When I was a teenager, I worked summer jobs—babysitting, housecleaning, clerking at a small grocery store. One summer, I picked and planted strawberries for a farmer. This was hot and boring work, to be sure. Picking the berries was tolerable (and popping a fresh one in the mouth was bliss). But planting them was the kind of repetitive task I found myself doing in my sleep all night long.
I cannot recall what contraption we sat on to do this, but another teenager and I were pulled around the fields, row after row, and we’d pinch plants into an archaic mechanical wheel that dug the plants into the ground. Around and around. So slow. So hot. And the farmer himself was a bit of a taskmaster.
The cool thing for me was that we were not pulled by a tractor but rather by a matched pair of workhorses. This farm was the only one I knew that still used these large and strong draft horses in the fields. I didn’t know what kind they were, but they were dark and mythically huge. They wore blinders, and they whisked their long tails to swat at bugs. Although I mostly only saw the south side of those beasts, so to speak, they were wonderfully alive. No diesel smells as they plodded along. The farmer spoke very little to them, but they knew what was required, responding occasionally with a snort.
I grew up around horses. We had one or a few at any given time, and neighbors also had them, but I never had experience with draft horses until the strawberry fields. The farmer’s team made such an impression on me that for years I paid an entrance fee to the county fair simply to see the Percheron horses. I have always gathered calm and happiness around animals, and at the county fair, I would spend hours in the barns, simply watching those mighty Percherons. I found them regal and beautiful and so soothing to be around.
Although I lived in my mother’s house in the country, I spent most weekends at my father’s house in the city. Across the street lived five delightful cousins. The oldest and only boy was nicknamed Hoddy. He was very sweet to me, his little cousin who was many years younger.
I remember when I was about four and he seventeen, I sat on a tricycle, watching him paint a garage. He asked me if I understood why we were cousins.
I said I did.
He said, “So how is it that we’re cousins?”
I said, “Your daddy and my daddy are brothers.”
He thought I was brilliant for knowing that. He showed me off to his buddies: “Tell them why we’re cousins.”
“Your daddy and my daddy are brothers.”
Hoddy beamed. “Isn’t she smart?”
Of course, I always liked him. But in a divorced family, we didn’t see each other much after I grew up and no longer spent visitation weekends with Dad. Then Dad moved out of town, so I only saw my cousins at weddings and funerals. Except for a couple of reunions, it has been that way ever since.
So last year I was especially saddened to learn that my big-brotherly cousin was ill with cancer, and not long after diagnosis, he died. The funeral was about a hundred country miles away from where I live, and I made plans to attend by myself. At the time, I was undergoing physical therapy for a very painful back issue. It was the kind of thing where for the entire summer, I could only sit in one specific chair at home, and I avoided leaving the house. I was nervous about sitting somewhere with this ailing back. But I didn’t want to miss paying my respects and seeing my cousins, so I cancelled a physical therapy appointment to attend the funeral.
With my heated car seat on my back, I drove alone through some glorious summer farms. The town itself was small, and the church was a handsome stone building, the service packed with people. Hoddy had been much loved.
Since I’d not seen him very often in my adult years, I didn’t know everything about him. One thing I learned in the obituary was that my city cousin had become a horse man. The name of his horse (and his dogs) made the obituary, where I also learned that he participated in his county’s mounted posse, riding in local events and parades. His love of horses seemingly had become a substantial part of his life. This was news to me.
I arrived at the church, found a pew in back, and waited for the service to begin. My back started hurting right away with an occasional spasm. I stood in the back, then sat back down. I found a pillow. I stood back up. Sat back down. Walked in the back of the crowded church for a while. It soon became clear that this was not going to work, and the day was just beginning. I couldn’t afford to have spasms kick in this far from home. Reluctantly, I left the funeral and headed to my car—and my heated seat.
I felt sad as I drove out of the lovely little town and away from my cousins I so seldom saw. There was no highway between Hoddy’s town and mine, only two-lane country roads. As I headed south toward home, the sun was midway down the bluest western sky. Everything I passed was green and lush and verdant. It was the kind of summer light when all that green seemed almost gold.
I continued thinking about Hoddy. I wished life had allowed us all to stay closer. I considered pulling over to check in with my feelings and to offer a prayer to honor my cousin.
Then I saw movement in the field on my right. Way at the back of the field, I could see a team of horses plowing, headed my way, moving in a small cloud of dust. They were steered by an Amish man walking behind them, holding long leathers. I had passed this farm on the way up and noticed it because it stretched from the road on to the west like an ocean.
I pulled over to the side of the road next to the fence and watched as the team made its way straight toward me. I was stunned by the magnificence of an animated, matched pair of draft horses. And they were palominos, my favorite look in a horse—golden body, blondish-white mane and tail. Their pacing was rhythmic, deliberate, efficient as they plowed together in a straight line toward me. Even though they were draft horses hard at work, they almost seemed to be prancing. Their long wheat-colored manes and tails blew in the breeze. They tossed their huge heads as they came closer.
I stayed in my car, turned off the engine, and opened the windows, mesmerized by the horses’ size and beauty. They eventually came right to the fence and paused. The Amish farmer, who looked tiny next to them, steered them into a broad right-hand turn, kind of like a semitruck might make in traffic. Now I could see the curved sides of their shimmering cinnamon bodies pass by the fence. We were only a few yards away from each other. They turned again and headed back across the field, away from me. The farmer acknowledged me with a nod and continued with his work.
This all took some time. I found myself in a calm state—even my back pain subsided for a bit. I felt that this unexpected moment with the matched pair of palominos was a gift. It softened my sadness, and it helped me honor my cousin. Hoddy and I both loved animals. I’d always taken solace in them, and I suspect he did too. Now for a moment, a gorgeous team of horses in a June breeze bridged a gap of sorts and took away some of the sting of not being with family. Instead, I was with creation. I was grateful. It was as perfect as it could be.
I watched those long blond tails swish back and forth as the team moved away from me across the field. I waited as the horses became smaller and smaller until I could no longer see them. Then I stayed quiet for a time before I started the car back up and drove home.
Hoddy had always made his kid cousin feel special.
For a while, I felt that way again.