Mayberry

I grew up on the beaches of San Diego.  My back is a map of freckles--an autobiography of summers spent between Torrey Pines, La Jolla Shores and 15th Street in Del Mar.   You'd think a beach girl couldn't also be a country girl, but I knew no boundaries.  I'd happily top my bathing suit with riding gear and trade my flip flops for boots just in time for my sister to drop me off at the stable.

My horse would whinny from her stall, recognizing the convertible VW from the road.  Smart?  Yes.  She knew it brought carrots, apples and a sunburned 12 year old.   Days at the beach were followed by evenings spent on moonlit trail rides and slumber parties in the hay barn with fierce amounts of giggling over the barn owner's blonde sons.  These memories flood my mind any time I see a horse.

Life is different now.  I have a career that makes me wear professional clothes.  I love Grey Goose Lemon Drops and high heels.  I love Pink Martini and Frank Sinatra and 7 course wine paired dinners.   But I've still got a hefty dose of Mayberry in me.   And I wouldn't trade it for the world, even if it does make my friends scratch their heads when I talk about wanting to move to a small farming community.

But I have a feeling these horses, who happened to be wandering through Chinatown this afternoon, would understand.  They've got careers, an appreciation for cultures other than their own and I'm sure they would love a little summer afternoon spent on the beach.  I wonder if I could find flip flops that would fit them ...