Read Online My Million-Dollar Donkey by Ginny; East - Free Book Online
Authors: Ginny; East
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new, quiet life drowning out my plea for his assurance that all would be well.
“In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.”
— Henry David Thoreau
FRIEND FOR DONKEY
As months slipped by, I grew more adept at country ways, though I felt more like I was on vacation than permanently encased in a new life. I longed to feel as at home in our new world as Mark seemed to be, but my old persona clung like a deeply embedded tick. Certainly there must have been a time when dance didn’t define me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember when.
I did recollect spending one summer riding horseback as a child. That was a glorious, carefree summer filled with great non-dancing memories, and perhaps the origin of why I found a donkey so appealing now. My new life mascot was like an old dream that went blurry around the edges, turning the great steed of my deep youthful desires into a plodding ass, a fair match for my middle-aged self.
I was only eleven on that dance-free summer. My sister, ten years my senior, had gotten her first job and bought herself a high-strung palomino. Inspired, my father “rented” the family a second horse so we could all ride together. We devoted that entire summer to horseback riding, experiencing what you could call “limited-liability horse ownership.” Whoever paid the monthly rental fee was responsible to ride and groom the beast, so my summer responsibility was to provide exercise and care for the horse, and ride as much as I could to validate the rental fee.
I still had vivid memories of riding through the mountains, pausing to pick blackberries or swim in the lake while my horse, Chiquita, grazed nearby. I was a fearless pre-teen, standing up in the saddle in an attempt to master tricks, urging the horse to run every time the land opened up, and when I wasn’t in the mood to hoist the heavy saddle I’d ride bareback, even though the horse’s sweat made the skin between my thighs itch for hours afterwards.
Every day, I toted a quarter to the stables to buy a bottle of orange soda from the vending machine. I’d pour the pop into my hand and share with my chestnut mare, her warm tongue lapping at my palm as her trusting and appreciative eyes gazed into mine. I gave her baths, soaping her up like a car, both of us ending up squeaky clean as the water cooled our mid-summer flush. If I held up the hose just so, the water cascaded over my wrist to form a fountain. We took turns drinking, both the horse and I, sucking water through pursed lips, nudging each other aside to assert our right to the next gulp.
Occasionally, all thousand pounds of Chiquita would accidently step on my boot and I’d yell and punch her, but I followed the reprimand with sugar cubes, two for her and one for me. I’d suck the sweet sugar slowly, running my hands through Chiquita’s mane and whispering that she had to watch where she stepped. It never occurred to me that I should take my own advice.
I don’t remember when or why we gave up that horse. I don’t recall saying good-bye, or pining for her months later. Most likely, school started, so Dad simply stopped the rental program and I went back to the dance studio, my horse affair becoming nothing more than a summer fling once I returned to my true love, dance.
Thinking about horses now felt like rewinding my life to that specific point when I decided to choose dance over all other interests. No one ever told me I had to make a choice, yet make one I had, and suddenly the idea that my narrow youthful mindset might have stopped me from exploring the world beyond dance seemed a correctable mistake. Where better to rediscover the love of a horse than on 50 acres?
“Donkey needs a companion,” I told Mark while running a curry comb over his coat (the
“In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.”
— Henry David Thoreau
FRIEND FOR DONKEY
As months slipped by, I grew more adept at country ways, though I felt more like I was on vacation than permanently encased in a new life. I longed to feel as at home in our new world as Mark seemed to be, but my old persona clung like a deeply embedded tick. Certainly there must have been a time when dance didn’t define me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember when.
I did recollect spending one summer riding horseback as a child. That was a glorious, carefree summer filled with great non-dancing memories, and perhaps the origin of why I found a donkey so appealing now. My new life mascot was like an old dream that went blurry around the edges, turning the great steed of my deep youthful desires into a plodding ass, a fair match for my middle-aged self.
I was only eleven on that dance-free summer. My sister, ten years my senior, had gotten her first job and bought herself a high-strung palomino. Inspired, my father “rented” the family a second horse so we could all ride together. We devoted that entire summer to horseback riding, experiencing what you could call “limited-liability horse ownership.” Whoever paid the monthly rental fee was responsible to ride and groom the beast, so my summer responsibility was to provide exercise and care for the horse, and ride as much as I could to validate the rental fee.
I still had vivid memories of riding through the mountains, pausing to pick blackberries or swim in the lake while my horse, Chiquita, grazed nearby. I was a fearless pre-teen, standing up in the saddle in an attempt to master tricks, urging the horse to run every time the land opened up, and when I wasn’t in the mood to hoist the heavy saddle I’d ride bareback, even though the horse’s sweat made the skin between my thighs itch for hours afterwards.
Every day, I toted a quarter to the stables to buy a bottle of orange soda from the vending machine. I’d pour the pop into my hand and share with my chestnut mare, her warm tongue lapping at my palm as her trusting and appreciative eyes gazed into mine. I gave her baths, soaping her up like a car, both of us ending up squeaky clean as the water cooled our mid-summer flush. If I held up the hose just so, the water cascaded over my wrist to form a fountain. We took turns drinking, both the horse and I, sucking water through pursed lips, nudging each other aside to assert our right to the next gulp.
Occasionally, all thousand pounds of Chiquita would accidently step on my boot and I’d yell and punch her, but I followed the reprimand with sugar cubes, two for her and one for me. I’d suck the sweet sugar slowly, running my hands through Chiquita’s mane and whispering that she had to watch where she stepped. It never occurred to me that I should take my own advice.
I don’t remember when or why we gave up that horse. I don’t recall saying good-bye, or pining for her months later. Most likely, school started, so Dad simply stopped the rental program and I went back to the dance studio, my horse affair becoming nothing more than a summer fling once I returned to my true love, dance.
Thinking about horses now felt like rewinding my life to that specific point when I decided to choose dance over all other interests. No one ever told me I had to make a choice, yet make one I had, and suddenly the idea that my narrow youthful mindset might have stopped me from exploring the world beyond dance seemed a correctable mistake. Where better to rediscover the love of a horse than on 50 acres?
“Donkey needs a companion,” I told Mark while running a curry comb over his coat (the
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