Every Monday morning, I listen with envy to other dads’ weekend stories. They go to cottages. They go camping. They visit museums or go fishing. They build landscapes in their back yards, paint fences and clean out their eavestroughs.
My eavestroughs are full. My whole life needs a coat of paint. Because while my co-workers are watching football in their man caves – I’m at a horse show, holding a horse for “just a second” for a kid who disappeared half an hour ago.
I wasn’t born into the world of horses, horse shows, horse tack in my back seat, and horsehair in my front seat – well, horsehair on everything I own. I was a dairy farmer’s kid. We just viewed horse farms as a place to sell grassy hay, which isn’t good for milk production, at inflated prices. We laughed at their 19th century stable cleaning and feeding technology and snickered at their tiny tractors.