By ELIZABETH RYAN
I wasn’t raised in a barn, but… Home was a horse.
Home was waking up earlier than I would have liked, just to pat all the cute furry heads and smell that warm, comforting smell that only a barn full of happy horses has. Home was a long driveway surrounded by gently sloping pastures; it was the big barn with the faded red rooftop at the end of the lane. Home was begging someone, anyone, “Please drive me over to the barn. You don’t have to stay. Pick me up later. I can just walk if you need me to.” Home was hard work; a little bit of blood, sweat, and tears–and sometimes some swearing under my breath–but never really wishing the workload was lighter. It was crashing hard at the end of the day after a quick shower and dinner, then waking up to do it over again the next morning.
Home was mile-long hand walks with a pregnant mare, just to spend time with her, because I couldn’t believe I was so lucky. Home was the way I felt when I saw each of them for the first time, when I knew they were meant for me. Home was lying on the floor in a sleeping bag in the empty apartment next to the barn, setting alarms to feed the new filly because we were all she had after the drama of her birth and rejection.
Home was warm, comforting breaths on my face, and a nibble on my fingertips searching for a treat. Home was running without hesitation through a storm, lead ropes in hand and praying that they’d all cooperate and come inside before the lightning and thunder spooked ‘em. Home was reveling in their strong and quiet presence, peacefully sitting and listening to their deep breaths and hay munching, it was contentment. Home was showering in the wash stall after a hard and dirty summer morning cleaning up the barn. Home was shiny silver bits covered in green-tinged slobber that always seemed to need a good cleaning; smooth, dusty leather; and the sticky-sweet smell of molasses while I scooped out of an old deep freezer turned feed bin.
Home was sneaking off in the middle of barn chores to pick buckets of wild blackberries, and jumping right into the thorns when we thought we’d get caught, wild and giggling like only two teenage girls could. Home was a curly-haired and lanky boy proudly introducing me to the little white pony that he had outgrown, but still adored. Home was hiding in the hayloft and talking about life, covering our mouths and leaning way back into the itchy bales when someone came looking for us. Home was the friendly southern drawl of the farm hand asking, “Do y’all girls want some Mountain Dew Pitch Black?” and learning that the fastest way to cool off when you’re overheated is to run some cold water on the inside of your arms and “Just sit down and relax for a dang minute, it’ll all still be there later.”
Home was sawdust and hay bales and a little bit of sand in my boots. Home was sitting at the end of the barn with the big door rolled wide open and watching the sunset, with all of summer’s wildfire colors dancing in our hair and across our faces. Home was riding bareback because nothing beats that connection and freedom. Home was also learning the hard way to make sure your saddle was cinched tight enough before you mount. Home was unconditional trust and understanding, and getting back up after a fall. Home was green grassy farts every time I lifted a back hoof to be picked, so much purple shampoo, and finding little white hairs stuck to my pants when I sat down in the car to leave. Home was soft muzzles and tickly whiskers and a droopy bottom lip that quivered when I rubbed it.
Home was patient and beautiful Ashmir, precious baby Shiloh, Mercedes the mule, Gaston the “left handed” horse, Keeper the pony, Moon, Taz, Silver Bullet, Cracker the humongous Belgian draft, Abby the early retiree, Legs and Diamonds, Princess, and a few more aspiring young racehorses that I had the privilege of meeting and loving on, but time has stolen their names from me.
A lot of years have passed since those long summer days that I thought would never end. Life, in all its sneaky ways, kept me so busy that I never even realized I was homesick. Now, through my own vivacious daughter, I have suddenly and wonderfully found something that I didn’t know my heart was looking for. I’ve found that home still has a long driveway, although the pastures are flatter and the barn is small and humble.
Home still has that comforting smell that only a barn full of happy horses has. Home is my daughter begging, “Please, can we stay at the barn a little longer? Could we just stay all day?” Home is watching her hand walk a horse after a hard lesson, learning patience and understanding; it’s unconditional trust and love, and seeing her get right back up after a fall. Home is smiling to myself as I see her make sure her saddle is cinched tight enough before she mounts, and the proud thrill I feel when I see her riding, growing stronger and more confident, and totally free of fear.
Home is reminding her to love on her mount any chance she gets, because she could so easily be lying in the dirt if they wanted her there. Home is still warm, comforting breaths on our faces, and a nibble on our fingertips, always searching for a treat. Home is still reveling in their strong and quiet presence, sitting and listening to them breathe and munch on hay, and total contentment. Home is still finding little hairs stuck to our pants when we get in the car to leave, but most of these hairs are brown instead of white. Home has new faces now. It’s Roxie and Karen, Piper and House, and even a few others. I didn’t know that after all this time, my heart was still quietly missing it all. I truly feel like I’ve made it home again. Home is a horse.
Oh. Maybe I was raised in a barn.
This was a submission to the 2024 Equestrian Voices Creative Writing Contest sponsored by The Plaid Horse. The goal of the contest is to promote fine, literary prose involving horses and the equestrian experience. This contest is open to writers of fiction and non-fiction, regardless of any previous publications, and awards 16 prizes. To learn more about the 2024 contest click here.
