I rarely do the Throwback Thursday things, for a few reasons. I am bad at remembering key parts to stories, such as when, who was there, what was actually happening…So when I do tell stories, they tend to be fairly recent things I can recall with a tiny degree of accuracy. If I ever write a memoir, it’ll be titled along the lines of “I’m pretty sure this happened, but ask my mom first”. Not that she’s much better, considering she can’t really pin things to a calendar. Ever. Whenever my mom or I get to telling a story or relating a conversation “we just had” (seven months ago or so), I can see the pained confusion tinged with helpless love on Corey’s face, because she’s been dealing with the both of us for far too long now.“That’s not…it didn’t happen that way, people. I was there. It was over a year ago. No, there was no fire. Fire bad. How do I get these people back on topic?”
But there are a few stories I can tell while remaining mostly factual. To tell the story of the photo above, I just have to close my eyes and remember the feel of the slightly scratchy wool hat, squinting into the bright spring sunshine through my transitions lenses, the rough frozen, thawed, and frozen again ground, the promise of the coming warmth of summer, the slight laughter at hearing the big draft horse, a Belgian named Bobby, drop and roll after his harness was taken off after harrowing the pasture. Bobby was one of those utterly chill horses, to whom nothing (aside from puddles filled with killer sharks) bothered. Not parades, not trail rides, not cows or barn cats sleeping on his butt or even standing for hours while we loaded up firewood or hay or what have you into the wagon or sled. His lower lip was, aside from eating, permanently at droop level, a sure sign of a horse who is either drugged or so relaxed you could take a nap on his broad back without falling of (she says from the voice of experience).
There wasn't much earth shattering about the moment this photo was taken. It was just a quiet moment after a good days work, an outpouring of love and trust between horse and teamster. Now, after the twists and turns life has taken (unexpected baby, moving cross country, moving again, divorce, moving again, financial troubles) these memories still give me hope. My hands twitch to hold the lines again, with two tons of shaggy, well trained, beautiful equine muscle at the other end. That feeling never gets old. It was a feeling I wanted-and still do-to have my son grow up with. Amish kids are handed lines first right about the age my son is now. (Of course, they also grow up barefoot & helmet-less on the back of draft horses working a furrow or bringing in hay, but I digress). There's a fairly well thriving community of draft animal farmers in New England where I went to college, and I would move back there in a heartbeat if there wasn't a little thing called winter. I'm slowly starting to make contacts here in Oregon, so there is still hope that my son can know the wonder and responsibility of working a team.
