Walking into the Museum of Chincoteague Island, I didn’t expect to meet a childhood idol face-to-face. Nor did I expect her to be preserved in perpetuity, life-sized. Misty of Chincoteague was a fictional character—wasn’t she?
When I was little, every girl wanted a pony. A parade of books about horses—Black Beauty, My Friend Flicka, The Black Stallion—lined library shelves at school. But Misty of Chincoteague by Marguerite Henry stood out in my mind. Misty lived on an island! She ran on the beach! She swam in saltwater! “Misty was my crush,” said my good friend Joan.
When my family moved to the countryside, I begged my parents to let me have a pony. And they did.
Micki, however, was no Misty. She was a spirited Welsh pony. She’d stomp on my feet. She’d struggle when I combed her mane. She’d toss me off her back. She quickly cured me of my equestrian aspirations. So what if those kids in the books had perfect ponies? Those were only stories. On Virginia’s Chincoteague (SHIN-co-teeg) Island, I learned the truth.