Horsekeeping Read Free

Cautious about us at first, he eventually trusted that our common land interests were in sync and now we share a curmudgeonly skepticism about change. His family and mine bookend Weatogue, and we fret about the next lot in between us to fall. Like two mother hens we catch up and keep tabs; me draped over my bicycle, stroking my miniature black poodle Velvet perched in a basket at my handlebars, and John hanging his head and farm-work dirty arm out of his old green tractor while we trade our gossipy knowledge about the good guys (farmers, land preservationists and unpretentious neighbors), and the bad guys (developers and neighbors who sell to developers). We always agree despite our local/weekender dichotomy.
    One day John hailed me down.

    â€œDid you and Scott really buy El-Arabia?”
    â€œYes John, I’m pretty sure we’re getting it.”
    â€œAre you keeping it a farm?” he asked, anxious.
    â€œYes sir, I think we are. We’ll keep the land open at any rate,” I fired back, happy to report some solid action to fortify our heretofore verbal lines of defense. His effusive gratitude embarrassed me: much of the purchase being made in self-interest after all.
    Another neighbor, Bill Binzen, is an accomplished photographer whose home borders El-Arabia at the northeastern end. He is elderly, and an impossibly thin six feet four, but he gave me a hug that lifted me off my feet when he heard.
    â€œIf I were a little younger, I’d saddle up Western-style and help you out.”
    I tried to envision it. In May he had collapsed at the town Memorial Day celebration: a modest parade of fire engines, the ambulance squad cars, daycare kids in wagons throwing wrapped peppermints to the crowd, the elementary school band blaring marches and the seventy-five year old Salisbury Town Band in their gingham-ribboned cane hats keeping them on key, the giggling Brownies, the self-conscious Boy Scouts and the not so modest roster of Salisbury veterans, crisply uniformed, armed, and humbly serious with memories of time served. The scene never varies: a hush falls on the townspeople as they follow the soldiers into the old pine studded cemetery. The master at arms reads the names of all the Salisbury war dead, Episcopal and Congregational ministers and a Catholic priest invoke God’s blessing, a local child recites the Gettysburg address, Taps hangs in the air twice—to begin near the crowd, and to end, poignantly far away, an anguished cry from deeper in the cemetery. Four guns salute. The shock of the blasts sets a few babies wailing and nervous dogs howling as the older kids pounce for a prized shell casing.
    It is a time to be grateful for these soldiers’ sacrifices, whatever one’s politics. A few feeble veterans ride in fancy convertibles, but most still march, including Bill as he had done for over thirty years, handsomely
outfitted in his full khaki WWII regalia, under an airless, sunny sky. He regally stood at attention in the cemetery until the premature May heat got the better of him, buttoned up tight in his uniform. Down he went, stretched out lean in the dandelions and fragrant wild thyme. Conscious and loathe to go to the hospital but unable to fully rally, he was ambu-lanced by the on-hand EMTs. I sadly wondered if Bill’s time had come.
    Two days later, Scott and I watched him ride along our road atop a vintage bicycle, arms vigorously working the handlebars to stay vertical. It seemed dangerous, but I deeply admired his perseverance in filling life to the brim. I hoped I’d have the guts to do the same.
    Relatively young if not as vigorous, Scott and I cottoned to the idea of our kids hanging around a working stable. Some parents pay good money for their coddled offspring to experience “farm life”; here we’d have the real thing in our own front yard. I waxed romantic about the sound of horse whinnies in the distance and pictured our five-year-old pixie