I grew up on a farm. Well, sort of. It was sixty acres of pasture and scrubby juniper forest. My mom kept a massive garden and we ate fresh and home-canned veggies all year. We had five to six indoor dogs, fifteen cats, a bird, a frog, a couple sheep, and six horses.
My horse was Phyllis, a gray dappled appaloosa mare. She’s still around and approximately thirty years old. She’s a crotchety old lady now, but when I was in elementary school, boy, did she and I have some good times. We used to ride those sixty acres and canter across sun-drenched fields. I gave her apples and carrots and brush-downs; she gave me nuzzles so powerful I was lifted off my feet.
My favorite reading memory has to do with Phyllis. I used to brush her down, give her some treats, and take her into the backyard where the grass was greener. I’d climb up bareback with a book in hand and she would meander slowly across the yard, grazing peacefully. I would lay down with my bare feet dangling beside her powerful neck and my head resting on her rump. In that way, I would read for hours and hours, listening to her pulling the grass, the swish of her tail, and the occasional puff or snort.
I was a lucky little kid.
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