A Life Without Regret

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had impossible dreams. She dreamt of becoming an Olympic level gymnast; she dreamt she would become a famous movie star and be known throughout the entire world; she dreamt she would hold the entire world in her hands. But that’s all they were - Dreams.

At a young age, she learned the cruelty that life could be made out of. Her father, an alcoholic, became angry and physically abusive towards her mother and siblings (mainly her older brother) any and every time he drank. In fact, she was lucky to even be alive. When her mother became pregnant with her, about halfway through the pregnancy; her father came home in a rage, from drinking. He repeatedly kicked the mother in the back until her oldest daughter yelled to “STOP KICKING MAMA” and that she was calling the police. After a checkup with the OB Doctor there was a presumed miscarriage. Lo and behold, several weeks later with persistent morning sickness and a rounding abdomen, it was discovered that the baby was still happily intact and would make her appearance in February, 1986.

I don’t remember much of my early childhood. I remember having a daddy, and I can remember some of the good times we had, like, opening our presents on Christmas morning; or pretending I was Ariel, the Little Mermaid, in our above ground swimming pool and he would pretend to be a shark, launching me into the air across the swimming pool. I fondly remember when he would call me by his nicknames for me “Kid Larue” or “Bubble butt.” But then, I remember the painful screams my brother made when daddy spanked him for something I had done. I knew what was happening, but I was too scared to own up and tell him I had messed up the fresh paint on the chairs he was working on. I remember mom would take us to our grandparents’ house to stay, and each stay becoming longer and longer because we didn’t want to go home to him. I remember when we didn’t go back.

The divorce was ugly. Visits with daddy became few and far between and when we did get to see him; he wasn’t really there. He always had his party buddies or girlfriends of the week around when we were supposed to be the apples of his eye for the few hours we saw him. The last memory about him, I have, is this: I had fallen asleep in our van on the way home from school, and my sister was shaking me awake, yelling at me. “Laura!...Laura!...Daddy’s dead…Daddy’s dead…” is all she could get out while she was fighting back panic and tears. He died by suicide. To this day, I've never read the letter completely.

Being a newly, widowed mother, mom did the best she could to provide everything we needed. She took us to a family therapist to learn to cope with the loss of our father. I recall her name to be “Billie.” My brother and sister took it harder than I did. I don’t think I really understood that I would never see him again. When it was time to stop going for our weekly visits to talk to Billie, mom enrolled us into a horse back riding program, at a barn that would forever change my life, Arrowhead Hills Ranch.

Coming from a family that had always had horses, mom knew the benefits of being involved with them and what they could do for us emotionally, to help process our loss. We started taking weekly riding lessons on Tuesdays. The first horse I remember riding and falling in love with, was named “Jimmy.” He was an older, sorrel gelding with a skinny, white stripe down his face. Whenever Miss Marie let me choose who I rode for the hour; it was always Jimmy! I learned to walk, jog and lope on Jimmy. I took my first fall off of him whenever my foot came out of the stirrup (I know, I know - “heels down!”). He was my buddy and I will ALWAYS remember him.

A year came and went, and we had one of our personal horses sent up to the barn to begin the training program, they offered. His name is Wimpy. Beginning his career as a two year old, Wimpy was built “tall and lanky.” He would spook at the smallest things, but he would never harm a fly. Since Wimpy was at the barn, we started to go more often and spent several hours there at a time. During this time I met one of my lifelong friends, Ayla, who was Miss Marie’s oldest granddaughter. We became the best of friends and spent many days riding ponies together, playing in the arena sand and just learning how to navigate childhood, together. During the summer, I practically lived at her house. I hated every August when school started back up because I knew that we wouldn’t get to see each other as much. I didn’t have friends at school like I did at the barn. They just weren’t the same. Most of them thought I was weird or annoying, whenever I was just trying to fit in. I was chubbier then all of the other girls, so naturally the boys didn’t like me, as they did them. It didn’t matter, though, because every day at 3:30 pm, I would be going to see the boy that mattered most: Wimpy!

Being at a barn that specializes in breeding and showing American Paint Horses, my solid, chestnut Quarter horse was nothing special to look at. He has a connected white star, stripe and snip on his face. His nose displays a perfect white diamond, perfect for kissing on. The only other white on his body is his right hind pastern. It makes him look like he's wearing an ankle sock. What Wimpy lacked in flashy looks though, he easily made up for in personality. He learned to nuzzle my face with his sweet diamond, whenever I would tell him to “Give me kissy!” He learned to be a gentleman and let himself out of the stall, when I would come to get him out, by nudging (maybe a better word would be slinging?) the door open after it was unlatched. He knew when I was happy or sad. He knew when I needed a little extra help from him because I couldn't give it my all, that day. Most importantly, he also knew the perfect times to embarrass me because I needed to be pushed harder.

As all of us “barn rats” (you won’t be able to miss us - we are the ones that eat, sleep and breathe in horse.) got older, we started competing at breed show competitions. I mentioned earlier that the barn specialized in paint horses, so naturally, we would have to go to American Paint Horse Shows. This meant that I couldn’t compete with my Wimpy. At the time, I felt like I had “outgrown” him because paint horses were being pushed on us so much. I’ve heard the phrase “No spots...Boring!” so many times, it makes my ears burn. Mom wanted us to have the same opportunity as the other girls at the barn, so she bought my sister a paint horse and bred Wimpy’s mom in hopes of getting a paint horse for me (his named ended up being Dancer, and while I loved him we never clicked because he was someone else’s heart horse.). At the time, breed shows didn’t really matter to me. I just wanted to have fun and show with Ayla.

A few years later, my mom bought a paint horse named “Lucky,” as my 11th birthday present. He was, and still is, a beauty to look at. Although he is considered a sorrel, his brown fur has the shine of a new copper penny. He has white stockings on all four legs, a big white spot on his belly and a beautiful “bald” (not literally bald, but the majority of his face is white) face with two partial baby blue eyes. He didn’t cost as much as the children whose parents were doctors and lawyers, but he was every bit as nice. He was trained, and we went on to do big things in our show career. He was sweet but he never loved me like Wimpy loved me. He always worked hard for me, and he taught me more than any horse, ever could. While I was riding and showing him, a couple of girls had leased Wimpy. We still owned him but they rode, cared for, and loved him like he was their own. When it was time for their lease to end on him, their father handed mom a blank check and told her to fill in her price. Luckily, for our sake, she couldn’t.

Not long afterwards, my life would evolve, yet again. Right after Christmas, in 1998, my big brother was in a motor vehicle accident. Suffering a traumatic head injury, he was basically given a death sentence, but managed to pull through physically. While he awoke from his initial coma, he never regained a lot of function. He could look at us, but he couldn’t communicate with us. He could move his extremities, but he would never walk again. I could hug him, but I could never feel him hug me back. Mom, being a Registered Nurse, at one of the big local hospitals in our area, took the challenge and was going to bring her baby home to care for him. That meant that when she wasn’t at the hospital working, she would be at home working and making sure that he had everything he needed. She wouldn’t be able to come to horse shows and watch me compete. She wouldn’t be able to cheer me on as I rode into the arena and wish me “good luck.” She wouldn’t be able to wipe my tears away when I made a mistake in my classes, costing me a ribbon, all the while telling me how proud I make her anyways. It was okay, though. It was just my time to grow up.

As time went by and I hit my “teenager” phase, my interest in horses turned into a boy interest. I spent less and less time at the barn, while dating and phone conversations began to fill that void. Eventually, the horses came home and became pasture ornaments, as I figured out this thing called life.

At some point, I went through my “wild” phase, definitely landing myself into the wrong crowd. I drank, I got in trouble. I lied, and I got in trouble. I was completely reckless, and I got in trouble. Fortunately, that phase was over relatively quickly and I met the man of my dreams. I was 19, but I knew when I laid eyes on him, he was meant to be mine. A couple of years later, we married and I decided to go to school for nursing. By the third semester of school (I believe we were studying the circulatory system), I knew that I hated nursing. I knew that it was not what I wanted to do with my life, but I had no way out at that point. I was half way through, and had invested too much time and money into it, to start over. Living paycheck to paycheck as I forced myself to finish, my husband and I decided we wanted starting trying for a baby...I know, probably not the best timing. I graduated and landed a decent paying job, but it was years later (repro issues) before we were successful in expanding our family. Obviously, at this point, horses were the furthest thing from my mind. They were always well fed and taken care of but I never just spent time with them, to spend time with them, anymore. I just didn’t have that desire anymore.

In August of 2012, we welcomed our miracle baby into the world. My little Atticus opened my eyes up to just how much love a human heart can hold. I see that now, but the first year I didn’t. I had moments where I didn’t believe I was cut out for mom life. I had moments where I felt like my husband didn't want me anymore, even though he had given me no reason to ever think that. I was having a hard time coping with this life change. Luckily, years and years earlier, mom showed me that horses are a good way to heal the broken part of me. So, I did just that. Lucky, being around 16? Maybe 17 now, went back up to Arrowhead Hills to be used for their summer camp. I used that opportunity to prove to myself that I can conquer my depression. It was hard; very hard. I had lost my nerve, completely. Since getting married, putting myself through school and having a baby, I had gained about 65-70 pounds. My balance was awful, and I couldn’t get on my horse without using a mounting block, but I did it anyway. After a few months, I gained my confidence back. I took Lucky to a small, local open show and proved to myself that it will all be okay. I ended up teaching some lessons here and there, and was reunited with my love of horses again.

It’s been several years since getting back in the saddle, and yet again, my life is nothing what it used to be. I quit nursing and opened my own horse boarding and lesson barn. We, sadly, had to say goodbye to my brother this past December as his body became too tired to fight anymore. I’ve lost most of the weight I gained years ago, and got myself in shape, to begin a new show career with a handsome paint gelding named: “Oscar.” I'm still best friends with Ayla, and we still ride our ponies together when we can.

What about Lucky and Wimpy, my two heart horses, you ask? At the ripe ole ages of 24 and 29, they are teaching my little lesson girls how to ride. They are teaching my sweet Atticus (and hopefully soon his younger brother Augustus) about how to cope with the challenges they face, growing up in this world. They are still teaching me, to this day, about the person I strive to be. One day, they will teach me about how short life truly is and not to dwell on the lemons life throws at us, but to cherish every single moment of it.

That little girl at the beginning? She didn’t dream impossible dreams. She just had to learn which ones to chase.