Ziggy's Farm

The back end of a horse never looked so good.

Was my first drive my first love? It was at an Ozark Mountain summer camp, Camp Don Bosco for Girls. I was eleven or so years old. A handsome young man, likely in his late teens, brought a horse and cart for a session of driving. The other girls in my group swooned over the opportunity to sit beside the cute guy with the flat top hair and an easy smile. I, however, was fixated with the chance to drive. As the youngest and most shy girl in the gaggle, I endured the delay while all the giggly camp mates took their turns at the reins, which were frequently snatched away by the increasingly frustrated instructor.

He seemed relieved that I was the last one to drive as he showed me how to hold the lines. We took a few strides at a walk, and then I impulsively clucked for a trot. I transformed into a confident schoolmarm in a western TV show headed toward town on a mission of great importance. Letting loose of his reactive grip of the rein rail, the instructor settled back as random shadows and patches of sunlight rushed by us. I remember the metronome clomp of hoof beats, the magic feel of the horse’s mouth through the long leather reins, and the heavy Missouri air breezing past my face and lofting my hair in a stream behind me.

As we approached the camp’s fenced corner, the young man leaned toward me and told me how to handle the turn. Doing exactly what he said, I still recall how good I felt when he asked me if I had really never driven before. We kept going much longer than the other girls had, circling and turning around the grounds several times. The power of the experience was unforgettable. When we came to a lazy halt, the wad of awaiting campers hid behind their hands as they snickered and whispered. I was disappointed not to hear any accolades for doing well, and was embarrassed to be teased that me and the boy with the horse and the cart were in love. How silly and mistaken they were. Couldn’t they see? I was in love with driving!

~Z