Horsaii

On her blog, Mugwump talks about a class of people she calls Horsaii. People who have loved horses for as long as they can remember, strove to spend as much time as possible with them and sacrifice a great deal to keep them in their lives, not out of mere desire, but out of necessity.

I'm pretty sure I belong to that group.

Horses always fascinated me. I can't remember when I realized it at first. Perhaps it was when my mom first read "Black Beauty" to me when I was 5.

I was sick with the stomach flu, my head hurt, and my insides felt like they were either tied in knots or made of rubber. As I lay in bed, my pillow covered with an old towel and a metal basin on the night stand, I was more miserable than I ever thought possible.

Then my mom came in with a book. It had only one picture, a black foal with a star and a sock on the front cover. She opened the book and began to read.

As I listened, my headache subsided and my stomach unclenched. I felt better, not totally well again, but better. It was like the story of the horse swept away my childish pain. The book didn't need pictures, I could see all the horses in my head as clearly as I could see the walls of my room.

Even after I got better, I begged to hear the story over and over again. Each time I cried when Ginger died and each time I was filled with fear over Beauty's suffering, feeling horrified even though I already knew the ending.

Eventually I was a good enough reader to read it on my own, and for my 7th birthday I received a new copy of Black Beauty, this one full of line and ink pictures.

I read that book so much the spine broke and pages began to fall out.

Thoroughly entrenched in my obsession with horses, I began my young quest to find them. Living in the suburbs, nobody I knew had horses, so I made due with my imagination.

I had a large stuffed horse that my mom made a bridle for out of ribbon. I would clamp the horse between my thighs and waddle around the house, pretending to ride. I even took my horse (named Ginger, of course) to the grocery store with me, eliciting a lot of "Awww, how cute!" from other shoppers.

Then, a new girl came to school wearing riding pants and a local stable's t-shirt. I asked her where she got the shirt, and immediately started begging my parents for riding lessons. I wanted them so badly it hurt.

Neither of my parents understood. They did not grow up with horses, and the only thing they knew was that Christopher Reeves broke his neck in a fall from a horse. My mom was reluctant, and stalled me with "I have to think about it" and "we'll see".

Finally, after a year of asking, I showed up with my report card and reminded my mom that she said if I got good grades, I could have lessons. She finally relented and over spring break when I was 9, I got to go to horse camp.

Horse camp was everything I had ever dreamed of. The smell of the barn, the (to my eyes) wonderful lesson horses, and last but not least, friends. I had few friends at school, but camp was full of giggly little girls who wanted nothing more than to be and do everything Horse, just like me.

I learned to lead a horse, how to groom, how to tack up and how to ride. I even fell off on the 4th day of camp, which only left me wanting to ride even more.

I probably alarmed my mom with my happy babble of how I came off and got right back on and how much I loved the huge TB mare I fell off of. I wanted to ride her again and again. Not only that, I wanted to ride all the time.

Soon after that, I got into weekly riding lessons and was sent to summer camp at the same stables. I wonder how long it took my protective mother to come to terms with the fact that I loved these huge, dangerous beasts and wasn't going to quit any time soon.

Eventually I leased a few horses and finally got my own horse at age 12. (See my other blog about her!)

She became my world, more precious to me than my own life. I stayed out of trouble in high school b/c losing my horse was a terrifying thought, and no amount of weed or sneaking out was worth that. I only wanted a driver's license and a car so I could drive myself to the barn whenever I wanted and stay as long as I liked.

I hid in my horse's stall and cried into her neck when my boyfriend dumped me. That was the only time she ever permitted me to hug her. I wonder if she knew.

People told me that having a horse would ground me, tie me down to a place and a life. That's okay, I would reply, I wouldn't have it any other way. It wouldn't be a life without horses in it, and if that means sacrificing other pleasures, than so be it. I have yet to find something worth trading horses.

We had our troubles, but Cherry was My Horse, something I'd been dying for since I first heard the story of Black Beauty as a 5 year old child, sick in bed with the flu.