There must be a better way

The barn I take lessons at is an hour away, so it's not an easy trip. It involves a lot of gas, usually a meal out, a cranky husband and at least one cranky kid. My husband was convinced there must be a better, cheaper, easier way for me to ride than to trek out there every week.

Of course, there would be. If we owned a horse and had it closer. We could lease a horse, and go whenever we wanted or whenever was convient. That would be more gas, though. Probably more meals out. I called and asked the barn owner if he knew of any horses for sale or lease cheap. That morning one of his boarders told him she had to sell her horse. I went out to see him. He was cheap. She agreed to come down a lot because I had cash. We could buy him and then move him someplace closer to us. I set up a time to go out with the instructor and ride him. He was a very, very big horse. He was very cranky. He did okay at first, and then took off like a bat out of hell and would not stop. He could only go so far and had to stop before he ran into something. Being the tenacious person I am, we tried this three or four times before I realized he wasn't going to stop. Three other girls rode him, one of them who rode him bareback on a pretty regular basis. He did the same thing to all of them.

So he's having a bad day. They all swore it was completely unlike him. But I was pretty sure he was a no. I didn't feel that I had the experience needed to ride him, and I certainly didn't want my daughter on him. His owner insisted she would come out on Saturday and we'd do it again, this time with her there. So out she comes, with a bag of treats. She tells me all the things you have to say to him first, and do first, and then she says she's been in an accident and can't ride and that's why she's selling him. So, we tack him up, I lead him out. He's already snorting. I get on, and we have a repeat of the previous time. His owner is sure I'm doing something wrong. (I'd already thought that the first day, until he did the exact same thing to three other girls who RODE him often.)

She says, "Do you want me to ride him?"

I told her "You're hurt and I'm not going to ask you to. But he's your horse, so if you wanna ride him, go ahead."

She marches over, I get down. She gets on him. They do a walk around the arena and he does the same thing to her. Over, and over, and over. She did her best to convince me that he just "needed this that and the other" and he'd be fine, and I most certainly could ride him. I told her that I didn't feel that I was a good enough rider for him, she insisted I was, I told her sorry, but no. I didn't feel comfortable putting my child on him if he was going to repeatedly do that.

She gave me some snarky comment like "I'm sorry you don't like my horse, he really is a good boy," while she was trying to make him stop running.

I told her, "It's not that I don't like your horse. I think he's a fine horse. He's just not the one for us."

I began looking for a place to board a horse closer to home, and started watching horse ads in our area. Surely something would come along.

A dream, realized

When I was a little girl, all I wanted was a horse. What little girl doesn't? I broke my Barbie's horse's leg when I was about 7, because I tried to ride it. We super-glued the leg back on. Unicorns covered my room, beautiful, magical horses with a perfect spiral horn that gave off shimmering rays of light. Their majestic manes blowing in the wind, wreaths of flowers around their necks, ribbons braided into their tails. They were on my sheets, on my walls, on my shelves, in my heart.

One of my earliest drawings (okay, it was really just a scribble) that my mom kept was a horse. How do I know? My mom says I asked her for my "'orsey" for days until she offered me the piece of paper I'd drawn on. She discovered that was what I had been asking for, and wrote under my little drawing "Horsey." That piece of paper is still around someplace.

All my life, I wanted a horse and I wanted to ride. I read Black Beauty a thousand times. I owned several copies. I checked out those "Learn to Draw a Horse" books from the library. I was never able to draw anything that even closely resembled a horse. Every birthday wish was for a horse.

We lived in town, there was no place to keep a horse. With adulthood and responsibilities of children and a family to take care of, the horse was a dream just pushed to the back of my heart. It shared space with all the other unfulfilled dreams and plans I'd had. The pictures came down, the sheets were folded in a closet somewhere, the stuffed animals and the porcelain figurines were packed away into boxes and lost along the way.

Life happened, and it happened hard, for a long time.

My youngest daughter saw horses everywhere we went. She wanted them all. Stuffed horses, pictures of horses, books about horses, tiny little plastic horses. She slept with as many horses as she could get piled into her bed with her. Her birthday was coming and I thought maybe riding lessons were in order. I knew she'd love it, but we hit a snag. She was too young for lessons. We live in a really small area and the riding instructor who had given lessons to her age group had "Decided to go to ECU to become a nurse." This was, of course, told to me with much disdain.

One of the stable owners I called suggested I take lessons instead, then I could help my daughter learn. The instructor called, she was new and had a lady who was much like me, new to horses and wanted to learn and was interested in a Saturday morning class. An hour a week, on Saturday mornings. All I could think was "An hour on a horse away from the kids. I am so in." She said she'd see what she could work out for a Saturday old-ladies class and would let me know. (Okay, she really didn't say the old-ladies part.)

Then I realized something. What if I was too fat to ride a horse? I could imagine showing up at some fancy barn with beautiful stables and dozens of perfect, gorgeous horses being ridden by well-toned, extremely athletic, perfectly-in-shape men and women. I imagined going up to someone and saying "I'm here for riding lessons" and them either:

1. laughing at me.

2. telling me I was way too fat to ride a horse and then laughing at me while all the other people in the barn laughed and pointed.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I called my mom. "Am I too fat to ride a horse?" My mom is a little woman. When she was riding horses before she had us kids, she weighted 100lbs fully clothed and soaking wet. "Honestly, I wouldn't ride a horse at your weight." My euphoria was gone. Okay, so I'll lose some weight, I was going to anyway, this is just more incentive.

Then I realized something else. I had to tell that riding instructor that I was too fat. That was harder than knowing I was too fat to ride. I had to actually verbalize it.

Thank god she didn't answer her phone and I got her voice mail. I think I'd have cried if she answered. I left a light-hearted message that I had realized I was probably much too overweight to ride a horse, and that it probably wouldn't be a good idea unless they happened to have a Clydesdale. Given that they probably didn't, I didn't want to hurt a horse or have the ASPCA called on me for animal torture, and so I was going to have to pass on the riding lessons.

I hung up the phone, thanked God that I'd never met this woman, that I'd never shown up at the fancy stables and been laughed at, and that I never had to talk to her again. Until she called back about an hour later.

She was awfully sweet about it, and asked without being rude how much I weighed. I told her. She told me what she weighed, which wasn't as much as I did, but wasn't that far away either, and that she rode without any problems, and that horses could carry full-grown men and all their stuff and asked me if I'd just come try. She had a horse in mind that was good, and well-built with a wide back (Good for that, cause my wide ass was gonna need it), not some tiny little Arabian fine-boned horse that I'd feel huge on.

So I agreed to one lesson. I'll go make a fool of myself once. I begged my husband not to stay and watch, because I knew I'd be mortified trying to get into the saddle. I searched mid-summer for a pair of boots. I bought a "high-impact" bra that didn't do much of anything. I steeled myself with the knowledge that at least the other lady going would be older than me.

I went. I fell in love. His name was Ranger. He was a gentle, smart, stubborn Appaloosa Quarter Horse cross. He had a spotted butt that was somehow really endearing. He had a sweet face. He didn't cry when he saw me coming. He didn't groan and collapse when I sat in the saddle. We had a nice ride, it felt like something I'd been doing my entire life. My knees cramped like crazy towards the end and I was shaky when I finally slid off. He didn't weep tears of joy when I got down. I apologized to him a hundred times and promised I'd bring him apples next time, and agreed to another lesson the following Saturday morning.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was excited. I was living for Saturday. I loved everything about it. I loved how he smelled, how his coat would shine after I'd groomed him, how his ears would turn to listen to me as I whispered how grateful I was to him for letting me ride him. I loved how he made me work, and learn. He was an incredible horse. I only got a handful of lessons with him, but I loved him. He was struck by lightning in a storm and killed. My husband, supportive man that he is, said I should have taken it as a sign when my lesson horse was struck by lightning.

The only sign I saw was that I was happier, I was less bitchy, I was looking forward to something I enjoyed and that made everything else seem a little less bad.

About this blog

The pieces will fit together at some point, the lines will be drawn and everything will fall into place. But not today. There's much too much to go into. There's too much heartache and injustice and pain to handle or believe all at once. And that's not the point of this blog anyway.

Facts:

I made some bad decisions.

I made some good decisions.

I made some bad decisions that I thought were good decisions.

I have six children. Four from my first marriage, and two from my present marriage.

My four oldest children live with their father.

I miss them dearly, every day and love them with all my heart.

I suffered from PTSD for many years as a result of my first marriage and the subsequent happenings (divorce, custody battles, etc).

I'm starting to feel alive again, almost six years later.

A phone call from a riding instructor made more difference than years of therapy and medications ever did.