Riding Barranca (25 page)

“Do you remember how Grandma used to wear those wonderful Mexican house dresses all around the house during the summer? Now my Mom is wearing those exact same dresses around Broadoaks!”

Daphne's parents purchased the family home from Cia and me, and they have done extensive renovations. Daphne pitched in every weekend she was there, doing endless chores without complaint.

There were stories that the house was haunted—Daphne and her cousin had seen an apparition moving through the dining room, and others had heard furniture shoved around at night. Years ago, my sister had experienced disturbing spirits in her
third floor bedroom, and it had been pivotal in her conversion to Christianity. You couldn't pay me to sleep alone in that house, but the ghost never bothered my mother.

Daphne recalled Grandma's visits to their ranch in Montana and how she loved nothing more than to go float-boating down the Madison River. “I'm not sure if she did any fishing, but she loved floating downriver, taking in the beautiful scenery.”

During Daphne's last visit to see Grandma in Arizona, she was swimming in the pool while Grandma sat out on the deck watching her. “When I climbed out of the pool, Grandma commented, ‘You have very nice legs…just so you know…you got those from me!'” We had to laugh over that one.

“I remember when Grandma called me one evening to tell me that she had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's,” Daphne recalled, not laughing now, serious, sad. I could tell that she missed her Grandma. “I was living in New York at the time and had just gotten home from work. She was so upset, crying on the phone. She said that she wanted to be the one to let me know. She told me that she loved me, and she wanted to be sure to tell me how much she loved me before she might not remember anymore.

“But mainly I remember how happy Grandma and Popi were most of the time, especially when they were just by themselves. They were always holding hands, or he'd have his arm around her shoulder. On my visits to Arizona I would find them lying in bed together, holding hands, talking and laughing. I think they really loved each other.”

In the Paddock

There are only a couple of more weeks before Peanut is shipped out West. I hope the transition is not too hard on him. At least he won't have to suffer a cold Berkshire winter with his thin skin. But now I am beginning to wonder why I have not heard from the horse transport people.

I go online and am horrified when I discover a string of testaments from people who claim
Cornerstone Equine Transport
ripped them off, scam artists! I have already sent off a certified check for over $600, half-payment, but now when I try to find the Cornerstone website, it no longer exists. I try calling their toll-free number and leave messages on all four bogus extensions, wondering if anyone will ever get back to me.

After a frantic morning of phone calls, trying to arrange for another driver, I am beside myself, scattered and distracted, trying to get ready for my upcoming trip to India. Putting one's faith and trust in some unknown hauler is a big deal when it comes to the health and safety of a precious animal. I feel
vulnerable, ripped off, but mostly angry at myself for being so careless—why did I not get references? What I really need right now is a good, long ride to regain my equilibrium.

Barranca seems slowed by his thickening coat, but he is still my willing boy. As we ride into the euonymus woods, the whole lower portion of the forest is now painted a bright pink-red that spreads over the woodland floor like a luxurious comforter.

What Did I Do?

Indian summer must be the most beautiful time of year— delightful to have this humid warmth with the rust and burnt-gold leaves still waving. Everything is so perfect on this
seventy-degree day it makes me want to stall time and stay right here, suspended.

I want to enjoy these last few rides on Barranca alone, taking in the fairytale spectacle of the cherry-colored woods, a cardinal flitting through the burst-open bittersweet. Suddenly, up ahead, the most magnificent buck springs across the trail, disappearing into the forest.

Barranca seems to walk gingerly, as if knowing that the leaf-covered paths could hide treacherous roots and potholes. He is taking his time, picking his way as we head down to the Alford Road. Cutting across the pavement into the woods, we try to find a new route over to the brook, but Barranca trips on a hidden strand of barbed wire and panics. “Whoa,” I say, hopping off to hold the wire down with my boot, easing his hoof back over it.

I wonder if he has memories of the barbed wire accident that cut him up before I bought him. Such traumas lodge in the cellular memory, but luckily that memory doesn't overwhelm him. He is such a steady horse. I believe he trusts me as much as I do him.

Going through a narrow opening into the lower fields, I see that the goldenrod has aged from a greenish-blond to grayish fuzz. There is an abundance of berries—little white ones pop on their frail grey stems all along the field, and red berries dangle like miniature Tic-Tacs. A crab apple tree is laden with fruit that almost resembles tiny plums. I take a nibble, and it is sour, not for human consummation. Some of the maples are still fully clothed in vibrant gold while others have been stripped bare.

Light glazes the wings of a raven flying off across the field as we canter on the curving imprint of a tractor track. Big piles of firewood are seasoning by the hedgerow. I know cold weather is coming and that this is but a brief respite. We are
in that perfect moment of appreciated warmth before autumn turns harsh and punishing. The milkweed is opening, and I snatch a pod and let the parachute wishes cascade behind me—such balmy air, such glorious colors.

As we enter the woods behind Peck's Pick Farm, a sifting of pale yellow leaves twirls around us. We seem suspended in time.

Why does Barranca feel like the perfect partner? Why does he seem to understand me, almost without direction? If there is such a thing as an “old soul” in an animal, he surely has one. How lucky I am to have found this horse.

At home, I bring out two big pails of warm water and wash him down with a sea sponge, shampooing his mane and tail, using Cowboy Magic conditioner to untangle his locks. My two little mischief makers look over the fence as if wondering—“Why is
he
getting so much attention while the two of us have to stay behind the rails?”

Because, I think, you are naughty boys who have been breaking out of your pasture—you are having an Equine Time Out!

As I wash Barranca's legs, I see that some of the milkweed fluff has stuck under his foreleg—a sign of good luck for my best boy. How I will miss him, but I don't want him to suffer that long haul twice a year. I turn him out into the upper field to graze, watching the dark shine of his skin as it dries in the afternoon sun.

Halfway around the World

On our first evening in Varanasi, we walk through the teeming market streets down to the crowded
ghats
where temples, shrines, and palaces loom like fantastic sandcastles from ancient times. The Ganges moves slowly under a darkening sky as seven Brahmin priests in peach-colored satin perform the evening ceremony, swinging powerful incense to the sound of tabla drums. Then, the long walk back, stepping over garbage and cow pies, spotting one big bull lounging on the floor of a local shop as if it was his normal, nocturnal resting place.

The people of Varanasi seem to have a certain glow about them. Perhaps this stems from daily lives steeped in spiritual practice and devotions. But how can any religion keep track of over a million gods? Does that simply mean that almost everything earthly is permeated by the spiritual realm?

We wake at five in the morning to get back to the Ganges for a sunrise boat tour, and in the morning light, we are more
aware of the ash-grey pollution of the river. Cremations are blazing away on the riverbanks, and off to the right, the bloated body of a dead goat makes Ayler gag. He turns his attention to his little ghee candle and sets it afloat in a marigold laden boat.

When I think about my mother's cremation in Wisconsin, I realize how different death is in our culture. Soon after her passing, my mother's body was zipped into a black plastic bag and whisked away to be held in cold storage. As is typical in America, no one attended to her body. No one was there for her cremation. A few days later, her remains, ground to a fine grey powder, were placed in a tidy box.

Mom wanted her ashes spread on the desert in Arizona. I would have to transport them. My sister brought a bag of “Mom” to the Lake Club, plunking them down on the dinner table. Our brother David was appalled—“You two and those ashes! Now you see why your brothers have a problem with their sisters!”

We were clearly four different individuals, but the older you get the more you becomes yourself, as if the sauce of personality is reduced, intensified. But we were still a family, like it or not. We were still the children of Margaret and George, no matter what we felt they had or hadn't given to us. Now it was our turn to stop the blaming, and turn to ourselves, and try to make the best of it. One has to accept one's own flaws in order to find forgiveness. Now it was our turn. Next, it would be theirs—our children, grandchildren, down through the progressing years that were passing more quickly than we believed possible.

In India, multiple lifetimes are ever-on-going. Waiting for the sun to make its appearance through the smog, the devout are
taking their purification baths, washing away sins and bad karma, modestly changing out of wet clothes by pulling dry ones over their heads.

We work our way back through the claustrophobic sensory overload, trying to avoid the
bindi
sellers and postcard hawkers who are far more tenacious and annoying than any beggar. Traveling in India, I am reminded of what people did
not
tell me about childbirth, avoiding any accounts of discomfort or pain, only focusing on the joys of motherhood. Similarly, I feel that friends who have told me of their travels in India only mentioned the amazing colors, the fabulous markets, the great deals, and rarely the extreme pollution or the distressing poverty, the chaos of the roads where it is truly survival of the fastest.

After lunch, my traveling companion, Lizbeth Marano, and I explore the hotel gardens and come upon a skinny, little man leading a white, Rajasthani stallion with big black balls. The horse has the typical Marwari ears that curve inward. He seems to be quite docile, following this man about without lead rope or halter.

Neemsha is the horse-trainer for the Palace Hotel next door to our rather mediocre abode. The abutting garden looks like a very grand, serene place, just beyond the guarded gates. We are not allowed to pass into this highly exclusive property, once home to the King of Benaras. We want to see the palace stables, and the guard suggests that we check with the concierge at our hotel. Neemsha is currently busy hooking up the stallion to an antique black carriage. Wouldn't it be fun to get a ride?