Horse Girl

What’s on my mind?

I considered myself a "horse girl" when I was a kid. For my ninth birthday, my mom bought me a book titled "How to Draw Horses" and encouraged me to read "Black Beauty" or, at the very least, to give "Misty of Chincoteague" a try. Although I found it difficult to sit still long enough to read about horses, I could spend hours drawing them.

At that time, we lived in a trailer park in Oildale, and there was a horse stable nearby. Every time we drove past it on our way to Hart Park, I'd strain to see the horses in their stalls, dreaming of the day I'd be lucky enough to ride one.

When we moved to Tarbela, Pakistan, I noticed that the English girls had a greater love for horses than I did. They introduced me to English horse-themed comics, which sparked my interest in reading, especially when there were plenty of pictures. I particularly enjoyed stories about girls raised by wild horses or those who befriended a horse destined for the glue factory and transformed it into a champion. These tales were not only exciting for a sixth-grade aspiring horse girl like me, but they also left a lasting impression—making me hope that someday, I'd have a horse adventure of my own!

There were plenty of horses outside of Tarbela, hitched to carts called Tongas, which were used to transport people and goods. These were workhorses, but unfortunately, many of them looked emaciated, a sight that's hard to unsee. I doubted anyone would write a comic about a Tonga horse.

In boarding school, I met a Welsh girl named Rhiannon, who was an accomplished rider. She invited me to join her for a horseback ride in Murree, where we could rent horses by the hour. Rhiannon chose a large horse that matched her skill level. I opted for a small, twitchy one to match mine. When I climbed onto the English saddle, I noticed my horse had a severe case of mange, with flies buzzing around the scabs on its back and neck. As Rhiannon and her horse cantered effortlessly, I bounced up and down on my tailbone with nothing to hold on to, afraid of catching mange. After that miserable experience, I lost interest in horses.

Liz inherited the horse girl gene even worse than I did. She played with toy horses, slept surrounded by her collection of stuffed horses, and pretended to be a horse grazing in the school's clover field during recess with her friend Kathryne. She studied her horse encyclopedia and could draw horses, even their skeletons, better than I ever imagined. When Liz learned that we were moving to Cook Peak, the promise of a real horse helped ease her transition.

Our first horse was an Arabian named Silverado. Liz was familiar with him since he had belonged to her grandparents. I still remember the day Silverado arrived at Cook Peak and watching him gallop up and down the pasture. It was truly a magnificent sight. Silverado was a dream come true for Liz. And a little for me, too.

Believe it or not, I never rode Silverado or any of the horses we owned. I mainly focused on the maintenance/worry side while Liz lived her best horse girl life. She was a natural, fearless, and loved horses more than I ever would. Every time she rode bareback, went trail riding, or told me about galloping along the lakeshore with friends, I experienced my best horse girl life through hers.

Last week, I drove by the stable on the outskirts of Oildale—the very place that sparked my childhood interest in horses. This time, however, I wasn't a nine-year-old girl heading to Hart Park with my brother to ride the roller coaster, the paddle boats, or the train; those attractions are long gone. Instead, I was going to visit Penny, my granddaughter.

Later that night, I felt curious and Googled, discovering that the stable on the outskirts of Oildale is called Silverado Stables.

Hmmm...Silverado.

It's funny how life comes full circle.