“Okay… Just breathe deep… I’ll do fine…” my internal voice tries to sound convincing yet fails miserably. I nervously fidget with the reins in my clammy hands, readjusting my grip yet again. Trooper, my horse, prances and shifts weight under me, feeding off my anxiety. I reach a shaky hand down to stroke his strong neck reassuringly; hoping one of us stays calm.
We both jump as the announcer calls the next number. I entertain the idea of allowing him to bolt and run away with me, a perfect excuse to not go into the arena. With a decisive breath, I resign to staying put. Trooper’s wall of fear, blocks my decision from sinking into him and he jumps to the side in fright. I jerk to the side, and quickly turn his head to gain control over my apprehensive horse. I rub his neck again as soon as he stops dancing. He snorts in objection and looks around wide eyed and fearful unsure of his surroundings.
I look over to my dad as he rides his mustang, Ringo, towards me. Trooper, seeing Ringo, perks up and calls to him, seeking the same comfort I feel in the presence of my dad.
Why do I have to go before him? I silently curse the random selection. Thinking of random selection, I’m so glad they randomly chose Trooper for me. What where the chances of them selecting the mustang with the perfect demeanor for me. Only with him could I come as far as I have.
Only 95 days to train a wild mustang, a very daunting task to say the least. The plan: round up the wild mustangs, distribute them to qualifying trainers, allow them 95 days to take the mustang home, and train it. To show the effectiveness of this program, a required show then takes place to permit the trainers the opportunity to show off their mustang, and the trainer’s ability. The end brings an auction, giving the bystanders and trainers the chance to bid on their favorite mustangs.
The thought of the auction churns my empty stomach. I spent the whole night vacating its contents into the hotel room’s plastic-lined ice bucket; my gratitude for that fact grew as another flip-flop made it-self known. I want to buy Trooper. With my limited purse, the chances of that slim down with my mere $600. Mentally prepared for disappointment; I resign myself to expecting the worse and hoping for the best. I send up another prayer, hoping his bid falls within my price range. During this fervent plea I ask for divine intervention to prevent the show from occurring, or at least my ability to not faint or puke to continue.
My dad moving up beside me arrests my attention from my tangent of thought. He reaches over and grasps my trembling hand, squeezing it reassuringly. I attempt a weak smile, feeling it fall short. “We’ll do great. I’m so proud of you and all you’ve done with your horse,” he grins.
“Thanks,” I manage to force out. My trembling ceases and I take a deep breath.
The moment he releases my hand doubt comes flooding back. Glancing over I see the two rodeo queens, decked out in all their sparkles and shimmering outfits. Although I despise sparkles and sequins, my mind, unable to help but see how they look the part, adds this fact on to my already monstrous pile of self-doubt. They move their horses around and I see how showy and confident they look. I gulp down my insecurities and turn my gaze back to the arena and obstacle course.
Worry for Trooper seeps into my mind. The thought of just him and me alone in front of hundreds of people not to mention a few judges, watching and analyzing our every move, adds to my dread. No pressure. I, the youngest contestant, therefore, own the least experience out of all the participants. With no experience with 4-H or rodeo, my dread intensifies at this ominous trial. I, barley 18, almost missed qualify to take part in this fall’s Extreme Mustang Makeover on account of my age.
The contestant before me now leaves the arena by means of the gates on the opposing end. My turn; all thoughts vacate my mind as I freeze in terror. No coherent notion enters my awareness. I sit here, my face frozen in blank horror, as the ushers’ wave me over to enter the arena. My body, petrified with fear, refuses to respond. I feel the adrenalin rushing through my body, causing my head to pound in time with my overactive heart beat. Trooper, impatiently pounding the ground with one forefoot, jars me out of my fear-induced, immobile state-of-being. With one last fleeting glance for support at my dad, I gingerly nudge Trooper forward with my heels.
As we progress through the gate leading into the arena, I push down my suffocating fear and tentatively coax Trooper towards the first obstacle. They really went all out this year. I pondered how many truck loads of dirt it took for the landscape architect to design the ‘Mountains’ theme. The crowd distracts me to the point that I jolt as Trooper shies away from the first bridge crossing. I quickly reach down and stroke his tense neck in a vain attempt to calm him. I make an unconscious decision right there to ignore the crowd and focus all my energy on Trooper and our objective. We struggle through the course, me calmly trying to ease him over and around the different obstacles, and him refusing to budge. His mind clouded with fear of the unknown and unfamiliar, causes his body to tense.
I find out, the humiliating way, that the course owns a time limit, the announcer booms over the intercom, “Two minutes remaining.” I’m not even half way through the course. Trooper simply refuses to cross the first bridge and I dismount and walk through some of the obstacles. We struggle and finally cross the second without me gracing the ground with my feet upon it. As we finish, with the cow acting surprisingly cooperative, and my appreciation for the bond we established these last week’s grows. We finish with seconds to spare and as I escort him out of the arena he spooks, jumping to the right causing the saddle to slip to the ground, me having loosed it for the health inspector to examine Trooper.
The course behind me now, my focus brakes and the previous fear that hounded me creeps back this time paired with the relief of the end. I pick up my heavy saddle, talking quietly to Trooper to calm him and with head bowed in humiliation slink out of the arena.
“It’s over,” I whisper to Trooper and myself as I inhale deeply of the cool fresh fall air. The air inside the arena stifling with fear makes it strenuous to draw breath. I’m flooded with instant relief, as calming as balm applied to an angry burn.
I quickly re-cinch my saddle, securing it back into place. I place my foot into the stirrup and pull my weight up with my trembling arms, as the adrenalin drained for my weakened body. I sit there for a few minutes mentally replaying the show in my head, dwelling on the imperfections.
Two bystanders discuss the upcoming auction; this unwelcome reminder causes my gut to twist into the now familiar knots that carried me through the show. My mind now assaulted with the thought of parting with Trooper indefinitely. My now clear brain remembers a man who showed interested in Trooper prior to me going into the arena. His inquisitive attention towards us now rekindles the apprehensive feeling of separation, and I weigh my meager purse against my heart’s desire.
My ability to keep a professionally detached relationship with all the horses I ride for other people proves difficult to obtain with Trooper. No matter how many walls I built around my heart, somehow, my capability to stop loving him proves unattainable.
As the day progresses, the auction nears. I spend all day riding Trooper, knowing the finality the end of this day brings. I refuse to allow myself to hurt and acknowledge how I feel. So in silent, false contentment I ride into the auction ring. When the lady with the mic hands it up to me, I plea with the bidders to permit me to buy him and take him home; giving the mic back I ride him around for all to see, and the bidding starts. Unable to hear the bids from my point on the arena floor, I simply ride.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Following Post
This new post, Random Shuffle and Memories, is the first paper I wrote for my English class. We were to take five songs that mean something to us and say why. Granted I changed some of the stories up a little to save me form having to explain to my classmates trivial details, therefore rendering them bored stiff. Yet, the overall emotion I try to convey behind the situation is 100% sincere. I am also happy to report I received 100% on it when my teacher, Mr. Perks, graded it. Woot for me. Tell me what you think.
Another Paper I Wrote for English 1010
Random Shuffle and Memories
It is in our head and surrounds us as we go about our lives. It can define us or warn others of our mood. Music is very important in my life. I listen to music constantly and each song has a different meaning to me personally. I mostly listen with my iPod or phone set to random shuffle, and while I look at my life and experiences that simple word, random, takes on a whole new personal meaning. My life has been nothing if not purposely random. These random memories and experiences have made me realize who I am, how I define myself, and what is important to me.
I grew up in Heber City Utah. My fondest memories from there are when my oldest sister (ten years my elder) would sit down with me, her guitar, and her favorite Garth Brooks music book. We would spend hours singing and playing the guitar. This song, “The Beaches of Cheyenne”, was one of our favorites. Listening to the lyrics, you will notice that there is only one swear word in the whole song and me being only about seven was still naive to the meaning of the word I was not allowed to say, loved it when my sister, Celeste, would change the lyrics from “I don’t give a damn if you ever come back from Cheyenne” to ones that I was allowed to say, “I don’t give a Darn if you ever come back from Cheyarn” (it still had to rhyme). Numerous where the mornings that I would wake up to one of my oldest sister’s many Garth Brooks’ CD’s playing loudly as she readied herself for school. Needless to say, I know all of his songs word for word and have many fond memories of all us girls in the bathroom getting ready and sing our guts out to his voice. So it is no surprise one of his songs was one of the first ones I could play on the guitar. This song means more to me than an older sister editing lyrics to shield innocent ears, it showed me that no matter how old we get she will always be there for me and that I am special and important to her.
When my older sister, Whitney, started dating her now husband, Paul, they would take my little sister and me on car rides to the store occasionally. Whenever we entered his beat up old pickup truck he would be blaring one or another of his many Chris Ledoux CDs. This song, “I’ve Got the Wheel”, was one of my favorites, every time I hear it I think of an incident that tested Paul’s and mine relationship. To begin with I have never had any feeling but complete acceptance and sisterly love for Paul so my actions were not a strike out at him rooted in some evil hate I had for him. I was about eleven and Whitney had just introduced Paul to the family as her boyfriend. My dog was a short haired collie named Duncan. One time Paul ate dinner with our family and my mom prepared shish kebab on the grill. As we always did we fed our leftovers to the dogs and I had saved a special one for Duncan. I sprinted outside to share my spoils with him and in his excitement and haste to snatch the offering he ate it right out of my hand, shish kebab stick and all. I stood there dumbfounded; mouth agape as I watched my dog devour it in record time. It was gone before I could blink. I must have been in shock because I didn’t tell anyone about it thinking it would all just be digested and there was no need to worry. The days went by and I soon realized how wrong I was. A large bump was forming on Duncan’s side and I watched anxiously as it grew and one day became a horrid gaping hole. No one in my family knew what to do or what it was. Upon closer examination, I saw a point protruding from the hole. Gently as I could I grabbed it and pulled. To my horror I pulled out a whole shish kebab stick, identical to the ones we had used for dinner nights before. The stick had reached his stomach and, finding no place to go, forged its own path to the outside by burrowing through his stomach lining and muscle to the outside. My mom grilled all of us to discover how Duncan had gotten a hold of a shish kebab stick and I mentioned how Paul had feed his leftovers to the dogs that night too. As I had hoped it would the spotlight fell on him and he was blamed for almost killing my dog. I am unable to lie and live with myself so I confessed and told the truth. Paul was forgiven and apologized to and my dog lived and had no permanent consequences. Now it is a subject of laughter and endless teasing between us when ever this fond memory is reminisced.
Music also describes relationships. When this song first came out, “My Sister” by Reba McEntire, I was driving in the car with my little sister, Heidi. The lyrics describe us to at ‘T’. We both broke out laughing as we listened to the words. The whole rest of the ride to our destination we reminisced about how when we would go to bed furious at each other over one thing or another and end up having a water fight with our ‘bed-time-waters’ across the short separation of our beds. Heidi, being two years my junior, would usually jump this short expand and we would end up in the same bed soaking wet with empty cups strewn around the room and giggling uncontrollably. Then exhaustion would set in and we would wake up with no clue as to why we were mad the previous night. This cycle would repeat at least once or twice a week and would always end in the same watery war. Winter posed many wet and cold nights. Now every time I hear this song it takes me back to those days of both of us being infuriated and ending in irrepressible laughter.
Music affects everyone on an emotional level. It can be used to define a person’s mood or change it. This song, “Let That Pony Run” by Pam Tillis, is worded perfectly to describe how I calm down and handle difficult times in my life. It doesn’t matter why I’m upset or how big the problem is when I get on a horse the whole world falls away and it’s just me and that horse. My step-dad is a horse trainer and my job is a branch off of his business while still being part of it. I train horses for people and also give lessons. Riding horses is more to me than a job and entertainment; it is a part of me. Last fall me and my step-dad where in the Extreme Mustang Makeover, not for cars. This is when you get a wild mustang from the BLM, Bureau of Land Management, and train it for about 95 days. Those days of training are followed by a show to demonstrate how far the horse has come and how a wild horse can become a gentle, well trained horse. My step-dad and I each got our own horse. I fell in love with mine and my mom fell in love with his. We both bought them back at the auction at the end of the show. To this day my horse, Trooper, is the first horse I go to when I’m upset or facing a big problem. This song puts into words the feeling of simplicity and unity I feel every time I’m on a horse. On a horse is when I am reminded of what is really important and I take a deep breath and “let that pony run”.
This last song, “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, has taught me a very valuable lesson, no matter where you are someone is always watching. I have this song on my phone I listen to it often. This was the case when I was babysitting my niece, Sesaly, who is three. We were playing and not really paying attention to the music, totally engrossed in our game of horse (where I’m on my hands and knees and she gets to sit on me and make me run around). We were having a blast, but alas, all good times have to come to a close. Later that week I got a call from my sister, Whitney, Sesaly’s mother, and was asked what ‘poke her face’ was. I was stumped and had no idea what she was talking about. The subject was dropped and we went on planning when she would next need me to babysit. When the next time came around Sesaly met me at the door with a big hug and inquired about my phone, to play music. I set on shuffle and left it in her care while I discussed the evening with Whitney before she departed. After a time, we were interrupted by a cry of joy. We both turned to Sesaly and observed her dancing around with my phone in her hand singing “Poke her face” as loud as she could. After exchanging a look with my sister we both burst into laughter as the mystery was solved. Now whenever I hear this song or babysit I am reminded of that moment. I now am more conscious about the music I play for my nieces and try to set a good example for them.
All of these songs are special to me in some way or another; a fond memory of family mixed with a self realization and what is important to me. I will continue to listen to music all my life and I hope next time you hear one of these songs you will remember my experience and in your own way learn a little about yourself and what is important to you. Family and memories are mine and every time I hear these songs these fond random memories will come flooding back.
It is in our head and surrounds us as we go about our lives. It can define us or warn others of our mood. Music is very important in my life. I listen to music constantly and each song has a different meaning to me personally. I mostly listen with my iPod or phone set to random shuffle, and while I look at my life and experiences that simple word, random, takes on a whole new personal meaning. My life has been nothing if not purposely random. These random memories and experiences have made me realize who I am, how I define myself, and what is important to me.
I grew up in Heber City Utah. My fondest memories from there are when my oldest sister (ten years my elder) would sit down with me, her guitar, and her favorite Garth Brooks music book. We would spend hours singing and playing the guitar. This song, “The Beaches of Cheyenne”, was one of our favorites. Listening to the lyrics, you will notice that there is only one swear word in the whole song and me being only about seven was still naive to the meaning of the word I was not allowed to say, loved it when my sister, Celeste, would change the lyrics from “I don’t give a damn if you ever come back from Cheyenne” to ones that I was allowed to say, “I don’t give a Darn if you ever come back from Cheyarn” (it still had to rhyme). Numerous where the mornings that I would wake up to one of my oldest sister’s many Garth Brooks’ CD’s playing loudly as she readied herself for school. Needless to say, I know all of his songs word for word and have many fond memories of all us girls in the bathroom getting ready and sing our guts out to his voice. So it is no surprise one of his songs was one of the first ones I could play on the guitar. This song means more to me than an older sister editing lyrics to shield innocent ears, it showed me that no matter how old we get she will always be there for me and that I am special and important to her.
When my older sister, Whitney, started dating her now husband, Paul, they would take my little sister and me on car rides to the store occasionally. Whenever we entered his beat up old pickup truck he would be blaring one or another of his many Chris Ledoux CDs. This song, “I’ve Got the Wheel”, was one of my favorites, every time I hear it I think of an incident that tested Paul’s and mine relationship. To begin with I have never had any feeling but complete acceptance and sisterly love for Paul so my actions were not a strike out at him rooted in some evil hate I had for him. I was about eleven and Whitney had just introduced Paul to the family as her boyfriend. My dog was a short haired collie named Duncan. One time Paul ate dinner with our family and my mom prepared shish kebab on the grill. As we always did we fed our leftovers to the dogs and I had saved a special one for Duncan. I sprinted outside to share my spoils with him and in his excitement and haste to snatch the offering he ate it right out of my hand, shish kebab stick and all. I stood there dumbfounded; mouth agape as I watched my dog devour it in record time. It was gone before I could blink. I must have been in shock because I didn’t tell anyone about it thinking it would all just be digested and there was no need to worry. The days went by and I soon realized how wrong I was. A large bump was forming on Duncan’s side and I watched anxiously as it grew and one day became a horrid gaping hole. No one in my family knew what to do or what it was. Upon closer examination, I saw a point protruding from the hole. Gently as I could I grabbed it and pulled. To my horror I pulled out a whole shish kebab stick, identical to the ones we had used for dinner nights before. The stick had reached his stomach and, finding no place to go, forged its own path to the outside by burrowing through his stomach lining and muscle to the outside. My mom grilled all of us to discover how Duncan had gotten a hold of a shish kebab stick and I mentioned how Paul had feed his leftovers to the dogs that night too. As I had hoped it would the spotlight fell on him and he was blamed for almost killing my dog. I am unable to lie and live with myself so I confessed and told the truth. Paul was forgiven and apologized to and my dog lived and had no permanent consequences. Now it is a subject of laughter and endless teasing between us when ever this fond memory is reminisced.
Music also describes relationships. When this song first came out, “My Sister” by Reba McEntire, I was driving in the car with my little sister, Heidi. The lyrics describe us to at ‘T’. We both broke out laughing as we listened to the words. The whole rest of the ride to our destination we reminisced about how when we would go to bed furious at each other over one thing or another and end up having a water fight with our ‘bed-time-waters’ across the short separation of our beds. Heidi, being two years my junior, would usually jump this short expand and we would end up in the same bed soaking wet with empty cups strewn around the room and giggling uncontrollably. Then exhaustion would set in and we would wake up with no clue as to why we were mad the previous night. This cycle would repeat at least once or twice a week and would always end in the same watery war. Winter posed many wet and cold nights. Now every time I hear this song it takes me back to those days of both of us being infuriated and ending in irrepressible laughter.
Music affects everyone on an emotional level. It can be used to define a person’s mood or change it. This song, “Let That Pony Run” by Pam Tillis, is worded perfectly to describe how I calm down and handle difficult times in my life. It doesn’t matter why I’m upset or how big the problem is when I get on a horse the whole world falls away and it’s just me and that horse. My step-dad is a horse trainer and my job is a branch off of his business while still being part of it. I train horses for people and also give lessons. Riding horses is more to me than a job and entertainment; it is a part of me. Last fall me and my step-dad where in the Extreme Mustang Makeover, not for cars. This is when you get a wild mustang from the BLM, Bureau of Land Management, and train it for about 95 days. Those days of training are followed by a show to demonstrate how far the horse has come and how a wild horse can become a gentle, well trained horse. My step-dad and I each got our own horse. I fell in love with mine and my mom fell in love with his. We both bought them back at the auction at the end of the show. To this day my horse, Trooper, is the first horse I go to when I’m upset or facing a big problem. This song puts into words the feeling of simplicity and unity I feel every time I’m on a horse. On a horse is when I am reminded of what is really important and I take a deep breath and “let that pony run”.
This last song, “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, has taught me a very valuable lesson, no matter where you are someone is always watching. I have this song on my phone I listen to it often. This was the case when I was babysitting my niece, Sesaly, who is three. We were playing and not really paying attention to the music, totally engrossed in our game of horse (where I’m on my hands and knees and she gets to sit on me and make me run around). We were having a blast, but alas, all good times have to come to a close. Later that week I got a call from my sister, Whitney, Sesaly’s mother, and was asked what ‘poke her face’ was. I was stumped and had no idea what she was talking about. The subject was dropped and we went on planning when she would next need me to babysit. When the next time came around Sesaly met me at the door with a big hug and inquired about my phone, to play music. I set on shuffle and left it in her care while I discussed the evening with Whitney before she departed. After a time, we were interrupted by a cry of joy. We both turned to Sesaly and observed her dancing around with my phone in her hand singing “Poke her face” as loud as she could. After exchanging a look with my sister we both burst into laughter as the mystery was solved. Now whenever I hear this song or babysit I am reminded of that moment. I now am more conscious about the music I play for my nieces and try to set a good example for them.
All of these songs are special to me in some way or another; a fond memory of family mixed with a self realization and what is important to me. I will continue to listen to music all my life and I hope next time you hear one of these songs you will remember my experience and in your own way learn a little about yourself and what is important to you. Family and memories are mine and every time I hear these songs these fond random memories will come flooding back.
Reply to Comments
Thank you all for your comments and encouragement. This narrative essay was a story about my experience doing the Extreme Mustang Makeover. It was a terrifying experience, yet i am grateful for the chance to take part in it. I acquired the best horse I ever dreamed of, Trooper.
For some very exciting news, Donnet, the lady who let me participate in the EMM, called the other week and asked dad and me to participate in the contest they are doing this year during the Cowboy Poetry. It will be Trooper and me competing against many other people with their various breeds of horse. I cannot express to you the joy I felt when mom conveyed to me that the judges were very impressed with me and they wanted me to come back this year.
Dad and I are working very hard this summer to get ready. We are both very elated.
Again thank you for the comments and I love reading them.
Keep reading more will be on soon.
For some very exciting news, Donnet, the lady who let me participate in the EMM, called the other week and asked dad and me to participate in the contest they are doing this year during the Cowboy Poetry. It will be Trooper and me competing against many other people with their various breeds of horse. I cannot express to you the joy I felt when mom conveyed to me that the judges were very impressed with me and they wanted me to come back this year.
Dad and I are working very hard this summer to get ready. We are both very elated.
Again thank you for the comments and I love reading them.
Keep reading more will be on soon.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Writing
Thanks to Blake, I now have a blog and am going to be posting my short stories, poems, and whatever else I feel like writing about. I hope you all enjoy and please I want all of your feedback, good and bad. Especially bad, I can take it, be brutal.
Please excuse the plainness, I'm still learning and will soon have a very nice background and more add-ons.
Keep looking for my updates.
Please excuse the plainness, I'm still learning and will soon have a very nice background and more add-ons.
Keep looking for my updates.
Trooper
“Okay… Just breathe deep… I’ll do fine…” my internal voice tries to sound convincing yet fails miserably. I nervously fidget with the reins in my clammy hands, readjusting my grip yet again. Trooper, my horse, prances and shifts weight under me, feeding off my anxiety. I reach a shaky hand down to stroke his strong neck reassuringly, hoping one of us can stay calm. Regrettably, horses can tell when you are faking, and he stomps again in protest for having to stand still in a new place; both of us wishing we could be anywhere else than here right now.
We both jump when the next number is called. I entertain the idea of allowing him to bolt and run away with me. Then I would have an excuse to not go into the arena. With a decisive breath, I resign to staying put. My decision doesn’t seem to sink into Trooper and he jumps to the side in fear. I’m jerked to the side, and quickly turn his head to gain control over my apprehensive horse. I rub his neck again as soon as he stops dancing. He snorts in objection and looks around wide eyed and fearful unsure of his surroundings.
“It’s okay boy, we’ll be okay,” I gently utter, for his ears alone. The Bureau of Land Management people wave me over and declare that I’m ‘in the hole’.
My nervous mind grasps on to this term and can’t help but wonder why they use baseball terms for everything. Anything that will get my thoughts off the present will do and I focus all of my energy on the trivial wonderings of sports terms uses in everyday life. My musings are shallow and fade away like snow in the crisp spring sun and the reality of his words slowly sink in, only one more than me. As this thought seeps through my brick wall of distractions, the reality feeds my fear with a shot of terror and I, yet again, have to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
My jeans. I bought them new for the sole purpose of this show. It was a necessity. I couldn’t very well show up wearing what I wear when I ride at home to a horse show in front of hundreds of people. My ‘at home’ attire is shorts and a tank top, the more skin in the sun the tanner you get, I have never been one for the fake bakes. I spend all day out in the sun; why not get tan while I ride? I have successfully avoided the ‘farmers tan’ this year. I smile subconsciously in satisfaction.
Trooper flips his head and paws at the ground with impatience, drawing me back from my mental wanderings to reality. My heart sinks and the smile falls away from my face when I realize my fear induced A.D.D. has only taken up about ten seconds of my seemingly never ending wait. I resign myself to focus on the present and attempt to calm Trooper.
I look over to my dad as he rides his mustang, Ringo, towards me. Trooper, seeing Ringo, perks up and calls to him, seeking the same comfort I feel in the presence of my dad.
‘Why do I have to go before him?’ I silently curse the random selection. ‘Thinking of random selection, I’m so glad they randomly chose Trooper for me. What where the chances of them selecting the mustang with the perfect demeanor for me. Only with him could I come as far as I have, in the 95 days allotted to the trainers, taken a wild never before touched mustang, trained it, come to the show, and now will auction it off at the end.’
The thought of the auction churns my empty stomach. I spent the whole night vacating its contents into the cheep hotel room’s plastic lined ice bucket, a fact I was grateful for now as it did another flip-flop. I want to buy Trooper. With my limited purse, the chances of that are slim. Yet, I am mentally prepared for disappointment; having resigned myself to expecting the worse and hoping for the best. I send up another prayer that I will be able to afford him. While I am at it I ask for divine intervention so that I won’t have to do the show, or at least not faint or puke.
My dad moving up beside me arrests my attention from yet another tangent of thought. He reaches over and grasps my trembling hand, squeezing it reassuringly. I attempt a weak smile, feeling it fall short.
“We’ll do great. I’m so proud of you and all you’ve done with your horse,” he grins at me.
“Thanks,” I manage to force out. My trembling ceasing and I am able to take a deep breath.
The moment he releases my hand doubt comes flooding back. I start to compare myself with the other contestants, listing off in my head all my faults and how inadequate I am. Glancing over I see the two rodeo queens, decked out in all their sparkles and shimmering outfits. Although I despise sparkles and sequins, I can’t help but see how they look the part and I in my simple jeans, button-up shirt and chaps have somehow failed. They move their horses around and I see how showy and confident they look. I gulp down my insecurities and turn my gaze back to the arena and obstacle course I will soon be forced to go through. They really went all out this year. I pondered how many truck loads of dirt it took for the landscape architect to design the ‘Mountains’ theme. They have everything from a big hill complete with trails, and trees to a ‘river’ with real flowing water. We will have to cross via a wooden bridge that passes over it twice. The cattle were near the end of the course and we are required to go in the pen and ‘cut’ out a cow and herd it across a designated line. We all received a map of the course and had to memorize the order in which we are to ride the obstacles.
I am not worried my memory the course; I’m worried about Trooper. As jumpy as he is now I wonder how bad it will be when it is just him and me alone in front of hundreds of people not to mention a few judges who will be watching and analyzing our every move. No pressure. My dad is shooting for being in the top ten and be called back to do your own ‘routine’ to the music of your choice and show off what you have taught your mustang. I am aiming for just not making a fool of myself and if I happen to make it into the top ten that wouldn’t be disappointed. I am already at a disadvantage because I am the youngest contestant and therefore owning the least experience. to add on top of all that, this is my first real horse show. I have never had anything to do with 4-H or rodeo. I, being eighteen by only a handful of weeks, almost didn’t qualify to take part in this fall’s Extreme Mustang Makeover.
The contestant before me is now leaving the arena by means of the gates on the opposing end. My turn; all thoughts vacate my mind as I freeze in terror. No coherent thought enters my awareness. I am paralyzed with shock. It’s my turn already? The moment I was avoiding has finally come, and I sit here, my face frozen in blank horror, as the ushers’ wave me over to enter the arena. My body is petrified with fear. I can feel the adrenalin rushing through my body, causing my head to pound in time with my overactive heart beat.
Trooper, impatiently pounding the ground with one forefoot, jars me out of my fear-induced, immobile state-of-being. I am grateful my temporary paralysis only lasted a few seconds, where as to me it was an eternity. With one last fleeting glance for support at my dad, I gingerly nudge Trooper forward with my heels.
As we progress through the gate leading into the arena, I am instantly aware of the stadium seating stands filled with people. All of them with their eyes trained on Trooper and me. I push down my suffocating fear and tentatively coax Trooper towards the first obstacle. The crowd is so distracting; I jolt as Trooper shies away from the first bridge crossing. I quickly reach down and stroke his tense neck in a vain attempt to calm him.
I make an unconscious decision right there to ignore the crowd and focus all my energy on Trooper and our objective. We struggle through the course, me calmly trying to ease him over and around the different obstacles, and him refusing to be coaxed. His mind is clouded with fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. All I can feel is Trooper under me and my pounding heart beat.
I find out, the humiliating way, that the course is timed when the announcer booms over the intercom that I have only two minutes remaining, and I’m not even half way through the course. I am forced to dismount and walk Trooper through some of the obstacles; he simply refuses to cross the first bridge. We struggle and finally are able to cross the second without me having to grace the ground with my feet upon it. As we finish, with the cow being surprisingly cooperative, I am grateful for the bond we have built on these last 95 days that allowed us to work together as one on these trials. We finish with seconds to spare and as I escort him out of the arena he spooks, jumping to the right causing the saddle to slip to the ground, me having loosed it for the health inspector to examine Trooper.
The course behind me now, my focus is broken and the previous fear that hounded me creeps back, thankfully paired with the relief of it being over. I pick up my heavy saddle, talking quietly to Trooper to calm him and with head bowed in humiliation slink out of the arena.
“It’s over,” I whisper to Trooper and myself as I inhale deeply of the cool fresh fall air. The air inside the arena was stifling with fear, making it strenuous to draw breath. I’m flooded with instant relief, as calming as balm is to an angry burn.
I quickly re-cinch my saddle, securing it back into place. I place my foot into the stirrup and pull my weight up with my trembling arms, as the adrenalin drained for my weakened body. I sit there for a few minutes mentally replaying the show in my head, dwelling on the imperfections and points I know will be deducted.
From my perch on Troopers back, the conversation of two bystanders reaches my ears. They are discussing the upcoming auction. This unwelcome reminder causes my gut to twist into the now familiar knots that have carried me through the show. I am again assaulted with the thought of having to part with Trooper indefinitely. My now clear mind remembers a man who was interested in Trooper prior to me going into the arena. His inquisitive attention towards us now rekindles the apprehensive feeling of separation. Will my mere $600 be enough to buy the horse I have grown to love?
I have been able to keep a professionally detached relationship with all the horses I have ridden for other people, but with Trooper, no matter how many walls I built around my heart, somehow, this feeling was different.
As the day progresses, the auction nears. I spend all the time I can riding Trooper, knowing this may be my last day with him. I refuse to allow myself to be hurt and acknowledge how I feel. So in silent, false contentment I ride into the auction ring. When the lady with the mic hands it up to me, I plea with the bidders to permit me to buy him and take him home; giving the mic back I ride him around for all to see, and the bidding starts. From my point on the arena floor, I am unable to hear the bids and simply ride.
We both jump when the next number is called. I entertain the idea of allowing him to bolt and run away with me. Then I would have an excuse to not go into the arena. With a decisive breath, I resign to staying put. My decision doesn’t seem to sink into Trooper and he jumps to the side in fear. I’m jerked to the side, and quickly turn his head to gain control over my apprehensive horse. I rub his neck again as soon as he stops dancing. He snorts in objection and looks around wide eyed and fearful unsure of his surroundings.
“It’s okay boy, we’ll be okay,” I gently utter, for his ears alone. The Bureau of Land Management people wave me over and declare that I’m ‘in the hole’.
My nervous mind grasps on to this term and can’t help but wonder why they use baseball terms for everything. Anything that will get my thoughts off the present will do and I focus all of my energy on the trivial wonderings of sports terms uses in everyday life. My musings are shallow and fade away like snow in the crisp spring sun and the reality of his words slowly sink in, only one more than me. As this thought seeps through my brick wall of distractions, the reality feeds my fear with a shot of terror and I, yet again, have to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
My jeans. I bought them new for the sole purpose of this show. It was a necessity. I couldn’t very well show up wearing what I wear when I ride at home to a horse show in front of hundreds of people. My ‘at home’ attire is shorts and a tank top, the more skin in the sun the tanner you get, I have never been one for the fake bakes. I spend all day out in the sun; why not get tan while I ride? I have successfully avoided the ‘farmers tan’ this year. I smile subconsciously in satisfaction.
Trooper flips his head and paws at the ground with impatience, drawing me back from my mental wanderings to reality. My heart sinks and the smile falls away from my face when I realize my fear induced A.D.D. has only taken up about ten seconds of my seemingly never ending wait. I resign myself to focus on the present and attempt to calm Trooper.
I look over to my dad as he rides his mustang, Ringo, towards me. Trooper, seeing Ringo, perks up and calls to him, seeking the same comfort I feel in the presence of my dad.
‘Why do I have to go before him?’ I silently curse the random selection. ‘Thinking of random selection, I’m so glad they randomly chose Trooper for me. What where the chances of them selecting the mustang with the perfect demeanor for me. Only with him could I come as far as I have, in the 95 days allotted to the trainers, taken a wild never before touched mustang, trained it, come to the show, and now will auction it off at the end.’
The thought of the auction churns my empty stomach. I spent the whole night vacating its contents into the cheep hotel room’s plastic lined ice bucket, a fact I was grateful for now as it did another flip-flop. I want to buy Trooper. With my limited purse, the chances of that are slim. Yet, I am mentally prepared for disappointment; having resigned myself to expecting the worse and hoping for the best. I send up another prayer that I will be able to afford him. While I am at it I ask for divine intervention so that I won’t have to do the show, or at least not faint or puke.
My dad moving up beside me arrests my attention from yet another tangent of thought. He reaches over and grasps my trembling hand, squeezing it reassuringly. I attempt a weak smile, feeling it fall short.
“We’ll do great. I’m so proud of you and all you’ve done with your horse,” he grins at me.
“Thanks,” I manage to force out. My trembling ceasing and I am able to take a deep breath.
The moment he releases my hand doubt comes flooding back. I start to compare myself with the other contestants, listing off in my head all my faults and how inadequate I am. Glancing over I see the two rodeo queens, decked out in all their sparkles and shimmering outfits. Although I despise sparkles and sequins, I can’t help but see how they look the part and I in my simple jeans, button-up shirt and chaps have somehow failed. They move their horses around and I see how showy and confident they look. I gulp down my insecurities and turn my gaze back to the arena and obstacle course I will soon be forced to go through. They really went all out this year. I pondered how many truck loads of dirt it took for the landscape architect to design the ‘Mountains’ theme. They have everything from a big hill complete with trails, and trees to a ‘river’ with real flowing water. We will have to cross via a wooden bridge that passes over it twice. The cattle were near the end of the course and we are required to go in the pen and ‘cut’ out a cow and herd it across a designated line. We all received a map of the course and had to memorize the order in which we are to ride the obstacles.
I am not worried my memory the course; I’m worried about Trooper. As jumpy as he is now I wonder how bad it will be when it is just him and me alone in front of hundreds of people not to mention a few judges who will be watching and analyzing our every move. No pressure. My dad is shooting for being in the top ten and be called back to do your own ‘routine’ to the music of your choice and show off what you have taught your mustang. I am aiming for just not making a fool of myself and if I happen to make it into the top ten that wouldn’t be disappointed. I am already at a disadvantage because I am the youngest contestant and therefore owning the least experience. to add on top of all that, this is my first real horse show. I have never had anything to do with 4-H or rodeo. I, being eighteen by only a handful of weeks, almost didn’t qualify to take part in this fall’s Extreme Mustang Makeover.
The contestant before me is now leaving the arena by means of the gates on the opposing end. My turn; all thoughts vacate my mind as I freeze in terror. No coherent thought enters my awareness. I am paralyzed with shock. It’s my turn already? The moment I was avoiding has finally come, and I sit here, my face frozen in blank horror, as the ushers’ wave me over to enter the arena. My body is petrified with fear. I can feel the adrenalin rushing through my body, causing my head to pound in time with my overactive heart beat.
Trooper, impatiently pounding the ground with one forefoot, jars me out of my fear-induced, immobile state-of-being. I am grateful my temporary paralysis only lasted a few seconds, where as to me it was an eternity. With one last fleeting glance for support at my dad, I gingerly nudge Trooper forward with my heels.
As we progress through the gate leading into the arena, I am instantly aware of the stadium seating stands filled with people. All of them with their eyes trained on Trooper and me. I push down my suffocating fear and tentatively coax Trooper towards the first obstacle. The crowd is so distracting; I jolt as Trooper shies away from the first bridge crossing. I quickly reach down and stroke his tense neck in a vain attempt to calm him.
I make an unconscious decision right there to ignore the crowd and focus all my energy on Trooper and our objective. We struggle through the course, me calmly trying to ease him over and around the different obstacles, and him refusing to be coaxed. His mind is clouded with fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. All I can feel is Trooper under me and my pounding heart beat.
I find out, the humiliating way, that the course is timed when the announcer booms over the intercom that I have only two minutes remaining, and I’m not even half way through the course. I am forced to dismount and walk Trooper through some of the obstacles; he simply refuses to cross the first bridge. We struggle and finally are able to cross the second without me having to grace the ground with my feet upon it. As we finish, with the cow being surprisingly cooperative, I am grateful for the bond we have built on these last 95 days that allowed us to work together as one on these trials. We finish with seconds to spare and as I escort him out of the arena he spooks, jumping to the right causing the saddle to slip to the ground, me having loosed it for the health inspector to examine Trooper.
The course behind me now, my focus is broken and the previous fear that hounded me creeps back, thankfully paired with the relief of it being over. I pick up my heavy saddle, talking quietly to Trooper to calm him and with head bowed in humiliation slink out of the arena.
“It’s over,” I whisper to Trooper and myself as I inhale deeply of the cool fresh fall air. The air inside the arena was stifling with fear, making it strenuous to draw breath. I’m flooded with instant relief, as calming as balm is to an angry burn.
I quickly re-cinch my saddle, securing it back into place. I place my foot into the stirrup and pull my weight up with my trembling arms, as the adrenalin drained for my weakened body. I sit there for a few minutes mentally replaying the show in my head, dwelling on the imperfections and points I know will be deducted.
From my perch on Troopers back, the conversation of two bystanders reaches my ears. They are discussing the upcoming auction. This unwelcome reminder causes my gut to twist into the now familiar knots that have carried me through the show. I am again assaulted with the thought of having to part with Trooper indefinitely. My now clear mind remembers a man who was interested in Trooper prior to me going into the arena. His inquisitive attention towards us now rekindles the apprehensive feeling of separation. Will my mere $600 be enough to buy the horse I have grown to love?
I have been able to keep a professionally detached relationship with all the horses I have ridden for other people, but with Trooper, no matter how many walls I built around my heart, somehow, this feeling was different.
As the day progresses, the auction nears. I spend all the time I can riding Trooper, knowing this may be my last day with him. I refuse to allow myself to be hurt and acknowledge how I feel. So in silent, false contentment I ride into the auction ring. When the lady with the mic hands it up to me, I plea with the bidders to permit me to buy him and take him home; giving the mic back I ride him around for all to see, and the bidding starts. From my point on the arena floor, I am unable to hear the bids and simply ride.
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This following post (Trooper) is the paper I'm writing for my English 1010 class. It is a 'Narration Essay'.
Please tell me what you think and any changes I need to make.
-Thank you.
Please tell me what you think and any changes I need to make.
-Thank you.
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