And, horses have long memories.

My Gran knew a Lumbee, named Henry Lower, who kept horses on his farm. When Gran took me there as a child, I fell in love with a new colt; he had an almost white, pale coat with pale brown speckles on his neck, and a blonde mane and big, soulful eyes. When Gran was ready to leave, I was still sitting in the corral with the colt's head in my lap and didn't want to leave. I was told to call him Henry "uncle" because he was too close a friend to be a "Mr" and I wasn't allowed to call him "Henry." Uncle Henry squatted down next to me, stroking the colt's neck. He told me if I was a good girl and listened to my Gran, that the colt would be my very own every time I came back to visit. And then he asked me, "Before you go, what should we name him?" I named him "Cupcake" – I tried to name everything "Cupcake" at that age.

I really only saw the horse a couple of times a year in the summers. But, every year when I went back, that horse knew me and was pleased to see me.