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![]() She nuzzled them gently off my hand and crunched them greedily. With an open palm, I gave Queenie crisp carrots and red apples. Each day before riding, my mother lifted Queenie’s hooves so I could gently pry out the rocks and mud with a blunt screwdriver. The taller I grew, the higher I could brush her on her shoulders and rump. Before long we moved around the ring at a walk, trot, and gallop.Īs I got older I learned to groom Queenie. The reins go in your left hand so you can open a gate or rope a calf with your right hand. ![]() ![]() At first I clung to the horn, but I soon learned how to sit in the saddle with my boots secure in the stirrups. Even before I was born I felt the rhythm of a galloping horse.įor my first real riding lesson, Mom saddled up Queenie, lifted me aboard, and adjusted the stirrups up high for my legs. Everything felt so familiar, perhaps because while pregnant with me, my mother went riding. Grasping the coarse hair of her black mane, I laid my cheek down against her brown furry neck. She began our lessons by helping me clamber up on the bare back of our bay mare, Queenie. When I was three, my cowgirl mother taught me how to ride a horse. ![]()
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