memories and old boots

Due to the season of life that we are living,

which is bound to be better explained in a future post -

and includes a large amount of downsizing,

sorting, and thus reminiscing...

lots of forgotten objects have resurfaced.

That's how I stumbled across a box of memories...

...in which I found my dusty old black riding boots.

Still a little dirty, still giving off a fragrance of

sawdust, horses, the sweet smells of leather,

and stories of all the places we'd been together.

Memories of hot July days, a sweaty pony,

and a blue ribbon.

That was 2001,

the year I rode a pony that was older and

smarter than I was.

A pony who took it upon herself to "teach" me.

Her background had been contesting,

and she was a little speed-devil.

Whether poles, or barrels, or something else -

her eyes would light-up, and she knew exactly what to do.

I quickly realized that as long as Butter knew the patterns

all I had to do was hang on for the ride.

She taught me all of them,

and since she was trained left-handed,

we did them backwards.

Her favorite was flag racing, and it quickly became mine too -

it was the only pattern where she really needed me.

She would slow down and lean in so that I could grab the flag,

and do the same on the other side so that I could get rid of it.

I never once had to whip her to make her go;

she raced hard because she loved it.

We both loved every moment of that Summer together.

When 4-H rolled around, we won first place in pony

Flag racing and pony Western Pleasure.

I was so proud of my multi-talented Buttercup.

We went to State for Flag Racing,

on August 3, 2001 - nine long years ago today.

We both messed up,

and came home with nothing but lots of memories -

but they mean more now than a ribbon ever could.

One sad day, I outgrew my pony;

and she moved on into the life and dream-come-trues

of another little girl.

I still sometimes miss my days with Butter,

especially when August rolls around again,

and memories of that Summer when I was eleven

are as perfect as ever.

And all still triggered by just an old pair of dusty boots.