233 Horses

                                                            by Laura Crum

            My husband named this photo “233 horses”—I believe because the Porsche has 230 horsepower (?) I am not by nature a car person. But we bought the little red convertible as a wedding present to each other. My husband wanted a sports car. I wanted a reliable car, not one that was always in the shop, and for me that eliminated the British and Italian cars. Andy wanted a car that handled well, and I wanted one that felt solid and strong. We settled on a Porsche as the logical choice. And Andy was sure that we’d have a child (despite the fact that we were pretty old when we got married), so he wanted a car with a back seat. And he wanted a convertible. So the Carrera Cabriolet (I hope I have the terms right—not a car person, remember) was pretty much the only option. It was also one of the few sports cars that actually fit my six foot seven husband.

            We shopped for awhile, but when we came across this 84 Cabriolet with low mileage, we bought it. The photo was taken shortly after we bought the car, up in our pasture in Mariposa County. The three horses in the photo—Gunner, Flanigan and Freddy—are all dead now. Andy is dead. But the car…the car looks pretty much the same as it does in the photo. It runs great. It is as alive and thriving as it ever was. Which is to say not. It’s not alive. Still, I found myself unable to sell it.

            While Andy was alive, I never once drove this car. It was tricky to shift and a race car by nature and Andy had it remodeled (seat moved back, steering wheel changed out) to suit his tall frame. He also remodeled the suspension and the clutch in order to do autocross with the car. Not only did I have no interest in driving it, I couldn’t have if I had wanted to. I rode in it a lot, as did our son (Andy was right about that part). But the car was Andy’s car—we all thought of it that way. Papa’s red car.

            When Andy got sick and we knew he did not have a lot longer to live, he told me I should sell the Porsche and get something more practical. I told him the truth. “I just can’t.” The car meant something to me. It represented Andy and our life as a family. I have so many memories that the car is a part of. So I asked Andy who could help me fix the car up so I could drive it. And he told me who to go to.

            After Andy died, one of the many, many things on my list of things to do was to get the car to the Porsche mechanic he had recommended (Tim Benson of Fast Lane Porsche, if anyone is interested). And eventually, the car came back to me, with the seat and steering wheel back to the original, the clutch redone so that I could deal with the shifting (I have not had a manual transmission to drive in many years), a new top (the old one leaked), and completely detailed. It looks, as I said, much as it does in the photo, which was taken about fifteen years ago. The little car is thirty years old now. But it looks and runs great. And I am learning to drive it.

            Why am I doing this? I am not a car person. But I “love” the little car. I love it because it was Andy’s, because of the memories it holds, because my son is fond of it-- just because I could not sell “Papa’s red car,” and if I wasn’t going to sell it I had to learn to drive it.

            And this has made me think a bit about the wisdom of being fond of material objects. I am not talking about the obsessive love of collecting more and more “stuff.” I am talking of the fondness one can have for a beautiful, well-made object like this car, or a lovely musical instrument, or a piece of fine art, or a good chair…etc. Such things can be cared for and they will not just last your lifetime—they can last for many human lifetimes. There is some peace in being fond of them.

            I’ve spent my life loving horses and other animals, as well as a few people, and the thing is, they die. I’ve written a lot lately about death and I haven’t any more thoughts to add to that subject right now. But there is no question that the death of a loved person or animal is very hard for us to bear—whatever it may mean in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I would have been better off to be a car person after all? Cars do not die (though I suppose they can be smashed).

            I drove the little red car yesterday. I’m getting used to it. It’s like a new horse—you have to get the feel of it. My husband told me that when I talked of driving it. “You have to get along with it.” And you know, I think I am going to be able to do that. I think I may become fond of driving it, actually. It is quirky and iconoclastic, a bit like an animal. As Andy once said of this car, after driving a generic rental car, "At least it has a little heart and soul."

            So yes, here I am, the person who has loved horses and ridden horses for her entire life—and my current project is this little red car. I have not ridden a horse in many months—though the horses are all healthy and doing fine, and I take good care of them. But I am driving the little red car. And yesterday, when I was done, I took a rag and polished the dust off the hood. This is not something I ever could have imagined myself doing in any moment of my past life. And I think I could feel Andy smiling.

            Maybe I am becoming a car person?

Flowers and Love

                                                by Laura Crum

            Many people have written lately on this blog of loss and change. It seems to be our current theme. Since I am in the middle of a great loss and period of change, I have little else on my mind. So you must forgive the sad nature of my posts (or just don’t bother to read them). And I must warn you that nothing in this post today relates to horses or writing about horses. It does, however, relate to loss and change.

            There are always some flowers in our garden. This is what it is to live on the California coast. Ever since my husband died in November I have brought flowers from our garden to his grave—a couple of times a week.

            Andy’s grave is in the old cemetery where he used to play his pipes to honor the veterans on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day. He is buried right in front of the biggest oak tree, where he often stood and piped.

            I have placed a bench by his grave and there will some day be a gravestone with a bagpiper engraved on it. The quote my son came up with was “He played his pipes for the good of all here.” And that seems to fit Andy.

            But anyway, in the meantime I bring flowers from our garden and place them on the grave. I stand barefoot on his grave—because he once asked me to—actually he asked me to dance barefoot, but I haven’t quite got there yet. But I stand barefoot, whether in the mud or the dust, and I put flowers from our garden there, and I sit on the bench and contemplate the huge old oak tree and I talk to Andy.

            It sometimes strikes me that this bringing of fresh flowers from our garden to his grave is a good metaphor for how I see life right now. I tend our garden for no other reason than love. There is no practical need to do it. I choose the flowers for Andy’s grave with care, aware of their beauty, and arrange them in simple jars. I place them on his grave with love, glad to see that there are always fresh flowers there.

I know that there is no real importance to this. Andy’s spirit is with me and at our home as much as it is anywhere. His bones lie in that peaceful graveyard, that is all. Andy would not mind or feel less loved if I did not bring flowers to his grave. Like most things we do in life, it is a relatively meaningless gesture. This would include most of what I do, or most of what you do. If it does not sustain life or grow awareness, it’s relatively meaningless. You know, like when you go to hairdresser to get blond streaks put in your hair. There’s nothing wrong with this. But it’s meaningless. So is my putting flowers on Andy’s grave meaningless.

            But it is the love behind it that counts. The love I feel for him that makes me want to do it—the love I still believe he feels for us that makes the whole thing worth doing. The flowers, frail and fleeting, from our much-loved garden, are a symbol of that love. Yes, they die, as we die. And yet they are beautiful and life brings more flowers constantly. And love endures as the flowers endure. Constantly changing, constantly there.

            I look at old gravestones in the cemetery. A baby that died in 1800. No one alive remembers that baby. And yet she was loved. The love endures. Or so I believe.

            I remember my dogs and horses that have died many years ago. I still love them. I believe I will see them again.

            A hundred years from now we will all be dead. Perhaps no one will remember me or Andy. But flowers will still bloom. And our love will still be alive and present.

            

Days of shadow and light

By Gayle Carline
Horse Lover and Human Being

This year has not gotten off to a completely grand start. People on this blog have suffered loss. Friends of mine have lost mothers, dads, siblings. I've attended a few memorial services, and no doubt, will attend more. Just a couple of days ago, my friend's mother passed away. This week, I had to euthanize our 18-year-old kitty. 

A cat is not to be equated with human life, but the cumulative effects of so much loss around me have me in quite a funk.

People try to be helpful. As in anything, some are awkward, and some are good at it. I think the ones who are good at it, who know how to listen and not place expectations on our grief, give us room to be patient with the awkward ones. 

By the way, I think I've been one of the awkward ones from time to time. My apologies.

I think losing a loved one is like being on a hike in the sunshine and suddenly entering a forest. It's dark and shadowy and cold, but you stay on the path. At some point, you start seeing patches of light. As the days go by, you might be more in the shadows or more in the light, and you keep walking the path, putting one foot in front of the other, until you get to the place where the sun shines most of the time, and there are a few trees to offer shade. And the shade starts to feel comforting, not cold.

The length of the path and the size of the forest is unique to everyone.

One ray of sunshine, for me, is to see life in all its glory. It reminds me that the world still turns and babies are born and flowers bloom. I'll leave you all today with a couple of videos that make me smile, even if it's only for a moment.

First, a Paso Fino baby, gaiting. 




Is there anything else that cute?

And, of course, this year's Super Bowl Budweiser commercial. Yes, it's designed to manipulate your feelings. 




It works.

Take care of yourselves, and don't worry about how long you need to walk in the forest. People who love you will always be waiting for you in the sunshine.