We were heading home. A haze of dust trailed his Chevy as it rumbled down the dirt road. I looked at the two empty feeding buckets sitting at my feet and said, “Man, those horses sure do love oats, don’t they?” He smiled back at me.
“Yep, they sure do.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror—the horses’ necks were craned to the ground, grazing. Tails swishing in the air, sweat-stained backs now free of saddles and cinches. We turned a corner and they disappeared. I didn’t know it then, but it was one of our last rides together. Had I known, would home have beckoned so winsomely? Home, with its promise of cool water and clean hands. I cherished the ride, yes, but it felt so good to slide those musty riding gloves off my fingers—to run my hands under flowing water and scrub the sweat off my brow and the dirt from my palms. I loved him for his white hair and long silences and the peace I felt when I rode next to him. But I loved home, with its coolness and cleanness, too. If only I didn’t have to say goodbye to one to have the other.
Photo by Kristi Boyce
Earlier that morning, the reins jingled softly in my hands as we rode along a split-rail fence. A velvet breeze rustled the meadow. Prairie grass rose and fell, rose and fell as eight hooves rose and fell, rose and fell. We would talk occasionally, but never for very long. Cowboys don't talk much, but that wasn't the reason why. I didn't know the reason why.
A forest laid at the edge of the meadow, a cocoon of life and stillness. Thousands of delicate aspen leaves blocked the heat of the summer solstice, casting a tapestry of speckled shadows in every direction. Tall grass brushed against my stirrups with a ssshhhhh.
Why aren't we talking? I wondered. I was bursting with questions for him, about him. Questions about horses, the wars, atomic bombs, his childhood, his wife, his daughter (my mother). It was the longest day of the year and I had him to myself. Even so, I fidgeted in my saddle, worried that time would run out on my questions.
Didn't he know what a mystery he was? I had strewn together pieces from stories here, pictures there, a medal on the wall. But I was impatient. It was the summer I turned fourteen and I desperately wanted to learn not only about him, but about myself. His blood was my blood–there were answers there. But he was not the type of man you pushed for answers.
He was quiet and majestic, with a countenance both hard and soft. Warm grey eyes tempered the weathered lines running up, down, sideways on his face. I always sensed his mind was burdened with memories of war. Of questioning, maybe? Of where was God in the Second World War? In Korea? But the mountains live and breathe of God. And horses don't care who you are, or what you did, or why things are the way they are or why you don't talk more.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the branches above.
Two dark eyes followed our movements. An owl. I held my breath instinctively as we trespassed through its little world. That simple, beautiful world that feels so natural and yet so foreign at times. The forest was a cathedral.
Maybe that was the reason why we weren't talking.
***
I bet his horses remember him. I bet they miss seeing him drive up to the pasture in his old Chevy with two big buckets of oats in the back.
But that’s okay. Because he’s home now. And he’s scrubbed the sweat off his brow and the dirt from his palms and is relishing the memory of a good, good ride.
***
Ten years have passed. It was everything to me then; it is everything to me now. So beautiful a memory that I sometimes wonder whether it really happened.
The meadow, the forest, the owl: they were before it all. Before he got sick. Before he got better. Before he got sick again. Before he made one final trip to Big Thompson Canyon and this rugged cowboy—this atomic scientist, this Marine, this man who was so strong and yet so meek—stood in the pasture and wept softly as he said goodbye to his horses.
Wow, I haven’t ridden a great deal in my life, but I felt hooves rose and fell under me and I read this, and I was on the ride with you. I heard the owl, and felt the breeze. Beautifully written, moving and touching. I wish you’d had more questions answered. I too am keenly aware of the big dividing line in life that starts with the words “Before it all…” I think his riding strength continues through your writing. Keep on riding….writing!
A catchy bit of writing and well done.
One would assume the editor did not check spelling.
“Reigns” hardly applies to the “reins” used to guide a horse.
Ha! Good catch, Jcurts. Thanks for letting me know.
Ha! My bad. As a fellow grammar freak, I get so embarrassed by my occasional misuse of “whose/who’s”, “their/they’re” and, apparently, “reigns/reins”…sometimes our fingers type faster than our brains! 🙂
What a lovely thought, Cindy! Thank you!
The simply eloquent beauty of this moved me to tears. Thank you, Kristi.
Thanks, Carey 🙂 I remember crying as I wrote this. So many emotions come out with memories of a loved one!
A lovely tribute to a grandfather as well as precious memories and now recorded for posterity. The ride was full of great metaphors with the owl in the tree and the majestic aspens and others descriptions of that vast wilderness to imprint a clear image in my mind. I’m sure Kristi will be heard of in the future with more impressive stories.
Thank you, Kathy. I hope so!
I’m not a short story fan… mainly because there usually isn`t much of a story. What this piece has, though, is such a fine tone and sentiment. I can smell that grass and I want to head for southern Alberta, right NOW. Never mind the story–most of which are forgettable–it`ll be hard to forget the altered state from which the narrator writes. Great stuff!
You have Joe to thank for that! He’s a fantastic editor that really pulled this story together in a lot of ways.
Wow! Well done. I felt as if I were there with you…then I was with my grandfather as we grilled burgers together.
Quality work!
Living in Kentucky, I see a lot of horse fiction, and I never really get it. This story deals with horses, but is ultimately human, and I think that’s the key. It’s not that their horses: it’s that they’re what he loved. Great description, wonderful story!
Haha, I know what you mean about “horse fiction” and cowboy poetry 🙂 It can get a little hokey sometimes!
There’s a beauty here that’s understated and indirect and ultimately tremendous. A laconic strength in the humble man who knew so much. The majesty of nature — the horses and expansive landscape. The longing of the granddaughter to know of their shared blood, their common heritage. Confrontation with mortality. Each contributing to a larger magnificence. Great story.
What a great compliment, John. “Understated” and “indirect” are exactly what I was shooting for. I’m glad it all came across. Thank you!
This is beautiful, truly beautiful prose … ‘the forest was a
cathedral’ … it says it all.
Daniela
Nicely done!
I was going to comment ” 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 ” until I got to the last sentence, and now I’m crying.
I think what every story needs is a forum like this in which to discuss it and allow it run a bit deeper and live a little longer. Otherwise we read and forget.
This is just gorgeous. Is this the ‘winning’ story from the summer solstice entries? Whatever it is, THANK YOU for posting it here. Absolutely stellar memoir, if it is that. Beautiful fiction – if it is that. Thank you, Kristi. Just first-rate.
Thanks, Diana! The story is actually a true one. I think some of our best writing comes out when we’re emotionally invested in a piece, and I definitely was here. I’m glad you liked it 🙂
I love this story … beautifully written! The unanswered questions stand out as a wonderful testament to the man and his countenance. I’m sure he knew the questions and felt it best to leave them unanswered.
You’re probably right, Robert. Now that I think of it, a lot of those questions weren’t important anyway. He loved me, I loved him, and we both knew it. What else matters?
Blown away by the way the story is told, captivated by descriptions of the surroundings, I am reminded of the common feelings that I had when I was with my Dad for the last time. It was as if I were in the middle of the open field gazing across, watching you both. Taking in the wisps of air and being brushed by the tall browning grass along the path. If you cherish those memories, write them down for as long as you can. Give them the graciousness of the writing instrument and let it flow. I often look forward to the time, in which I can retrace those memories of growing up, as I did in a short story on my blog. Thank you for sharing a piece of your heart. You can read my story at mlhatcher.blogspot.com. Please leave your comments.
“So beautiful a memory that I sometimes wonder whether it really happened.” I can definitely relate to this. Love the story!
This is absolutely beautiful. I wept too.
Very well done. A few lines I especially loved:
If only I didn’t have to say goodbye to one to have the other.
And horses don’t care who you are, or what you did, or why things are the way they are or why you don’t talk more.
Before he got sick. Before he got better. Before he got sick again.
These are going to stick with me!