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Stalls in barn collect memories, other stuff
(by Timmy Sullivan - May 16, 2012)
SENORITIS, BY TIMY SULLIVAN
Stalls in barn collect memories, other stuff
As soon as I finish this column, I'll head down to the barn and slide open the door to Teddy's stall for the first time in eight months. No need to call the humane officer. Teddy passed on decades ago, and there hasn't been an actual horse in that stall for years.
Nope, these days, this is the stall where we literally throw the flotsam and jetsam of summer living as we scramble to get ready for winter -- usually some time after the first snowfall. Believe me, it's not a pretty sight.
All winter long, three times a day, I manage to walk past that stall on my way to feed the residents of the other two stalls without giving it a moment's thought. But, eventually, each year, the time comes when I have to open that door, and today is the day.
Somewhere behind sweeping cobwebs and under piles of hay fallen from the loft I'm sure to discover the rusty garden tools and peeling lawn furniture I seek. But the search won't go quickly. In addition to stuff, this stall is filled with memories.
Of course, there's the aforementioned Teddy, our first real horse and the one for whom we built the barn over 30 years ago. Teddy and his buddy Cinnamon taught us the basics of horse care before moving on to others better able to make use of their talents.
Next came the girls' ponies, Appy and Spot. Their names remain in childlike script over handmade hooks and stands that once held bridles and saddles. Those ponies formed the basis of the Smith Riding Academy, launched when our neighbor Sybil Smith agreed to give the girls lessons right here in our own backyard. It took, and soon the girls were riding at a show barn in Burton.
We boarded some horses for a time but stopped after the kids and I spent an entire evening hiding behind the living-room couch, because, for some reason I can't recall, we were convinced that our boarders were connected with the mob and planned to kill us.
That's when the barn became a haven for three traumatized Rottweiler-mix dogs who had spent the first year of their lives in a dark basement and had no idea how to cope with life outside. We transformed the barn into a mini-sanctuary for Hemmie, Champagne and Cootie. I'll never forget the day we opened the doors to the paddock and they ran outside to explore their new world, tumbling over each other in sheer joy.
It's been years since those dogs left us, but the raised bed we built for them in the first stall remains under the accumulated stuff. I know, when it emerges, I'll curl up on it and have a good cry. I always do. Those sweet dogs really got to me.
If you follow this column, you know that, in recent years, the barn has been home to good horses rescued from bad situations. First there was the nearly blind Token and his seeing-eye horse, Polly. Both were in their 30s and enriched our lives for only a couple of years before passing on. And then there was little Xenia, an old pony who died just last spring after only a few months with us. Now handsome Lex manages to bring dignity to the barn in spite of the ever-present silliness of his young companion, April.
Once I dig out the garden tools and lawn furniture, I'll ply April and Lex with apple treats and be thankful for memories worth crying over, as well as opportunities to create new ones. A barn should be home to more than stuff.
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