by cheri block
When I was about ten years of age, I wanted to change my name to Winnie. That was the sound a horse makes. I would trot around the playground and race out into the grassy field, kicking up my hooves in the sweet turf and tossing my ponytail into the wind. When the bell rang, ending recess, I would jump out of the starting gate out there in field and charge as fast as I could (with a racing saddle on my back) into Room 11, snorting and whinnying, and stomping my hooves.
The boys thought I was weird. Every other girl in my class, except for Meaux Morrow, laughed at me.
I read every horse book known to a little girl. Black Gold, Man o’ War, Black Beauty...I ate up those stories as if they were the sweetest alfalfa fed only to horses who had rightfully earned their places in Equine Heaven.
I still am a sucker for horse stories and read Laura Hillenbrand’s Seabiscuit: An American Legend in a couple of days.
Writing a horse story is one of my literary goals after I finish writing about WG Sebald’s Austerlitz. I am happy to report that I have 8 pages to go on my Master’s thesis and then I can jump across the creek, shake my mane, stretch my legs, and canter up to the top of the olive orchard.