The book I’m working this morning took me back, way back. “The Principle of Horseshoeing” by Doug Butler has me dreaming.

Long ago and far away, I rode horses. I took riding lessons on a giant Belgium draft named Chestnut. He was blind in one eye and my little twelve-year-old legs barely reached his sides. I learned how to get this gentle giant to perform the most intricate dressage patterns. I would bring him apples and carrots for treats and he would return the favor with giant horsey love. My riding instructor was this cute teenager, probably one of my first few girl crushes. She had long, shining blonde hair. She was very proud of me and we often went on riding excursions, just the two of us.

My grandmother would go over to the Alpha Beta everyday and sit at the lunch counter for a couple of hours in the afternoon. She used to be a waitress in a diner back in the day and found the camaraderie there stimulating. One of the fellows was a traveling farrier. A thin man with black hair and black rim glasses, he was as kind as his hands were calloused. My grandmother encouraged me to befriend him. He told me he’d like me to be his apprentice. He took me a few times to jobs and showed me the trade. I learned to clean hooves, pick the right shoes, and take off old ones.

He gave me a horseshoe and told me it was from the great Secretariat who had won the Kentucky Derby earlier that year. I hung it over my bedroom door. I started to learn about grooming from my trainer at this time as well. This was a happy time for me.

Then one day he stopped coming to the lunch counter. I never saw him again. I guess another big racing team picked him up. Shortly after this, my lessons were to advance to jumping and a higher price. My father decided it was too much money. We didn’t have much and it was pretty extravagant that I got to take lessons at all. I was heart broken but knew our family couldn’t afford it.

My horse years were over. I get nostalgic over horsies from time to time. Like today.