At the age of 9, I probably could have recited most of Marguerite Henry’s book, Misty of Chincoteague, from memory. Horses, at the time, were my passion — I rode them, read about them, drew them, and would have done just about anything to have one of my own. I fantasized about participating in the annual roundup and "pony swim" between the islands of Assateague and Chincoteague, Va., and about buying one of the ponies at auction the following day (never mind that we would have to find space for the pony in our little townhouse in Bronxville). It never happened, and gradually I turned my attention to other things. But when I got an opportunity, at the age of 41, to finally see the annual July pony-penning for myself, I was as excited as a child.