When I was a little girl, I wanted a horse. Nothing earth shattering about that, I know. Like so many other little girls who dreamed of horses, I never had one either. Not a real one anyway.
Beside our house stood a big oil drum – red but a little rusty. Kind of chestnut colored, maybe? It sat tall on a base of four legs with cross bars on each side. I could place my foot in the “v” of the crossbar, and pull myself up on that old drum using the cap on top as my saddlehorn.
My chestnut mare carried me many miles in my mind.
Sometimes, when I was playing in the woods, I’d find a tree blown over by a storm – still living, just leaning. I’d climb on, hold onto a limb and ride for hours.
In our yard lives a tree that has weathered ice storms and hurricanes. To some, it may look like firewood that just needs to be cut and burned.
But to my granddaughters and me, it is the horsey tree.