A Good Case of Mistaken Identity

Sorrel gelding (or neutered male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, we would present ourselves to our teacher at the tack shed and draw our piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

We would each grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, we would pick out a suitable mount (re: one that we could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing you were ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining.

A fairly common occurrence.

The wind wasn't blowing.

Not so common.

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown colour) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

With just a halter.

Something that had never been done before (or since) with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day.

With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Moth: 1. Debbie: 0

Admit it. This is terrifying.

Debbie's family lived on a ranch not far from ours.

Her father had worked for my parents as a young man, before he had married.

They had remained good friends.

As had Debbie and I.

Once we had made our respective appearances (ie. born).

In our senior year, I stayed with them for a semester.

They were kind, wonderful people.

Very clever and full of fun.

Debbie fit right in.

Most of the time . . .

Debbie and I had a room in the basement.

Lovely twin beds and assorted other furniture.

With the lamp hanging over her bed.

This is an important point.

She was also terrified of moths.

Another important point.

And I liked to read at night after climbing into bed.

These all tie together.

Let me explain . . .

It was late.

Debbie had long been trying to sleep.

I was reading.

It never occurred to me that I was being inconsiderate, as the room's only light hung directly over her.

And attracted any moths that might be in the vicinity.

She tossed and turned and finally huffed and, throwing back the covers, got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Bathroom,” she mumbled.

Just then, a moth that had been fluttering around in the light for the past half-hour, made the mistake of appearing where Debbie could see him.

“Screech!”

In a blur, she headed towards the door.

For some inexplicable reason, the moth followed her.

Out into the dark hall.

You never can tell with moths.

There was another horrendous screech and Debbie darted back into the room, jumped into her bed and pulled the covers over her head.

The moth fluttered in happily behind her and was soon once more dancing in the light.

Double weird.

“Shut off that stupid light!” Debbie said, through the covers.

I stared at the quivering lump that was my friend.

“How on earth did you know the moth followed you into the hall?”

“He touched my face! Shut off the light!”

I complied.

Imagine. Frightened of a silly moth.

Now if it had been a spider . . .