On my 8th birthday, my grandfather donned a blue and yellow styrofoam 10-gallon cowboy hat and strutted his way onto Honey Ridge Court to direct traffic for my cowgirl-themed birthday party. I was in dressed in a white cowgirl costume, complete with a sheriff’s star and boots, and anxiously waiting for Mom to put my hair in pigtails so I could join my party.
Tata had brought in the pony – he was white with a sandy-brown mane – and he was all mine, at least for an hour. Interestingly enough, some things haven’t changed.
“Now that Obama is in office, how long before he starts reversing pardons and repealing legislative orders?” I asked Emily.
“Very soon,” she said. “First he repeals legislative orders, then opens up travel to Cuba, then we can all have a pony.”
“Can I get a boyfriend in there, too?”
“Absolutely. Who you want? Obama will give him a call.”
I don’t remember my pony’s name, but it doesn’t matter. For a brief moment when I was 8, I had everything I wanted: my own pony. Fast-forward 25 years later and I’m still excited to see what comes galluping down my street.
Hi, interesting post. I have been thinking about this issue,so thanks for sharing. I’ll definitely be coming back to your blog.