In the Beginning

I remember the day I fell in love. I was about 13 years old, visiting a family friend in upstate New York in the fall.  Her name was Rosie; a large (or so it seemed to a little girl) chestnut mare.  The horse belonged to her husband and ‘he’ was gone.  The resentment was evident.  She would feed the horse, clean it’s stall, but it was getting nothing more from her.  Apparently, ‘he’ took more than a suitcase when he left her.  My mother and I were visiting her friend, who bred and showed Welch ponies with her sons.  Leslie was still there with his mom, his brother gone to live with Dad.  My Mother was there to comfort her friend; I was there to meet Rosie.

Somehow I clearly understood that amongst the horses in the barn, this one was different.  First of all, she was a horse, not a Welch Pony.  I’d guess she was a thoroughbred, but I don’t honestly recall.  Secondly, she still carried the ragged coat of winter, when the others did not.

I got the nerve to ask Leslie if I could brush “this one”; knowing it might not be received well, somehow, it worked out.  He set me up with brushes, brought her into the isle, and I brushed her for two days.  As the hair began to come off, I could see hope of a beautiful coat underneath.  I don’t know how long it took, but it seemed that Rosie and I were the only ones in the world at the time.  I barely remember anything else about the whole visit.  Even while I watched Leslie ride his pretty little pony, all I could think of was touching Rosie again.  That was probably the first time I sensed the ‘connection’ a human could have with a horse.  I appreciated the solitude and understanding Rosie had of me; and she appreciated the comfort of touch once again.  We had no expectations of one another.  It was the most honest moment of my young life.