She Looks Like A Fairytale

"What's her name?"
"Who?"
"That redheaded girl, the one who looks like a fairytale."
"Oh her!" a laugh, "You mean Meagan."
I was just around the corner, but I overhead the dialogue. A fairytale!? I look like a fairytale! I have never been so flattered!

I think it's the Wyoming Moutains, to tell you the truth. The open skies and fresh air have made my eyes bluer and my cheeks rosier. Plus the wild romance of just living in this place.

"Can I saddle up your horse for you, Miss Meagan?" asks Nikona, not knowing that he just quoted directly from my childhood fantasy movie, 'The Man from Snowy River'.

And every evening I stand on the green hillside just above French Creek and watch another scene from that movie play out right before my wondering eyes.

Every evening they drive the horses out of the pens and push them up into the North Pasture, where they free roam and graze until the cowboys return come sunrise. The thunder of a hundred and fifty horses as they race past you, the snorting and stamping, the wind that blows my skirt as they rush by... it's exhilarating.

When the thunder of the horses has died, and the dust is settling, I just stay in my place on the hillside, and watch the blue sky darken and turn to purple. Now it's my favorite time of day; twilight.

It's hard to leave my hillside; the song of the evening is playing and it's haunting melody sings to my child's heart. But another melody is playing; the sound of fiddles from the French Creek Saloon, which serves as our Dance Hall. Every night there's a jam, or a swing dance, or the Square Dance we all dress up for, and the laughter of the fiddle and bright lights of the dance hall's windows flirt me away from the solitude of my hillside cinema. 

Do I look like a fairytale? It must be because I live in one.