The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.2002, Page 32

father did warn me about her back legs. He
thought it wise always to be careful of a
horse’s back legs, or a cow’s, especially if
the animal didn’t know you. He said they
could strike out so far, and so quickly, so
hard; he told a story of a villager in Ukraine
who had been killed by a single kick from a
horse. And he said I should be careful
never to surprise a horse if she was nap-
ping.
Work days in spring he often gathered
Nellie to the harness, set me on her back,
and took us out to the asparagus or straw-
berry patch to cultivate. Gee, Nellie! Haw,
Nellie! One small seven-tined horse-drawn
cultivator. The reins around his back and
two wooden cultivator handles for him to
lean on. I don’t remember whether I
enjoyed those mornings on Nellie’s back,
whether I begged to be taken down. But I
do recall the movement of the muscles in
her back, the pinch of the harness against
my legs, my hands on her leather collar, her
sweat soaking up my pant leg.
I imagine now that must have been a
pleasant experience for me, the riding, for
that old mare left a large impression. When
we traded her for our first red Farmall trac-
tor, when we sent her off on the truck to a
glue factory to supply some violin or furni-
ture maker with animal glue, I wept for
Nellie. I missed her shape in the barn. And
her smell. I missed the soft hard feel of her.
And I began a search that still calls me sum-
mers to local horse shows; that still finds
my car pulled up on gravel roads, me with
arms stretched across barb wire, face
against some eager horse’s neck.
Rev. Stefan Jonas son
ARBORG UNITARIAN CHURCH
GIMLI UNITARIAN CHURCH
9 Rowand Avenue
Winnipeg, Manitoba R3J 2N4
Telephone: (204) 889-4746
E-mail: sjonasson@uua.org
The fjord for Martha, and Equus for me.
I found other horses to ride. Richard, a
bachelor from our church, kept a collection
of Shetland ponies; some days he brought
one over for me to try. Some days my
father borrowed a giant Belgian draft horse
from the Friesens a mile away. Big horses,
and small horses. Later I found Red. Red
the Lazy. And then Star.
He was the first real horse I rode, a true
riding horse. Chestnut coloured, and part
Arabian, gelding. A good horse, and a good
size for my tall sixteen years; the first of my
loaner horses to understand the neck rein,
the art of single-handed steering. I bor-
rowed him from the music teacher and
conductor, Henry Goertzen. Star and I
rode the spring and summer away, several
springs and several summers. We traveled
the back roads of Niagara, alone, or some-
times with companions.
Star may have had one failing. If you
paid attention you might sometimes catch
in the sound of his gait, in his rhythm and
movement, an almost stumble. An extra
clip from one of his forelegs. I don’t know
if he was careless, or if he might once have
suffered bone or nerve damage to his leg. I
didn’t think about it much. But one fall day
when we were loping down a gravel trail,
the sunshine and the birds and trees, my
rambling thoughts, that clip became a clop.
Star stumbled. And I was too far away in
my dreams to pull him back up. Star turned
a kind of somersault. I with him. And when
we came to rest he lay on top of me.
Oh, the pain. Of course, he scrambled to
his feet and stood. Waited. But it wasn’t
quite as easy for me. When I finally man-
aged to rise, I found bruises and cuts, a few
maladjusted limbs. Though no broken
bones. I spent a few painful days and
nights. But I recovered. And I rode Star a
few more times that year. Soon after the
accident I found my first girlfriend; my
interest in horses suffered a period of
eclipse.
I’m not sure what it is that horses impart
to me; the exact nature of my need, what
dream they offer or kept alive. But over the
decades they seem to have materialized
whenever I was most in crisis. When I was
most lonely, or troubled. There, a pasture,
and horses. Some touchstone to my confu-