I was 12 years old when we moved to Missouri and my family was befriended by an older farm couple. I babysat for their grandchildren and my brother helped walk beans, and the whole family was often treated to good old-fashioned homestyle meals. It was almost my favorite part of going out to the farm.
Almost.
The couple, Ralph and Patricia Grier, owned several horses, and being on their farm was the first time I'd seen a horse "up close and personal." I fell in love with their look, their smell, the way they would walk with you along the fenceline when they knew you had a pocket full of oats, or ignore you when they were pretty sure you didn't. Ralph knew I was enamored with his animals, and took it upon himself to teach me to ride. We went into countless pastures and fields, usually with each of us on our own horse but with Ralph holding the lead to mine, just in case. We spent innumerable Saturdays that first summer out in the fields, getting me ready to ride in the Labor Day Parade without a lead.
As Angela Moubry told me at the horse show, once you get that in your blood, it doesn't go away. A horse person is always a horse person, even if they no longer ride.
That first summer spawned a lifelong love and respect for horses, and led eventually to the best job a horse-loving teen could ever have. When I was 15, my friend Beth and I were wranglers at a YMCA camp near St. Joseph, Mo. What that basically meant was that we not only cared for the 16 horses and four ponies at the camp, but we led campers on trail rids Monday through Friday. From 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. we were horseback, with short breaks between groups. It was awesome.
It was also where I learned to respect a horse's temperament, size and strength. On one particularly hot trail ride, I was at the end of the group, watching for strays, when a stick I was swinging struck a branch of a tree -- and angered a group of bees swarming nearby. I tried my best to shoo them off, but one managed to sting my horse on the rear haunches. Up she went and down I fell -- right onto my own back haunch. The riders ahead of me all stopped and, not wanting to put fear into any of the kids on the other horses, I climbed right back up. It was a tender ride for the rest of the afternoon.
There are countless other stories -- when one horse almost broke my arm; late-night trail rides with camp leaders; or the time Beth and I got to deliver a colt because the mare went into labor when Beth's parents were out of town -- but there's only so much space and time.
Join me next week when I ask St. Patrick's Day parade watchers what they think "Erin Go Bragh!" really means.