If Wishes Were Horses

After eighteen years of marriage, there’s another man in my life. He’s tall, dark and handsome, with deep brown bedroom eyes. His “come hither” stare turns me to mush. I’ve been known to caress his sinewy body and hug him passionately in public. His kisses are rare, but all the more meaningful because he doesn’t give them lightly. Strong, yet sensitive, his quiet demeanor just adds to his appeal.

He makes me feel alive again, and has brought a youthful passion back to my life. I try desperately to explain my obsession with him to my husband; to make him understand it’s a good thing for our relationship. If he could just rise above the jealousy he feels about the time I spend with this new love, he’d see I’m right. Instead, he just looks at me sadly, with resignation written all over his face, and requests that I at least find it in my heart to wipe my boots off better after our daily assignations. Manure doesn’t come out of the carpets too easily, and he figures it’s the least I can do.

Forty three years. It took forty three years for Cowboy to walk out
of my dreams and into my heart. Cowboy, I should explain, is a nineteen year old, sixteen hand, dark bay gelding hunk of a horse.

I want to talk to you closet childhood horse lovers. I want to share my good fortune and give you hope. I know you’re out there. Both men and women, although I speak here from an obvious female perspective. If you’re like me, you’ve kept the spark of passion lit for these four-legged beasts. Hidden perhaps in a far corner of our lives, but if we were truly passionate, always there. We have things in common, you and I.

We went through childhood devouring Walter Farley “Black Stallion” books, and reading anything by Marguerite Henry we could get our hands on. We took Black Beauty and held him to our hearts, and watched with anticipation for Disney’s “The Horse With the Flying Tail” or “Miracle of the White Stallions” to show up on Sunday Nights’ Wonderful World. We spent hours upon hours in the backyard riding our coiled propelled plastic steeds. When we grew too big for them to carry us with dignity, we took our frustrated but vivid imaginations and graduated to model horses, spending hours in our rooms making up the perfect stable.

We had parents that sighed repeatedly over our constant pleas to
get us a horse. Some of us had Moms or Dads who silently empathized because they too had been madly in love with the creatures once. But usually that parent was countered by the other, who saw only dollar signs and potential vet and doctor bills.

Come on, admit it; those of us with no artistic talent would draw out of proportion horseheads by the dozens in our school binders. Then we’d gaze with envy at the one kid who could actually draw the whole body and have it look good. We’d think we had died and gone to heaven if the opportunity arose to spend an hour on a push-button horse at a local rental stable, and we’d spend hours in the library pouring over “how-to” books. We might not have one, we might not even be able to ride, but boy we could sure be prepared when the time came.

I was raised in the suburban environment of the Bay Area. Like most of us frustrated want to be horse owners, I had no chance of living the dream growing up. Physically, we simply didn’t live in the right place. Growing up in San Mateo Village, next to Bay Meadows Race Track, one of my big thrills was getting a glimpse of the Thoroughbreds on the practice track, or catching a quick look at the inside of the stable area if the gate was open as we drove by. That
was as horsy as my daily environment got, and I was fortunate to have
that.

No, we were not lucky enough to be born in a farm or ranch setting, where children have the luxury of taking a horse for granted. Maybe some of us knew kids who lived on the edge of suburbia, with room for a horse. Or better yet, who had parents with the money to indulge and pay for a boarding stable. And oh, we were envious. Of course we tried not to be. We tried hard not to let our emotions spill over into “I hate you a little because you have a horse and I don’t”. We always harbored the secret wish that we might get invited to share in their great fortune; “would you like to come over sometime and ride?”

The truly passionate continued through the teen years to hold that spot in our hearts for the “Black Beauties” and “Black Stallions” of the world. For some of us, it became a reason for friendships. And enduring ones at that. One of my dearest friends lives outside of Chicago; for thirty one years we have maintained a correspondence that began with my request for a pen pal to a children’s section of a well known horse magazine. In junior high, I recall a girlfriend once wrote me a note stating that I was the “only” friend she had she could
talk horses with; all her other friends were just interested in boys. For some of us, our love for horses took on a substitute role for boy/girl
relationships. For various reasons, we just weren’t quite ready for that. Oh, we had our objects of adolescent longing; they just came with four legs, flowing manes and tails.

I present the following proof of my own adolescent passion. At the age of 15, when one of the monumental accomplishments of the 20th century was occurring; while Neil Armstrong took that “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”, gluing people around the world to their television sets, know where I was? I was blissfully riding a friends’ horse in aimless circles around her backyard in Santa Rosa. I remember her parents pleading with me that I would be missing an historic event and I could always ride later. Oh no. I had a chance to have a tiny bit of time with my own dream thank you. The moon was distant and out of my reach; this horse was breathing and real and I was sitting on it.

Then, as is our lot, we grew up. The dream subsided a little. The journey and realities of becoming an adult took over our minds. The flame of horsy longing dimmed and went out in some of us. Others though, like myself, kept a small spark burning.

Older now, we can look back and see the somewhat petty nature of our dream. In an age where many have so little, and others so much,
a case could be made for the selfish impracticality of harboring a dream to own an animal who can single handedly suck your bank account down to nothing in a short amount of time. I know I have. But since when has passion ever been practical?

Our passion dictates that we still get a slight lump in our throat when we pass horses grazing in a pasture; that we still find ourselves a little envious watching the New Years Day Parade as the magnificent polished steeds prance down the street with the dashing men and elegant ladies on their backs. Passion makes you watch and think, oh, if only that was me.

But passion also dictates that if you feel that strongly, you never completely give up on the dream. And if you’re lucky, you leave yourself open to the serendipity that can be such a delightful part of life. Those seemingly small events that in retrospect end up being life changing. You might one day strike up the right conversation, at the right time, with the right person. Somebody who came into your life for one reason, ends up being there for another.

In my case, that turned out to be a contractor who had horses and a passion for them of his own. A guy who was just supposed to build a pool in my backyard, but ended up being part of the conduit to the
wish fulfillment department of life. Kind enough to sense a kindred spirit, he was generous enough to share some of his knowledge and good fortune; becoming a friend and equine mentor in the process.

And if you’ve been true enough to your dream over 18 years of marriage, you’ve also got a mate that understands the importance of that dream to your life. Finally, if fate is kind, there comes a day when a generous, loving husband who cares, gets together with a new friend to make a little girls’ dream finally come true - with the
ultimate surprise on her forty-third birthday.

So yes, there’s a new man in my life. He’s expensive, can be a complete slob and occasionally a temperamental pain. But he’s also patient, non-judgmental and extremely forgiving; the best kind of friend. He’s the perfect therapist; does nothing but listen. He’s everything I ever imagined he would be and more. I’ve had him for nine months now, and not a single day has gone by that I’ve taken him for granted.

The sheer bliss of a ride upon his back, given with mutual trust and respect for what each is offering the other, is a lesson in the meaning of relationship. I don’t need a parade. I can be my own, riding in the rolling, oak covered Sonoma hills. I can reach a crest, look down
onto a valley and take a moment to recall those backyard rides on my coil driven steed, and remember those hours spent imagining with nothing but my models. Then reach down and stroke the neck of this living, breathing creature beneath me; know he is mine, and know I am blessed. I can go back in time, take the hand of my wishing youthful self and say here - wasn’t it well worth the wait?

Dreams can come true. In its infinite wisdom, the universe knows that sometimes it is best for them to mature a while before they manifest; best to test your passion and commitment to them. They are so much more precious for the wait.