Today Morgan and I took a walk around the camp. A lot of people have left for the weekend so the rolling hills that were not long ago flooding with creative campers are now silent. Some people just down the street a ways at a music festival while others went to Denver for a night out, or for some, a night at home. Morgan and I sat by the pond and listened to a fellow counselor strum on a camp guitar. We made it to the barn and were greeting by four of the goofiest horses I’ve ever played with.
And I really do mean played. They were nuzzling us and teasing us. Sometimes they stomped their hoofs with a huff as if their days couldn’t get any harder. We went back and forth from stall to stall smothering each horse in all the love and affection it deserved. A man eventually entered the barn and gave the horses some feed. He brought along his beloved dog with grey, soft, curly hair.
And thinking about horses, just remembering their presence today, I can remember one of the first horses I ever rode. I was on a family vacation, where, I couldn’t tell you but I do know my family was finally convinced to go horseback riding. Grandma even came along for the climb through whatever trails we were adventuring through.
My horse’s name was Lemondrop. She was a dirty grey white horse with dark grey speckles freckling her body. I don’t know what it was about Lemondrop that stuck with me. I went to pony camp for a few weeks throughout my childhood and couldn’t name one horse I worked with there and I was with them for a week straight.
I think it’s funny how that happens. Minds can be so selective that way.