tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29788087440997841312011-04-21T18:36:15.735-07:00Busy bennetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02860101904160183770noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2978808744099784131.post-67677039398718276662009-01-02T13:40:00.000-08:002009-01-02T14:33:40.032-08:00I loved it!<br />I hated it!<br /><br />Being the daughter of a man who earned the family's livilihood working with horses made me feel different growing up. Different from the kids I went to school with and became friends with, different in that I thought my life was special. What other kid in all of Farmingdale-Old Bethpage could boast of owning a stable full of horses. What other kid could ride to her heart's content. What other kid could boast of a father who trained Gene Autry's horse, Champion, rode in rodeos, owned polo ponies from Cuba and other faraway places and played polo with player greats. My young childhood could only be discribed as not the usual for a kid in the late 40''s and early 50's.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2978808744099784131-6767703939871827666?l=horsemansdaughters.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Busy bennetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02860101904160183770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2978808744099784131.post-41134552002573903302008-11-26T12:41:00.000-08:002008-11-26T13:32:48.549-08:00<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2978808744099784131-4113455200257390330?l=horsemansdaughters.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Busy bennetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02860101904160183770noreply@blogger.com0