A mainstay of the stable, Bingo was a gentle bay mare. To my fifteen-year-old heart, she lacked intrigue, and I had no ambition to ride her. Cheyenne was a small Pinto with strong markings. On the trail rides to the lake, she'd hang her head, then lift it on the return journey and trot toward the barn.
The Palomino mare, in her cream puff colours, was pretty to look at, but otherwise without glory. Though I no longer recall her name, I can feel now what it was like to be on her back, the horsy smell and the repetitive squeak of leather from the saddle.
Looking back at my days as a girl groom, the horse I remember best is Freckles. A nag of no special breeding, he was dismissed as a
plug by the stable owner's husband. Freckles was a gray roan, much taller than his stable mates, and much more ornery.
Saddling and bridling him was a challenge. Once the heavy saddle was hoisted up and positioned across his broad back, I had to tighten the girth. This was when Freckles would fill his lungs full of air and hold it in. The moment I stepped away from my labours, he'd casually exhale, leaving the cinch hanging loose below his belly. He'd also raise his head out of reach when I lifted the bridle.
Freckles was a pugilist, and he had scars to prove it. His left ear had a bite out of it where another horse had taken a chomp. I got the idea of taking a photo from his back, featuring that bitten ear in the foreground. I'm sure I still have that picture somewhere.
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