It’s been a sad week here in Florida.  Two high school boys were killed in accidents.  One was playing football, and one was in a motorcycle accident.

This summer has been a wonderful growing season for our pastures, but with my husbands back being so bad, I have been doing most of the mowing.  By the time I finish the last pasture, it’s time to cut the first one again.  Rain, sun, and warn nights equals growing overnight.  With trying to keep up with my responsibilities and his, I have not had a chance to ride.  But it was hot so it’s okay.  Or not.  I used to get up early and ride before the sun came up high enough to bake us.

I witness many older people in my church die, and I know they are no longer in pain.  They are free to be the young people they once were.  Healthy and happy.  But to lose someone who hasn’t even experienced life yet is hard.  It’s a wake up call to all of us.  No one is guaranteed tomorrow.

When you get to the end of your life, that would be the dash between the day you were born and the day you died, will you sit there and think – I should have spent more time working, or I should have spent more time with my loved ones and my horse.  I’ll bet on my family and horse.

I read this poem years ago.  I thought it was cute and would be meaningful when I got to be old.  A friend asked me the other day – “When are you old?”  I told him I believe I will know I’m old when I am the oldest person in the restaurant.  Makes sense to me.  Anyway as another birthday approaches I’m looking at my priorities.  I think riding must now come to the top of my list (mowing season is almost over anyway).

Here is the poem.

When I am an Old Horsewoman…..

I shall wear turquoise and a straw hat that doesn’t match and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my social security on white wine and carrots and sit in the alleyway of my barn and listen to my horses breathe.

I will sneak out in the middle of a summer night and ride the dappled mare across the moon struck meadow in only my slip if my old bones will allow.

And when people call I will laugh at the jokes unspoken as I walk them past the gardens to the barn and show instead the flowers growing there in stalls fresh lined with straw.

I will learn to swear and spit and wear hay in my hair as if it were a jewel and I will be an embarrassment to my child who will not have found peace in being free to love a horse as if a friend, with nuzzle and nicker and patient eyes for the kind of woman I will be when I am old.

Written by Patty Barnhart

Well I’m past the wine stage (got really sick years ago and can’t stand the smell) and I gave up swearing about the same time.  The spitting thing, I was never into.  But the poem does speak to who I am, and will willingly progress to be.

So don’t wait to be that crazy old bat down the street.  Ride in the moonlight with a tee bareback across the pasture.  We all wear hay in our hair now.  And my kids can attest to the fact that I am an embarrassment, and my grandchildren will second that motion.

Life is short – Ride On.