Moving on from ‘the right thing’
Last of three articles
As I continued showing Chey, it became apparent that her mind was completely in the game but her aging body couldn’t hold up to the rigorous work. I backed her down to a light lesson schedule for beginner students on my farm, and she seemed to enjoy it.
Meanwhile, my relationship with Chase grew more contentious. His unpredictability made him unsuitable for most amateurs, which was the market he would have appealed to in the event of a sale. I did not want to wonder whether or not a buyer could handle him at home, and I was also afraid that if I sold a horse with a reputation for acting erratically, he might end up in an auction and even go to a meat buyer. I agonized over what to do, but I eventually found what I felt was a reasonable compromise. Despite the considerable money I had sunk into this horse in breeding and maintenance, I decided to pass him on to an acquaintance who had ridden him several times for tuneups and got along quite well with him. The man rodeoed in bucking horse events on the weekends, so Chase’s antics were nothing to him. He wasn’t able to make a purchase at the time, but he was thrilled to take Chase for free and planned to put him into ranch work immediately.
On the day of Chase’s departure, I found myself counting the hours until his new owner arrived. I felt like I was at the bottom of a mudslick hill that I had repeatedly thrown myself against with no headway.
When he finally did arrive, it was in the middle of a rainstorm at the end of the day. I had Chase’s papers ready, sealed in a waterproof bag. I handed them over and through the drumming water, motioned him toward the overhang of the barn. I flipped through my pedigree binder and found the one from the American Paint Horse Association with Reece’s picture on the front and “DECEASED” stamped on the back. I told him Chase had been bred to replace Reece but that that goal hadn’t come to fruition. I didn’t have any more words after that, but I think I just wanted to show one more person she had lived.
“She was here, she was here! I didn’t imagine this!” my subconscious screamed.
I didn’t break down when I watched Chase roll away through the bars of a stock trailer. It wasn’t until the next day that the torrent of tears came, and it wasn’t for him that I wept. It was for her, once again, as I had cried many times before. He left seven years and two months to the day after she died.
The better part of a decade, an arthritic broodmare and an unsuccessful breeding project later, she was still dead. I realized that, for me, letting Chase go was also an admission that I had let Reece go, albeit against my will. I had to admit that despite my hope and my efforts and my tears, she was and always would be gone.
That day, I heard The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young,” which always makes me think of Reece.
“Let me go, Mommy,” she seemed to be saying to me. “I didn’t get to do the things you planned for me. And it’s done. Chasing down my relatives and trying to recreate me won’t end the pain, and it won’t let me rest.”
“But what was I supposed to do??” my mind answered. “Not follow you to the ends of the earth? That would have been too much to ask.”
Later, through more tears, I looked out my kitchen window and saw Chey standing in my pasture. She’s 22 this year. A few years ago, one of her former owners wanted her back for another breeding, and I told him she would be staying with me.
“No more,” I told her. “No more babies. You’ve done far more than you ever should have been asked.”
“Take care of my mother,” Reece seemed to be saying from the other side now. “Let her grow old in your care.”
“But I only ever wanted you,” I still sobbed.
The echoes of “If I Die Young” floated back to me then.
And so, at least for now, I am listening. I have acquired a Kentucky-bred Thoroughbred mare who is kind and powerful. She feels like a Corvette opening up on the blacktop when she powers into her rolling canter. She’s different from Reece and Chase and Chey. That impossible, huge lurch in the middle of the trot stride isn’t there. I’ve been after it for so long that it’s almost strange to stop searching.
“Give her a chance,” my mind whispered when I got nauseous handing over payment as I bought this new mare, wondering if I’d done the right thing.
So, I’ve decided to take a break from worrying about the right thing, and if only for now, I’m letting Reece rest.
Elizabeth Crumbly is a newspaper veteran and freelance writer. She lives in rural Northwest Georgia where she teaches riding lessons, writes and raises her family. She is a former editor of The Catoosa County News. You can correspond with her at www.collective-ink.com.