My Brother Joe's Funeral
by Sheri Marion
Growing up, I lived part time with my dad on his farm. He boarded horses. I developed a love of horses that has lasted my entire life.
When I was about 13, a retired trotting horse came to live with us. Maggie was about 8, too old to be active in Harness Races, too young and healthy to be put to death.
I took care of the horse stalls. I would muck out the stalls, make sure there was fresh hay spread a little thicker than necessary, measure the oats and keep the hay fresh in the bin. Horses drink from five to ten gallons of fresh water every day, so I paid close attention to their water troughs.
After Maggie’s owner saw the stable where Maggie would be kept, he brought her sulky and harnesses out with her. I was fascinated as he hooked her up to the sulky and got into the seat. The stirrups were level with the seat. He settled his feet into them, picked up the reins and took off down the lane towards the back of the farm.
The length of the lane was a little over a mile, perfect for Maggie. Harness races are usually about a mile in length, so she could trot in her best form to the end of the lane, then walk and cool off coming back to the farm. I was so enthusiastic, he taught me how to harness her properly and attach the sulky. As long as there was an adult on the farm in case of an accident, I was allowed to take her for a few workouts each week.
He also brought her English Riding Saddle. I loved it because English Saddles have no horn and are lighter to handle. She and I would spend entire afternoons at the back of the farm. There was a small copse of trees with a lovely little stream running through it. She could graze and I could dream while I sat by the water with an old elm tree at my back.
The lane we rode on came back into the farm yard between the pig sty and the silo. If the footing was good and Maggie was feeling frisky, I would let her out on the trip back. We would come racing into the yard, low to the ground, me stuck to her back like glue. There was plenty of room to slow her down and we would walk for a while until her breathing was normal. Then I had the absolute pleasure of taking her to her stall and brushing her down thoroughly before feeding and watering her.
I loved that horse. We had a special bond. I was never as happy as when I had time to spend with her. She had a special nicker for me when I saw her.
One afternoon, Maggie and I spent time in our special place. On the way back in, she was antsy, so I settled into the saddle and let her go. There is music to be heard when you’re low on the back of a horse pounding down a dirt lane. The breeze rushes into your face, the mane flicks around your face with its own special whisper, the horses hooves clattering on stone as she rushes past, the snorting as she reaches deeply for the air to continue her run is pure Heaven.
As we flew into the final bend, my younger brother, Joe, jumped from behind a post. I had just enough time to recognize a huge paper bag that was pumped full of air. When he popped it, all hell broke loose.
Maggie went straight up, coming down with a twist to her right. I, unfortunately, came down with a twist to her left. My landing was just over the fence which held mamma sow and her latest brood of piglets.
Mother bears are known to tear apart anyone or anything threatening their cubs. Sows are as mean and ferocious as any bear, trust me. Laying flat on my face in mud and pig poop, trying to get air back into my lungs, I looked up into my worst nightmare. Glaring, beady red eyes squinted as they sized up the situation, canine tusks sharp as razors stuck out of the sow’s mouth and her snort sounded like a fiend from hell.
Lowering her head, she charged her uninvited guest. Her guest was trying to fill her lungs with enough air to attempt flight. I was able to make one leap, thank God, that took me to the top of the fence. As I fell over to safety, the full weight of her two hundred pounds crashed into the spot I had recently vacated.
My dear brother, Joe, was laughing so hard he was bent in half, tears running down his face. As I slowly got to my feet, he took off for the house, with me in shaky pursuit. He got there first, only because I was still weak and covered with mud.
He locked the door behind him, leaving me pounding on the door screaming furious invectives at him. My sister showed up, took one look at me with her nose all wrinkled and slammed the door. “Gross!” was the only word I heard.
I went back to find Maggie, got her unsaddled and fed. Going back to the house, the only thing I wanted was a long hot shower. When I was finally able to stand my own smell, the rest of the family was home, all except Joe. I searched long and hard. He was nowhere to be found.
After eating a light supper, I took two aspirin and went to bed. My dreams that night covered one subject alone. My brother Joe’s funeral.
Sheri: I've wanted to write all my life. Now that I'm retired, I have the time to do so. I love words and have many ideas for stories. I also love animals and small children. Their innocence and openness are refreshing in today's world. I have never been published in entire three months I've been writing and sending out stories. LOL. I won't give up. Contact Sheri.
