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The Writing Mother

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Tuesday, June 22, 2004
My son won't know what I mean when I say Hey Fonzie, oh-eh, eh-oh.

He won't know a world where there was no Survivor.

He won't know what "Win one for the Gipper" means.

He won't know what a tape is.

He won't know what a party line is (heck, some of you don't know what a party line is!)

He won't do math freehand (will long division still exist?)

He might not watch those regular old flat cartoons, the classics like Charlie Brown and Garfield.

Will he ever receive a letter in the mail? Or will it be email?

So many little things in life that shaped us, made us who we are today are slowly being eaten up by this worm called time. You don't notice the procession of time very often. every once in a while you will hear a song and it will suck you back to the first time you heard it. I heard one of those songs today. "It was a Cool Summer Night" by Lisa Brokop.

Suddenly I remembered a June day in 1999 when I sang that song, dancing downt the barn alleyway at Grimshaws. Life could not be more perfect. Hot days riding horses, cool summer nights sitting on the fenceposts, watching my boss teach lessons, drinking a wobbly pop. I can feel that breeze on my face as it coasts down the alleyway. The barn is quiet but outside you can hear a mare squeal defensively because the gelding next to her wants to play, and like most mares, she just wants to be a wench. I can hear the sweeping of the broom as I make one last sweep of the barn for the evening. Untying horses as I make my way from one end to the other.

My horses were my babies. I see them once in a while as they've moved on to new owners. Forty or so horses in that barn, all in training with us. I can even remember the order that their stalls were in. Listo, Pacman, Taz, Rooster, Kramer, Socks, Farrah... and on and on. My two year olds, the ones I started, the ones I pushed just hard enough so that they'd want to come to me and be my buddy, so they'd always know I'd be a safe spot. Mudslide, Chex, Rooster, Fonzie, Tank, Calita, Player, Sparkie.... I see them now as seasoned show horses and I miss their gangly bodies as they learned how to lope for the first time with a person aboard. I miss their shivering, worried little heartbeats as I asked them something new. Now it's all old-school to them.

In 8 days I move back to Grimshaws. I bought the little mobile home out there. The front window points Northwest, so I can still see the Cochrane hill and watch the weather come in for an hour. I can still wander the barn at 11 pm to see how everyone is settling in. I can still hear the boys as they holler their hellos to the morning and tell all the other studs how manly-man they are.

It won't be like before, it will be new, but it will be like going home again.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 8:44 PM


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