Rerun.

It had rained overnight, the still-dark streets were shiny wet. We followed the now-familiar route of ten miles from our country home to the Park and Ride bus stop, the first leg of my son's daily journey to school. Garbage bags and bins line the streets. It's trash day in the city. We are avid dumpster-divers and trash-hounds, we believe in lost treasure. So today - garbage day - was particularly full of possibility. 
But mostly this time of year it's tons of leaves (as though they are trash...) 


Then I spied it - even in the dark it was unmistakably the shape of a small horse. lying in a heaped tangle of metal piping and angled tubes with big springs. I turned the station wagon around at the first chance and circled back. "Poor baby!" I cooed as I flew out the door and gathered the small figure up in my arms and loaded him gently in the back. My son rolls his teen-aged ayes in mock disdain. I know he'd do the same (not the cooing, but the rescuing!) if I wasn't here to do it. So would his dad. We know lost treasure when we see it. What redeems a human more than to save a helpless creature from destruction? With a thrill of excitement, I realize this beauty is now mine, all mine. I always wanted another horse.

I marvel at the detail of the once-beloved toy, left abandoned on the curbside. I think he's neither very old nor very new, but truthfully I have no idea when he was made but he is sturdy and beautiful. He has wavy mane and tail, a curly 'B' brand and a fancy western saddle. Roy Rogers or The Lone Ranger would've been proud to ride him into the sunset on the tiny TV screen in my childhood living room  His only visible fault is the places where he once attached to the springs are now worn and broken. That's OK - he'll be a free horse now.

I dropped my son at the bus stop and smiled all the way home, stopping to take a few pictures of the rain-washed honey-colored sunrise on the way, and marveling at my good fortune.

Think I'll name him 'Rerun'.

Blue Cowboy.

Funny, the little things that can catch you by surprise 
and break your heart...                                         

Take this small blue toy cowboy (or is he an outlaw?) 

I was minding my own business one recent autumn day, cleaning up a bit around the garden near where my son's sandbox and fort had been until earlier this summer. 

I was already at a serious disadvantage in this encounter, reflecting as I worked in a sort of melancholy way on all the happy years he spent digging and playing, creating and destroying entire worlds with his own hands. Sand, water, rocks, twigs and some "guys" (his word for any small figure, human, animal or otherwise) was all he needed for a whole day outside, summer or winter. It all went by so fast I kept thinking. 

I miss my little boy. (Don't get  me wrong - I love the young man he is becoming - I'm just struggling with passing time, change and transitions...)

This spring we dismantled and sold the fort to a cute family with a animated three-year-old boy. He was so excited, I think he could feel the accumulated energy of this little wooden world. Then my son and his dad built a small circulating waterway, waterfall and pond from free and cheap craigslist finds. It quickly became a bustling destination for the local critters and others we rescued and re-homed throughout the season. 

So there I was, working and reminiscing. I absent-mindedly brushed aside some fallen branches and there he was, handgun drawn and a stance that meant all business. What could I do? I burst into tears. 

Damn it all. Ambushed by a plastic cowboy. I didn't have a chance.

(I left him there at the scene, a fitting testament to a happy childhood, and perhaps someday a welcome find for some young explorer. I suspect he's not biodegradable...)

I Have a Boot Thing...

The Vernal Equinox and the first day of Spring.... what a long journey it's been since the last time the daylight and night time hours stood in delicate balance. 

Spring means shedding, which horses do prodigiously - that's a lot of square footage of winter fur that has to go! Every year I forget and wear something warm and fleece-y to the barn, and every year I swear I won't make the same stupid mistake again. Fleece is never the same once horse hair has insinuated itself into that welcoming fuzzy surface. When it comes to all the mud and muck, I fare a bit better. Tall rubber boots are standard issue for March and April. I've always been good with boots. 

In fact, I sort of have a boot thing. 

It started when I was a kid. I was the only girl, and also the only one of three kids in our family who wanted to go "up north" to a family friend's cabin on summer weekends with my sweet 'Papa'. The same wonderful ritual preceded each "up north" season - a trip to the Holiday sporting goods department for boots. Back then there weren't a lot of boots to choose from, and nothing for girls. Which was fine by me. From the time I was allowed to dress myself, I fancied a uniform inspired by the Beats, even though Hippies were the next big thing. I wore black boys jeans (I was tall and rail-thin, and boy's pants were the only pants that fit me) and plain black long-sleeved turtleneck shirts. Johnny Cash had nothin' on me. Every year I would pick out the same black engineer boots, in a size bigger. I was smitten with their classic style, sturdy construction with the cool strap across the front and the even cooler silver buckles on the sides. I'd clomp across neighbor's yards and over their split-rail fences, pretending I was a horse. 

(Draft breed I'm thinking, in those big ol' boots...)

My elegant mom, a high heels, gloves and hat kind of dame, just didn't get it. Me being the only daughter, she had such high girly hopes for me. Her sister had been Mrs. Minnesota and ran a charm school. And then there was me with my boots. She refused to let me wear the beloved boots to school. As far as she was concerned, their only merit was that I could tuck my pants into the tops of them and outwit the wood ticks. 

Mom sent me to the local department store's annual 'Glamorama' teen fashion training camp when I was in sixth grade, in a vain attempt to glamor the tomboy right out of me. All that happened was that I still, to this day, merrily sport black engineer boots. The pair I've worn for the last twelve-plus years happens to be from Harley Davidson. I swear they will last forever. They are the most comfortable footwear I have ever worn, hands down. Or, feets down, I guess. I don't ride motorcycles anymore since my husband traded in the Electra Glide for a Hayabusa. I said "NOT A CHANCE IN HELL AM I GETTING ON THAT!" regarding this Japanese monster that can do 200 mph. 

But I do ride my horse, real easy like, in these great boots.

Meanwhile. engineer boots have actually come to be an acceptable footwear choice, worn by just about everyone, and without a tsk-tsk or a second glance from most mavens. And when the mud dries up at the barn, and I put away the rubber boots till next spring, the black engineer boots will be my first choice for footwear. Unless I'm in the mood for one of my many pairs of old cowboy boots. Or my english style field boots. Or...

Like I said, I have sort of a boot thing.

And so it begins.

Actually, it began before I can consciously remember. All I know is that as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a horse.

As a child, this seemed a reasonable request. Perhaps, as some people grow up to be astronauts or movie stars, I would simply grow up to be a horse? The closest I could figure, as a kid, was that I would bide my time as an artist until then. It goes without saying that I'm still an artist. It's not, after all, such a bad second choice.

Now it must be said that there is a fundamental difference between 'wanting a horse' and 'wanting to be a horse'. The former is a common phenomena, particularly with girls of all ages. The latter is, if publicly announced, likely to land a girl in the looney bin. And yet the latter sentiment may go a long way in explaining why I struggle with riding: it doesn't quite make sense to me. I am, however, perfectly content to while away an entire afternoon, out in the field in the company of horses...