By LES HIGH

We’re about to enter into another phase of life in the High family – the horse phase.

We’ve avoided the horse phase so far, but now our 9-year-old, Margaret, can’t seem to get horses off her mind.

On any given trip, the most common words we’ll hear is, “Oooh, look at all the pretty horses.”

This, of course, is a not-too-veiled attempt on her part to remind us that many people have horses – and she doesn’t.

Currently, Margaret takes English riding lessons from a lady who – for $35 an hour – teaches the lesson, provides the horse, the barn, the food, and, cleans up the poop. Sounds like a pretty good deal, right?

Darn right, but when it comes to young girls and horses, you can throw reason out the window.

I recently told a friend of mine that we probably would soon be horse owners. He just shook his head.

“Man, you talk about something that’s going to change your life, wait ‘til you get a horse,” he said. “The horse is the cheap part – and they aren’t cheap. Then there’s the food and the stable and the lessons, then there’s the horse shows, which are pretty much inevitable. Then come the clothes, the trailer and the Suburban to pull the trailer with. Then you have to spend the entire weekend at a horse show.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he said with a sigh and the shake of his head, “but (my children) love horses, and there’s not much you can do about it.”

My friend told me about a buddy of his whose family was just getting into its horse phase. His friend had heard enough pleading from his youngest daughter about getting a horse, so he decided to make a few calls.

“He thought he could pick up a good one for $350 to $500,” my friend said. “Man, was he surprised.”

The problem in my family is that we go way back with horses, at least that’s according to my grandmother, Margaret F. Thompson, who passed away at age 97 in February.

My grandmother loved to tell Margaret about the horses her father used to pull timber out of the swamps of Duplin County. These were great draft horses ­– usually Clydesdales – that were retired from the Wilmington Fire Department.

For the longest time, the only horse Margaret wanted for her own was a Clydesdale.

And my grandmother was always quick to point out the genetic connection between her family and horses. Her maiden name was Farrior, and her ancestors emigrated here from France. A farrier, of course, is a person who tends to horses, which is how the family derived its name.

“It’s in her blood,” my grandmother would often say to me about Margaret’s love affair with horses. “She can’t help it.”

The Farrior thing rubbed off on my sister too. Stuart had horses growing up, but I had no use for them because of a persnickety one named Daisey. We spent as much time chasing Daisey around the pen as Stuart did riding her.

My sister did horse shows and won a bunch of ribbons, but thank goodness I was old enough to stay at home on my own when the horse show circuit was in full swing. Stuart’s first horse phase ended when she turned 16, as it does for many girls.

But the genetic hook never let go of Stuart and now she and her daughter Elizabeth have a horse, go to horse shows about every weekend and have a horse trailer and a Suburban.

It’s also easy to see that all three of these Farrior descendants have the “horse whisperer” thing going on – an innate ability to communicate with horses through telepathy, ESP or something else. I don’t understand it and never will, but there’s a bond among horse and human that’s undeniable.

Stuart is forever calling and inviting Margaret to horse shows. Somehow, I keep forgetting to mention these conversations to Margaret. “Was that Aunt Stuart you were talking to?” Margaret will ask. “Nope,” I’ll say. “Wrong number.”

We have done one horse show on our own, however, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, I came away quite proud of Margaret. She had a very regal and elegant look about her as she rode her horse around the ring in her stylish outfit. It takes a lot of courage and moxie to show in front of a crowd of judges and horse people, all of whom have an eye for even the smallest misstep.

Riding in a horse show is not like a team sport where the participants rely on each other and mistakes are often easily covered. In a horse show, responsibility rests solely on the shoulders of the rider. Blame can be placed on no one else.

There’s a lot that has to go right to win a ribbon in a horse show. Riding a horse correctly requires a great deal of hand-eye coordination. For example, when turning a horse, the hands, head and feet are all used and must be precisely synchronized.

Margaret’s horse lessons have left me with a new appreciation of the level of skill that is required to be a champion rider.

But, I’ve come to learn, it’s more than hand-eye coordination that makes a champion. The unspoken word – that feeling and connection between horse and rider that no one can put a finger on – is what makes the difference.

But Margaret has another thing going for her too.

Horses are in her blood.