Mom the Hero -- with a little help from a horse

Last week, I wrote about how looking at something in a different light gives you a whole new perspective, whether it's a homely suitor or an ugly butterfly. Exactly a week after the butterfly Incident, my family got to see me in a whole new light.

We were driving home from a weekend camping trip and came down by Normandy Lake from Manchester. At the bottom of the big hill on Sunday evenings, there are usually a bunch of horse trailers parked well off the road because the trail riders meet there then head into the woods.

Since dusk was coming on, I warned my driving student (in between gasps of terror and screams of "Slow down! Slow down! Slow down! Slow down! Watch out for the mailbox! and Slow Down!") that the riders would be returning, so to, well, slow down, and be prepared to see them on the side of the road.

"Horses are a lot like children, cats and cable television," I said. "Unpredictable."

I've tried to stress defensive driving to Ben. I tell him to assume that every other driver is about to do something stupid and to expect it. It's a rule that can hold true in just about any arena of life, but especially on the road.

Sure enough, as we crept around the corner, there were the trailers.

Sure enough, further around the corner, there was a horse, being led down the road to its own trailer. I got a little irritated with the trail rider, though, since the horse was well off the shoulder and into the road. As we edged closer, I realized that's because there was no rider at all. The pretty little tobiano spotted saddle horse was strolling along the pavement by herself, watching curiously as cars whizzed past her from the other direction. The reins were looped around the saddle horn and there were no humans in sight.

I made Ben pull over and got out. I eased up to her, watching her body language. The last thing I wanted to do was startle her into traffic, but then again, the other last thing I wanted to do was stand in traffic myself to startle her the other way.

The horse was a lot nimbler than I am.

But she stopped and looked at me as I "cush-cushed" and whistled, holding my hands out. With a decisive nod, she turned around and walked right up to this complete stranger who smelled of sunscreen, bug spray and Cheese Nips and dropped her nose into my hand. I'm assuming for a taste of the Cheese Nips and not the bug spray.

I led her off the highway and onto the shoulder just as another rider, frantic, emerged from the break in the trees that marks the trail head. She was his horse and he'd swapped out with another rider and somehow, the mare had gotten away.

Her owner thanked me profusely, mounted up, and rode off into the sunset.

Literally. He really did.

I got back into the van, feeling as though I had done my Good Deed for the Day and that meant I wouldn't have to do the unpacking when we got back home, when I noticed my three guys staring at me.

"That. Was. Awesome," said Buzz.

"She came right to you," said Terry.

"Kewl," said Ben.

I paused. I basked, I glowed.

Then I grinned and shook my head.

"No," I said. "That was a horse that's been well trained and well treated. It never occurred to her to be afraid of a stranger."

But as we drove off -- into the sunset, I might add -- it was kind of nice to know that just for an instance, my guys had seen me as something other than Mom the Chauffeur, Mom the ATM or even Mom the Shoulder to Cry On. For a sunset-dazzled moment, I was Mom the Horse Whisperer, Disciple of Epona the Horse Goddess, Mother of Mysteries, and, like, you know, totally awesome.

So to the mysterious trail rider, I thank you for your well trained horse and I thank you for treating your horse as well as you trained her. If I had ended up chasing her through the briars and the bushes, I wouldn't have looked nearly as good, even if only for one brief, shining moment.