A cup of tea, a prayer or two, blessed moments to share with you.
Ellen Cuomo
We never knew our last ride would be our last for a long, long time. If I had, I think I would have paid closer attention to how much she loved the ride; I would have listened to her advice and let her teach me more about the ride. I would have noticed the easy way she handled every situation horseback, and most of all, I would have noticed that she never needed to be without a horse. They were a part of her soul.
It was a beautiful day to head out for a morning ride. My sister, Brittney, told her son, “I am riding with my sister for the first time in over twenty years this weekend. Ben, you must treasure every minute you have with those you love. You just never know when it will be your last ride.” Ben looked down at his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Contemplating, he looked back at his mother and said, “You mean to say this might be the last peanut butter and jelly sandwich I ever have?” Brittney could see her heartfelt sentiments had gone deep.
By now, I saw myself hauling a horse trailer and horses; instead, I am just hauling a saddle.
Don’t overlook small beginnings, my father said to me.
Eating breakfast before the sun was up at Kelley’s, we enjoyed some coffee and laughs before heading out to the barn. Looking over the menu, our waitress walked up and asked, “You mind if I take that menu back – we only got six.” I looked at my Pops and smiled, “This is my kind of place.” Before we left, our waitress mentioned, “Ya’ll have been an absolute hoot! I can tell from the laughter and smiles that whatever ya’ll do today, it’s gonna be a good time. Treasure every moment you have together because I wish I had just five more minutes with mine.
Saddled and ready to head out, I watched my dad bow his head, horseback, and pray over our ride and time together. The same silhouette hadn’t changed since I was a kid. I would watch him bow his cowboy hat to pray over cowboy events taking place.
Later that day, we were switching out horses, and I noticed Dad walking out with his rope. I asked why he had it. “Oh, it’s time to teach Salty what a lariat rope is for.” “Well, has Jacks ever seen a rope?” Jacks was the horse I was riding. Kid broke as he was, he had a few quirks one needed to be aware of. Dad looked up from under his hat, “Well, we’ll teach him too.” – That’s what I was afraid of.
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I had opportunities this time to tame some of Jacks rebellion. There were battles I won, and a few I had to hand the reins over. Through the trees, you could see Jacks rear straight up, yet my dad was unmoved. It took me back to when his horse, Casey, a beautiful paint stud horse and his best friend, reared while Dad drank his coke at the local fairgrounds. I was a little girl; I watched in utter amazement as dad never flinched, just finished his coke; not a drop was spilled.
Dad came back through the woods riding Jacks, never missing a stride. He rode on, saying, “Rebellion has to be dealt with, whether a horse or kids. It cannot be allowed to grow.”
After riding all morning, including six different horses, and with lunchtime just around the corner, my sister suggested we all keep riding. Dad and I looked at each other, wondering what she thought we had been doing since sunup.
Her love for the ride never ends. She finds the missing pieces when she works horses next to my father. She is as comfortable at the hay feeder with horses breathing down her neck as she is in her kitchen.
Eager to use an ace I had kept in my back pocket, I said, “Brit. I am going to have to make a long trip home pretty soon. I best get unsaddled. But I promise you this: it won’t be our last ride together.”
Before I left, I had lunch with my grandma and grandpa. Sandwiches around their kitchen table were served with light-hearted conversation and old postcards my mother had sent when my folks traveled out West before I was born. The postcards seemed timeless in my mother’s writings and heartfelt sentiments. She wrote about the blessings of God upon their lives and the longing to be home near family. She could have written the postcards yesterday, and no one would have known the difference.
I don’t know, a phone call is good, but sometimes it isn’t enough. It’s like the postcards my mother sent; the stamps are worth the note, but sometimes you need to hug the necks of those you love. I needed to walk into my grandparents’ home and sit around their table. I wanted to smell familiar and remember days gone by for just a minute. The man who used to tower over me now needs help standing, although he is still a giant to me.
An early morning ride was long overdue. We watched geese glide over the pond as the sun peaked over the hills. An Eagle flew around, looking over its holdings before settling upon its nest. The cattle grazed in the pasture, and I rode horseback with two of my favorite people. Brit wanted to round them up; I suggested we take a pass. As my father has told me, “You can’t get days like this back. Enjoy it.”
God had given me back the sound of hoof beats, nickers, and perhaps even some old fears to conquer, but from where I sat, I was in good company for winning. Hauling a saddle didn’t seem so bad anymore.
