I was recently reading a past issue of Parade magazine that featured an article entitled: “If You Could Spend A Day With Someone Who’s Gone, Who Would It Be And What Would You Do?” After finishing the article, I thought my maternal grandmother would be the person I would choose.

I would spend the day at her old white clapboard farmhouse in rural Indiana, sitting on the creaky metal stool in her sun-lit kitchen talking to her as she baked. But instead of merely observing her in action, I would pitch in and help, all the while meticulously taking notes on her ingredients, amounts and processes.

Looking back, as a child and young adult, I really didn’t appreciate the talents my grandmother had in the kitchen or garden. I believed cooking was just one of those skills that you would acquire when you grew up, perhaps through instinct.

Similarly, I pondered which of my former horses I would choose to spend another day with. This was actually an easy decision: my first horse, Metaxa.

She was a petite, chestnut Quarter Horse my parents purchased for me when I was 10. She stood maybe 15.1 hands, had a crooked white blaze on her face, and was absolutely unflappable. She arrived at the barn on a warm summer day, her red coat gleaming in the sunshine.

At first I was disappointed.

I had my heart set on a Thoroughbred, like the fancy show horses that the older girls owned. But after my parents watched me ride her around, they went into the office with my trainer, and when they came out I had a new horse.

I don’t remember having much of a say in the decision, which was probably a good thing. It turned out that Metaxa was the perfect horse for me.

She taught me the ropes at the rated shows in the children’s hunters and even carried me to my first blue ribbons. But, more importantly, she stood like a stone as I learned to braid, wrap legs and give a show bath.

As any Quarter Horse aficionado would expect, Metaxa was an awesome trail horse. She would lead, follow and never spook at the deer crashing through the woods.

As the summer waned and fall came, I began to truly appreciate Metaxa. As I watched the older girls with their hot Thoroughbreds, leaping and cavorting around when the leaves blew against the side of the indoor, my chestnut mare would stand like a rock.

When the winter snows arrived, I eagerly got on her bareback and rode around the farm, jumping off of her broad back into the snowdrifts.

Even though we won our fair share at the horse shows, if I had one more day to spend with Metaxa I’d take her out on a leisurely trail ride on an early October morning, when the air was crisp, and the sun’s rays slanted through the forest canopy. Then, I’d spend the afternoon hand-grazing her in a lush field.

When I owned Metaxa, she lived in a show barn where turnout was limited. Back then, it was the norm. But as I grew up, learned more about horses and moved to the East Coast, I realized how artificial her life was then. The farmer next door had a huge field of hay, and I imagine now how the horses must have felt in their postage-sized paddocks looking over the fence at hundreds of acres of alfalfa that was just out of reach.

If I had one more day, I’d be sure to let them know how much they taught me—lessons I only appreciated much later.

Tricia Booker