Dear Blogger Community,
Every horse owner has their own story about the first horse they bought. Some of them get one for their birthday, and some of them have to work their entire lives to own horses. I am just lucky enough to have been born into the middle of the Tennessee Walking Horse Industry. I say that like I have been around horses all my life, but that's the thing, I haven't. It all started when I was 10. During the summer my mom and I would make the long, hot, better described as awful drive to what I called "Hillbilly Hill." It would take eight hours of pretty much non-stop butt numbing riding in the car. That sounds pretty bad, but when you add the racket that people call classical music in to the equation, it is enough to make you want to jump out of the window. After passing around 2,000 Waffle Houses and Huddle Houses we would arrived in what the locals call Cookeville, Tennessee. Oh so much fun, I could imagine having here. Between having no shopping mall, and the fact that it is taken over by rednecks, I didn't know where to start. Well actually, I did know where to start. I was heading straight down to my dad's house, thanks to my mom. I knew we were getting close when we turned off the interstate, onto a gravel road. I was on the verge of seeing the pizza we ate three hours earlier when we drove into the wrap around driveway. The house looked just as it did in the years past. The off-white paint was starting to chip off, and the windows had streaks down them from dad's infamous spring cleaning. The steps still creaked and cracked when I walked up them, and dad's three legged black lab, Boomer, was predictably laying on the porch. My dad came out of the red barn behind the house, using his hand as a visor for the sun. His skin was soaked with sweat; his shirt (which I am assuming was white this morning) was now all didn’t colors of black. It was okay though, because this was my dad. I would have been surprised to see him any other way. It just so happens that my dad is a World Champion walking horse trainer. It sounds a little exciting to someone who doesn't know what it really means. For me it meant a long summer spent in a 200 degree barn full of horse poop, flies, and people who don't speak anywhere near proper English. Now don't get me wrong, I miss my dad through the school year, but this is not my idea of a summer vacation.
Every horse owner has their own story about the first horse they bought. Some of them get one for their birthday, and some of them have to work their entire lives to own horses. I am just lucky enough to have been born into the middle of the Tennessee Walking Horse Industry. I say that like I have been around horses all my life, but that's the thing, I haven't. It all started when I was 10. During the summer my mom and I would make the long, hot, better described as awful drive to what I called "Hillbilly Hill." It would take eight hours of pretty much non-stop butt numbing riding in the car. That sounds pretty bad, but when you add the racket that people call classical music in to the equation, it is enough to make you want to jump out of the window. After passing around 2,000 Waffle Houses and Huddle Houses we would arrived in what the locals call Cookeville, Tennessee. Oh so much fun, I could imagine having here. Between having no shopping mall, and the fact that it is taken over by rednecks, I didn't know where to start. Well actually, I did know where to start. I was heading straight down to my dad's house, thanks to my mom. I knew we were getting close when we turned off the interstate, onto a gravel road. I was on the verge of seeing the pizza we ate three hours earlier when we drove into the wrap around driveway. The house looked just as it did in the years past. The off-white paint was starting to chip off, and the windows had streaks down them from dad's infamous spring cleaning. The steps still creaked and cracked when I walked up them, and dad's three legged black lab, Boomer, was predictably laying on the porch. My dad came out of the red barn behind the house, using his hand as a visor for the sun. His skin was soaked with sweat; his shirt (which I am assuming was white this morning) was now all didn’t colors of black. It was okay though, because this was my dad. I would have been surprised to see him any other way. It just so happens that my dad is a World Champion walking horse trainer. It sounds a little exciting to someone who doesn't know what it really means. For me it meant a long summer spent in a 200 degree barn full of horse poop, flies, and people who don't speak anywhere near proper English. Now don't get me wrong, I miss my dad through the school year, but this is not my idea of a summer vacation.
The Farm
omg amanda, I love the way you write
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