January 11, 2026
Dickie and his family lived on the farm next to ours. They had a horse that I often saw standing at the pasture fence beside their house. It was big. Bigger than the horse my father used to bring cattle in from the field—and that horse was already off-limits to me.
This one wasn’t.
I don’t remember how I got up there. Someone may have lifted me onto his back, or maybe Dickie and I climbed up on the fence and stepped over from there. What I do remember is being suddenly very high up, sitting bareback on a wide brown horse, my legs stretched farther than they were used to going.
The horse moved in a slow, steady rhythm. It felt a little like rocking in a rocking chair. My feet might have dangled, but at five years old or so, the width of his back probably kept them from going very far.
Dickie was casual about the whole thing. He wasn’t much older than I was—maybe seven—and that made it feel even more special, like this was something we were simply allowed to do.
The adults knew. Dickie had permission to take the horse out of the pasture and ride him down the road to take me home. It wasn’t a secret.
Still, I remember my mother being surprised when she saw me coming down the road, sitting so high up on that horse’s back. I don’t think she knew ahead of time.
I loved it. I was proud. I felt like I was on top of the world.
When we reached my house, Dickie stopped the horse in the front yard. My mother came out and lifted me down. I was sorry to get off. I would have happily stayed there longer.
Through My Eyes, Gently 