In my 50-plus years, I have received many gifts; but which is the best? Unfortunately and despite the MFRW writing prompt for this week's blog challenge, I can't quite decide. I will, however, focus on the material (instead of the spiritual or intangible) and narrow them down:
When I was a kid, there were no such things as cell phones. We had a landline. A single line. Every phone in the house plugged into a single line. Younger folks may boggle at such primitive conditions. However, it was a measure of indulgence and privilege to have an extension in the bedroom. When I was around 12 years old, I desperately wanted my own phone so I could have private conversations with my friends. Not only did I want my own phone, I wanted a princess phone.
Sometimes, it's good to be the only daughter among a houseful of sons.
As a youngster, I had friends who owned horses and begged my parents to let me, too, have a horse. Several weeks before my 15th birthday, my mother agreed to float me a loan to purchase a horse with the agreement that I would pay her back, support the animal (boarding fees, farrier, veterinarian, etc.), and keep up my grades. She found Suzie, a 15-year-old, Morgan-Arabian crossbred mare with a pot belly, ringworm, a swayed back, and a reputation. The horse didn't like sheep and had killed one. But that mare also came with a saddle, two bridles, brushes, and more. I took that loan and enjoyed several years riding that old mare everywhere. She died when we were both 22 years old.
When I graduated from college, Suzie had since been retired from duty due to arthritis in her spine and I was riding my youngest brother's horse, a big Appaloosa mare named Sassy. My brother discovered cars and girls and lost interest in all things equestrian. Upon graduation, my mother gifted Sassy to me, signing over the registration papers. Two weeks later, I got married and discovered we had no money to support a horse. But I clung to that mare and enjoyed my years with her until equine cushing's disease forced a humane end to her life.
As Sassy (rapidly) declined, I fell in love with another horse, another Appaloosa mare. My husband took out a loan to buy that horse for me. A black roan, she boasted a large, elegantly chiseled head and an arched, swanlike neck. And a nasty case of arthritis that crippled her by the time she turned fifteen. We remember her for her protective attitude toward our children, her hatred of pigs and my husband. Lots of stories accompany memories of that temperamental mare.
In January 2006, my husband took me and our kids to a shooting range, determined to introduce me to firearms. I'd never held a gun, much less shot one. He rented a .22 pistol, loaded one round in the chamber, and showed me to hold the weapon. He instructed me to pull the trigger ... gently. The gun fired. I screamed and dropped it. Which was why he only inserted one round into the chamber. The man knows me well. Fast forward to May. I'd developed a liking for firearms. Because my birthday and Mother's Day often coincide, he enrolled me in a general gun safety course and purchased a 9mm pistol for me. It's a grand pistol, perfect for my hand. The next year, he enrolled me in a course to acquire a concealed carry permit and gave me a .32 caliber pistol, small, lightweight, and enhanced with a laser site. Fun stuff.
(No, the pistols linked are not mine, but they are the same models.)
The telephone and the horses mentioned are nothing but fond memories now, but the equestrian experience comes in handy when I come across a book or manuscript or ghostwriting project that includes horses or guns. I can say, "Nope, not real." I can identify writers who haven't done any research and don't know whereof they speak. And I can better identify those who did and can. I know enough to be dangerous.
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
Looking for a place to swap blogs? Holly Bargo at Hen House Publishing is happy to reciprocate Blog Swaps in 2019.
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