Editor's Column
by Alyssa Brown
If my parents had known how consuming my equine addiction would become, they might have pushed harder for gymnastics.
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Mucking Stalls is Worth the Reward
My parents answered the question: "Why can't I get a horse?" countless times, never to my satisfaction.
Finally when I was 11, I achieved a small victory -- riding lessons. Hugging my shiny new helmet, I followed my mom from the car to the barn to meet Perky, the fuzzy brown Morgan that would become the hero of my dreams for the next six months.
I think if my parents had known how consuming my equine addiction would become, they might have pushed for gymnastics a little harder.
I learned to post a trot, cue for the canter, stop and turn.
To say riding lessons were the highlight of my life would be an understatement. I lived for Thursday mornings. The drive to and from the stable gave me 40 minutes to argue my need for my own horse, and I never left the opportunity unused.
In July, my aunt called. She breeds Arabians, and as seems to be the case with horse breeders, she had more horses on her hands than she knew what to do with. She asked my parents if they would let me take one of her ponies for a few months and perhaps buy it if things worked out. My parents said they'd consider her offer.
I haven't prayed as hard before or since as I prayed that night and the next two days that my parents would say yes. I found a stable near our house with reasonable board and took my mom to look at the place. I remember one of my parents saying, "Let's let her have the horse for a few months; she'll get tired of it."
So on a sticky July afternoon, I got the thing I had wanted more than any other: my own Black Beauty -- almost.
Triscuit was a pony, a good six inches shorter than the average horse. She was as fat and freckled as any pony I'd ever seen. Not exactly the Black Beauty I'd dreamed of. But some horse is better than none at all.
I got busy cleaning stalls to earn money. Eager to prove to my parents I was responsible enough to own a horse, I even made balloon animals for birthday parties. The work was hard, but my goal kept me going.
The blissful rides in verdant fields weren't like I'd imagined either. My first trail ride was a disaster. Triscuit ran away with me, and I saw my life flash before my eyes as we barreled along the sidewalk straight for an intersection. Fortunately, the grass beside the bike path she was running on became more interesting than galloping, and she stopped.
Summer surrendered to fall. Rather than tire of horses as my parents had hoped, I added a stall to the two I already cleaned and weekly twisted my balloons at a restaurant. I did my homework as quickly as possible so I could go to the barn.
My riding improved as Triscuit taught me things about horses only a patient pony and hours of circling the pasture can teach. Galloping bareback became fun instead of frightening. I even started jumping. Triscuit and I got our first blue ribbon in English equitation at a schooling show in December. We were finally a team.
I kept cleaning stalls and twisting balloons. A year-and-a-half after the mildly ornery freckle-faced pony came to me, she was officially mine.
Seeing my name in embossed letters on Triscuit's registration papers as "owner" was the most exciting moment of my life up to that point.
Mom was right when she told me the best things in life are worth working for. But like so many other lessons, I had to learn it for myself. Triscuit is still my teacher and has become my most constant friend. She is in every way worth the countless wheelbarrows of dirty shavings I pushed and balloon dogs I twisted. But through buying her myself, I got so much more than a pony.
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