Riding Horses

His name was Fury. He was huge, midnight black, and the horse of my dreams. Every Saturday morning, I would sit and wait impatiently for the 1/2 hour TV show to start. Fury--my hero of a horse. He was there to save the day and make all things right. I can remember my sister and me fighting over our Saturday mornings — who got to watch what and when. And fighting over which morning hero was the toughest and the best. She liked Flicka — I thought he was a wimp. My poor mom — her little girls arguing over fictional horse characters on TV. The best leverage for discipline in our house was the threat of no Fury or Flicka if you don't settle down! It worked for me; I didn't want to miss Fury for anything.

My love for horses began early--most likely by the time I reached 4 or 5, I was doomed. I was obsessed with all things horse-related.  I would have done anything for a horse of my own. Including trading my sister for one! And by the time I was 12 or 14, I had one--a horse of my very own. Her name was Tiki; she was a little bay mare. I started taking riding lessons and was a natural. I began to show her in some local horse shows and felt that I had found my true calling. Really, it was the one thing I was truly good at--horses. I discovered that I had a way with animals, especially horses. I would exercise her, brush her, and bathe her.  My parents would buy me equipment — saddles, bridles, and Omaline — for birthdays and Christmas. The smell of the barn, the hay, the leather--well, that was my perfume. I loved it.

My second horse came a couple of years later, a big chestnut gelding named Nu Tempo, who was a grandson of Seabiscuit. He tore a ligament in training and could not be raced after that, and somehow I was fortunate enough to get him. He was basically an overgrown puppy. He followed me everywhere.
Or at least he wanted to follow me everywhere. He could break any unbreakable halter. It didn't matter where we were--our barn, a horse show, down at the arena--if I walked away, he'd follow. He'd raise his head, snap that halter, and come trotting after me. When he'd find me, he'd lay his big old head on my shoulder and sigh. It was the cutest thing--that sigh of contentment. I wasn't quite 5 feet tall, and he was a big 16.5 hands. He was the love of my teenage life.

I truly believe with all my heart that those horses saved me from all kinds of bad stuff--drugs, alcohol, boys, but I lived and breathed horses. My focus was on them. Showing, riding, smelling...
My horses kept me out of trouble. Being raised in the late sixties and early seventies--well, let's just say that drugs were the prominent factor among teenagers. But I didn't have the time to fool with them; I was too much of a horse girl to care about much of anything else. My horses were my teenage refuge.
They kept me sane. I would go out riding, and because I was — and still am — such a daydreamer, deep thinker, and feeler, riding helped me solve the problems of my little world.  For hours, I would ride the trails, just thinking away. It was peaceful, and for me, there was a freedom. It's hard to explain the peace I felt out there. Riding. Just me and my horse, thinking away. Planning. Maybe that's what I was doing — planning for my future. Or maybe I was problem-solving. Who knows. I just know that it was what I lived for at the time. And it was timely. It was something just for me. My horses.

It wasn't until much later that the realization came to me — that's where I learned to pray. I would ride for hours and just talk to God. I would prattle on--sharing my fears, my hopes, my dreams, my problems, and He would listen. It was a conversational prayer, the kind of prayer we still use today. Just me and him--talking. And while I no longer ride horses, I still pray; I've just traded in my saddle for a rocking chair.