Childhood Happiness and Dreams

What is Happiness?

 "Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud." –Maya Angelou.

When someone asks, “Are you happy?” I want to answer, “Right this minute? This week? Yesterday?"

Because I don’t believe anyone is happy all the time. Even when I was a child, I was not happy all the time. 

First, I had older brothers who loved to tease me. They often made my life miserable, and I had a father who seldom seemed happy. He was always worried and serious about the farm, the future of the farm, and the business he and his sons had built together. I believe he had an anger management issue. He was quick to take off his belt and whip one of his sons. In those days corporal discipline was accepted at home and in schools. Being compassionate and also concerned for myself, I often ran to my room and cried.   

Gay, my little sister, and I played together every day, and I enjoyed that. I suppose I was happy then, but I never asked myself, “Are you happy?”

 

My baby sister, Gay

Looking back, I remember having such fun playing with the bottles, my sister June’s cosmetic bottles on her dresser. We had to hurry and put them all back in place before she arrived home in the afternoon.

June Council my older sister

I was a happy little tyke when I rode Charlie, the big white horse, led home from the field by my father. After a long hot day of plowing the hard-packed dirt of South Georgia, both man and horse were wet with sweat and tired. But I felt like I was the king of the world sitting high on the horse, higher than I had ever been, and looking down on my father and all the world around me.

 

My love for horses never ended. As a teen, I borrowed a horse. 

The ride to the barn was short. There I was lifted off the horse, and Charlie was put into the large stall in the center of the barn. I don’t remember anyone ever brushing him or wiping him down. He was fed in a trough hanging on the wall of the stable and he could go outside to a water trough, a large syrup kettle which had been used by some farmer who raised cane and made cane syrup at harvest time each year. I never knew where it came from.

Glenda and Gay ready for school

 

I became terribly unhappy when I went to first grade at Mulberry Elementary School in east Albany. It was fine the first week. I enjoyed swinging in the large swing set on campus at recess. I learned to read quickly. I was placed in the reading group with the faster learners. I read the entire reading book right away and then class was boring. I hated to have to sit while others read haltingly about Dick and Jane and Spot, the dog. Run, Spot, run. Run, run Spot.

Looking back, I think that was my problem. At six years old, I was just bored with school. Reading was all we studied in first grade, and I found myself sitting and staring out the window most of the time. As I stared out the window, my mind wandered back to the farm, to my little sister, and to Mother. I became so unhappy I began to cry. When Mrs. Pate noticed me crying, she asked, “Glenda Lou, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

I told her I didn’t know but I wanted to go home. And that was the beginning of many years of being unhappy in school.

At home, once I learned to write in third grade, I found my happiness in writing stories in my composition book. Once I learned to read books that had once been read to me, I filled my time each summer devouring as many books as I was allowed to get off the bookmobile that came to our house on the farm. I lost myself in books about horses.  

Misty of Chincoteague by Marguerite Henry was published in 1947. When I learned to read, I devoured that book. The Black Stallion and The Black Stallion Returns by Walter Farley are two vintage books that were my favorites when I was a child.

My creative mind took me to places I had never been and had me doing things I had never done. I was happy then. I made myself a seat in the Chinaberry tree in our backyard and I would sit up there with birds around me and write stories about horses. 

I imagined a life with a horse of my own. That was my greatest desire, my own horse. I felt I would be completely happy if I only had my own horse. It would be many years before that desire was met.

Why Do You Write?

My students know that I am a follower of Bobbie Christmas, editor, and writer. She is one of the most astute people on the subject of writing that I know. I subscribe to her free newsletter and save every one of them for future reference. 

In a recent blog post, Bobbie answers questions from writers. She answers with a question of her own. Why do you write?

https://www.zebraeditor.com/blog/writing/

That is a good question to ask yourself if you are a beginning writer or if you have been writing for a while but are not sure what you want to write, who you are writing for and what you want to say. Successful writers make plans. They outline a book or have an idea of the ending before they write the first sentence.

When writing a memoir, I suggest the writer keep in mind the audience he expects to have for his book. When I wrote my family history, Profiles and Pedigrees, Descendants of Thomas Charles Council, I knew this book was for the Council family. I knew that the descendants of Thomas Charles and his ten children would be the people who would read this book. I have been very pleased when others have read it and found it interesting as well.

The memoir I am writing about my own life is for my family as well, but I hope it carries a theme that will appeal to others. What is my story? What theme will thread through the book or books? When writing memoirs one doesn't have to put it all in one book. In fact, I like to write about various parts of my life that are relatable to the lives of others. My childhood growing up in the deep south on a farm in the 1950s is like historical writing to most people alive today. What makes my life unique is my family, my place in my family, my father's illness, four much older brothers, my sister, 15 years older than I, and my baby sister. The setting for this memoir is a 125-acre farm in deep south Georgia. My stories are about the relationships with my parents and my siblings, my love for pets, especially horses, and all the years I longed for my own horse, but could not have one. A horse just for me to ride was a ridiculous idea that would cost far too much. 

I hope I can write this story well enough that my readers will feel the emotion stirring in them, will hope that this child will someday have that pony she dreams about. I want my readers to understand that no one was punishing me. They just looked at it from a monetary viewpoint. "A horse eats as much as a cow. But the cow can be sold for a profit or killed for meat for the family."

So, I hope I can hook readers and they will find my stories interesting. 

As I plan to teach a class in March for the Carl Sandburg Home Historic Site, I want to motivate and inspire the students to write and know why they write.  

We all have unique stories to tell. What is your story and who are your readers?

Digging up Memories and Planning for New Ones

I have been working on ways to improve my blogs and website this past week. I have changed my website, www.glendacouncilbeall.com and I like the new colors which make it easier to read. I was thinking about hiring someone to update my pages, but upon looking around, I find I like what I have and it works for me.

I would like your opinion. If you think I could improve my blogs by making them more modern in appearance, please let me know.

I am thinking about opening my studio again but just for online classes. Now that I have found Zoom is so easy to use for most of us, I can hold virtual classes and host other writers who teach. 

The Zoom format would work well for me because I can hold those classes from home or from my sister's house or wherever I might be. 

I went down to my studio this afternoon and worked about four hours going through files, discarding papers I no longer need and surprising myself when I found little treasures that have been buried in that file cabinet for much too long. 

I began publishing poetry and short nonfiction in 1996 after taking classes with poet, Nancy Simpson, my mentor and my friend who is gone now. In my files are encouraging notes from her complimenting me on my poetry. I also kept her handouts and used them when teaching poetry to beginners. So many memories turn up when we delve into those folders where we tucked them away long ago.

As we age, we can not do all the things we once did. 

Like my friend who was a skydiver said on her blog, those days are gone now, but she has wonderful memories that will always be with her. 

This is a portrait of Pretty Thing done by my sister, Gay Moring

My memories of my horse, Pretty Thing, still linger in my mind and in my heart. A sorrel mare with a blaze, she was perfect for me. She came to our farm when she was a two-year-old.

I had her for twenty-eight years and she was a wonderful friend. I can't ride now. The last time I got on a horse and rode for an hour, I had to have help getting out of the saddle. Then I had to have help for a minute to make my knees work.

I am accepting the loss of those activities I loved when I was young and those activities I enjoyed here in my studio. But, with the new technology, I can continue with my Writers Circle Around the Table. Maybe this summer or fall will be a renewal for me and I can invite those excellent writers and poets who live in distant places to join me here in western North Carolina while they sit at their computer at their home. 

My friends, thank you for visiting me here. I hope you will subscribe to my blog and even though Google is going to stop sending you emails when I post, I will find a new way to keep you informed.

Have a great week.

 

Grief, mourning and going on with life

My readers know I love animals, especially dogs and horses. My horse, Pretty Thing, lived to be 32 years old and was my darling. My poodle, Brandy, lived to be 19 years old. 

All of our pets except for one, lived to ripe old age. They were treated well, fed well and well-loved. We had the reputation of having pets that lived forever.

But, no matter how old they are, when it is time to let them pass on or when they die unexpectedly as our Nikki did, we grieve. We grieve as we would if any family member was gone. 

Over the years I have made a study of grief and why we grieve more over some and not so much over others although we loved them all.

The first person that I knew well and loved dearly, and who died suddenly in his fifties, was my brother-in-law, Stan. I was about six or seven years old when he burst into our family with his big smile, his boisterous nature, his laughter, and his hugs. I knew and loved him as much as I did any of my brothers for two decades and more. So I grieved and mourned his passing deeply. His presence in my life was far bigger than anyone knew. I think of him as the loving father I didn't have and the big brother who was not embarrassed to show his love for me. His passing left a place that can't be filled. 

Brandy, my black miniature poodle, was the first big loss in my animal family. You can find his shortened story in Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins, Family Pets and God's Other Creatures. This little fellow was a wedding gift to me from my husband, Barry. I liken living with Brandy to raising a wild, but precious boy-child. He was not obedient and was very destructive, causing us to have to move to the country when he demolished our first apartment.

Brandy lived on the edge. When he had the opportunity to take a risk, he did it. The cows grazed quietly in the pasture near our house. They were enclosed by a three-strand barbed-wire fence.  Of course the fence meant nothing to my dog. And the cows looked much to peaceful and content to him. If he was outside his pen, he didn't waste time scooting under the barbed wire and making a bee line for the herd. 

As I stood yelling and screaming at him to come back, Brandy circled the bovines barking at the top of his lungs. At first they ignored him, but, I suppose his noise-making got under their skin. Eventually one of the black and white milk cows had enough. She raised her head, looked at the yapping dog, and headed straight for him. That was the signal, it seemed, for the other cows to do the same. Big heads came up and the entire herd of forty started toward the little black dog.

Back in my yard, I continued to yell at Brandy. Now I was calling, "Brandy, come here" "Brandy run! Run, run, run!"

The mischievous little guy got just what he wanted. Every single cow was now after him, chasing him across the pasture. Brandy knew where he was going and they followed. At times I thought they were gaining and were going to trample him, but he stayed just about ten feet ahead of the lead cow, looking back from time to time, his red tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

He came home just as I wanted, but he brought an entourage of hoof beats from forty beasts pounding right behind him.

I stood rigid, holding my breath, scared senseless, and praying that my little buddy would make it. Afraid to look! I could not stand to see his body mangled by the sharp hooves. 

But Brandy was shrewd. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I am sure he was laughing in his own doggy way.

He slowed down just enough to let the cows think they were going to get him, and then he skittered under the bottom strand of wire with their hot breath on his curly coat. 

He ran around the yard, then jumped up on me. I knew what he was thinking. "See Momma, I didn't get hurt, and I had a lot of fun."

Brandy Beall lived to be nineteen years old, was nearly blind and totally deaf. I found him stretched out on the carpet in my bedroom one rainy afternoon. He didn't wake up.

My days and my nights were not the same without Brandy. I missed him so much I could not speak his name or talk about him to others for months. 

I believe we grieve most those whose lives are entwined with our own, those whose very existence is a part of who we are. Husbands and wives miss each other more because they have become almost one person over the years as my husband and I did. When everywhere you look, everything you see, touch or feel reminds you of your loss, the pain just grows deeper.

I know that Stan, my brother-in-law, made a giant impression on me from the earliest days of knowing him. What made him most special to me, when I was a kid, was he listened to me. I could tell him what vexed me and what made me happy. He knew what I loved and what I did not love, what I feared and what I was not scared of. He approved of me and let me know it. When he didn't approve, he let me know. His death left a hole in my life too big to ever be replaced. 

My little Brandy gave me memories I still cherish and always will. He loved me unconditionally, as our dogs usually do. He and I were so attached that I often think Barry was jealous of my attention to him.

For months I would forget he was gone. I looked for him around me, expecting him to be near me. Then the punch in the gut came, feeling the emptiness when it dawned on me that I had buried him out by the stable. 

They say that tears of grief are just ways of showing you loved someone, and I shed many when I lost my three brothers, my sister, my dear sister-in-law, my parents and my beloved husband.  I didn't think I could endure all those losses of people I love. But I have. What choice do I have?

I have lost my sweet, loving Samoyd, Kodi, and Rocky, the best dog ever.

I grieved more and more. So much sadness, and I still cry over those I loved, human and animal, who have gone on. But each day arrives with new possibilities. 

What will I learn today? What can I do, what will I do, today that might make a difference? I know I will mourn for the rest of my life, but somehow, I found a way to departmentalize grief while going on with living. I hurt for those who cannot do that. 

I hope your holidays will be happy and filled with fun and good memories. Make great memories this year. Don't let petty things from the past cause hurt feelings or sadness. I found that being thankful for my family, my friends and for still being alive on this earth to enjoy each sunrise and each sunset gives me peace. 

“Pretty Thing” portrait by Gay Council Moring

This lovely horse arrived at the Council Farm when she was two years old.

She came from a farmer who lived nearby. My brother, Max, bought her to use as a cattle horse, to drive the milk cows from the pasture each morning and to use anytime cattle needed to be moved from pasture to pasture.

The filly was only two years old and but was well trained. Her name was Princess. I was in college and only home on weekends and holidays, but I fell in love with her. She was a chestnut with a blaze running down her nose and three white stockings. I thought she was the most beautiful horse I had ever seen. I found myself calling her Pretty Thing instead of Princess.

“Come here, you pretty thing,” I’d say.

Although she didn’t officially belong to me, I became possessive of her. My father and older brother would not buy me a horse although I had always wanted my own. A horse was as expensive to keep and feed as a cow and not productive, they decided. 

I borrowed horses to ride as a kid, and once we kept a very nice horse on the farm a couple of years. It broke my heart when the owner took her away. I had named her Dawn. She was gentle but not hard to push into a gallop. My friends had fine horses to ride and did not care nearly as much about them as I would have mine.

The summer after I graduated from college, my brother, Max, told me Pretty Thing was mine. He bought another horse for the farm. I was on cloud nine. 
I spent all that summer riding and training her to shake hands, to count and do other tricks. She was extremely smart. I am convinced she thought out what she wanted and learned to demand it. I had to be careful that she did not outsmart me which she often tried to do.

When I married the following summer, she came to live with me. I could see her every day and feed her, brush her and kiss her nose. I adored my horse. Before long, my husband had bought his first horse, so Pretty Thing had a friend in the pasture. There was no doubt that she was the alpha horse. The big black and white gelding gave way when she wanted attention.

We spent many happy hours on horseback, riding a twenty mile day trip, trekking through the woods where we watched the wild life in the trees and on the ground. The small creatures were not afraid of the horses and Barry and I were quiet. A huge gray fox squirrel sat on the pond’s edge drinking, his full bushy tail, like a woman’s stole.  A barred owl perched in a tree near the stable at dusk as we headed back to the house.

I have many stories about Pretty Thing. She was cursed by a farrier putting on her horse shoes because she turned and bit him on the backside while he held her front foot between his legs. "I hate these backyard pets," he growled.

At times I drove my little white convertible into the pasture just to visit with her and take her some treats. For no reason I could fathom, she bit a hole in the top of my car. And, another day, my poodle, Brandy, who was jealous of Pretty Thing, jumped up and bit the horse on the nose.

She had some funny habits. If she walked into a stream, she buried her whole head in the water and wagged it back and forth, spraying water all over me, the rider. She did the same thing at her water trough. I think she just liked to wash her face when she got the chance.

She would come to me when I called her, but if I walked up to her in the pasture with a bridle in my hand, she would not cooperate unless I had a good treat in my hand.

Pretty Thing was an excellent cow pony. She knew how to herd cattle and one day when the bovines were not moving fast enough for her, she reached out and nipped one on the flank. She and I had a couple of spills. Once she slipped on wet leaves when making a sharp turn and fell flat on her side. My foot was caught under her and I hobbled on crutches for a couple of months. Another time, the saddle was not tight enough when she made a quick turn while driving cattle. The saddle rolled under and I with it. Afraid to turn loose and be trampled by her flying hooves, I held on too long. When I had to let go, her hind foot flew right over my head. I think she made sure she didn't hit me with her hoof. She continued after the cattle while I sprawled in the grass. I was not hurt. Well, only my pride. 

My lovely steed grew old and eventually just lazed in the pasture most of the time. At the age of thirty-two, she had lost so much weight she looked like a foal. My vet said he couldn’t do more for her and suggested I put her down. The day I saw her eat her feed, then regurgitate, I knew it was time.

We buried her in the pasture where I had watched her graze so many years. I could not do it. I had to call others to take her to the grave that had been prepared. She was given a shot that buckled her knees and when she had drawn her last breath, she was buried. I watched from my window, tears streaming down my face. I still cry as I write about that day.

My sister Gay and her husband Stu

My sister, Gay, an artist, did the portrait of Pretty Thing, in pencil. It hangs in my house at the end of the hall where I see it all the time. My pretty mare looks so real I can almost hear her snuffle a greeting when I walk by. I admit, I sometimes talk to her.

Sharing photos of animals with their own unique stories

For as long as I can remember, I have had a special feeling for most animals, especially horses and dogs. I also adore little kittens. When Gay and I were little girls, we played in the hay loft with the kittens that lived there. Although they were not tame, they were not so wild that they didn't let us hold them. 

My first experience with horses came when my father lifted me up to ride on the sweaty back of Charlie, the farm work horse. Charlie was a terror when he was first hitched up to a plow, and my daddy had his hands full as he tried to keep Charlie calm. The big white horse was known to run away with the plow flying in the air behind him. To keep Charlie in line, Daddy hitched a mule next to the big white horse. Together the two worked well and Charlie did not run away anymore.

One might wonder why a small child would be hoisted up on the back of such an animal, but by late in the afternoon, Charlie was tired and only looking to reaching the barn and his feed. Besides he was being led and no longer hitched to a heavy plow.

When I was older and learned to read, I found every book on horses that was available on the bookmobile or at the school library. The most popular horse book was the one I liked less, Black Beauty. 

Daddy liked dogs and our family always had a dog - that is until the family pet was run over by a car or lost its life someway. I heard a story about a bulldog who was important to our family. I was not born yet when this dog stepped between my brother, Rex, who was a little fellow, and a rattle snake. The dog was bitten and he later died. 

My brothers didn't seem to have the urge to pet and show affection for dogs like Daddy did. To some of them, dogs were livestock, like cows and hogs, that were put on earth for use, but not to love. 

Tiger, the bob tailed cat was Barry's loving, sweet pet.

Gay, on the left, in the middle, Dixie, and on the right is
Glenda. This pretty dog belonged to Aunt Judy. When Dixie died,
Aunt Judy never had another dog. "It hurts too bad when you lose them," she said. 

Ray, my oldest brother, had a small dog he adored in the later years of his life. None of my siblings cared about canines the way Gay and I did. We had dogs to play with when we were little and, although they were never allowed inside the house, we loved Fluffy, Turbo, a black English cocker spaniel given to my sister, June, and even Brit, the shepherd that was bought to drive cattle. Too bad none of my family had a clue about how to train the puppy. 

I vowed to myself that I would someday have my own little dog that would be with me all the time or as much time as possible. When I married a man who loved dogs, who gave me my own little bundle of fur, and I was in Heaven. I raised a miniature black poodle we named Brandy. We had him until he was nineteen years old. He died in his sleep. Losing one of them, no matter how old, is heartbreaking. It is like losing a member of the family.

At this link, you will find photos of some of the animals that touched my life. 

Do you have any stories about your pets, dogs, cats, rabbits, horses, goats, chickens, and domesticated wild animals? We would love for you to share them here on our blog.

My Life with My Animals

When I married, my husband, Barry gave me a miniature black poodle. We named him Brandy. We did not have children and Brandy became the third member of our family. We loved him dearly and enjoyed his playfulness and his outrageous behavior. Even my mother who never let a dog in her house, welcomed Brandy and even fed him buttered biscuits in her kitchen.

Here I am with Brandy, but he was so black Barry could
never get a good picture of him.

One day we went to the dairy barn and brought home a young cat. She was pretty and sweet, but covered in fleas. I almost poisoned her trying to de-flea her, but she survived and eventually brought into our house five kittens. They were born in a hollow tree in our yard on a weekend when we were out of town. To our surprise as soon as we pulled into our driveway and opened the car door, Mama Cat appeared with a kitten in her mouth. She followed us into the house. She headed straight to the guest room and carried her baby under the bed.She made the short trip five times as if she had planned all along that the guest room was where she was supposed to raise her little family.

We kept one of those kittens, a beautiful orange and white cat with a short little nose and long hair. Her name was Queenie. She was a small cat and we had her and her mother spayed so we had no more kittens for a long time.

One of my favorite animals was my horse, Pretty Thing. I got her when she was three years old, but I had been riding her since she was two years old and used on the farm to drive cattle. Our pets live long lives and Pretty Thing outlived all of them. I had to put her down when she was thirty-two years old, one of the saddest days of my life. 

She had been a major part of my life from the time I graduated from college. Pretty Thing was a chestnut with a milky blaze poured down her muzzle. She had three white stockings also. Her ancestry was quarter horse and she had been well trained to drive cattle. If she wanted one of them to move she would reach out and nip the bovine on the back. She could turn on a dime and I had to learn to sit tight and not fall off. The only time I had a bad fall from her back was when she fell on slippery wet leaves and my foot was caught under her weight. 

Brandy lived to be 19 years old. Losing him was not unexpected, but I grieved over him for months. I could not talk about him without crying. We had gotten our first Samoyed just before Brandy died. The new pup was named Nicki. In the book Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins; Family Pets and God's Other Creatures I write about Nicki and the day he was stolen from our farm. A Sammy puppy is the cutest and prettiest little thing in this world. A solid white furry mass of cute. You can see the second Samoyed puppy, Kodi, in the book. Kodi is also the gorgeous dog on the front of our book.

To see some photos of animals Barry and I loved and some I have wanted for my own, visit this page.

Life-long Love for Horses

Yesterday my cousin Pam said she had accomplished something on her bucket list. She bought a horse. Not just any horse, but a Paso Fino, one of the finest riding horses. I have always wanted to ride a Paso Fino. They are small horses with a gait so smooth a rider can hold a tray with a glass of wine in one hand and not spill a drop.

Pam rescued her three year old from a horse farm in Florida where the owners lost the farm through foreclosure and abandoned the horses. Now, Pam is not a young girl, though she looks younger than her years, and she has not yet ridden the horse, but she is doing what I would do if I had the land to keep a horse. She goes out to the farm and feeds him, she takes him for walks, loves on him and brushes him.

She watches him run in the pasture and says he has made her extremely happy. I can believe that. Horses are the most beautiful animals in the world to me. I can sit in a field and watch horses graze and I smile. From the age of ten, I wanted nothing as much as I wanted my own horse. I didn't get that horse until I graduated from college, but she was worth waiting for. My beloved mare, Pretty Thing, came into my life, thanks to my brother, Max, and a thirty year love affair began. When she was thirty-two years old, thin and frail, I had to put her down. It broke my heart, but she left me some great memories. 

Someone who knows I have had a life-long love for horses sent me the following link:

http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/Y5XJbSqwriM?rel=0

These are some of the most beautiful animals I've ever seen. If you

want to be impressed and awed by them, watch this video.

Cat stories - Tiger is a special Cat

I am passionate about animals, especially dogs and cats and horses. Today I met a lady at an assisted living facility. Beside her on the pristine sofa sat a black weiner dog, so well behaved I was amazed.

She said dogs were allowed in this lovely place and I was happy to hear that. I hope if I am ever living in such a place that I will be able to have a little dog with me.


I lost my beloved Rocky to a terrible illness that seemed like a brain tumor. Tiger my cat now rules the roost at this house. She follows me around the house and sleeps in the room I settle in. At night she likes to be on my bed. Although she has a pet door, she has trained me to get up and let her in and out. I think cats have extra powers that humans and dogs don't have.
I read a wonderful story by Gary Carden about his cat, Booger.
You can read it here. http://hollernotes.blogspot.com/2012/03/saga-of-booger-my-cat.html?showComment=1332909690609#c4432190223459307634http://hollernotes.blogspot.com/2012/03/saga-of-booger-my-cat.html?showComment=1332909690609#c4432190223459307634




Below are some photos of Tiger, resident cat at Writers Circle.

Coat looks lovely since she began eating chicken tartar

Tiger slept on top of a cassette player with a makeup bag on top of it. She found this a refuge from the visiting dogs

Horses - one of my passions

From the back deck of our cabin in West VA, Barry captured the beauty of three horses we enjoyed watching every day. I yearned to go out and caress their smooth necks and smell the velvety noses. Did you know that the little muzzle of a foal or young colt smells differently from an adult horse? Down on the farm were I grew up and lived for most of my life, the pastures were home to many horses and each spring as I drove from my house to the "hard road" I looked for the new foals - all colors and sizes; The babies learning to scamper around on long unwieldy legs and the two or three week old young ones running and kicking up their heels, nipping and playful, unafraid and free. No more beautiful sight to me than horses running loose.

On vacation in West Virginia our cabin was encircled by a large pasture where several fine horses grazed. Like enjoying a painting, my mind quiets and soaks in contentment when I watch horses. To me the horse is the most beautiful animal on earth and I've been in love with them all my life.

In Love with Horses

When I was a child I fell in love with horses. One of my earliest memories is riding a big white horse named Charlie as Daddy led him to the barn after working in the field. He was sweaty, and his white hair stuck to my bare legs. I thought he smelled devine. I grasped the two short stubs of harness at the top of the hames. They stuck up perfectly, like handlebars made just for me.

In third grade, on the inside cover of my arithmetic book (math was called arithmetic) was a picture of children walking through a lovely woods, and in the center of the drawing was a black and white pony. Such a beautiful little thing and in my imagination I became the child upon his back. Daydreaming instead of listening was my downfall. I should have been learning addition, subtraction and division, but my mind drifted far away to a place where I had no school, only free time to ride my black and white pony. With my mind so far from the classroom, math had no chance of setting up residence in my brain. I blame my lack of math skills, even today, on that book.

I was fortunate that I did have a horse to ride -- a big fat plow horse named Daisy. I was ashamed riding a work horse when my friends rode sleek, long-legged horses who ran like the wind. Daisy refused to move any faster than a trot, and then only after I slapped her neck over and over with the leather reins.

My friend Margaret, rode a sorrell named Molly. Oh how I envied her that horse. I would lie awake at night and imagine riding across the pasture on such a horse, a horse that I owned. I never wanted her horse, but I wanted one just like Molly, only black. Then Margaret and I could ride together.

At night I'd ask God in my prayers, "Why do you let Margaret have such a fine animal when she doesn't love horses like I do?"

She often came by my house and asked me to climb on behind her for a ride. One day we were riding double, me on the back behind the saddle. Margaret rode her horse, Molly, at a steady hard gallop for two miles or more without stopping. I feared injuring the horse, but we did not stop until I found myself flying over Margaret as Molly's head went down and she flipped over. She either stepped in a hole or her front legs buckled from fatigue. I'm still amazed that neither my friend nor I was hurt. Amazing also was the red horse, her sweat-soaked body now crimson, who clambered to her feet, without an injury of any kind.

That's why I told God that Margaret didn't love horses as I did.

Many horses passed through my life, but the only one I could ever claim as my very own and the one I loved for 30 years, was "Pretty Thing" a mischievous and delightful two year old given to me when I was fresh out of college. But I 'll save our love story for another day.

You can read one of my horse stories in a Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers, published by Adams Media.

They are available in large book stores.