Some folks are born to play the piano,   some are born to write, but others are born to ride to anchor their soul, to set their spirit free and to find peace in a topsy, turbulent world. Riley heard a familiar sound that rang clip-clop on the paved street. It occurred several times per week in the neighborhood. As she ran across squeaking floorboards to the window, still clumsy at three, she tripped over a rug to her knees. Scrambling to stand, she made it to the windowpane gripping the casement as she heard a cart approaching. She had taken a fancy to the tall, hairy creature attached to it. She did not know why a black man standing in the bed of the worn wooden wagon sang, “Wat-o-melons,” but she risked removing one hand from the sill to point to the rickety vehicle, then patted both palms in delight. Mamaw swooped up her granddaughter and stepped through the front door into the southern heat. “Horsey, hon, it’s a horsey.”