Horses in Spring

Wow, that caught me off guard.  I saw a picture of a horse in a small grassy pasture and had an immediate desire to be somewhere I could ride, accompanied by memories of all of the smells that go along with horses and riding just for fun.

I can't remember a time when I was a kid that we didn't have at least a handful of horses, one of which was always considered mine.  Sometimes we rode to help with work, sometimes we rode in parades or rodeos.  Those times were always enjoyable, but my favorite times were the times I rode just because I could.

After a long winter of not riding, I couldn't wait for the days to be long enough and warm enough to ride after school.  My friend Brandie would get off the bus one stop before mine, get her horse ready, and head to my house.  She got there just as I was getting saddled up.  We only had to let our parents know that we were riding, and the rules were easy - close gates behind you and be home by dark.

Sometimes we rode in the wide grassy space between the highway and the fence.  Sometimes we crossed the highway and took the road that led to the creek.  Sometimes we rode along the edge of the 100-acre hay field that separated Brandie's road from mine.  It didn't matter where we went, we always found a place to let our horses run part of the way.  After a long winter of not riding, the horses were sometimes a bit skittish and always ready to run as much as we would let them.

Never failed, we would wait as late as possible to head home, and usually came loping down the lane at the last possible minute.  But it didn't matter how late I was, the other rule was to always take care of horse and tack first.  That's the smell I remember most - the "after" smell of riding as I brushed out a sweaty coat, the smell of warm leather and the peculiar tang of a damp blanket as I lifted my saddle back up onto the rack.  Walking back from taking my horse to the pasture, I might finally notice the good clean smell of a spring evening.  I would take off my boots and wash my hands as instructed upon coming into the house, where the smell of dinner usually hid the faint scent of horse lingering on my worn out jeans.

Now, trying to separate the smells from the memories, I am remembering the smell of horses, and horse things, but thinking more about freedom, and being young, and doing something just because I could.