We lived in Toledo, Ohio from 1960 until we left for Venezuela at the end of the school year in 1961. Every week I went to a riding school in Michigan. There was a really beautiful Palomino named (surprise) Pal, but you had to earn the right to ride him. Finally, Mr. White, our instructor (who was black), told me it was my day! I was excited. We did our routine exercises, then it was time for jumping.
Pal and I flew over the first couple of jumps, then we approached the next jump. Then he stopped. He didn't tell me he was planning to. I slid up his neck, over his head, and over the jump, landing on my knees on the other side. Then he decided to follow me over. Seeing a large airborne horse looming over me, I rolled over. When I looked up, his nostrils were in my eyes. "What are you doing down there?" he asked. My back hurt so badly I couldn't move. My mother started to run out to the arena, but they stopped her. Mr. White came over to me and helped me up. He asked me if I could get back on. I said yes. So he helped me up into the saddle.
I took one turn around the arena and had to get off, I was in so much pain. It wasn't Pal's fault, either. It was mine. I should have been gripping tighter with my knees. My mother took me to the doctor and we found out I had torn all the muscles in my lower back. I was off school for a week and spent most of that week in a hot bathtub. They told me if I got pregnant I might have to wear a back brace, since the muscles were weakened. Luckily, that wasn't the case. I never got the chance to ride Pal again, because not long after that we moved.
