Hi Everyone, out there,

         Way before I thought about writing horse stories, I was a reader of horse stories and a horse artist. Everyone called me horse-crazy, and I deserved it. I wrote my first horse story when I was about ten years old, and I’ve never stopped writing.

I remember visiting the farm next door as often as I could just so I could pat Blossom, the 42-year-old Shetland pony if she let me. Even though that tiny palomino often looked irritated with her ears flat back and teeth showing, I still loved her, crankiness and all.

My teachers thought the stories I wrote, were imaginative. They didn’t know that most originated from my own experiences. I rode all over our town, the neighboring towns, and through the woods with my brother and our friends exploring and finding adventures. 

In the 1950s not much stopped us from traveling for miles. Sometimes we took picnic lunches and wouldn’t be back until it was time to feed the animals at home. Our parents knew we were safe because life was simpler, then.

I drew horses every chance I had. Doodling while listening to my teachers sometimes got me into trouble, but I kept practicing trying different angles, different shapes.

I’ve loved horses since my earliest memories. I used to make believe I was a horse long before I ever rode one. When my older sisters brought boys home, I embarrassed them by whinnying and running around making me believe I was a wild horse. Both sisters complained to our parents, but I didn’t change until the day Dad brought Blacky home, my first pony.