I’m a daddy’s girl. I’ll be the first to admit it. Not just because he spoils me (but he does, and I love it). But because he knows me so well. He knows what I like, and how I think. I like to think it’s because I’m so much like him. I’m a lucky girl.
I inherited a lot of things from my dad; my love of stories; my big ears, but also my love and affinity for animals. I grew up with all types of animals underfoot. Dogs, cats, pigs and chickens. But my favorites were always the horses. My dad’s a mountain man, farmer and a cowboy all rolled into one. But he’s a magician with a horse. He’d use his big strong hands to weave gentle spells over those magnificent animals as I watched in awe. He could make a horse do anything. He taught his horse Flame how to play wiffle ball. No kidding. Dad would pitch the ball, and Flame would hold the bat in his mouth, swinging his head to make contact with the ball, and Jason and I would run bases for him. 
I was twelve when dad bought a small Appaloosa who’d been mistreated and neglected. He was scrawny. His ribs poked through his dull coat, the color indistinguishable beneath the grime. He was covered in ticks, and his mane was wiry and unruly. I remember the wary look in those striking eyes, shaped like half-moons, the color of the sky. I thought he was beautiful. I was smitten the moment I laid eyes on him.
His spots were the color of cinnamon, so we named him Apple Jack, and over the next few months, he became my world. We kept him three miles from my house, on the land that had once been my great grandpa’s farm. I spent every minute I could with that horse, brushing and feeding him, making daisy chains for him to wear around his neck, or I’d just sit for hours watching him in the field. Together, Dad and I broke him to ride, and it wasn’t long before Apple Jack was bridle and saddle ready. I was thrilled. But, my elation was short-lived when Dad informed me I needed to learn to ride well, so my saddle became off limits.
Dad called me his trick rider. That was putting it nicely. Riding bareback, with only a bridle, I fell off Apple Jack every way you can imagine. I can hear Dad’s voice now. “Grab a handful of mane. Keep yourself balanced. Squeeze with your legs to hang on. Lean back when you’re going down a hill. Be ready for anything.” It took a while for his words to sink in.
Once, I hopped on Apple Jack’s back, and he took off immediately. I only had time to wrap both arms around his neck, lying flat on his back, with my feet dangling off his rump. The only choice I had was to let go, landing face-first in the meadow. I fell off sideways, backward, flipped over his head, you name a way to hit the ground, and I’ve probably done it. But eventually, I learned to ride, and Dad let me graduate to a saddle.
I was fearless on Apple Jack. My clumsiness slipped away, and when I rode him I was as free as a song carried on the wind.
For Dad’s 39th birthday, he let me ride my horse home, and keep him at our house overnight. I was up early that morning, out in the yard with Apple Jack. Dad came out right behind me. “I’m going to take a shower. Stay off that horse until I come back.” Oh yes, Dad knows me well. “You got it Dad.” I promised.
I waited until he was back inside before I hopped on Apple Jack’s back. No saddle. No bridle. Just as I’d done a thousand times before. I sat there and stroked his neck, singing and talking to him, watching his ears perk up at the sound of my voice. I forgot Dad’s most important lesson. Be ready for anything.
I hear a dog bark and a chain rattling, and the next thing I know, I’m flying in the air, then I’m on the ground, rolling down a small hill. I lay there stunned for a moment, not quite sure what had happened. Apparently, our neighbor’s dog, had caught sight of my horse and spooked him, making him rare up; and I hadn’t been ready.
Apple Jack trots over to me, insistently pushing his soft muzzle in my face. I try to pet him, but something isn’t right. I look over at my left forearm, and it’s shaped like a horse shoe. I’m confused, thinking something must be wrong with my glasses. I reach up and touch them with my right hand, but no. They’re fine. I pick myself up, cradling my useless arm, and make my way to the house. “Dad!” I scream over and over. In shock, I suppose, I feel no pain, but I know my arm is broken.
My mom opens the back door. And Mom, who sometimes isn’t the best in a crisis situation, takes one look at my arm and starts pulling at her hair. She turns back inside, screaming, “Gene!” Now I’m scared. But then, Dad runs outside, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts, his wet hair uncombed, standing on end, and shaving cream covering half of his face. He looks like a madman, but as soon as I see him, I know I’m okay.
He turns back inside, grabs his keys, swipes the shaving cream off his face and puts me in the truck, racing me to the hospital. He pulls up to the hospital doors, and rushes inside, leaving me in the truck. Still cradling my arm, which is finally starting to hurt; I follow. Dad’s standing in the middle of the Emergency Room, screaming, “I need some help, and I need it right now!”
Nurses surround me, and usher me toward the exam rooms, and dad is right by my side. One of the nurses turns to him, and looks him up and down. “Sir, we’ll take care of her. Why don’t you go home and put some clothes and shoes on?” That’s my dad. Always thinking about his family, with no concern for himself.
It turns out; I’d severely damaged my arm. My bone had to be surgically patched up with two metal plates, and who knows how many screws, and I had to wear a cast for months. Afterward, I had months of physical therapy before I could use my left hand. But during all that time, Dad still took me to see my horse. He’d patiently wait, while I brushed and fed him. The subject of riding him never came up.
One day, my physical therapy over, I was home alone with Mom, when Dad comes through the door. “Come on Keli,” he says. I walk outside and there’s Apple Jack, saddled up and ready to ride. I was terrified. I didn’t even realize it until that moment, because I’d pushed the thought to the back of my mind.
Jason was there, already astride his big black horse, Billy, so I’d have rather died than admit that I was afraid. But somehow Dad knew. “Just get on him, and I’ll lead you.”
I mounted Apple Jack, and my entire body trembled. Both my hands gripped the saddle horn, and I struggled to breath. I know Dad noticed, but he never mentioned it, he just grabbed him by the halter and walked me back into the mountain. Somewhere during those three miles, I relaxed, and rediscovered the joy I might have lost, and probably would’ve never found in the first place, if it weren’t for my dad. Oh yes, I’m a lucky girl.