Memories are fickle. Are our memories, especially our earliest memories, really ‘our’ memories, or do they become our memories once someone tells us or shares stories?
I don’t have an answer, but I lean toward the latter being the truer reality.
Regardless, my earliest memory that I will call my own is being three years old and riding in front of my dad on his saddle. The horse’s name was Andy, and he was a long-legged, high-headed, 16-hands-tall, rawboned bay. We lived out north of Fort Morgan, Colorado at “Rock Springs” up on Wildcat Creek.
Until next time,
writing through history one romance upon a time