The Generosity of Autumn
On Sunday afternoons in the summertime it was customary to hear a tinny ditty from the rooftop speakers of a diesel-run ice-cream truck. Once the driver parked his noisy vehicle on our street, he slid open the finger-smudged window to the sidewalk. At the same time parents scrambled for change and a cluster of children gathered at the curb. I have a nice memory of being one of those kids because other than the occasional Twinkie Cupcake and the forever absence of ice cream in our freezer, dessert at my house was a rarity. When my parents gave me enough change to buy a swirl of ice cream topped with melted chocolate, it was a notable delight.
On certain days of the week there were other people with their trucks. One of those drivers left glass bottles of milk on the front porch and sometimes my mother ordered a large container of excellent-tasting orange juice. The other driver was the dog catcher who skulked the hood. In those days people let their dogs roam and since our dog was a diligent digger and master at tunneling underneath the fence, it wasn’t unusual to find Nipper, our blonde-brown German Shepperd, sitting proudly in the catcher’s truck. Thanks to my mother’s flirtatious powers of influence the driver never drove off with Nipper.
Then there were people who marketed bibles and hard-covered encyclopedias. My parents purchased both. The woman who sold AVON introduced her products to my mother and this woman became a repeated visitor. Intrigued by her fancy bottles of creams, powders and bubble bath, for days after I delighted in the small catalog she left behind.
In the 50’s and 60’s it was popular for photographers to go from door to door taking pictures of children. I’ve read that in some places the photographer dressed in a costume, often as a cowboy. Perhaps if the fellow who took my picture had worn a costume, my recollection would have been sharpened. Gone from my mind is the traveling photographer who came into our hood with his Pinto pony. The 5X7 photograph doesn’t help to jog my memory, but it can attest to the fact I sat on top of a small black and white horse.
In the picture I’m propped on the saddle. I look to be five or six. The photo was taken in the front yard of a neighbour’s house. I’d recognize the exact spot where the Pinto stood, that is, if the bungalow still stands in its entirety. The people who lived there were acquaintances and they had a son who I was coerced to spend time with when our mothers shared their long and too-polite polite conversations over coffee. In their pristine backyard with the perfect lawn, Gary didn’t like to share or play well with others. I remember not liking him one tiny bit.
The back of the photograph doesn’t indicate a date or the pony’s name. I have a hunch my father wasn’t part of the scheme, so who lifted my small self into the saddle? How was I introduced to the horse? Was I encouraged to stroke the pony’s coat with my hand? Did someone suggest I talk to him and call him by his name? By the time my parents came to live in their Toronto west-end house, all of the farms with stables that I’d heard about from my grandparents, were no longer nearby. Unlike dogs and cats, horses were not a topic of conversation in our home. This could explain why we never talked about horses. It could also explain why horses were not in my life.
In any case, the picture suggests that my little self was a willing participate in an orchestrated short-lived-make-believe event. In the picture the Pinto is standing on a cement walkway in front of a brick bungalow. Too bad there wasn’t a tree, a flower or even a little grass in the background.
Since that time the only other horses I encountered were in books and movies. When I read Black Beauty, the novel by Anna Sewel, and later watched the film starring Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney, I spent most of my energy worrying about the horse’s welfare. (I suppose most people did.) When engrossed in the sitcom, Roy Rodgers, it was his horse Trigger who had my attention, not the cowboy. For the best intimate view of television horses, I sat fearlessly close to the screen. I admired the horses and saw them as a very special animal. Still, it never occurred to me to ask for a daytrip to a stable, farm or ranch. Never once did I think to ask my parents to buy me a horse or even ride on one. Horses were not on my radar and I had no expectations of that ever changing.
Many years late when I find myself near a horse by no choice of my own, I am just as happy to regard the animal’s magnificence from afar. Five-feet seemed an adequate distance to bravely appreciate their sculpted bodies. With no urge to touch, because I have never been sure about how to go about it, I lacked curiosity to move any closer.
However I did have a spontaneous and extraordinary horse experience that for others may have had the potential to shift the urge to become more acquainted with horses and learn about them. It was when I was living in residence and on my way home to visit my parents I dropped into the local pharmacy where my sister worked. When I got there, her cashier friend said she’d already left because the pharmacist needed to rush off and close early.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
The cashier beamed. “One of the Dr. E’s horses is about to give birth. I’m heading out that way too. I don’t want to miss this.” Then she unexpectedly asked, “Do you want to come with me?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes…I’d love that,” and I got into my own car and followed her out of the city.
We arrived seconds after the birth and I got to see the beginnings of a weanling’s life with her mother. Full of emotion, I marveled at Mom’s nurturing care. And with those tender caressing licks, I got to witness a weanling’s determination to stand on legs so wobbly. I was certain she’d topple over, but there was no way mother was going to let that happen.
We watched in awe until the hint of dawn suggested it was time for me to go home.
I know nothing about horses and I’ve never had a relationship with one and as I mentioned my first horse experience was for purposes of a photograph. My second most intimate experience was in beginning and amazing moments of a colt’s life.
No doubt it has been unfamiliarity and lack of experience that has played a role in sustaining my discomfort with horses. However, around twenty years ago at the end of a full conference day of facilitation, I took the plunge at overcoming my fear of horses when a colleague invited me to join her on a trail ride.
This time I hesitated. “I have no experience with horses.”
With her encouragement, I gathered the confidence to get on a horse. After all, what’s the worst thing that could happen? Susan was a terrific coach, but it was unfortunate I ended up with a horse who seemed less patient. It didn’t help that we encountered an upright rattle snake. When the horse jolted his head I dropped the reins and hung on for dear life. Fortunately, nothing bad happened, like me falling off the horse close to the snake. It ended up that the rocky trail with a river crossing and trees that the horse felt compelled to rub against undermined the confidence I pretended to have. At the time I suspected he was determined to give me some sort of message, and all of this was more than this novice needed to handle. Until I caught sight of the stable, the notion that “I can’t wait to get the hell off this horse,” was top-of-mind. And when we got there I was more than happy to slide off the saddle to put both feet flat onto the ground. Did I plan on getting back on the saddle to counter my fear. Nope, I thought, I’m good… maybe later.
Now it’s later and when I retell this story about me thinking I was rejected by the horse, I’ve been encouraged to think about the experience through a different lens. A dear friend who has worked with horses all his life, suggested that when the horse saw the posing rattlesnake, he knew I was afraid. He said that when I grabbed the horse’s neck, that I had done the right thing.
“Did you ever consider that the horse was protecting you?” he asked, and when I looked at him with questioning eyes, he added, “He got you back to the stable, didn’t he?”
“True enough,” I said.
“Yeah and if that horse didn’t want you on his back, he could have knocked you off… he was protecting you…”
The generosity of these past two autumn months has brought me another gift. Forest walks. Walks on trails carved through the woods, with Sue and Mark, and each of our dogs are soul nourishing. Under the lush canopy, three friends share stories and a breadth of topics where we don’t shy away from intensity. One of the gorgeous features of autumn are the changing leaves. Once those leaves drop to leave the trees bare, I can see rocks and crevices that I didn’t know were there. In this way autumn is a time of renewal and new beginnings.
Another one of autumn’s gift to me: The same friend’s spontaneous and gentle encouragement to get me close enough to a horse to actually touch him. No doubt my friend had picked up on the space I’d been maintaining from his horses.
“Bev,” he said, “how about we get you to know these horses?”
“Oh sure,” I answered, unenthusiastically.
“Great… let’s go…”
“Now?”
“Yes…” and he led me to the horse. He told me the horse, the one who I perceived as sometimes cantankerous, wouldn’t hurt me. “He likes to be touched.”
“Okay then, if you say so.”
With my friend at my side, I ran my hand along the spine of the horse. Next, my friend handed me a halter and lead.
“What do you want me to do with that?” I asked.
“Put it on him.” He showed me how to hold the halter. “Slide it over his ears––”
“Really?”
Next, he instructed me to lead the gentler of the two horses to his box stall. Meanwhile, Bailey who was tied to a post, watched without a chirp. Inside the stall, I lead the horse, who knew exactly where he was going, around in a half circle.
“Good. Now take off the halter.”
After I did that I would have been happy to escape out of the stall.
“No…not yet,” said M as he leaned over the door. “Touch him. Talk to him. Get to know him.”
And there it was, mission accomplished––I touched and spoke to a very large horse.
After some of our walks I’m happy to muck out the stalls before leading the horse from the field. Since then, I’ve spent some times brushing their coats. I take off my glove to let the palm of my hand to absorb the horse’s scent. I’ve even leaned my face into the neck and the horse and whispered into his ear.
“Thank you for letting me do this…”
I am in full appreciation of the generosity of this year’s extended autumn time where the blessings of friendship support moving beyond a longtime held fear.
Thank you, autumn. Thank you, friends. xo
Beverley Brewer
