Tuesday, September 6, 2011
“What are you guys thinking of doing?” my cousin asked us over a breakfast of fresh scrambled eggs from their chickens.
“We want land. If we are going to move out to the country, we might as well own some country,” my husband answered. “For the horses,” I piped in.
“Ah, you are going to have horses, huh?” my cousin inquired.
“Of course,” I replied, smirking a little.
There are certain things that come with country living. Land, of course, a porch, a tree swing or a tire swing- either will do, and horses. You have to have horses.
Horses, such beautiful, amazing creatures.
“Well then, we’ll drive you around some neighborhoods with properties you might be interested in.”
We pulled up to a beautiful two story house. White framed windows. An archway covered with vines leading to a pathway into the backyard. Behind the house a gigantic plot of land, a horse arena included.
My heart leapt with delight.
A horse arena??!!! Well, now, what could be more perfect for my horses?
A place to run, jump, and, best of all, do their tricks!
As I stood there staring at the arena, I began to think about horses and me. And how we went together so well.
In my daydream I was riding one. I was riding real fast and was jumping over things like barrels and sticks and stuff like that. I did look amazing, but when I looked closer at myself, I looked, well, uncomfortable.
The bouncing of the horse was so jarring, and I was holding my bosom to give it the support it was crying out for. Ouch. My teeth chattered as they continually banged together violently. I wasn’t looking that amazing anymore.
And my legs were sore.
I know I have this romantic idea of riding up on a horse and looking all beautiful when doing so, but….
Do I even like horses?
I think I do.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I really love them.
Hey wait a minute, what is that long thing hanging off of the horse? Oh that is weird, and whatever it is, it is almost touching the ground.
Oh Lord! I am calling out to you because I can’t handle what I see!
“Oh, well that was our first course in sexual education," I recall Jeff, my second cousin once removed, telling me. "All of us kids would sit along a fence and watch on as Daddy attempted to mate the stallion and the mare.” Barf.
Okay, maybe I don’t like horses.
Maybe I really don’t like horses.
And maybe I never want to ride one or see one again.
Keep it simple.
Another mouth to feed.
Lots of poop.
And they can’t be potty trained like my sister-in-law’s cat.
Let’s scratch the house with a horse arena idea.
This called for a redirection from horse arenas to looking at houses with grassland. Fields of green to play as the backdrop to lazy Sunday afternoon picnics, big oak trees to build tree houses, and chicken coops so that I could fetch my own eggs while saving money.
I am not a horse girl.
I am just a farm girl.