As I was frantically looking through drawers, dressers, file cabinets, boxes and closets for a poem I'd jotted down in a generic coilring notebook two years ago, I came across several pieces of poetry and short stories I've written over the course of the last 20 years. Almost none of these pieces has seen the light of day in years and even fewer have been read by more than myself. As I flipped through them I thought, perhaps a little egomanically, "I wrote this?" and was struck by how much they made me smile. I decided that rather than stuff them back into the far reaches of a file cabinet why not throw them on the internet, at the risk of plagarism and loss of credit, for people to either enjoy, relate to or just plain scoff at and hate?
The following narrative is perhaps the oldest piece I've written that managed to survive many moves and turns of mood. I would date it to about 1990 which puts its writer at 14 years old. I think it's imperfect structure, awkward phrasing and questionable grammar may be forgiven in light of the youth of the girl who wrote it. I have recreated it here exactly as I penned it 20 years ago despite my overwhelming inclination to edit!
The butterflies accentuated the load of expectation on me, a thirteen year old, hundred pound girl, to maintain control and convince my horse, a thousand pound temperamental bay mare, to expend energy jumping a course. We stood outside looking into the intimidating spectrum of the stadium ring, a rainbow of rails and jump standards, awaiting our number to be called. Again and again I went over the course in my head, the right order was imperative but, dammit, they all looked the same. Parents shouted encouragement and advice, trainers shouted opposing instructions, but it all washed over me like a wave over a boulder, momentarily drowning but ultimately having little effect. My horse sighed heavily beneath me, shifting weight from one hind leg to the other. I was quite the opposite, keyed up, needing to use the outhouse, and not listening to anyone when suddenly the ring steward shouted '"Fourteen on deck!" The riders shot terrified glances at other perched on horses and it was pointed out to me that fourteen was my number. My horse and I wove our way carefully through the sea of horses and ponies just in time for the gate to swing shut behind me. I was alone with my steed. My horse felt the nervous butterflies wing down the reins and her ear flicked back, questioning my reliability. I then glanced tensely over to the judges, saluted, and drawing a deep breath I squeezed gently with my legs. My horse responded and we set off toward the first jump, the butterflies bringing my attention acutely to the matter at hand. I was aware now only of the unison of myself with my friend; a mere girl guiding a powerful horse that popped easily over the three foot jumps. An easy approach, sit back, deep in the saddle. "Don't jump before the horse does!" my instructor's words bounced around in my head as my horse cleared the spread and trusted my guidance to the next jump completely. In a rush it was over too quickly, all the jumps were still up and I had completed a clear round. I could breathe again and I drew large gulps of air as I gave my horse a long rein, she stretched out her neck gratefully and puffed slightly as we strolled toward the out-gate. I patted the slightly warm, satin neck, roughed up the course mane and said affectionate things like "What a clever girl you are, you silly old moose." She jingled her bit and reminded me that I do love this, despite the tune the butterflies play in my stomach, because the orchestra they provided brought my horse and I together to create a symphony.
