every girl loves

Posted June 14th, 2006 by Michelle

I live in a treehouse now. Out of every window, all I see are fluttering leaves, branches, sky, and last night, a great blue heron made quite a racket when he crash-landed on a too-small branch.

But that is not what this blog is about. This blog is about my new cowboy boots.

When I was thirteen years old, and my family was shattering, some of us- I can’t remember everyone who was there- had Christmas at my brother Kent’s house in Iowa City, Iowa. I remember that my nephew Sean Patrick had just been born. He was still a baby, a tiny infant, and my sis-in-law Melissa quietly led me into his room and we peered into his crib. He was laying half on his side, half on his stomach. “I think that was his favorite position in the womb,” she whispered. He was the sweetest, softest little child.

I, however, was neither sweet, nor soft. I was already a bit of a mess, having suffered through the awakening that all was not remotely right with my family. It was a really hard time- puberty had come a’calling about a year earlier, and I was already dreaming of liberation, of having some control over my own life. I was vaguely furious with just about everything and everyone. But Christmas morning came and with it, a small envelope from my brother Steve and his girlfriend Holly. Inside was a gift certificate for lessons at the riding stable that was just across from our condo in Basking Ridge, New Jersey. Along with it was a note saying they would also get me riding boots.

It was, and is, one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. You know how something like 98% of girls love horses, and about 97% of them grow out of it? Not me. All through my childhood I’d collected those Breyer horses… you know, like the
quarter horses…

and the Apaloosas (I was particularly fond of this foal)

and of course the mighty Clydesdales.

When I was very young, I’d put one of these horses (by the end, I must have had 20 or 25 of them) in the middle of my bedroom and then I’d turn my back and pray and pray and pray that he would turn into a real horse, so we could run away.

I never fell out of love with horses, and the fact that my brother and his girlfriend wanted to unite me with the real deal was extremely meaningful to me. The sucky part of the story is that we got home, and everything fell apart even more, and I just couldn’t be bothered to take the lessons, and I never pursued buying the boots. They would have been English boots, and I wanted to ride Western, and I think that may have been one of the ways I rationalized giving up the dream. But more than that, I was consumed with finding acceptance at my new school, obsessed with worming my way into a group of friends that actually already quite liked me, and some of them might still be friends today if I hadn’t gone overboard. It seems as though every free minute of that particuar year was spent worrying about whether or not I was still “in” with them. Clearly, things like “going to school” or “doing homework” were NOT priorities. What was a priority was finding a group of people who loved me, who thought I was great and cool, and who would stick around.

Fast forward twenty years. A couple of weeks ago I walked into a shop called “Western Wear” or something like that. There were blankets and saddles and reins and spurs and easily a hundred different kinds of those Breyer horses. I tried on several pairs of boots, helped by a sweet young lady who, when she smelled the poverty on me, offered to give me 15% off a particularly beautiful pair. I slipped them on, pulled my jeans over the tops, walked around for a bit, and handed over my credit card. And a week later, I went to a dear friend’s house to climb on the back of a beautiful bay for a ride through the vineyards.

I don’t know how often I’ll get to ride, but if it’s once a month, I’ll be delighted. And someday, someday, dammit, I will have my own horse. And a husband and two little ones. And when I’m done writing for the day, I’ll walk down to the barn and throw the saddle over the back of my gorgeous palomino, hoist myself up, and do my riding for the day. And I’ll still be wearing these boots.