The day has come.
What day, you may be wondering? Hah. I am a mind reader. Unless you were thinking, "What is
wrong with this chick?" and flipping to the next blog. Congrats, if you have stayed. Remember I appriciate you for this meaningful, life-changing, superimportant choice.
Okay. Abbi, stop scaring these people. (MmmhMMM, I do talk to myself. Now, SHUT UP voices.)
Again, before I got distracted. I was saying -
The day has come.
The day I have waited for since I fell in love.
Not marriage, or a date.
I'm in seventh grade, people. Kay?
The day I have gotten approval for my quest.
The day that I have hoped for five years ago.
And held onto ever since.
The day I can get my own horse.
To understand what this means to me, we go back five years.
A little girl, checking out her first horse book from the local library. Stroking the glossy pictures and reading, rereading the print. Finding adventures, and beauty, and passion.
It only just began.
That day I fell in love. I confided to my friend, Esperanza, and we would laugh together in her front yard, sticking Bratz on plastic horses and clumping them around on the grass. Sometimes we would race around, whinnying like deranged lunatics as we were wild horses, pink and white unicorns, or Black Beauty and Ginger. The small bud of love opened, raised it's head to the sun.
I checked out more and more books. Soon I was spouting an encyclopedia of knowlage to my classmates and family. I told Esperanza stories of gleaming white Lippizanas, racing Thoroughbreds, and prancing Arabians, flowing across the desert. I dreamed of owning my own horse, and "rode" imagionary horses to school, conducting wild gallops across the playground with large masses of girls, all bitten by the horse bug. (Or at least wanting to examine the way my mind worked.) Palomino, pure white, flashy bay, or glistening chestnut, I never could decide. My most frequent mount was a loud and gorgeous palomino mare whose name escapes my memory. But oh, what lovely memories I had of her. She was always my leading charge when we were cowgirls, my main horse in our large herds of imagionary steeds. My daring racehorse as we galloped epic races around the swingsets. But playing with Riley, Rachel, Hayley, Kamryn, Nonnie, and the "herds" of other girls was only a spark. The sunkissed bud flowered.
My best friend was Hayley. Up till this summer, she lived just up the street, a gallop and a whinny away. Now I reckon that she's somewhere in Texas. She moved without my knowlage after we had a falling-out a couple summers ago.
But Hayley and I were horse crazy, horse obsessed, horse lovin' pals. Everyday, we would hang out until dusk, prancing around my backyard as we popped over little jumps with Nonnie, (She lives downstairs.) (The jumps were made out of milkcrates, cardboard boxes, plastic yard toys, bricks, and sticks of wood.) We would share and trade horse books and little figurine horse toys. We met when I was out playing with Esperanza. She was walking her black lab, Ben. Until then, we had seen each other on the playground and argued who loved horses more, flashing out our horse necklaces and taunting until we both gave up and stayed on the far side of the playground herd. We both said hi, and I stroked Ben. We would say "hey" every morning at the bus stop, where I would ask, "How's Ben?" One day, she told me, "Dead."
"Are you kidding? NOT funny, Hayley."
"No, he got hit by a truck yesterday."
"I'm so sorry!"
"I know. I'm so sad."
And that was how we became friends. The next day we sat together on the bus, and she ran to her house, then came over at mine. We exchanged horse books for my plastic horse toys.
And thus, besties were born.
Hayley and I were two peas in a pod. I knew her younger siblings, her new *crazy* Golden Retriver Jake (who two years later bit through a wall, and her other dog peed all over the carpet. Thus, both dogs left the house.) her dream horse, and her opinions. She and I played tricks on my older sister, played horses everywhere, slept over, clopped Breyer horses around, walked to the park, poured over books, and practically lived at each other's houses. Then we made a step that changed our lives forever, and forever imprinted horses in our hearts.
You see, I had walked over to the local horse ranch and made friends on the outskirts of the stable. Not people friends; no, these were horse friends. Excited, I brought carrots and stayed till dark (Hayley was at her grandmother's, I believe.) then ran home and told my mother everything while she heated a late dinner for me. I was SUPEREXCITED, to say the very least. I made a few more visits, before I told Hayley. Every word of every single movement, breath, and twitch the horses had made. We both acted like someone had handed over the keys to Toys R Us. I don't think I may be relaying the times correctly, as I remember my first visit at the stables in the winter, but I can't be sure. It may have been the late spring. The whole "March come in like a lion" thing and all that. I THINK SNOW WAS ON THE GROUND, OKAY? Just remember, my horse-crazy eyes only acknowlaged a horse. So yeah. Let's continue.
It was a summer morning at the crack of dawn when I ran excitedly to Hayley's house with a backpack filled with a few apples, a bottle of water, and a plastic horse. Armed with permission from our moms, we ran down the front steps and across the street, the early morning breeze caressing our hair, the smell of dew in the air, and the sun on our faces. When we made it to the stable, we were sold. We continued going there and helping out with the horses, or simply petting their faces and feeding them treats. (Not very smart, I know, but these were two little kids.) Maybe two years later, we stopped going there when Hayley and I had a major falling out. A new girl Lisa and her brother Kaden had moved next door to Hayley. Lisa was the bane of my existance. I considered her a stalker. Teehee, Lisa. TEEHEE. We were still friends, but the besties 4eva seal was wearing off.
Still, my flowered bud spread it's petals ever so slighty.
I can also tell my story in horses.
Bob was the first horse I ever rode by myself. He was a tall (to seven year old me!) black, and sleepy Quarter horse gelding. I thought he was made of magic with a mane of rainbows. (His mane looked like it was hacked off with a pair of blunt scissors.) My friend Kristen took me to ride him for her birthday. It was possibly the most exciting day of my young life. I remember painstakingly picking out the perfect jeans and a flowered shirt. I didn't sleep that night, I was practically jumping with excitement. And I remember running to Esperanza and screaming that I finally rode my first horse.
Bob taught me paitence.
The next horse I rode was a proud and stubborn, still beautiful (and to my young mind, glorified in beauty) paint horse. His name was Clever. I rode him at another birthday party. I think I got down on my knees and begged my mom to go, I wanted it so much. I remember galloping down a trail, laughing hard as branches threatened to sweep me out of the saddle. I clutched the horn and squealed as we popped over a little log. It was heaven, and I couldn't stop raving about him as we drove home. When my mom arrived after the party, another rider on the trail told me she was shocked when she heard I was a beginner. Clever had a reputation for stubborn and surleyness, and I had apperantly controlled and ridden with ease. A natrual, she called me. I beamed with pride. It was the first time I had ever been called a natrual at anything. I was always average, or inadeqet, or awkward. I really do think that horse just took pity on me, or sensed how in love I was with him.
Clever taught me simple beauty.
The third horse I fell in love with was a black Quarab mare named Estrella, Spanish for Star. (Hayley fell in love with her neighbor, a redroan Thoroughbred.) When I first met her, she bit my jacket playfully, and tried to knock me off a fence. It was love. I hugged her neck and fed her mountains of treats.
Estrella was simply playful; she taught me how funny and how much of a blast horses were.
The fourth horse taught me how to ride, and lots more than that. He was a lighter chestnut gelding with a star between his forehead and not a single white hair on any of his legs. His name was, predicibly, Star. We met at horse camp. Rather, I was assigned, "the stubborn puller." Ah, I LOVED him. I would run ahead of the group to the barn and duck under the wire fence, swerve around the large paddock and into the barn entrance. Then I would impaitently wait for the group to catch up, listen to instructions, then dash into the tack room and snatch up Star's blue-green halter. I would dance to the large paddock, single my horse out, and tack him up. At first he would lead me around it, but at the end of the week he stood still while I walked up to him. For five days, I lathered attention on him. I groomed him with like, thirty different brushes, check his hooves three times, and painfully draw up his cinch one knot at a time. I made sure he was treated like a king. I worshped that horse.That spread-out bud bloomed.
Star taught me how to be kind yet firm, how to control a stubborn horse, the glory of winning a race, (Every time, baby! Every. Time.) to make sure you have your horse tied up, to remember to tighten your cinch, the glory of my first real canter, (contolled, not spinning crazily all over a trail) and made me begin my career as a rider.
After Star came Millie and Tehya. Tehya is Mill's dam. (Mother.) Millie, as far as I know it, is all that I've ever loved. I loved that horse with pure, simple, over-the-top love. She was my shelter, ma baby. I loved her more than any person I've ever known. If Millie ran me over, I got up, freaked out and ran my hands over her legs. She was fine. Seriously, if she could talk and told me to jump, I would have asked how high,
and could I possibly make her grain afterward? That horse meant everything to me. 15.1hh, dark bay, Morgan-Friesian-Quarter horse cross, with a single star and mischeivious eyes, the cutest fish-trot when she wasn't listening to me, a perfect jouncy lope, (jaunty + bouncy) a greed for carrots and pepperments, and superiemly loyal to me. Despite her little incidents, like bolting, an occasional buck, and a fear of bunnies, Millie was a perfect four year old. That horse could jump the moon. She was willing, but a tad lazy and stubborn. She considered me "her" human, and guarded me jealously. No joke. She would chase a flaxen-chestnut horse named Diva away from me, kicking and biting her. I rememver mucking out the pasture one day. Millie followed me all around. Curiously, she would stick her head in the bucket and knock it over. When she tired of that, she would bump and nuzzle me for treats. Giving up, she would simply stand there, her mane and tail being slightly ruffled by the breeze. I leaned against her and scratched her neck. I love that horse, and always will. I have so many stories of her, it could fill an entire book. No, a book series. That horse meant everything. She was by no means perfect, but the way I raved about her constantly and called her a "brat" suggested otherwise. Despite being knocked around by her, we were meant for each other. Yeah, you get the point. I loved her, (is that the eleventh time I've said that?) and we were bonded. I would groom her until the suble lighter browns in her coat were highlighted and she gleamed like a lumonious pearl in the sunlight. Then I would braid her mane and tail and weave colored feathers and ribbons in it. I would proudly show her off to my friends, and Millie would do some tricks. I taught her two, and her owners taught her a few. Every time I looked at her, a lump of pride, love, and disbelief would rise in my chest and stick in my throat. I loved her so, so much I could hardly breathe. I've known many horses, but Millie is by miles and leages my favorite. I can still remember the nights after our rides, the barn light on and Millie munching her grain, the times my trainer would give me a leg up onto her bare back and I would sit there in the chilly air, stroking her silky, oily black mane.
.
Millie taught me everything, but most importantly, she taught me what love is.
Tehya is Millie's mom/dam. She's a darker, buttermilky-colored dun Quarter horse, kinda short, very round and squishy, with a broad blaze, a trusting heart, and the best bareback ride you can think of. I had always been most interested in Millie, though I adored and lathered praise and treats on the other horses. One week, Millie and the other horses were in use and I was just helping out around the stable. Tehya had been kicked by Blue, her pasture rival, and was extremely stiff. I cared for her for a while. I would walk her out (she still has the slowest walk imagionable) and stretch her, then brush her afterward. I even rode her slowly at a walk. I could ride her well bareback, and she would turn with me just leaning and pressing her sides. Soon, I just tied her lead rope (She wore no halter. Call me reckless. I. Am. WILD! Dude, she was stiff. You think she's gonna run away?) in a loop and put it up far on her neck, preferring to ride like that. It was the greatest, and very, very cool. I also taught her to follow me in a weaving pattern between six barrels. She could do it without treats, and would bump me in the small of my back with her nose at the end, asking if I was there. It was so cute. When she got better and a little kid was riding her, I was in the middle of the ring. She would try to come to me. It is really sweet.
I recall how triumphant I felt when I brought her up from the pasture a month later. She trotted peacefully up next to me, fully healed. It brought tears at the corner of my eyes and loud, ringing laughter.
Tehya taught me the sense of freedom, triumph, and the meaning of riding and horse care.
Three months ago, my mom and I made a painful decision. We decided that I learned all that I could from my instructor. It was time to switch stables, and time to switch riding diciplines. After riding the horses in western lessons for almost two years, it was very sad. But I want to grow as a rider, and someday jump in the Olympics. (Millie and I's haphazard jumping was the trigger; it was the most fun I've ever had.)
So the search for a new stables is on.
I've checked out two stables, ordered a pair of English riding boots on Dover Saddlery, and start Saddle Up Classes on Friday. After a month of those, I will take Youth Ranch activities, then a month of privite lessons followed by group lessons. I cannot wait.
Still, the thing I always loved most about riding was the bond with one special horse.
The thing that no one can ever take away.
The thing that I've always wanted.
Two weeks ago, my day came.
The day my parents told me I can buy my own horse.
And that, my friends, is what this blog will be about.
- Abbi
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