I was mesmerized by the beauty of those brightly painted wooden horses. I believe there were three rows around the circle but it looked like twice as many, as there were mirrored tiles around the circular base. I can’t remember more than two or three rides, but I remember I could never get the knack for choosing the proper horse.
I wanted a wild horse that kicked butt and sashayed up and down going around the track, but all I ever managed to get was the horse that was either broken or was stationary and just went round without going up and down at all. My city cousins always seemed to choose the perfect horses. I suppose they could have taught me what to look for in a horse, but I wrack my brain and I can’t remember telling a single soul why those rides always disappointed me. I was the country mouse visiting my cousins in the city. What did I know?
If you’re looking hard for a metaphor in this posting, I’m pretty sure you’ll find one. But no matter. I’ve always loved horses–real ones as well as painted ones.