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DEBRA G. MEYER
Indiana
About Debra G. Meyer

 

 

 

The Horseman

Around he flew with nostrils flared,
Rearing and leaping, as the man just stared.
Quickly and calmly with mental gauge,
He measured the animal’s fiery rage.

“This horse ain’t mean, just pushy and scared.
His owner never taught him, never really cared.”
He spoke those words, then grabbed his rope,
Threw it, braced, and stopped the lope.

“The fear’s made him a bully; he has to strike first.
I’ve seen others like him, he ain’t the worst.
I’ll take the fear from him and teach him to trust.
If he’s to get rode, then that part’s a must.”

Heaving and sweating, muscled up tight,
The horse glared at the man and was ready to fight.
The man fell silent, his eyes were intense,
Of what happened next it was hard to make sense.

Part battle, part dance, sweet caress, elbow grease,
The man applied pressure, then gave release.
Horse and man spoke with no words…not a sound.
“Come,” said the man with a glance toward the ground.

The horse came and stood, licked his lips, heaved a sigh,
“Now that’s a nice change; that’s a good try.”
The man led the horse to its rest, to its hay,
There was more work to be done, but not for that day.

“To travel the road to success takes some guts.
The road can be long, and there ain’t no shortcuts.”
Then to me he said in a quiet aside,
“You’ll be fine, just look up…try to enjoy the ride.”

© 2008, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Debra told us: My inspiration for "The Horseman" is a man named Ed Chambers from Roachdale, Indiana. Ed is a formidable rider, trainer, and teacher. He has an uncanny gift for accurately reading horses and humans. I wrote "The Horseman" after watching Mr. Chambers roundpen an older horse that had seldom been handled. He was able to settle that horse and busy its mind in the course of twenty minutes, all the while explaining why the horse was reacting as it did. I have seen him use some of the same techniques with reluctant students with similar good results. I am most fortunate to have made this man’s acquaintance, and to have learned from him lessons about horses and life.

 

The Evenin’ Feed

The sun is sinkin’ lower and the sky is streaked with red,
It’s time to gather in the herd and get them horses fed.

Before the feedin’ can be done, stall muckin’ must commence,
A hungry cavvy gathers up, awatchin’ at the fence.

They stomp and neigh and whinny; cause they want the job done quick,
I whisper words of patience, but that never does the trick.

I fill the water buckets, and the shavin’s are replaced,
But still they make a ruckus to insure that I make haste.

“Hush now,” I softly tell them as I throw the flakes of hay,
“I’m comin’ out to get you soon, so back on out the way.”

I walk the horses one by one; the young mare wants to trot,
But finally, I have them in—the whole entire lot.

I let them ease their hunger on the hay so fresh and sweet,
I grain each empty bucket, then my feedin’ chore’s complete.

I scramble up the stacks of hay to watch the horses dine,
To me the quiet munchin’ makes a music mighty fine.

I breathe in the heady fragrance of leather, horse and hay,
If made into a perfume, I would wear it everyday.

Contented sighs are frequent, and they fill my heart with glee,
I know there is no other place that I would rather be.

I hear the evenin’ serenade and thank the Lord, of course,
For puttin’ on this earth of His, that wonder called a horse.

© 2008, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Debra told us: This poem was written to express the satisfaction of hard work and the joy of having happy horses. The barn is my favorite place to be, especially when all the work is done!
 

 

Bull Fightin'

I have a red-eyed ragin’ bull,
Penned up inside of me,
He stomps and snorts and makes a fuss
‘bout things what might could be.

His hide is made of what-ifs,
His muscle’s made of doubt,
His bones are made of worry,
His heart beats fear throughout.

Most times he slumbers peaceful,
Don’t know he’s there at all,
But when I gets to thinkin’,
He plumb breaks down the stall.

I thinks about the trail ahead,
And how the hills might kill me dead,

I thinks about the rattlesnake,
And how he hides, for goodness sake,

I thinks about the rushin’ cricks,
And how my horse might sink like bricks,

I thinks about the bobwire fence,
And how the pain could be intense,

I thinks about the little ditch,
And how my horse might jump and pitch…

Then I stops and takes a breath,
My mind now starts to ease,
My hands has quit their shakin’,
And likewise has my knees.

“Cowgirl up and face yer fear,”
A man I know once said,
“Take that bull right by the horns,
And drag him till he’s dead.”

Words of wisdom, timely found,
Have worked to save the day,
Courage served to bind the beast,
So, now I’m on my way.

That pesky bovine Beelzebub,
Still wakes to make a wail,
But when he gets to actin’ up,
Then Courage knots his tail.

© 2008, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Debra told us: I wrote this poem for my dear friend, Robin, who is a master at foreseeing catastrophe at every turn. While trail riding one Sunday, she pointed out how closely I was riding to the barb wire fence and shared her vision of my horse spooking into it. I soon added her fear to my, already lengthy, list of trail phobias. This poem is about pushing away fear and getting on with the job at hand.
 

The Boots

John Michael Brown was lanky and lean,
Had a horse that was fiery and fast.
John’s heart was set on learnin’ to ride,
And he’d found him a teacher at last.

Ed was a horseman, steady and sure,
Knew the horse like his mama’s own name.
Figgered if he could teach John to ride,
He was certain to garner some fame.

“Best git movin',” Ed thought to hisself,
“For ol' John is quick gettin' older.
Ain’t much time left to get this job done,
He's already busted one shoulder.”

Ed watched as John rode, toes toward the sand,
When his butt hit the saddle, he’d frown.
“Loosen the reins, sit up, try to breathe,
And remember to keep your heels down!”

“Heels down, heels down, heels down!” was the cry,
Those words he heard over and over.
“Toes must be up, and heels must be down,
Or soon you’ll be pushin’ up clover!”

Quit was a word that John didn’t know,
Many’s the hour he spent in his kak,
Settin’ his feet, along with his jaw,
For ol’ John there was no turnin’ back.

Days flew to weeks, the weeks flew to months,
No improvement was ever in sight.
Not ‘til the time his boots was forgot,
And Ed offered up his for the night.

John held the boots in tremblin’ hands,
Right humbled by this generous act.
Careful he slipped his feet to the soles,
‘Twas there he found the magic he lacked.

John smiled and stood, and wiggled his toes,
It’s been said that the heavens split wide.
The angels all watched as he mounted,
And he gave ‘em one helluva ride.

John’s form was perfection in motion,
From his heels to the top of his head.
The ladies all cheered from the sidelines,
As he winked and more rapidly sped.

Hosannas rang out as he galloped,
It was somethin’ astoundin’ to see.
His horse was all framed up and rounded,
We all gasped and asked, “How could this be?”

John claimed that the boots held the power,
Some mystical funk from Ed’s feet.
Ed tried very hard to dissuade him,
But his head was as hard as concrete.

“No magical foot funk!” Ed told him.
“The boots made ya believe in yourself.
That’s the only thing you was lackin’;
When ya leave put my boots on the shelf.”

John wanted the boots every lesson,
To get them he’d beg, borrow, or steal.
He rode like the wind, and he liked it,
He was sure that their powers was real.

Each lesson John tried somethin’ harder,
He got to doin’ rollbacks and spins.
If ridin’ for points on some circuit,
He’d be rackin’ ‘em up by the tens.

But it’s pride what goes before a fall,
And I guess that’s what happened to John.
He was showin’ off for the ladies,
His horse stumbled, and then he weren’t on.

The loan of Ed’s boots had done wonders,
With the set of John’s feet that's fer sure.
But his seat's what parted the saddle,
So he started to hatch a fresh cure.

John came to a new understandin’,
As he lay piled and all out of sorts.
The boots that he loved had no power,
The real secret must be in Ed’s shorts.

© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Debra told us: This poem, "The Boots," was inspired by a very colorful gentleman with whom I take riding lessons. John is as quick to help with whatever job needs done as he is with a joke or an anecdote. John has a reputation for his rich imagination which often works its way into his "true" stories. He is a very determined student who spends many hours working with his beloved horse, Coby (John has taught Coby to smile and to lift his feet on verbal cue, in Spanish, no less). John really did forget his boots one day and was loaned Ed's boots. John swore that the boots cured his "heels down" problem. He said they were molded to the stirrups by their countless hours on our instructor's feet. He wore those boots for many lessons afterward. I am happy to report that John now rides in his own boots (and I am guessing his own undershorts) and is making good progress.
 

 

Hard Candy Cowboy

He wasn’t large in stature,
Couldn’t tell it by his walk.
His bobwire eyes could cut you,
Had no nonsense in his talk.

Some folks, they’d shy around him,
Cause he came off sorta gruff,
Made no bones ‘bout right ‘n wrong,
And he’d tell it to you rough.

His body bore the traces,
Of the trade he’d made his own,
He took up bronco bustin’,
When he wasn’t quite full-grown.

His hands was scarred and twisted,
Not a finger there was straight.
His legs was bowed and crooked,
Had a wobble in his gait.

He built a reputation,
Over forty years or so,
For turnin’ out good horses,
Both for workin’ and for show.

I sometimes came to watch him,
But took heed in what folks said.
“Stay out the way and quiet,
Or that man’ll have your head.”

The horses that they brung him,
Was the rankest ones to ride.
Most had been treated spiteful,
Wore the proof upon their hide.

I watched him with the horses,
He was tough, but not unkind.
He made the right choice easy,
So the wrong was left behind.

“These horses took their troubles,
Not from nature, but from man.”
His words were strong and steady,
“I just do the best I can.”

“I put the trust back in ‘em,
That another took away.”
I saw him stroke the forelock,
Of a little Arab bay.

A man’s soul can’t be hidden,
From the creatures in his care.
The horses knew the secret,
That the cowboy wouldn’t share.

I watched the cowboy workin’
And I quickly struck a thought,
I was thinkin’ bout hard candies,
That my mamma sometimes bought.

Their flavor was strawberry,
A right tasty sort of treat,
On the outside hard and sour,
But the inside’s soft and sweet.

That cowboy and them candies,
Both were filled with a surprise.
The hard and sour outside,
Was used only for disguise.

I liked those ‘berry candies,
Came to like that cowboy too.
Forever in my memory,
That hard candy buckaroo.

© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Debra comments: This poem was written for a man who is both my friend and teacher. This poem is about the discrepancy that sometimes occurs between the face we present to the world and the one that is hidden within us.
 

The Patch

This trail that I ride runs on ahead,
Though I can’t quite see round the bend.
I once thought this trail everlastin’,
But now I’m aware there’s an end.

I pause to reflect and look backward,
At the course I've already run,
It’s littered with heartbreak and laughter,
Things ‘complished and things left undone.

That stretch yet to ride’s a might shorter,
Than the miles that I've left behind,
But I tote some dreams in my pocket,
There’s a place I’m longin’ to find.

A good patch of ground’s what I yearn for,
Though time trots on by me it seems.
Knee-deep in thick sweetgrass I’ll find it,
A place where I’ll shake out my dreams.

I’ll build me a house to come home to,
A barn for my horses and hay.
I’ll work on the patch until evenin’,
Then rest at the closin’ of day.

I’ll gather my loved ones around me,
We’ll watch for the sunlight’s last beams.
I’ll tell them the story of one man,
Whose loop was tied fast to his dreams.

“Was it hard?” they will ask, and I’ll smile,
Nod my head and give it a scratch.
“It was hard, but all worth the doin’
A man’s got to have him a patch.”

I rein in the thoughts jiggin’ round me,
Then turn to continue the ride.
I pack up my dreams in my pocket,
And button them safely inside.

There ain’t many things that I’m sure of,
I count no chicks before the hatch.
But I trust that God and good horses,
Will carry me on t'ward my patch.

© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Debra comments:
I was inspired to write this poem because I have a desire for a larger place of my own, with space for my animals. When my husband and I talk about our retirement home, we refer to it as "the patch." This name came about from a story my friend told me. The story goes like this:

My friend's grandfather told him one day, "Boy, if you don't do anything else, you got to get yourself a patch."  It turns out that Grandpa's "patch" was the few hundred acres out there where Washington Square sits now in Indy. I guess he farmed it for many years. The land (the "patch") is the thing you gotta have... a place and the space to build your dreams while you can.

This poem is about the longing for land and the refusal to give up on a dream.
 

Horse Sense

“She’s strong,” the cowboy offered,
With a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ll wager she’s got bottom,
With no quit and lots of try.”

I glanced in the direction
That his nod bid me to go.
“Purty head, a real nice neck,
She looks fine enough to show.”

“I betcha she ain’t cold-backed,
Like some others I have knowed.
She’s fit and not too fleshy.”
Words of praise pert nearly flowed.

I gaped in pure confusion,
At a hammer-headed mare.
She’d been around the range some,
You could plainly see the wear.

Her pig eyes stared out blankly,
Her old cowhocks nearly kissed,
The faults I seen was endless,
They’s too numerous to list.

The cowboy had horse savvy.
His pronouncements took as law,
But the crazy he was talkin’
Worked my brain ‘til it was raw.

A fever might a took’im
Or his eyes was gettin’ dim.
I’s scramblin’ for the answer,
When I stopped and looked at him.

No squintin’ nor a’quakin’
So I knew I had to ask.
“Pard,” I queried cautiously,
“Ya been emptyin’ yer flask?”

His gaze was straight and level,
As he looked me in the eye.
“Nope,” was all he said to me,
But his count’nance added “why?”

I spluttered and I stammered,
Tried in vain to find my voice.
I didn’t want to tell him,
But there clearly weren’t no choice.

“Well,” I started nervously,
Tryin’ hard not to affront.
“That hoss ain’t naught but crowbait!”
Hadn’t meant to be so blunt.

“A greenhorn ought not question,
The fine wisdom I bestow.”
The cowboy was a’smilin’,
Talkin’ soft and kinda slow.

His grin kept gettin’ bigger,
Till it lit the whole corral.
“Ne’er said it were the mare, son.
I was talkin’ ’bout the gal.”

A purty senorita,
Led that nag on out the gate.
He watched as she departed,
“Looky there, she’s trackin’ straight.”

© 2010, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Debra comments: I wrote this poem for a friend who attended the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, with my family and me. This gentleman was smitten with a lovely lady poet. After listening to her poems, he complimented her poetry and delivery. He then commented on her beauty. He said, "She's strong." Along with, "She's got good bone structure and a good jaw line." We teased him about using the same descriptive language for fine horses. In Horse Sense, I had some fun and took it a little bit further.



Wooin’ the Mule

I’s up to Ed’s one Sunday,
We was plannin’ on a ride.
I hollered at his barn door,
Then I moseyed on inside.

My eyes just took a smidgeon
To adjust to dimmer light.
I found that I was peerin’
At a most engagin’ sight.

Dappled gray with great long ears,
Pickin’ hay there in a stall.
One quick glance he cast my way,
Then the mule turned t’ward the wall.

“Must be shy,” I says to Ed,
As I offer up a rub.
He turned again, deliberate,
And I took it as a snub.

“One fine judge of character!”
Ed was chucklin’ as he spoke.
“They’s some he just don’t take to,
Guess you ain’t his kind of folk.”

“What’s that to mean?” I queried.
“Not his kind of folk, indeed!”
And then as if to comment,
The mule stretched hisself and peed.

“He just needs time to know me,”
I spoke up on my behalf.
“I’ll get a chair,” Ed spluttered,
No attempt to hide his laugh.

I sat and watched the south end
Of a northern-facin’ john.
I’d prove that I was worthy;
I was one to count upon.

“Just consider this, my friend,”
We debated as I sat.
“I’m good and kind,” I told him,
As he dodged another pat.

I then began some sweet talk,
Even tried to share my chuck.
His negative reaction,
Made me cuss and damn my luck.

The words I strung together,
Would have served a sailor well.
“Told you so,” Mule seemed to snort.
“You’ll be goin’ straight to hell!”

That fiery accusation,
Made me pause and look within.
It seemed my knack fer cussin’,
Wasn’t near my greatest sin.

I am a might impatient.
I’ve been knowed to take a drink.
‘N’ I’m quick to get a mad on.
Mule agreed, with gaseous stink.

“You’re right,” I then conceded.
“I’m unworthy and a fool.”
I was judged a sinner and,
Out-debated by a mule.

© 2010, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Debra comments: I wrote this poem after a very humbling experience with J.W., the mule. I tried for several weeks to make friends with him, but to no avail. I took it rather personally when I watched others who could pet and feed him. Ed, my horse trainer friend, advised that I was trying too hard, but the experience made me examine my character for mule-repelling flaws.



The Right Lead

He stood there in the dust and dirt,
Sweat drippin’ down his face.
“What is it you cain’t understand?”
He then began to pace.

The bristly hairs upon his head,
(The ones that still remained),
Swirled crazily about his ears,
His countenance was pained.

“The leads you take start at the hind,
Then end up with the fore.
You’ve got to set your horse up right.”
He paused, then, offered more.

“To get the left, you cue the right,
For right, it is reversed.”
I watched him stride across the sand.
His speech was well rehearsed.

I tried my best to catch each word,
Translate them to my steed.
Again, I asked him for a right
But, got that damned left lead.

I tried at least a dozen more,
With similar result.
The trainer’s eyes shot t’ward the sky
For heavenly consult.

“Well then,” he said, “we’ll try the fence.
This has to work, you’ll see.
Just run him at an angle with
Degrees of thirty-three.”

“The moment that you reach the fence,
The left leg gives a squeeze,
The right leg lifts the shoulder up.”
His orders flew with ease.

“Push your inside seatbone forward,
The reins up t’wards his poll,
Tip his head to the outside edge,
Sit deep and let it roll!”

Though the trainer thought this simple,
My brain was chuggin’ quick.
Keepin’ up with his directions
Was harder than a brick.

Was my inside seatbone forward?
The angle thirty-three?
I was runnin’ through the checklist,
As ready as I’d be.

“Do it now!” the trainer bellowed.
I took off like a shot.
Was the right lead in my future?
The left lead’s what I got.

“Wrong lead,” he sounded weary.
A tear formed in his eye.
We both hoped not to hear it, but
He whispered, “One more try.”

That ‘one more try’ turned into ten.
My trainer had some grit.
He was sick and tired of preachin’,
But never did he quit.

He took it from the top again,
The A to Z of leads,
Just yearnin’ for the harvest since,
He’d planted scores of seeds.

His wits was workin’ overtime.
To find out what was missin’.
The answer finally popped in place,
Some folks just don’t listen.

For me the lesson is quite clear:
When next that I should ride,
Instead of askin’ for a lead,
I’ll let the horse decide.

© 2012, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Debra comments
:
"It is a story about the frustration my trainer and I felt over my inability to 'ride the feet' and change leads. I tried to give both sides of the story."
 


 

Heartache and Pards

His words were plain and to the point,
“Sometimes this life just sucks.
She does her best to throw ya down,
She boogers and she bucks.”

The cowboy knew the trail I rode,
The steep and rocky way.
I came for lies and platitudes,
But truth was all he'd say.

“You're gonna hurt a good long time,
Ain't nothin' can be done.
You'll ride awhile in blackest night,
Before ya see the sun.

The pain you feel ain't nothin' new.
Just look around, and know,
That scores of riders up ahead,
Have passed the way you'll go.”

His thoughts were far from comforting,
Not what I came to hear.
His kindness smoothed their edges though,
And helped to calm my fear.

“There’s some will buckle to the test,
Some barely make it through.
But you, you're tough. You'll be just fine.
I've seen what you can do.

Remember that I’ll be right here,
When livin’ feels too hard.
If ever you should need a friend,
Just holler for yer pard.”

© 2013, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Debra comments, "This poem is about the support I received from a very dear friend during my father's final illness and subsequent passing."
 

The Quest

I watch the mare rattle the gate.
She’s stocky, gray, and strong.
Alert, keen determination,
Her task won’t take her long.

Contemptible, stubborn, and mean,
With these words she’s branded.
She scorns the rule of haughty man,
Balks at what’s commanded.

I watch the mare rattle the gate.
The feral land has called.
Her spirit cannot be tethered,
Nor shall her soul be stalled.

I know well her consternation,
Bound by my own constraint.
She rages against her capture.
Yet, I repress complaint.

I watch the mare rattle the gate.
Refusing herd and hay,
She rejects the deal that’s offered,
The price too high to pay.

Her courage and will are humbling.
Not cowed by circumstance,
She gives her all for freedom's sake,
Without a backward glance.

I watch the mare rattle the gate.
This quest she will not quit.
I envy her bold endeavor,
But lack her guts and grit.

My eyes seek out the distant hills,
My heart its true desire.
A change begins with one small spark,
And then becomes a fire.

I watch the mare rattle the gate.
Soon hoof beats call to me...
Just follow your own happiness,
Rattle the gate—run free!

© 2014, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Soul Wrangler

I found him in the old line shack,
Stretched back upon his cot.
A hundred pounds of wit and will,
And whiskey, like as not.

His face was lined as winter grapes,
Forgot upon the vine.
Once young and strong and limber, too.
He now lay in decline.

His life was spent upon the range,
In sun and wind and sand.
Where cactus, cows, and cowboys mix,
While ridin' for the brand.

“Awake, ol' pard,” I murmured low.
“This lonely guard is through.”
He heaved his shanks upon the ground,
To get a better view.

He sat amid the blankets and
Knew death was very near.
The light of recognition shone
Through eyes that held no fear.

“Your ketch rope’s at the ready, but
The loop you cast is wide.
My useful days ain’t over yet.”
His words were specked with pride.

He started reminiscin’ then,
Like cowboys often do.
He told of all the things he'd miss
If earthly life was through.

He talked about the cattle drives,
The women that he knew,
He talked about his truest pards,
Though they was but a few.

His thoughts trailed next to horses, and
The gift they'd always been.
“I'll miss the horses most of all.”
His voice was cracked and thin.

“Now Cisco was my bestest steed,
So strong and quick and fine.
My Luck, he was a good'un, too.
Both lost in twenty-nine.

I'll tell ya square,” he wheezed for air,
His eyes flew open wide.
“This puncher won’t be leavin’ here,
Without a horse to ride.”

The Boss, he calls the circles, so
I tried to make him see,
The greater plan for every man
Ain't set by him nor me.

Can't tell a cowboy nothin', though.
I knew before I came.
With each and every buckaroo,
The story's just the same.

I helped the man upon his feet,
Said, “Pard, ya got to know,
There's horses up in heaven and
It's time for us to go.”

I had his ponies waitin' there,
Decked out in finest gear.
I watched him stroke and scratch them both.
It dang near fetched a tear.

“Obliged to you, Soul Wrangler, and,
I'm ready now to go.”
His face was bright. His grin was wide.
His step no longer slow.

“You ride my good pal, Cisco, and,
 I'll take my pinto, Luck.
I plumb fergot to mention, though,
That S. O. B. can buck!”

© 2015, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Debra comments, "I wrote this poem after viewing a documentary about Eldon Zwicker from southwest Colorado. I was camping at Palisades Horse Camp, San Juan National Forest in Colorado, and noticed that there were cattle everywhere. Some even came into the campground. I was curious to find out about the BLM and the ranchers' struggle, so I bought a documentary about the Zwicker family and their ranch. Eldon Zwicker is the cowboy in my poem. He looked to be not over a hundred pounds, but whether in the saddle or on foot he was always in charge. Sweet and salty all at once, he explained about his life's work."

 

 


 

About Debra G. Meyer:

I was born in 1955 in Brooklyn, New York, to Harold and Evelyn Gragg. I spent the first ten years of my life chasing whatever wildlife I could discover on Greene Avenue and the adjacent streets that I was allowed to cross. I was five the summer I met the watermelon man. The cry of “Wa-ter-mel-on!!” would halt any activity and have me seeking out this man’s presence. It wasn’t that I liked watermelon that much, but it was the method of watermelon conveyance that had me enthralled. The watermelon man had a horse-drawn wagon! That old brown horse was the most fascinating and majestic creature I had ever seen, and he liked to be patted! The summer of 1960 was the beginning of my dream of horse ownership. Fast forward forty-five years, and I am finally living the dream in Indiana. My husband, Harv, and I, and our son, Adam, have five horses that we cherish.
 

 

 

 

 

 

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