City people do not know what a bad dirt road is like. They think that the path to the tack shed is bad. A bad path is one in which you have to get another tractor to pull out the first tractor that got stuck while trying to pull out your four wheel drive truck, which was buried up to the axles.
Nearly a decade ago I had a few horses, did not teach riding or natural horsemanship, did not do training clinics, had never written a book or done a training video, had never turned on a computer, and had no clue what a website or a blog was. On a cold morning I looked behind me and saw a van and a truck edging up that path towards the spot where I now have a tack shed. The van opened its doors and kids began roll out like circus clowns. I was impressed that the van had made it up the path so easily. But it had an Alaska license plate. I suspect that this was not the first imperfect path that it had ever taken.
I do not stand in my pasture and play with one horse without knowing that others will be jealous and that some kicking and biting is about to begin. I have to be very careful about singling out any of my riders for any positive comments. The others become jealous and serious kicking and biting begins. I am going to take that risk because I think that each of them can appreciate that everything that goes on in our horse lot began when Emily and Abby and a slew of their siblings rolled out of that van.
Abby was a gangling little girl whose face consisted of roughly 62% teeth. Emily was quiet, very modest, and was obviously the oldest daughter. She kept her eye on the younger brood the same way an old hen does when the chicks venture into strange territory.
I could have never guessed what they would grow into. Abby is the best rider that I have ever seen. I do not know anyone with her ability to stay on a bad horse that is determined to rearrange its current configuration. Red Feather gave her his best bucking and simply gave up after a while. I think that she embarrassed him when she began laughing while he was bucking.
Emily is as good as I am at relaxing a scared horse and might be better than I am at relaxing a scared kid. She is a nurse. (She would not like for me to tell you how she did on her national board exam. Reluctantly, I will not not say how she did. Instead, I will only congratulate the 2% of those across the country that scored higher than she did.) During nursing school she was given a personalty profiling test. She found the results curious and suggested that I take the same test.(It was online). She and I ended up with precisely the same score and personality type among the 16 various personality types that the test classified.
When they moved back to Alaska they stayed in touch with me. When they moved to Colorado they stayed in touch with me. And when they were grown (or at least thought they were) they ended up back in the area. Abby is program manager for the Corolla Wild Horse Fund. Both intensely strong in their Christian faith, both athletes, both great singers, and both grew up to be right pretty. People often assume that they are my daughters, especially when we play music somewhere. In fact, it was even commented that they both "look just like you." (Abby took that news harder than Emily).
They smile, often for no reason at all. It is hard to frown, on the outside or on the inside, when Abby is around you smiling. It delights me to see them laughing and riding, especially with Lydia or Ruthann. If either of them stubs their toe, it makes my entire leg hurt, a lot.
Several years ago I mentioned to Emily that I was never afraid of a horse in a round pen because I would much rather be killed by a horse than to be in a nursing home.
Without hesitation she clucked and scoffed, "You won't need to go to a nursing home. I'll take care of you when you get old."
Every thing that is good that happens at the end of our old dirt path can be traced back to those two little girls coming to look at an old pony for Abby on a cold windy day nearly a decade ago.
Townes Van Zandt was right. One never knows where this old dirty road's taking me.
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