In a world full of princesses, I was always a cowgirl. While most little girls dreamed of dolls and dresses, I dreamed of horses. I collected statues of horses, and my bookshelf was filled with horse stories. A most cherished Christmas gift was Misty of Chincoteague. I spent hours astride an old army saddle on the railing of our porch, and the neighbors would wave and call out, “Hello, Dale Evans!” I waited impatiently for My Friend Flicka and Black Beauty to come to our local theater. I always dreamed that someday, one day, I would gallop across fields on my own horse.
On my eighth birthday, I blew out the candles on my cake, making the wish I made every year: Please can I have a horse. When I opened my eyes this time, I had no idea how my world was about to change. Indeed, my gift on my eighth birthday was a horse.
That first horse was a jumper named Red. He measured almost eighteen hands and was way too much horse for a little girl. My parents were not horse people and thought any horse would satisfy a little girl’s dream. He came with a flat saddle and a bridle with two bits. I had to coax and cajole him to stand next to a gate so I could climb on and then hang on because he went where he wanted after that.
It soon became evident that a trade for a smaller, less spirited animal might be beneficial. The trade was made for the perfect little girl’s horse—Queen. Before we met, quite probably Queen was destined for an unhappy end. She was an old saddle horse, limited by ring bone and living in a world of men who cared but scantily for a little girl’s dreams. Her chances were running out.
An old stock truck braked on the road, engine rumbling. The vehicle turned and rattled down the drive of my grandparents’ farm. With my pocket filled with sugar cubes, I awaited Queen’s arrival.
“This here your horse?” the driver hollered at my grandfather as he climbed down out of the truck.
“I believe it is. Well, she belongs to this little girl.” Grandpa tugged at my pigtail.
In my grandpa’s life, horses were for work. All livestock was a commodity. The animals on the farm were well cared for, but they produced: horses worked, cows gave milk, pigs provided bacon, and chickens laid eggs. Now he stood beside me, welcoming a pet, a creature that would produce little except joy.
The driver, dressed in worn bib overalls, a plaid work shirt, and a battered brimmed felt hat, lowered the ramp and locked two side rails in place. He walked up the ramp. “Get over, you old fleabag,” he muttered. I heard a loud slap, and then he led my horse down the steep ramp.
To me she was perfect—coal black and beautiful. My black beauty. The truck driver handed me the lead rope and without a word folded the ramp and drove off. Queen put her soft muzzle against my cheek, wiggling her lips to tickle my face. I pushed my hand into the pocket of my jeans and thrust a sugar cube out in my open hand. She nibbled the sweet treat.
In the months and years that followed, Queen and I would share endless miles and countless adventures. Queen would build my confidence, push my boundaries, and expand my skills and knowledge. I would care for her, love her, and ensure her safety.
Queen always loved the opportunity for a treat, an ice cream cone, an egg, or molasses drizzled on her grain. Gifts to reward her loyalty and trustworthiness. We once rode twenty miles in a blinding snowstorm to participate in the Maple Syrup Festival in a neighboring community. Upon arrival, we found a barn for shelter and ate pancakes dripping with syrup together. That was all she asked for her efforts.
Queen was not only dependable under saddle but became the community sweetheart by pulling a “surrey with the fringe on top” in every holiday parade. She wore ribbons in her mane and a carnation on either side of her bridle, and she held her head high as paradegoers along the route applauded. I’m sure she felt her stardom, her royalty.
Recently my brother passed away, and at the memorial, his friend since college shared a favorite Queen story. Sixty years earlier, this man’s wife had been riding Queen when the horse stepped in a sinkhole created by a broken drain tile. Queen quickly sank to her belly. When I reached the scene, my heart was broken. I could not imagine a way to free the horse without injury or death. As I sank into the mire by her side, I stroked her head and neck in an attempt to calm her fears. Tears rolled off my cheeks and dripped into the muck as I clawed at the sludge around her legs. Eventually my brother and his friends joined me. Then a tractor arrived. With a sling around her mud-covered rump, we slowly aided Queen’s own efforts to be free from the mire. Once on solid ground, my horse shook, mud flying, and nickered softly as I stroked her neck. Once again, Queen was rescued.
When I was twelve years old, my desire to become a cowgirl was finally realized. I was sitting in class, and a note arrived from the principal—I was to go to the office immediately. My classmates chided me as I gathered my books. “You’re in trouble now.”
But the reality was my grandpa’s cattle had escaped their pen, and I was summoned to help round them up. I saddled Queen and headed across the field in pursuit of the fugitive steers. After chasing for what seemed like hours, it was not working like the cowboy shows. These steers ran in opposing directions with me in a desperate chase. Queen was getting tired, and I was discouraged, so we turned toward the farm to get more help. I looked over my shoulder to see the twelve steers fall in line behind me. We rode into the pen, followed by the steers, to a hero’s welcome.
Some little girls outgrow their love for horses. Mine remained for a lifetime. Queen was my partner until one day, when I was in college, my dad came to see me and delivered the heartbreaking news that “Old Queen” had died. “She just didn’t wake up one morning,” Dad told me as he gave me a hug.
So much of who I am today grew from those days with my horse at my grandparents’ farm. I may have been her second chance, but she was my dream.