The first time I rode a horse I was five years old. My mother was dating a man who kept horses at Mounds Park in Anderson, Indiana, not far from where we lived. We were not horse people or farm people. We moved around a lot and barely had the money to pay the rent and feed ourselves. I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember being small and put on a Western saddle that was smooth, slippery, and way too big. My feet dangled, and it seemed a long way down to the ground. I don’t remember much about the horse, either. It was a giant. We rode through the woods with me in the middle. If I was given any instruction at all it is lost in the memory soup that was made from the fuzzy parts of 1965. The horse knew what to do. It followed the horse in front of it. I remember being scared. And then terrified when the horse broke into a trot. I didn’t like it. And I jumped off. I was lucky I wasn’t hurt, but I wasn’t. I got a scolding; I remember that much.

I didn’t get on another horse until I was in my mid-thirties. It was a half-hour trail ride. I wasn’t comfortable. It was ten more years before I rode another horse on another trail ride. I always admired horses and their grace and beauty from a distance, but I could never force myself to get close to them. Not even when I started writing Western novels. I dove deep into books to learn as much as I could about horses, but my fear kept me from touching one. I knew I should take riding lessons, go to a horse barn, and learn the basics, but I didn’t. Everything I wrote in my novels was from research I found in books, documentaries, TV shows, and movies. I made it all up. I imagined horsemanship without ever really knowing what it was. And then, of course, in the later years of my life, and seemingly at the end (or in a deep, deep lull) of writing Western novels, I made my way into a horse barn.

The moment I walked into the barn at Agape I was comfortable. I wasn’t afraid. I was uncertain, but not scared. I learned a long time ago if I’m the smartest person in the room, I’m in the wrong room. I was ignorant about horses and barn etiquette. I knew nothing and I wasn’t ashamed to say so. It was the only way I was going to learn anything. I didn’t know what side of a horse to stand on or why. Some latches on the end of ropes pulled out instead of pushing in. I had learned basic commands for dogs, and I learned there were commands for horses, too, that I didn't know. It was a whole new vocabulary. I have collected words and ideas all my life. I was delighted. And comforted, too, that everything had a place and there was a place and name for everything. If you took something from somewhere you put it back where it came from. If you opened it, you closed it—especially gates. I walked alongside the horses for a long time, then I asked if I could learn how to groom a horse. The more you know, the more you can do. I started spending two or three short days at the barn, observing, listening, learning, doing. A year later, I’m horse handling, and still learning new skills like ground driving a draft horse (a Gypsy Vanner) I love being around.

The last couple of books I’ve written haven’t been Westerns. I don’t know if I’ll ever write another Western. I don’t know if I’ll finish the novel I’m working on now (it’s early and could be abandoned, but probably not). I didn’t go to the barn to write a book. I went to the barn to learn something, to overcome a fear, to satisfy my longing to know more about horses.

Being around horses calms me down. I have learned a lot and there’s no way that I can ever make up for missing a lifetime in the presence of horses or in a barn, but I’m glad I didn’t miss it completely. I’m glad I didn’t tell myself I was too old at 62 to learn something new. Every time I walk into the barn there’s a part of me I meet who I barely recognize, and I feel at home.

The Agape barn, of course, is more than a place to learn about horses. It’s a therapeutic riding stable that serves disabled children and adults from all over Indiana. The people who come there do hard things every day, and then they get on a horse and ride. My job is to keep them safe, calm them down when they want to jump off, comfort them when they’re afraid. I know that fear. You should see the look on their faces when they make the ride and then get off, touch the ground safe and sound. They believe they can do anything. And they can. We can. You just have to get back up on the horse and keep riding.

The picture is Susie, an ex-polo horse getting ready to be groomed (you've got to love those orange fly boots). If you would like to donate to a limited-time donation campaign for Agape please go here: Facebook