I wrote stories as a child, but I don’t remember a single one of them! Where did those memories go? My brother –in-law claims they were all about horses, and he remembers wondering if my family kept me hidden away for some reason. While he was dating my sister, he says he never saw me, because everyone always told him I was in the basement writing horse stories. He was relieved to find out I was relatively normal.

It’s possible the stories were all about horses. I was lucky enough to have a Shetland pony named Trigger. My cousins had ponies too, and we spent many fantastic hours riding in the woods, playing cowboys and Indians. At the time, no one used the term ‘Native Americans’. I always wanted to be one of the Indians, and my poor pony put up with me practicing stealth moves and quick getaways with him, even though quick to Trigger was a spine-jolting trot.

So I guess it doesn’t matter I don’t remember the stories, because I do remember the books I read about horses, and the real horses around me. Who could ever forget Black Beauty?

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