Welcome to As The Gate Swings...

I had been adopted as a seven-week old infant by a typical family living in a decent sized Midwestern metropolis. Horses had fascinated me as a child growing up on the Eastside of Indianapolis, Indiana - with sidewalks and neighbourhood schools and parks to roam with the other neighbourhood kids. But, I consumed horsey books (I believe my name was the ONLY name on the card for checking out "Linda Craig and The Palomino Mystery" at the school library). I sat rapt when watching Westerns, looking more avidly at the horses than the cowboys - well, except maybe for Little Joe Cartwright. My adoptive grandfather would steal me away on weekends, take me to the local public riding stable, and rent me a pony and let me ride for an hour. If a friend had a horse, I was around it, on it. I took Horsemanship in college, taking a bus from campus to a nearby stable every week to ride. My parents weren't necessarily keen on it, but I had to ride. Had to be around horses. Had to. Didn't know why, but I had to...

The answer came to me in a most unexpected way. One Monday night, home from one of my college classes, I walked into Mom's den. Before I could ask where my dog was, she flung a piece of paper at me, saying "Read this." My adoptive family donated every year to the agency which facilitated my adoption, and in appreciation, they periodically sent her information. And so I read. When finished, I looked at her and she asked, "Who does that sound like?" Without hesitation, I replied, "Me." It seems my birthmother was barely an inch over five foot, had dark hair, "penetrating" dark eyes, and a "determined jawline". She liked to type, rollerskate, and babysit. But, also contained within those few paragraphs on that critically important sheet of paper was the answer to why horses were so crucial to me. 

My birth family - all of my birth family - was involved with horses. My mama rode and showed, even rodeoed. My grandmother bred and raised horses, and my Cherokee grandfather trained. My "alleged" father was a horse dealer/trader ("thief", as my husband, Craig, would later tease me). And there it was. The reason I was addicted to Misty of Chincoteague, of why I would rush to the carriage horses in Colonial Williamsburg or Mackinaw Island. I was living proof of Nature vs. Nurture.

Here I am, 33 years since I was blessed with my sainted First Horse, Sambora, and I still have to be around them, on them. I need to touch them. Smell them. Care for them. Ride them. I need to talk to them. Listen to them. I need horses as I need oxygen.

In those 33 years, I have been lucky, blessed, privileged, and honoured to have been around, worked with, and owned so many incredible, amazing horses. There have been as many incredible, amazing horse people from whom I have learned so much in those 33 years. Typical of so many adventures, there are stories. Myriad stories. A plethora of stories. May I invite you to sit back and enjoy...