|
by Deana Nazworth
Blue was not a spectacular-looking horse by
any stretch of the imagination. Bone thin and
worn down by life, he looked as if he'd
been roaming the Earth for a hundred years already.
His mane was stringy, his back was bowed, and
it appeared that being tied to the rail was the
only thing holding him upright most days. Blue
appeared incapable of mustering enough energy
even to swat the flies on his back let alone
to break free from the herd and, in a mad frenzy,
drag me along the dusty trail up Mount Loma by
the lead rope. Choosing Blue was ensuring a stress-free
hour of horse leading. In essence, I labeled
him as the perfect choice for my tour of duty
at the barn each day.
I assumed I had hit the
jackpot with Blue. I was sure that he and I would
be the toast of Beginner's Horseback. I
mean, who wouldn't want to spend their
time with such a quiet and gentle beast of burden?
I envisioned some precious six-year-old nervously
picking us out as a safe bet. I sincerely believed
this right up until the point whereupon a dozen
children dashed by me and my senior citizen of
a horse in search of a more quality thoroughbred.
Incredibly, they seemed to be on a search for
the Black Stallion while I stood by an animal
that appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness.
A "safe bet" was not on the menu
for any of these kids. My kind and considerate
co-counselors could barely contain their snickers
and taunts each time my trusty steed and I were
passed over. In truth, I had picked a complete
dud.
I struggled to contain my envy as every
other horse and leader were chosen, and I admit
now that perhaps I had taken things a bit personally.
If my horse was a loser, it made me a loser by
default. This I could not have. Just then, opportunity
rounded the corner at a full sprint, and opportunity's
name was Floyd. Now, I did not know Floyd very
well at this point, but word around camp was
that he was not only quite a character but also
that his heart was kind and full. I knew that
he, of all people, would not be able to turn
Blue away. As he slowed to a jog, Floyd began to
realize that all the horses appeared to be taken.
This was my chance to keep Blue (and consequently
me) from being turned out to pasture (metaphorically
speaking) as useless and complete bores.
"Floyd!" I
called. "I have just the horse for you!
This is Blue, and I think he'll suit you
just fine."
Floyd turned a suspicious eye
upon the two of us, sizing us up, and drawled, "Well
. . . I dunno, Deana. You think he's up
to it? He looks a little wore out and . . . well
. . . kinda old. Dunno if he can handle it," he
informed me.
Truthfully, I hadn't thought
this far ahead in my ill-conceived plan for redemption.
I had assumed that with a little sweet talk and
a lure of some extra riding time, Blue would
be a shoe-in with Floyd. I had clearly never
bartered with such a shrewd businessman before.
My inexperience was obvious, and I'd clearly
have to take a different tactic.
"Have
you ever heard of something called the Kentucky
Derby, Floyd?" I blurted out without thought.
"Hmmm
. . . I think so," he replied.
"Well,
Blue here was a qualifier for the 1972 Derby." My
lie was brazen and reeked of desperation, but
it was all I had at the moment. Floyd had raised
an eyebrow and was now studying my face intently.
It was now or never. "In fact," I
continued with the most casual tone I could muster, "I
think he may have even won it in '72. I
mean he had to have done something pretty special
in order to make it onto the cover of Sports
Illustrated. They don't give the cover
to just anyone."
In a flash, Floyd was
in the saddle, pulling on the reins before Blue
had even woken to the realization he was no longer
inside the barn.
All the way around the arena,
through turns and commands, stops and starts,
there were questions of Blue's faded glory
and heritage. I fumbled around, scraping up some
possible (but highly improbable) details of Blue's
history, including but not limited to: Blue's
service to our country as a cavalry horse in
the war and a near miss for Olympic glory. I
was just starting to rationalize my "embellishments" as
simply fun and creative stories and forgive myself
for what some people could perceive as lies.
Suddenly . . . a snag in my pseudo-reality.
"Is
Blue really a champion?" Floyd asked uncertainly.
Now I have no children of my own, so I had never
faced the Santa world travel dilemma or the Easter
bunny questions. I had never played the role
of the tooth fairy, and, most days, my own faith
was shaky at best. I found myself at a complete
loss.
"What do you think?" I inquired.
This was a well-known stall for time in the adult
world.
"Well, I guess so. I mean, anything's
possible," he replied.
During our rides,
Floyd and Blue got to know one another, and I,
in turn, got to know Floyd. He told us about
the Dolphin cabin and his awesome counselors.
He shared the trials and tribulations of having
two younger brothers always at his heels. He
told us about being a liver transplant recipient — a
fact of which I had no clue. He told me of his
mother and how much he wished she were still
alive to see him each day. He laid out his love
for the Dallas Cowboys and his own personal plan
to get them back to the Super Bowl, and he talked
about his hopes of being part of his own football
team one day. It didn't matter what team,
just as long as he got to be a part of a team.
The topics of conversation were broad and diverse
but spoken in a more personal tone than I had
heard from a child in a long time.
When we found
ourselves in the middle of the trail line, creating
quite the traffic jam with our "leisurely
pace," Floyd (ever the gentleman in charge)
motioned for everyone to go around, telling each
one in his most important tone, "Me and
Blue probably need to stay back here anyway and
keep an eye on everybody." Even traveling
at a snail's pace had evolved into a safety
precaution for the other riders and leaders within
our group.
At the end of his ride, he gave Blue
a big hug and a pat on the neck and whispered, "Don't
work too hard. I'll see you tomorrow."
For
the next two days, there was Floyd, waiting at
the gate . . . waiting to see Blue. By midweek,
Floyd's enthusiasm for Blue had skyrocketed,
but sadly, Blue's already fragile health
was plummeting. It was too hot, and he was exhausted
from a long summer's work. The horseback
staff decided that Blue wouldn't even be
taken out of the barn for the rest of the week.
So after Wednesday's lesson, it fell to
me to break the bad news to Floyd. Standing next
to Blue, I talked with him about how it wouldn't
be fair to make Blue work when he wasn't
feeling well. I tried to point out that although
he would have to choose another horse, it was
great that he and Blue had developed such a great
friendship.
I braced myself for a protest or
a negotiation or even a few tears, yet there
were none. Floyd looked at me, then looked at
Blue and said softly, "I know what it's
like to be sick. I was sick for a long time when
I was little. You take it easy, Blue, and don't
work too hard. I'll see you tomorrow."
For
the last two days of camp, Floyd rode a different
horse, and although he was polite and kind to
each horse, it was obvious that they would simply
never measure up to the standard Blue had set.
At the end of the hour, Floyd made his pilgrimage
to the barn to say hello and sneak some apple
slices to his beloved friend. Then there was
a big hug and the same words, "Don't
work too hard. I'll see you tomorrow." I
prepared myself for the difficult question that
I felt sure would come on Friday morning. I dreaded
telling Floyd that Blue would probably not be
back next summer. Actually, I was concerned that
Blue might not make it through the day let alone
through the year. Yet much like the tears and
protests I had feared just days earlier, the
question never came.
I will never really know
whether Floyd truly believed my wild stories
and outlandish claims regarding Blue, or if he
had simply felt as sorry for me and my broken
down horse as I had been feeling that first day.
Was it child-like innocence or simple kindness
that had motivated Floyd to stick with us when
there were clearly better opportunities? Did
it really matter in the end? Innocence and kindness
. . . weren't those both things the world
could use more of?
As adults, we assume that
we are the teachers and children are always in
need of a lesson. More often than not, this is
not the case, and it certainly wasn't the
case with Floyd. He reminded me that everyone
and everything deserves to be loved and adored
. . . that outer packaging does not reveal inner
gifts. I learned that broken spirits can be put
back together. I learned to treasure the time
you have with others because, no matter what,
it will never be enough. I learned that hope
can be refilled, and smiles are the best gift
you can give. I learned that an hour at horseback
can be a life-altering event. I learned that
the heart of a twelve-year-old can be the most
powerful force on Earth. I learned to never give
up. Most importantly, however, Floyd taught me
this: that no matter the flaw, no matter the
imperfection, no matter if it's in the
unlikeliest of places — if you look deep
enough and believe hard enough, you can find
a champion in just about anyone.
Originally published
in the 2008 July/August issue of Camping Magazine.
|
