One country night, long ago, I sat and watched “Braveheart” with my dad.   The movie was about the brave warrior, William Wallace, who wanted to free Scotland from the English vice.   I sat there, clinching at the coach with my eyes spying at the TV, then my hand.   Other climatic moments, I galloped to my room as if I was a war horse myself.   I fled to my room, to escape the truth of how excruciating war pain was.   I thought, what silver courage and brawn hearts these men had.   They rode into battle, knowing the solemn certainty, death.   The death they faced was wrenching and wrought with agony.   They fought hand-to-hand combat, fighting, clawing for their lives and land.   They fought with swords and other weapons that would make your core chatter with anguish.   I sought comfort once more in my room for the final debilitating scene.   I could not watch the torture William Wallace had to endure.   I ...

  Ever since I was a little “pink” girl, I’ve been a glittery dreamer.   I loved horses with a wild obsession, and still do to this 30 th year.   When I was little, horses ran wild in my room.   You could hear Breyer horses and other plastic hoofs galloping across “Green Carpet Prairie” making their way to “Bookshelf Mountains”.    I can also remember driving in the Michigan country and I would always yell, “Horses!”   To some people, they aren’t important, but they stir my “Mustang spirit”.   That spirit still lives within me.   It’s like Secretariat at the gate waiting to pounce when the gate flies open.   I used to be timid and shy, but a dreamer soul was inside, growing.   I am now a 30 year old woman, brave and strong.   The timidity wakes on the dust behind my mare-like spirit.   I’m running the race, wishing and hoping for dreams to come true.   This is my dreamer portfolio… When I was about sixteen...

Kentucky Sire   There is a land down South, more “Northern” South, named Kentucky.   Many travels led us through this twangy, wavy countryside.   White fences encompassed galloping Thoroughbreds.   They were the frisky monuments of the green grasslands.   Trees dripped-dropped, tipped-topped, shading farmhouses.   We were Irish gypsies with fifth-wheel in tow.   My dad called us gypsies, because the road was our second home.   The Irish clan was on the road again.   Make way!   On the road again.   I can’t wait to get on the road again.   That was our traveling jam!   Our destination was the rolling Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.   Dad, are we there yet?   No hun, not yet.   I can remember year after year, hitching up our fifth wheel and hopping into my dad’s dually Ford truck.     My dad was a Ford man.   I could see why, they are tough as bulls.   My brother and I wer...