As soon as I saw Geronimo prancing inside a round pen, I knew he was special. A deep red-over-white paint quarter horse, he was flashy, yes, but there was something else about him. Geronimo had “presence.”
Though past his prime and retired from the rodeo circuit, Geronimo still moved like an athlete. His head held high, his intelligent eyes watched the barnyard, noticing everything. His nostrils drank in every scent. He continued to prance around his enclosure as I crossed the gravel drive and my breath caught in my throat. This horse was breathtaking.
Geronimo wasn’t my first horse. Horses are expensive pets; it’s worth it to take time before buying one. Besides the costs of feeding a 1,200-pound animal, horses require regular farrier visits to maintain their feet and hooves. Naturally there will also be occasional vet bills, monthly worming, annual shots, and disease testing. Buying Geronimo was a decision I did not take lightly.
The rancher handling the sale stepped into the round pen and caught Geronimo easily and held him for me. The horse’s hooves were neatly trimmed and his feet sound. He had a friendly, approachable demeanor, and his teeth were appropriate for his age. He was not head-shy. He backed willingly and responded readily to whatever was asked of him. He was saddled, and my son mounted, steering him toward a sand exercise ring just beyond the stable.
“Be careful to avoid the barrels,” the rancher cautioned, pointing at the opposite end of the ring; Geronimo was a trained barrel racer. The horse went smoothly through his paces, and when my son reined up at the side of the ring, I ran my hand down Geronimo’s warm, satiny side.
“I’ll take him,” I said.
Shaking hands, the rancher and I agreed upon a price and day of delivery. That magnificent horse was mine! As we walked back to our truck, my heart sang. Thank you, Lord! He’s just what I was looking for!
I had no idea he would be so much more.
Four years earlier, our family had embarked on a new adventure when we bought our dream home on five acres. We received the keys on the first day of June and prepared for the move. The house and land had been neglected for several years, so there was a lot to do. Rolling up our sleeves, we dove into the work as a family. It was truly a labor of love.
On the 25th of June that year, our oldest son, Wesley, was invited to a sleepover by his best friend. Wes was fourteen and a huge help—as were his three younger siblings—with all the work on the new property. That week, Wes and my husband, Earl, had ripped out all the old carpeting; it was a dusty, stinky, sweaty job. Wes deserved some fun.
I kissed Wes goodbye at 3:30 in the afternoon. At a little after 6:00 that same evening, we got the call that rocked our world. Wesley had drowned.
The next month and a half are a blur in my memory. The funeral was large, standing-room only, and people were kind. But their lives quickly went back to normal afterward. Ours did not.
We finally got moved into the new house in the middle of August. We settled in, ordered new carpeting, painted, and tried to figure out how to be a family of five when once we’d been six. We limped along, leaning heavily on our faith and one another. Some days were better than others, but gradually our lives took on a new rhythm.
Dealing with their own grief, our three surviving children were soon caught up in school, sports, friends, and 4-H. Earl returned to his job and found some solace in his work. A stay-at-home mom, I took a small part-time job, continued to care for my family, and struggled with the yawning inner void left by my son’s death.
The week before I first saw Geronimo, I joined Earl outside our barn. Dusk settled in, filled with typical country-night sounds. Frogs, cicadas, and crickets sang their summer evening melodies, and our roosting chickens purred and chuckled in the henhouse. I swatted the occasional mosquito, watching Earl load his truck with tools and equipment for the following day’s work.
“I wish I could just find something to help, you know?” I said. “Nothing seems to take my mind off this terrible . . .” I stopped. The words caught in my throat, and tears welled up. Earl paused and came to me in the gathering darkness. We held each other.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
Our moment was interrupted by the phone ringing in the house. I ran to answer it, wiping my eyes as I went. It was our neighbor, Linda, from a half a mile down the road.
“Hey, DeVonna,” Linda greeted me. “I know it’s been a while since you mentioned it, but are you still looking for a horse? I have a friend who can’t afford to keep hers any longer. She asked me if I knew of anyone who might be interested in him, and you’re the first person I thought of.” I’d almost forgotten that conversation. It must have been over six months ago.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “I’ll take a drive over and look at him. What’s the address?”
Of course, I fell in love with the horse.
The day of Geronimo’s arrival dawned with clear blue skies. A warm Midwestern sun shone brightly over the deep green corn and soybean fields of high summer. Songbirds flitted back and forth to the feeder outside our picture window, and my flower beds spilled over with blooms. All of this was lost on me as I waited for Geronimo to be delivered. I was a wreck of nervous anticipation, pacing and peering through the windows toward the drive.
Earl was at work, and the kids were busy with their own pursuits, so I waited alone, fighting the urge to call the rancher. He is a very busy man, I reminded myself, plus he’s doing me a big favor by delivering the horse. I will not bug that poor man just because I can’t control myself!
I tried to do some laundry. I say “tried” because after the machine stopped, I realized I hadn’t added any detergent. Sighing, I reset the machine and washed the load again, this time with soap. I continued to watch the clock.
Morning faded into early afternoon, and I was considering walking down the drive to check the mail, when . . . hark! Our two dogs shot up from where they lounged on the floor. They stared out the window in silence for a moment, then broke out in excited barking.
A long, gleaming horse trailer appeared at the curve in our driveway. It was quite a rig. Outfits like that could carry up to four stalled horses at a time and had an inside tack room plus sleeping quarters for its riders. It was the Cadillac of horse trailers. The fact that it was pulled by a faded and dusty, work-weary diesel pickup may have struck me as funny any other time. Today I was focused on only one thing. My horse was in there; Geronimo had arrived.
I raced outside where our pony, Poker, whirled and bucked around his pen. Excited by the arrival of this strange vehicle, Poker abruptly slid to a stop. Mane and forelock tossing wildly, he lifted his head, wild-eyed, and sniffed. He’d caught Geronimo’s scent. Snorting, the pony stamped both front feet and issued a high and raspy challenging whinny.
Who are you? Poker demanded. And what are you doing here on my turf?
From deep inside the gleaming trailer, Geronimo’s voice answered, loud, low, and regal. Poker was entranced. He and Geronimo continued to call back and forth to one another, softer now, “talking” together in friendly tones.
I realized I was holding my breath. Exhaling deeply, I waited for the rancher to exit his truck. We greeted one another, and I watched as he lowered the trailer’s ramp, swung wide its doors, and then made his way deep inside. I could hear his voice, indistinctly, speaking to Geronimo, the metallic clang of a latch and a chain rattling. Poker and I stood, both of us quivering in anticipation, waiting for them to emerge.
I was afraid I’d exaggerated Geronimo in my memory. I’d only seen him once, and that was a week ago. But the second I saw him that day, I was again taken by his beauty and grace. Stepping daintily down the ramp, he unloaded like a dream. The rancher led him to me, snapped my lead to Geronimo’s halter, and handed me the rope. He was officially mine!
Geronimo and I stood together in the leafy shade of our oak tree after the rancher left. The sound of cicadas buzzing hung in the air and mingled with the drifting dust cloud where the truck had passed. Bored again, the dogs returned to the porch, where they lazed beneath my hanging ferns. Geronimo looked around the shady green lawn, taking in the sight of the horse pen, chicken house, barn, and deep north woods. Having seen enough, he dropped his head and began to crop grass, ripping mouthfuls from the lawn.
I couldn’t contain my emotions any longer. Throwing my arms around his neck, I leaned against his broad shoulder and wept tears of grief mixed with indescribable joy. I cried harder than I’d allowed myself in a while. Geronimo stood calm and raised his head. I was afraid my outburst would startle him, but he continued chewing a mouthful of grass. His ears flickered back toward the sound of my sobs; his breathing was relaxed and regular. From all appearances, comforting damsels in distress was just part of his job.
The rhythm of my days changed after Geronimo arrived. I climbed out of bed willingly each morning and rushed through my breakfast, eager to be greeted by Geronimo’s soft chuckle. I relished caring for him, brushing him, feeding him, leading him to and from the pasture. I discovered his favorite scratching place was just behind his left front elbow. While I scratched, he stood still, closed his eyes, and sighed. I bought him a fancy show halter, which was ridiculously expensive, and a good secondhand Western saddle. I spoiled him with peppermint treats, apple slices, and carrots. I spent hours soaping and polishing his saddle and bridle, my fingers turning wrinkled.
Earl and our son built Geronimo a pen separate from the pony. (Geronimo was greedy with the grain.) The favorite part of my days became the afternoons in the lengthening sunlight when I sat with him. Enjoying his horsey scent, I watched him doze, his tail swishing away flies, his ears back, one hind foot cocked in quiet relaxation.
Our best times, though, were when we rode. Whether we rode down our dirt lane, traveled our country road, or explored the woods together, Geronimo was always an eager, trusting, reliable mount. We often rode past neighboring farms. He was not afraid of traffic.
I began to learn Geronimo’s likes and dislikes. For instance, while sheep didn’t bother him, he did not like hogs. Near a hog pen he would stop, ears up, feet planted wide, sniffing the scary squealing pigs. I was careful to avoid farms with pigpens near the road.
The huge combines farmers drove through the fields harvesting grain made him nervous. Their large diesel engines roared and put out thick black smoke. The combines rattled and groaned and clanked as they bounced down the asphalt. If we saw one parked quietly in a field, I would stop and let Geronimo sniff and stare for a minute until he relaxed and we continued on our way.
I learned he was not afraid of dogs. On our first ride, a neighbor’s slavering, baying Great Dane bounded up to us. I gathered the reins, preparing myself for Geronimo to kick or rear or buck or run. He did none of these. He glanced at the dog without breaking stride and then ignored it, continuing our ride. I wanted to hug him, then and there.
The inexpressible solace of a companionable ride cannot be overstated. One such ride stands out in my memory.
Arriving home from a demoralizing day at work, I pulled up to the mailbox, removed some mail I didn’t want to see, and shivered. The autumn day was damp and chilly with low-hanging, rain-heavy clouds. The gloomy skies matched my mood. I was glad to be home.
Up at the house I checked on the horses. Geronimo greeted me at the gate, ears forward, head up, nickering low and soft, expectantly. I smiled in spite of myself.
“What are you begging for, you big, spoiled boy?” I teased while caressing his velvet nose and lips. He responded by raising a front hoof and tapping the wooden gate sharply. This was his way of asking for a ride. I felt inspired; why not?
I tossed the mail unopened on the desk and headed to the bedroom to change. By the time I reached the bedroom doorway, I was peeling off my office clothes and pulling on my jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and one of Earl’s soft flannel shirts. I grabbed my leather boots and a jacket by the back door and headed to the barn. The barn never fails to console me. Its sweet smell of grains and hay mixed with the scents of animal sweat, saddle soap, and leather is an intoxicant that both relaxes and invigorates me.
As Geronimo paced around his pen, his anticipation mirrored my own. I led him out of his pen while he kept his gaze on the path to the open fields. I brushed him and cleaned his feet before smoothing on the saddle blanket and pad. I slung the heavy saddle up and settled it onto his back. Cinching the belly strap, I felt my excitement rise. I deserve this ride, I thought. We both do.
Mounting, I felt the knots of anxiety in my body ease as I settled comfortably into the saddle and reined Geronimo toward the field. He stepped out briskly, and I took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the woods we passed. The ferns were gone, having turned golden brown after the first frost, and many of the songbirds had migrated, leaving the squirrels to gather and hoard their stores of nuts, alone. Leaves had changed and fallen, destined to become mounds of mulch beneath the trees. The woods looked devoid of life, leafless and birdless, but they also emitted a vibrant and pleasing scent of rich, damp earth and foliage decay.
When I reached the end of the driveway, I could see what had caught Geronimo’s eye. A flock of wild Canada geese was gleaning the freshly harvested field. These flocks are such a common sight in our area I’d barely noticed them earlier. I wondered how the geese would react to sharing their field with us. I expected them to scatter and fly away. I was surprised to see them move calmly aside as we passed among them.
Geronimo’s attention shifted from the geese to the far edge of the field. I urged him into a trot. In his excitement he moved to canter; Geronimo was eager to run. I knew if I let him dictate our pace, he’d be hard to control, so I brought him back down into a warm-up trot. Geronimo telegraphed his frustration by swinging his head wildly up and down and prancing. I couldn’t help but grin at his antics. Snorting and arching his neck, he drew in the sweet, damp smell of the field beneath the low, gray skies.
“Settle down,” I soothed him. Leaning forward, I patted his neck. “That’s a good boy.” His ears swiveled back, listening. He walked smartly on.
Reaching the far end of the field, I clicked my tongue several times, and Geronimo eased into his lovely rocking canter. The cool air, the damp field, the wide, open space—I felt my spirit lift, cleansed. The geese again parted like Moses’s sea when we reached them, allowing us to pass among them. We turned. I tested the saddle and leaned forward while squeezing my legs and raising the reins.
“Get up, Geron! Get up!” I urged. He needed no further encouragement.
Swept by the wind of our speed, Geronimo’s mane whipped at my face as we flew across the ground, hooves thudding. Together we leaned forward, taking joy in Geronimo’s love of movement, his raw power, and our synergy. Rippling laughter of pure joy erupted from my lips, and the geese, hearing the sound, stood tall and broke into a wild symphony of honking.
That night when my family got home, Earl asked about my day. All the terrible parts forgotten, I smiled and said, “I rode through a field of wild geese.”
Horsemen will tell you that there is a phenomenon known as the once-in-a-lifetime horse. Such an animal comes around very rarely and occurs when a rider encounters a horse with whom they share a connection so special it seems that horse and rider can almost read each other’s minds. Together, horse and rider form a unique bond and understanding that is hard to explain.
Geronimo was my once-in-a-lifetime horse. He came to me at a desperate time in my life, and by being simply who he was, sweet, wise, intelligent, trusting, he comforted me. I believe God used Geronimo to lift me up and out of my darkest time and to allow me to experience again the joys of life and living.