Our horses and the western-gear loaded up in that big chrome trailer. happy faces and stories of croom-adventures in the old, rusty truck. In caravans over highways, or lonely on a dirt road thorugh everlasting Florida-swamps.
We'd ride for hours, willow'd pull her buggy. trusty mare. Thorugh woods and forrests, over hills and through water. We'd laugh, jump to change horses from their backs, gallop wildly on non-trusty ones, it happened that they took a bow. When we were too many, and the horses too few, we'd ride two on one. Night would fall, clear as day. Barbecue. We'd have so much food, too much food, every party'd bring so much.. but I guess, it was the south..
Horses tied up, but grass grew high beside them. They were happy. We were happy.
Some night we'd sit shivering in the trailer, our sleeping area, around the small heater, and with little warm bags in our cold hands. Some nights we'd keep the small plastic windows opend, catch a breath in the warm Florida-breeze.
Pancake-mornings. He'd make them for us. I can't remember his name, but the cowboy-hats, the short gray hair and his wild horses kept him in my memory. and the way hed utter "I suppose.." in that way only a southerner can.
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