I’ve been dealing with a pretty bad upper respiratory infection the last week or so and haven’t felt like doing much.  I’ve been in bed nearly constantly since Friday afternoon and, quite frankly, I’m tired of it.

I’ve noticed something about being sick, though.  I feel the most lonely at that time.  If my phone doesn’t ring, if I don’t get an e-mail or a response to an e-mail I’ve sent, I feel more isolated and more lonely than I would if those things happened when I’m feeling well.

I have way too much time to think about it when I’m sick and it plays games in my head.

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For most of my life, my family has lived in rural areas.  We had stints in cities:  we lived in San Diego long enough for my brother to be born, we lived in Las Vegas for 4 years.  For the most part, though, we have always lived in fairly rural areas.

From the age of 6 until the age of 13, we lived in Missoula, Montana.  The years spent in Missoula are still the fodder for great stories that we share with others.  We lived there when Mount St. Helens blew in 1980.  We lived there when streakers would jump off of the bridge into the river.  We fished for crawdads in the ditches, watched the Budweiser Clydesdales walk down the cobblestone, rode our bikes for miles and miles and miles, went swimming at the high schools, and became a family in Missoula.

We lived in several places in Missoula.  My favorite house, though, was the most rural of them. 

Our next door neighbor, Paula, was my best friend.  She and I would spend our summer afternoons doing cartwheels in the grass, avoiding bee stings, playing Life for hours and hours, and just roaming around her parents’ property looking for things.

Paula’s family was more on the wealthy side.  We were the poor neighbors. 

Paula had a Tennessee Walker.  Paula could ride this horse and did so in shows.

She let me ride him once.  Once was all it took and I was in love.  I would talk to her horse whenever I saw him.  I would let him know how beautiful I thought he was and how much he meant to me.

I think horses held a fascination for my brother and I.  There was something about them.

This is a hazy memory.

Some neighbors went on vacation.  Their horses were, of course, left at home.  They were out in a field.

My brother and another friend and I went out into the field and got a horse each for us.   We rode the horses.

Just that once.

We stole horses to ride them.

Does that make me a horse thief?  People were shot in Montana for that.

That’s how badly I wanted a horse.  I was willing to do stupid things in order to have a moment with them.