Mother Tucker

Late spring rains left the worn trail damp but not muddy.  The air was warming quickly due to the sun high in the sky, successfully fighting back the morning clouds.  This had been the first rain in several warm days and the smell was pungent with air cleansing qualities and the deep aroma of the decaying forest floor; on the breeze the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat complicated the range of scents.

We had been riding for an hour or so; my friend, Tara and I.  A dark bay horse had won my heart but belonged to another; he was loaned to me only.  The same was true for Tara’s mount, a grey Appaloosa-Arab cross with dark legs and mottling on his large head.  I don’t remember the conversation.  I vaguely remember where we were in the hills and low mountains behind Frank’s log home.  I do remember, distinctly,  the sounds of the horses hooves on soft sod, the creaking of the stiff leather saddles with the movement of each step and the sway of our bodies while we sat, relaxed, on the mass of beast under us.  The trees whispered, but not disruptively, above our heads. As we hit level ground and the path widened for us to ride side by side; we did so . . . of course taking full advantage to race at top speeds to see who could reach the tall pine with an obvious defect a quarter mile up the trail. The thrill of adrenaline at the bunching of horse flesh and the power undeniable that followed; a reminder that control was an illusion. Laughing joyfully as our horses reluctantly slowed at our coaxing and came down to a prancing walk; also excited over the short glimpse of freedom.  The trail turned sharply and we made a slow winding circle back down the hill, eventually cutting back over to the main trail head, nearly bringing us to Frank’s front door and the small saddling corrals he erected the year before.

We broke out in song routinely but I don’t even remember the made up tune of that day.  But I do remember the smells, the sounds and mostly the sensations that accompanied these frequent and God-given gifts of riding the hills, thick in the forests of the south Willamette Valley.  I look back, 13 years later and realize what a gift HE had given a loner girl, one that did nothing to deserve anyone’s kindness but had received their confidence with their homes, property and horses on a regular basis.  Frank Knott and Ed Bice forever challenged and changed me by their confidence and kindness towards me.  Though I had been around horse flesh since I was born, they taught me everything I know about riding for reals.

I haven’t spoken or seen either of these men since I was around 17 years old.  They were slightly aged then, so sometimes I wonder if they’re still around.  I know I went to visit Frank shortly after I was married; Justin and I were in his neck of the woods, but the place was boarded up.  A deep sadness that I couldn’t pin point, but couldn’t shake either, consumed me for a few days afterward.

Its past, sometimes it even feels like a separate life, but its nostalgic to me. I know, somehow, my roots were grown a bit there and I learned a little more of myself.

God Bless

These are a good friend’s horses, hanging out in the pasture, fall ‘07