When I was a little girl, I wasn’t into imaginary friends. One of my neighborhood buddies, Sue Ellen, had one and, to be honest, I thought she was a little weird. She would always want “Glenda” to play with us. What kind of freaked me out was when she said things like, “Glenda doesn’t like to play Monopoly” or “Glenda is hungry, can we have a snack?” Usually, I was the third man out and Sue Ellen and Glenda always agreed. When it came down to a vote, it was two against one, and majority always rules (even if it is a “silent” majority).

I did, however, have an imaginary horse named Bozo. He was a brown and white paint and I would ride him every day. For years, my mother thought there was something wrong with my leg. Not wanting me to be aware of my difference, she secretly consulted with doctors about my strange gait. Finally, she insisted on x-rays to make sure my spine was not curved. When the results were negative, she sat down with me and informed me that I ran with a limp. “Of course I do Mommy! I’m riding my horse!”

I had forgotten about this story until I saw my youngest, age three, limping around the back yard. “What are you doing?” I ask. He stopped and looked at me and said, “I’m riding Old Paint”. Yes, it’s true; not only does my little boy have an imaginary horse, but a Paint Horse to be exact. Neither of my children had ever heard me talk about my pony, yet somehow Bozo spawned a new generation of imaginary horses. The only difference is that Old Paint lives in my son’s pocket until he’s ready for a ride.

Luke got my blue eyes and my flair for the dramatic. Who would have thought that imaginary horses are also genetic!

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