Friday, June 13, 2008

A Horse is a Horse

When I was 6 years old, my family moved from Belmont, a mill town which was transitioning to a Charlotte suburb, to Murphy, NC, a town whose only real claim to fame was as part of the saying "from Murphy to Manteo," the westernmost and easternmost points of the state. The drive from Belmont to Murphy is a little over 4 hours. In a U-Haul moving van, it's probably more like 5 or 6.

Our trip took two days.

On the first day, about 3 hours into the trip, the U-Haul broke down during a torrential downpour. The truck couldn't be fixed until morning, so we checked into a motel and went out to dinner. During dinner, the power went out in the restaurant and in the motel.

The next day, about an hour outside of our destination, a young man was walking his horse along the side of the road. My dad eased the truck around them. The truck had almost completely passed them when something spooked the horse.

It bucked wildly and kicked the van. My parents said the horse broke its back and died almost instantly. We had to wait several hours for the nearest highway patrol officer to arrive. In the meantime, the horse was buried in a field across the road.

We finally arrived at our new home in the early evening.

And that's my story about the Horse and the U-Haul (and the longest move ever).


Since it's Pride, there is a lot going on this weekend. I'll be going to the parade tomorrow evening, but, more than likely, that will be the extent of my Pride-related activities.

Tonight, I'll be going to see Sex and the City (again) with some friends. And, Sunday morning, I *think* I'm driving Y to the airport. He's going to be at a conference all next week. If I do drive him, I'll skip the Pride Street Festival and go to the pottery studio. If I don't drive him, I'll skip the Pride Street Festival and go to the pottery studio.

Have a great day. *smooches*


  1. I saw SATC last night for the first time--- luved it!

  2. But are you going to skip the Pride Street Festival?

  3. Poor horse. Bad moving experience. You were lucky. You were only 6. At 6, most events like that are adventures. I remember moving when I was that age. I thought it was SO much fun!! My mother, who had a household of junque, a grumpy husband, and 3 little kids, did not see the allure.

  4. Thus you prove you have no french heritage - otherwise you would have eaten the horse.

    (hehe - my word verification is Wantbj - yeah, I know I'm childish)