk trot class that was entered but the blue ribbon came home with me that day and the silver plate I won with it still occupies a place of importance on a bookshelf.  The plate is real silver and is adorned with the horse show's initials and year, 1971.

 



 

 

 

 

That's me on the right at that show, carrying a bucket of water for Angel Face, the pony of choice that day.  My sister Sally is on the left. 

 

The fever never subsided, despite my parents' secret wishes. No one in my family was horsey or even terribly athletic way back then. All I wanted to do was ride and show.  Nothing else. Money was not plentiful - we were by no means poor, but I wanted to ride and show and go to all those places I read about in my bible, The Chronicle of the Horse.  That was never going to happen for me.

 



 

 

I read the Chronicle cover-to-cover every week and knew the name of every famous pony and horse of the period - Shenandoah Opal, Gozzi, Ruxton, Stocking Stuffer, just to name a few.   I knew who all the riders were and the places they went. I wanted to live in Virginia where much of my secret world took place.

 

 



 

 

 

I begged my parents for a horse. It literally took years but one day my father finally succumbed to his crazed daughter, realizing that the addiction was not going away and that it could be far worse than horses.  My budget was $400.  My instructor pleaded for the fancy $2000 chestnut large pony (ponies were cheap back in the 70's) but father was firm.  Misty was not fancy, she was a very good mover and jumper but pretty, not so much. I was still in horse heaven.  My world became the barn. She was a buckskin Quarter Horse pony, only four when I got her, but the few years I had with her were pure bliss.

 



 



 

 

I mucked stalls to help pay for her keep.  We did not get to show much, there were very few shows in my area back then but when we did, we always brought home ribbons. My dad loved to show them off to his friends.  It was a golden time in many ways, innocence, longing for a lot more but appreciating what I had as it took so long to get it. My pony years ended as my education took over and knew that I had too many things on my plate.  Misty was sold.  I never saw her again but I love her as much as I love the three horses I now have.

 



 

 

Now firmly planted in middle age, I appreciate my time in the ring more than most, as I often think about all those years of longing to ride under the oaks at Upperville, at Warrenton, Keswick, all the places I read about in my youth.  When I jog into the ring at those places now with Alfie in tow, sometimes I want to pinch myself. And those ribbons hanging in my tack room really belong to me, not a girl I read about in the Chronicle.  Is this really me?   Wishes are horses - for a horse crazed girl and for a somewhat astonished adult.  I did get my entire dream after all, even though it took quite a long time.  It was worth the effort.  Never ever quit dreaming.  Ever.