The King of Summers

Willow wasn’t my first choice of name for the chestnut Thoroughbred that came to our farm in the summer of 1993, but my mother was insistent. In her eyes, it was an attempt to honor her late mother - my grandmother Willow - and in some small way, fulfill Grammy’s lifelong wish of owning a horse. 

My young, pretween brain wasn’t capable of articulating the pain I felt at the mere mention of Grammy’s name though and, since we weren’t the kind of family that talked about feelings or emotions (unless we were swooning gleefully over the amazing bacon at breakfast or, at most, bowing our heads in solemn condemnation in the church pew), I opted to simply call him “King.” He was calm, regal, elegant, and mesmerizing and eventually the name “ Willow King” just kind of stuck. 

The day he arrived was a scorcher and the hot July sun caused the farm animals to be slow, lazy and restless. Our donkey, Chica, sought refuge in her stall, lazily watching the wandering ducks when we heard the trailer make its way up the dirt path that led to the barn. The nature of equine care and all things equestrian had been intimidating, and aside from riding ponies, I was generally pretty ignorant when it came to large breed horses. As I watched my Uncle Peter lead the huge, majestic creature onto our property my heart knocked on a previously unopened door. Like the dust that flittered around the trailer and settled quietly along the spinal curvature of the horse’s back, I too felt my heart break into a thousand, minute pieces and settle deep within the horse’s beautiful, brown eyes. 

The first time I mounted Willow King I was petrified. In my heart, riding horses always seemed like a calling, but in that moment I wanted only to jump off and run to the sanctuary of my small attic room. The smell of earth, leather, sweat, wood and hay all filled my nose simultaneously as I placed one foot in the stirrup and swung my other leg over his back. The horse gently shifted from one foot to the other, which in reality was a small movement, but felt as if I was atop a massive shapeshifting mountain. I worked hard to keep a tall posture and my hands relaxed, but it took almost as much work to maintain the facade of calmness on my face as it did to stay in the correct position. Mama was a stern woman who wouldn’t tolerate anxiety or fear within her daughter, so I took small, deep breaths and swallowed the tears swelling within my wide eyes. The rope reins shook in my hands and my knees felt like jelly as my heart raced in ten different directions. 

Somehow, I kept my composure that afternoon and managed to stay atop the towering creature. It seemed like a miracle at the time, but in hindsight, it was because Willow King understood the apprehension of his rider. He understood the messy, yet delicate balance between a rider’s need to stay in the zone of comfort and a horse’s need to push the boundaries that contain it. Before I knew it, we were strolling away from the barn and towards the expansive sunflower field before us. Perhaps this was due to my tense legs unintentionally squeezing his sides, signaling my desire to move into a walk, but perhaps it was also due to Willow King’s understanding he was ready - we were ready - to begin our adventure. I felt my legs relax and my shoulders drop, as he transitioned into a graceful and smooth trot. Everything about Willow King was like floating on a cloud. That was the day I began to understand the language shared between horse and rider. A language that somehow seems to glide beneath the surface of human speech and exist in the place where souls reside. 

That summer was full of new experiences as I learned patience and compassion through the art of horseback riding, but most of all, I learned courage. While many twelve year olds were trading Nintendo games and swapping stories about their summer crushes, I spent the long, hot days sipping Kool Aid and patiently mucking Willow King’s stall, sharing my secrets over baskets of apples, and taking long lazy rides in the pasture. In return, he calmed my fears and taught me the beauty of trust. Every time I placed the saddle upon his back, every time his hooves hit the ground, my confidence in myself grew and my confidence in trusting another being with my life expanded. I never thought I could trust an animal who had a mind of its own -- an animal that spoke a different language, but Willow King proved me wrong. He showed me I could trust these beautiful, graceful, loving giants. He showed me I could trust myself.

38 years later, I sit in my mother’s old rocking chair, with chipped paint and a Kool Aid stained seat, staring out at the same field Willow King and I galloped through on so many summer evenings. The sunflowers are gone and the aging barn behind me remains empty. As I have grown older, time has gifted me with different priorities, but time has also taken away the gift of Willow King. The memories are ready and plentiful as I look around the property I used to call home. I smile at the warm, fuzzy feeling as I remember the beautiful thoroughbred racing around the field.  The tack room still holds my old saddles and the smell of used leather and weathered wood permeate the air.  I lean back and take it in, enjoying a rare, cool, summer breeze. The bees buzz around me and a butterfly lands gracefully on the arm of the rocking chair. 

Up the dirt path, I hear my husband’s truck rumble towards the barn with a brand new trailer behind it. My ten year old daughter hops out of the vehicle and races towards me with an excited grin on her face. It’s the type of grin, filled with gratitude, fear, longing, and anxiety that I am so familiar with -- the same grin plastered on my face 38 years ago. My daughter looks up at me and we eagerly wait as the horse is led down the ramp. I can see his beautiful, dappled gray coloring and soft brown mane swaying against his neck. I can already imagine where the new sunflower seeds will be planted. 

A new adventure is about to begin.