March comes into our canyon on swirls of oak leaves. The chill wind somehow makes our noses run before we even get started on our walk. Maggie, our cocker, is prancing and twirling in anticipation. They say that dogs live in the moment, that yesterday is gone and tomorrow is not something that they are capable of grasping. If that is the case, then why does she know something very exciting is about to happen when she hears the sound of the leash. There must be some thought of yesterday.
As we head down our almost gravel driveway, the small plum tree at the corner of the meadow comes into full view. What a glorious thing to behold this time of year! It is a mass of blossoms, a halo of white. Even with the wind, the petals hold tenaciously to the branches, giving us the promise of fruit in the summer. Farther down the road the cactus is full of prickly pears. I have never thought they were worth the work, they are prickly, after all. I'm certain though, that had I grown up with the sweet, fruity goodness of prickly pear jam, I wouldn't think they were too much trouble.
My childhood memories, however, are of sitting on a piece of burlap laid over the crushed, salted ice of the ice cream freezer while my daddy turned the crank. We talked about how good it would taste and whether we would choose fresh strawberries or chocolate sauce as topping. Unable to decide, I usually had both. Those hot Iowa summers hold many simple pleasures as memories.
Maggie picks up her pace as she heads for Theona, the chestnut mare in Mr. Olson's pasture. Theona has a knicker much like the deep throat-ed laugh of a very large man. The chestnut heads for that certain place on the fence line that Bob has chosen as her place for rewards. Today it is a carrot. She does, however, love corn tortillas and the sour oranges from the ancient orange tree in the meadow are of particular interest. That pleases us as they are far too sour for us to enjoy. The little tree is very prolific and it bothers us to waste such a bounty. The mare fairly slurps the juice as she chews so that she doesn't miss a single drop. Maggie watches with interest and sometimes they nudge noses each equally interested in just what the other might be.
Maggie takes these forays very seriously, moving quickly back and forth across the road, the tan and white curls of her skirt picking up oak leaves as she checks out things of particular interest at the side of the road. She is, after all a hunter, although I have often commented that there must be goat somewhere in her lineage for surely no dog could spring as she does without such heritage. Two more inches and she will certainly be in the kitchen sink.
Susan down the road is an advocate of rescuing horses and the mustang she and Mike have taken in is a beauty. It has taken several patient attempts on Bob's part to win her over. She would nod her beautiful black and white head and come within just a few inches of the proffered carrot, almost...but then caution would win out. One wonders what events are in her past, but then one day she is brave enough to trust him and takes the treat. Now she and her stable mates call to Bob when they see us coming with pockets full of carrots.
I have never longed for horses, but I know why people do. There is a certain romance about them, the scent of them, the sounds of the tack and saddle. The thought of a quiet ride through the tree filled country side makes you fairly quiver. However, to my way of thinking, they have the potential of being a big hole in the backyard that you throw money into, much like the sailboat we used to own.
As we turn to head home we decide we are very happy to have the pleasure of feeding someone else's horses. Our puppy is all the responsibility we want right now. Her exuberance and muddy paws are enough, we think, to keep us on our toes in our "golden" years. We wonder who on earth coined that particular term as we climb the almost gravel driveway to our cottage on Gopher Hill.
Sweet...Sharon.
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