Horsing around
We don’t have any horses now, but horses were a huge part of my childhood. My Papa always had twelve or thirteen horses roaming the property. When we wanted to go for a trail ride, we’d bring the old truck out to the back pasture and honk the horn. Most of the herd would race back to the barn for some corn, but there were always one or two Papa had to chase down with the rickety old truck.
Did I mention he had a dog cage welded around the truck with a sheet of plywood near the top? All of us kids would ride on top, hanging onto the sides as he drove over the bumpy pasture. Dangerous? Absolutely. Worth it? Every time.

Jeofry Jones
Papa named a horse after me. He said it was so he could call my name when I didn’t have time to visit him.
Leah was a magnificent Quarter horse—strawberry roan with a perfect barrel chest. Papa bought her for me as a yearling and trained her for western riding. Unfortunately, I didn’t live in Alma, but I visited as often as I could, counting down the days until I could make the drive back.
Papa kept a dozen horses and a barnful of saddles— but not the fancy kind you’d see at shows, and he didn’t bother with special feeds or expensive supplements. His horses roamed his pastures freely, but they came when he called them. He taught me to treat them with respect, and they would respect me.
Leah had one foal—Briar Rose. I still miss that roan mare.

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