God Drives a Tow Truck Read Free Page B

like a horse, the glorious empty lot, and my sparkling stream. However, one of the most pivotal experiences of my life awaited me in Illinois. We lived approximately a mile from a horse farm. Remarkably, not only did my parents let this cowardly nine year old walk a mile alone to a strange farm, but the owners agreed to let me work there and “be near the horses.” (My mother now describes her parenting style as “benign neglect”. Probably prosecutionable nowadays.) Nonetheless, the child who peed in her pants rather than dare raise her hand to ask to go to the bathroom in third grade, somehow now summoned the strength to ask these strangers for a job.
    A few weeks later in exchange for my hard work shoveling manure, the owners Ella and George told me I could pick any horse as "my" horse, while I worked for them. The month of shoveling horse poop had established me as a hard worker and a horse fanatic. I knew and loved all the horses on the farm. Most were swaybacked, dismal plugs; old nags used for trail rides. They were plodding and placid, and would likely be sold for horse meat today. There were a few that were young and flashy. They were usually sold quickly. A horse named Ho-Hum had recently arrived at the farm. He was gorgeous, and had beautiful smooth gaits. Everyone loved him. We all knew he would not be there long before someone bought him. Ella suggested I pick him, as we stood at the fence to choose my horse.
"I want Joe," I said instantly.
"Joe? Why Joe?" she asked, surprised.
Joe was a hackney pony. He had a big potbelly and a deep sway back. As far as horses go, he was ugly. However, I thought he was beautiful. He was never used for trail rides because no one could put a saddle on him. I never heard details, but from what I understood, he had been severely abused under saddle and bridle by a past owner and if anyone even approached him with a saddle, he threw his ears back and began kicking. He refused a bit as well, so he was only ridden with a hackamore, a bitless bridle. The rare times he was ridden, it was only bareback.
"Joe is mean," said Ella, "Why don't you take Ho-Hum?"
"I want Joe," I insisted, momentarily squelching my terrified shyness.
"Why?" asked Ella.
"Because he needs me most," I told her.
So Joe became “my” horse. I spent the next month bringing him carrots every day and grooming him. It had been a long time since anyone had bothered to groom the mud away from anywhere except the area of his back where the rider sat, on the rare occasions he was ridden. Matt, Ella's son was the only one who ever rode Joe, and Matt was cruel. He liked the challenge of Joe, who would buck every time Matt sat on him. Cruel though he was, he was a very good rider, having grown up on horses, and he would stick miraculously to Joe’s back through all the bucking. When Joe grew weary of bucking, Matt would dig his spurs in Joe’s sides, and race poor Joe around the riding ring. Joe’s eyes would be wild and white, and his dark brown hair lathered in sweat.
    I hated it when Matt wanted to ride Joe, but I had no power to stop him. While Joe was "my" horse, Matt was the owner's son, and a spoiled one at that. Whatever Matt wanted, Matt got. So when Matt finished riding Joe, I would quietly retrieve my tired horse, rub him down, and groom his frothy coat. I cuddled his muzzle against my cheek till his breathing slowed, and he was cool and calm.
Matt ridiculed and tormented me, as well. He told me I was crazy to love Joe, and surely I understood I had no hope of ever riding him. I was not a good rider. I had only ever ridden Nipper, the tiny pony, and had fallen off many times. My work there was mostly shoveling layers of manure from the ill-kept stalls. I should have been horrified about the condition of that run down farm, but was too young to know any better. I was learning to tack the horses, and allowed to groom, but never allowed to lead a trail ride, like most of the other kids there. I learned to milk