Red Envelope. Must have been a warning. I MEAN A REAL HORSE. My parents should have known better than to open it.
Inside was a picture of a horse drawn on a cardboard pantyhose insert. “This is a horse”, I wrote. Good thing I explained that because it sure as heck looked more like an malnourished dog with an eared snake shooting out of it’s shoulders.
“I want a horse”, I added. Appears that I was more in need of art lessons. (I didn’t get either one!)
“I don’t if it cost too much.” Oh, what a sensitive and sensible child!
My mother found this when she decided to get rid of the clutter around the house.
I asked her when I made it.
“Probably when you were about four.”
“Mom, I couldn’t write when I was four.”
“Oh, maybe six then, in first grade,” she corrected herself.
“Mom, I couldn’t even write in cursive until second grade.”
“O.k. Second grade. I can’t remember,” my exasperated mother admitted.
Actually, it must have been more like fourth grade. All of the girls in my class wanted horses. That was when I belonged to Karal’s horse club. She even wrote a play (our characters were horses) for us to put on for the rest of our class. Apparently, it was a bust because of me. I read it and told her that I was not going to be in it because it was dumb. Then the others dropped out. I don’t remember saying it, but Karal remembers.
Sorry, I wasn’t so sensitive and sensible after all.