First stop, Japan, a.k.a. Tami and Arlo’s house by the pond. Arlo, Kristen, and Tami put out sandwiches and deviled eggs, and Kersten brought a plate of coconut almond macaroons. Great way to fuel up for a woodsy hike!

As Tony, Susan, Megan and I were walking down to Japan from Susan and Tony’s house (Inkberry Hill Farm), we were passed by a car peopled by men in dark suits. Our first thought was, Mormons? but it turned out a pre-party party was already going on at Japan.

Tami’s mother’s partner, George, passed a few weeks ago, and his and Anne’s families would soon be elebrating his life at The Plant. I had a whale of a good time yakking at a whole new group of people who hadn’t already heard my stories. Kudos to Tami, Arlo, and Kristen for making both parties happen!

Per Carrie’s request, we stopped at Delphi to see the gardens.

Kersten and I have grown close from years of weekly walks and hikes.

Tony led the way from Delphi to Inkberry Hill via new trails he and Susan made in the ten months since they moved into our neighborhood.

The trails lead to the green burial ground at The Sanctuary of the Burrow, were many of our beloveds rest and where Bob and I will ultimately spend our last days in earth.

Susan and Tony put out deviled eggs, pineapple, watermelon, and cheese and crackers. The temperature was pushing up towards eighty, so the watermelon was just what we all needed. Tony and Susan had new windows installed last weekend and I think Susan picked the perfect color blue to set off their yellow house.

When we were sated, we took off down the Elephant Trail.

Turning right before reaching Stinking Creek, we hiked up and over The Beeches trail. I’m not gonna lie, I was often short-winded. Every time I stopped to take a photo, I had to run to catch up. Also, I’m seventy and it was hot.

At the top of the hill stands a group of mature beeches, hence the trail’s name. Thank you, David, for taking my picture.

Another right and now we’re on the Northwest Passage, heading south towards our place. Our crawlers had stopped to discuss some point of interest, but by the time I caught up they had moved on. Eleagnus is my best guess, as eradicating it and other invasives is top of mind for all of us.

It’s pollen season and our footwear grew more yellow with every step.

Last stop, Trouts Farm, where Bob and I put out drinks coolers, a hummus and veggie plate, cheese, chips, and crackers.

Our back porch on the north side of the house is perfect for entertaining with its wood flooring and eclectic chair collection.

How nice to spend the day with friends, and even nicer to reach my favorite rocking chair and pull off my shoes and socks.

Here are links to previous Trail Crawl photo essays:

[Trail Crawl 2022] * [Trail Crawl 2019] * [Trail Crawl 2018] * [Trail Crawl 2017] * [Trail Crawl 2016] * [Trail Crawl 2015] * [Trail Crawl 2014] * [Trail Crawl 2012] * [Trail Crawl 2011]

What I know of Chicago came from movies and songs. Like High Fidelity with John and Joan Cusack, Jack Black, and Tim Robbins. Or Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago, a song that will now play in my head for this entire post. And I hear they like their pizza super doughy and cheesy.

So, when Bob proposed we spend a couple of nights in Chicago on our way home from Lake Mills last September, I said, “Why not?” I’m an open-minded sort of person, and since I hadn’t broadened my horizons in years, it was high time I checked out The Second City.

As per usual, Bob made all arrangements and accommodations. All I had to do was tag along, gaping at the sights, and I did that handily. Also, as per usual, he secured us a nice suite in The Hampton Inn, this one housed in the historic Majestic Building and located in Chicago’s Theater District, inside the Loop.

Our first morning in Chicago, I walked downs eighteen flights of stairs for coffee and muffins. Hotel stairwells are a great way to escape the air conditioning and uncramp my legs from travel-sitting. They feel like a cosy secret, an echoey haven for die-hard walkers. I rarely encounter another human in my stairwell meanderings.

What a surprise to fling open the door and find what used to be the outside wall of the Majestic! Apparently, the Hampton Inn stairwell was added onto the outside of the Majestic, probably years ago.

I felt like an archeologist as I stared at decades-old pigeon poop on brick and stone, and in that moment, my heart opened up to Chicago. I could see New York’s familiar grime and fancy architecture in this sealed-up space-time portal. I now knew something about Chicago that may not be so evident to others, and that knowing made me feel like an insider.

When I did my research for this post, I read that the Majestic was a Shubert Theatre, just like the eleven Shubert Theatres my grandpa ran in Manhattan and I wondered if he had ever been to this one in Chicago.

But enough insider stuff. It was time to get outside and act like tourists. There are plenty of parks, museums, and art in the Loop. Our first meander took us a few blocks from the hotel to Millennium Park, home to Chicago’s iconic Cloudgate which most people refer to as “The Bean.”

We had a lot of fun playing around near the 110 ton, stainless steel sculpture. It’s like a giant fun-house mirror.

Sixty-six feet long and thirty-three feet high, the Bean is made of polished stainless steel and was installed a mere twenty years ago.

Another interactive feature at Millennium Park, the Crown Fountain splash pad, involved water and two fifty-foot towers made of glass blocks projecting video of real Chicagoans.

We sat near the splash pad with gelato cones from Amorino, a busy, brick and mortar shop near the park.

As I was finishing my cone, two young men approached us and asked, “Are you happy?” Well, of course we were we said, and one of the men filmed us telling the other man all about it, and so we got ourselves on YouTube. (briefly at .08, then 5:54, and longer at the 6:26 mark)

Cities are such an odd mixture of work and play. Who keeps all of this clean? I kept asking myself. As a tourist, I focused on the bright, potted flowers and art installations, but all I had to do was look down to think about the maintenance. The street sweeping and lawn care, repairs and garbage removal. There are legions of workers making a city shine, but none know how to get rid of flattened gum. And actually, that gum sparked an affinity for Chicago, New York’s sister in grime.

We walked about eight miles on our one full day in Chicago, beginning at the southwest edge of Lake Michigan, past the many joggers and strollers.

Bob wore a blue Hempsmith tee under his button-down so that he could send Arlo a photo of his clothing line being worn in Chicago. And because Bob believes that tie-dye is always a solid fashion choice.

We couldn’t have asked for a brighter, more beautiful day, I thought, as we made our way into Grant Park.

The Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial Fountain is made of pink Georgia marble and was installed in 1927 by his sister, Kate. We had stumbled upon one of the largest fountains in the world and my respect for Chicago was growing by the minute.

The bronze, Art Deco sea horses represent the four states bordering Lake Michigan: Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan.

City parks are a refreshing distraction from the concrete jungle, a place where geese graze just like anywhere else on earth.

And Squirrels forage for whatever they can scratch up.

Back to the gum-crusted, crumb-dusted, but not poop-smeared streets. Kudos to Chicago’s pooch owners for doing a great job of cleaning up after their pets.

Birds tell us it’s okay to breathe the air. When we moved to coal-sooted Tianjin, China in 1998, I knew we were in trouble as soon as I realized there were hardly any birds.

You will know me as a tourist because I have a camera and it is pointed up.

Bob crosses a bridge alongside some mildly-disturbing art.

The Chicago River Riverwalk offers lots of places to sit and eat and there were plenty of people doing just that, but we kept on walking. When a fire boat drifted by, I thought about how cool it would be to see them suck water from the river and shoot it into the sky.

Muffins long ago digested, we stopped for some of that world-famous Chicago Pizza, a not so big one, and ate it all. It would have been wrong to come here and not eat their pizza, but I’m too old to change my allegiance to Brooklyn Pizza with its thin crust, black dough bubbles, and scant sauce and cheese.

Towards the end of the day, I was really hitting my stride, as at home as I could be.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was playing a couple of blocks from our hotel, so we decided to cap off a perfect day with a play. We were, after all, staying in Chicago’s theatre district.

It felt good to sit down after a day on our feet and we settled into our plush chairs for some first class entertainment.

Bob caught the sunrise on Monroe Street on our final morning in Chicago while I was upstairs doing yoga. I am grateful to him for my cultural adventure in the Second City.

Chicago’s Loop is a lot like New York’s Times Square without the food carts, honking cars, and pot fumes. Comfortably familiar with a few nice surprises. The next time I see Chicago’s theatre district in a movie, I can say, “I’ve been there!” I’ll think about the gum, and the birds, the fountain, the fire boats, and the secret facade hidden within a stairwell.

I’d been out and had ridden a couple of times, but wanted Bob to see where I go on Thursdays. So on a gilded Sunday morning, Bob brought his camera and we went out to the new barn.

I grabbed Sophie’s halter and we walked to her pasture.

We were basking in the day before we even got there.

I traipsed through the pasture towards the four red mares, not certain which one was Sophie.

Here she is! Even though they all have white blazes, Sophie is the only one with no white feet.

I’m as happy as a child out here. Life doesn’t get any better than this!

Horseman Bob and sweet Sophie. She is very easygoing for a thoroughbred to which I credit the steady hand of her owner who bought her when she was four and has had her for nine years.

Sophie is perhaps searching Bob’s pockets for treats. Bob’s expression says, “What treats?”

Thirty years ago, Bob bought a chestnut mare with the same shimmering coat color as Sophie.

We named her Penny because, in the right light, she shone like copper.

Not long after Bob bought Penny, we traded horses and she became mine.

As I led Sophie up to the barn, another horse expressed interest, so I encouraged her to move along by flicking the end of her lead rope towards her rear end.

When I brushed Sophie, I noticed that she was sporting a few bites (pasture buddy nibbles) between her flank and the top of her rump. I did not notice they were framed by a heart until after we got home and looked at Bob’s photos.

The sixty-something acre property includes a fishing pond and a hay field.

There are horses of all different colors, breeds, and ages on the property, including several mules. This is a cute pony who came up to tell Bob “Hello.”

A pretty grey horse ambled over as well.

This is a Haflinger, a sturdy breed known for their amicable disposition. They do not get very tall, which is super nice for older riders—easier to get on and off, not so far to fall.

I believe you can see your soul in a horse’s eye. Fun fact: horses can see in two different directions at once. Each eye works independent of the other unless they are using binocular vision to focus on something straight ahead.

This is Sophie’s eye.

If you look close, you can see photographer Bob reflected in her eye. This would be the artist in the eye of the beheld.

Bob and I have been married thirty years. Like most couples, we worked, we raised children, we did the things that keep people on their toes. We hung in there, giving each other the benefit of the doubt, sharing the pain and the glory until the dust settled, until reaching the point where we have little strife and a whole lot of ease. Best of all, we still have each other to share it all with.

Sometimes it’s a man calling a feral cat. “Fritz!” Wait a beat, “Fritz!” for ten minutes or so. One night it is a different male voice a little further down the road shouting something unintelligible and later, a barking dog. Two plus two says he was calling the dog, found it, and hooked it up to the yard tether.

On another night, I am alarmed by something rustling fiercely among the big fig leaves outside our bedroom. I pat Bob’s arm, but he is deeply asleep and does not wake.

In the morning, I tell him I heard something as big as a bear in the fig tree, but we agree it was probably a trash panda or a deer. Then I fold myself into his shape and we lay, warm beneath the covers, breathing cool morning air, thinking about nothing but the feel of our bodies.

We are both a part of and impartial to the world around us. We are elements within a greater context, like a crossed “t” on a handwritten page, one letter out of many, isolated components of a greater whole.

Later, I look for ripe figs but find only remnants.

The next morning, I pull on a sweatshirt and take my half cup of decaf to the back porch to welcome the day. The high whine of a motorcycle traveling way faster than the 45-mile-per-hour limit obliterates the morning stillness. I stiffen against the sound, thinking, That guy is gonna end up killing someone, but by the time I settle into my rocking chair, his noise is a distant buzz.

It was just a sound, I tell myself. Not to be judged or reacted to, but noticed and dismissed along with everything else. Along with the baby bird chirps, the damp railings, and the little squirrel giving me side takes from a crepe myrtle. Perhaps the squirrel is deciding whether to react to my movements or dismiss me.

As a child, I learned to use a critical eye while watching my brothers play. My mother dubbed me “her centurion,” her guard in the doorway ready to sound an alert should kids’ play turn dangerous as it often did. Those boys. Playing wilder and rougher until someone got hurt. I leaned into her praise, embracing my role with relish. I would catch the mayhem in its first syllable before anyone got hurt.

In my thirties, I sought professional help. I would sit with a compassionate woman in her intentionally unremarkable therapy room and talk about my problems and my dreams. She taught me, among other things, the difference between observation and judgment, and I vowed to, one day, completely shed my sentry cape. So this has been my life’s work: to detach. To sense, accept, and be at peace with everything the world sends my way.

I look up and the squirrel is gone.

PORCH TIME

We opened our doors at 4:30 with the sun still high above, and two hours later when we began eating, it was still pretty and bright.

When Arlo and five of his friends emerged from the woods in their work boots with food and a couple of guitars, I felt as if I were watching a movie. They looked like the rescuers striding through smoking rubble after an apocalyptic disaster. I’m not exaggerating, my vision grew blurry with emotion for an instant before I remembered my manners and waved cheerily.

In retrospect, having just turned seventy and finding myself uncharacteristically exhausted by 2:00 PM on some days, the sheer vigor of this next generation brings me great comfort. I feel as if they’ve got our backs, us older folks, and that it’s okay for us to slow down.

SPOT PICS

Spot, our greeter, had his work cut out for him and kept Bob busy snapping “first time to Trouts Farm” pictures of the newcomers.

TIME TO EAT

There was so much food! Salads, fruit, bread, casseroles, tempeh, meat, and beans.

I cannot say how many friends have eaten with us in our little dining room but it has been years since we had more than eight people at the table.

Lyle’s Potluck Podcast captures my joy above the roar of 27 people having a good time:

MAY AND JUNE BIRTHDAYS

Bob bought a unforgettable triple-layer, gluten-free Lemon Lavender Cake to help us celebrate six May and June birthdays.

Shelley, Camille, Kersten, Arlo, Zach, and Hannah made birthday wishes and blew out the candles.

All animals share food to show each other that they are friends. A horse new to the herd, for example, gets run around by the lead mare until she decides they belong, and then she lowers her head to eat. New acquaintances say, “How ’bout a cup of coffee?” The alpha wolf brings food to the den and shares it. Eating together is the most powerful way to signal friendship and the easiest way to build community.

After everyone left, Bob and I tidied up, savoring bits of stray conversation and getting one more taste of cake before tucking into bed, spent and happy.

So I stay inside, sprawled across an overstuffed chair with my daily-gibberish notebook and a purple pen.

We’ve hired Martin and his brother, Pedro, to do some repairs here at Trouts Farm. They’d re-sided Bob and Torrey’s aging shed and had been trimming our front ditch all summer, so we knew they were talented and easy to work with.

They began with the rotting pole barn that shelters our riding mower, garden inputs, and our two, blue Teslas. Can’t have the barn falling down on our cars, can we?

They got right to work replacing the bad wood, sistering on new supports, and cutting away tree branches that brushed up against the roof.

When all was structurally sound, they covered the roof and outside walls in blue metal. “To match your cars,” Martin said, after I named the color. “Yes!” I said, “And someday, the house.”

We move our cars out of the pole barn during the day to give the guys room to work.

They also fixed the ceiling in the work room. No more looking up for snakes before entering the work room. All this in less than a week.

In between yard jobs—they’re still blowing leaves and spreading mulch for other clients—Pedro and Martin re-floored our front porch.

Now we have a floor of nice new, pressure-treated wood which will cure for several months before they come back and stain it.

And then they started on our mammoth back porch.

When Pedro and Martin pulled the decking off, they learned that only the posts on either end went straight into the ground. The interior posts rested atop the deck itself, so they fixed that by installing new posts that reach from dirt to roof.

It made my heart soar to see the wad of green Astroturf in the discard pile.

In 2022, we got new interior floors and a fabulous master bath (Thanks Trip, Jerry, and Ron!) This year we got an upgraded garage and new porch flooring. Merry Christmas to us!

When Bob retires, I told myself, he will take back the vegetable garden and start hauling the trash. Our garden had always been Bob’s domain—he of the big, green thumb—while I tended to focus on the flower beds, but I took responsibility for the veggies a few years ago when I retired and he dove into a demanding job requiring travel.

We had yet to buy the house before Bob and Lyle went to work transforming the ruined swimming pool into a place to grow food. When they were finished, Bob named it the Sunken Gardens of Moncure.

Trash, I’d always heard, was a man’s job, but for some reason, I never handed this chore off to Bob. In fact, I bought my Model Y mainly because it boasted seventy-two cubic feet of cargo space, nearly as much as my Subaru Outback. It also has the ground clearance to handle long gravel roads, making visiting friends and getting to the barn easy.

It makes me happy to round up all our paper packaging, cans, bottles, and garbage and leave it at the county collection center, that magic land of “away.” And, unless I’m in a big hurry, I take a peek into the swap shop, where people bring reusables like books and clothing. Many of our chairs and tables come from this shed of surprises, including my bedroom dresser and mirror and a giant braided carpet that covers the most damaged spots in our back porch Astroturf.

When I pointed out that new rug to Lyle, he beamed and told me how he had a hand creating the swap shops. Another score, a leather Norwegian designer chair from the ’60s, lived on our back porch for some years before we gave it to Lyle for his outdoor patio. We all agree it feels right to use cast-offs instead of buying new stuff.

It’s been too hot and buggy to ride this past month. Buddy and Gallen hang in the shade of their loafing shed, where the ferocious horse flies are less likely to feed on their tender flesh. I now understand why local horse owners haul up to Uwharrie, an hour away, to ride in the summer.

Meanwhile, my friend, Sharyl, rides with her friends all summer in Colorado, where the humidity stays below 50%. She sends me a picture of one of her friends’ new horse, who looks so much like Gallen that I feel a pang of longing for cooler fall days.

After Bob and I got home from the gym a couple of weeks ago, I made an impromptu trip to town, primarily to get rid of a piece of rolled, rusted fence. I had plenty of time, so I sauntered to the wooden shed for a look-see. I stood there for a moment, turned away, then walked back, picked up a large framed print, and put it in my car. I couldn’t resist, even though I thought it too big for our little walls.

It’s called White Horses, painted by Ricardo Arenys in the ’60s, and measures 22.5′ x 29.5″, not including the frame. I cleaned it up and hung it in the garage, where it made me silly happy every time I got in a car or took out a bag of trash.

I felt like I had a secret horse in the garage, just like the white horses I imagined lived between the boxwood hedge and our rental house on City Island sixty-some years ago.

Then, Bob, bless him—after the fourth time I mentioned how much I loved this painting—said, “You could put it on this wall.” We were lying in bed, talking like we do nearly every morning. Talking is Bob’s love language. That and rubbing my body smooth. He says, “Your skin is so smooth!” Then he waits half a beat before saying, “I think it’s because I rub you so much.”

“But there’s a picture there already,” I said, and of course, he said we could move it, which—silly me—would never have occurred to me. I pulled on a dress, fetched the painting from the pole barn, hung it, and lay back beside Bob to admire my prize.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above buying new things for myself—just last week, I bought a new bra and a top-of-the-line immersible blender—but I long ago pledged to shrink my ecological footprint by recycling and reusing as much as possible. That, and the thrill of the hunt, keeps me returning to the thrift stores where I score almost new sheets, towels, and clothing.

And although I wouldn’t want to get my underwear from a thrift store or the swap shop, nothing beats a great find like the “White Horses.” Which, by the way, now hangs on our bedroom wall as if it were painted just for me.

Day after day, Bob and I harvest, cook, mow, trim, and weed together. This is what our dual retirement looks like: morning workouts, daily trips to the garden, languid afternoons, dinner on the back porch, an hour of Roku entertainment, showers in our magnificent new bathroom, and then to bed with our books.

It is a gorgeous day—the humidity is way down to 55—but by 11:00, my thoughts about going for a walk have evaporated. The A/C powered into our Sunday morning silence at 7:30, and Bob and I have already pulled in two and a half pounds of figs. We also brought in a respectable number of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes.

I’m sitting on the back porch with my pink notebook, thinking of all the things I don’t want to do. I keep telling myself, “You don’t have to do anything; it’s Sunday,” and, “You’re retired! Go lay in the hammock.”

At dinner last night, when I announced, “Tomorrow’s my day off,” Bob rocked back in his chair and said, “Sure.”

“Just you wait and see,” I said.

So, I will sit and write until I begin to sweat, and then I will do some yoga, roast the pimentos and skin and deseed the tomatoes. I will kill some fire ants underneath our chestnut tree with the hot tomato water. These are easy things, everyday things, like brushing my teeth. Not at all a Sunday Day Off Violation.

What I won’t do, is wash the bedroom windows, even though I saw their cloudiness when I opened the blinds before climbing back into bed this morning. My Suzy Homemaker voice whispered, But these are the last ones—you’ve done all the others—and you have all day.

Today I will resist that bad little voice. Today I will play, whatever that looks like. I’ve got something to prove. I’ll lay in the hammock and talk on the phone. I may take out my sketch pad or read another chapter of The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek.

Bob busies himself with the orchids, then comes outside to say hello. I smile up from my notebook scribbles, hoping he’s proud of me for sitting here under the shade of the crepe myrtle in my cotton shift this far into the day. He harvests sweet pears, makes himself something to eat, washes dishes, plays some Wingspan, then does some reading. Later, he will sugar the pickles that he soaked in vinegar overnight and air fry a pound of teriyaki tofu.

When the temperature reaches 85°, I retreat inside to do tomatoes and peppers. I return to my rocking chair an hour later with soup and cheese toast. I admire the neon light shining through the myrtle leaves and the crisp, dark green of the forest fringe beyond. I put down my bowl and plate and stare at a Ruby Throat on his perch, guarding the hummingbird feeder. Time is paralyzed, swollen and ripe, hanging like a fat, red fig.

We shared a meal and hung out in their yard, chatting while the kids played until close to bed time, and then we spent the night in a nearby hotel. Even though we were in horse country and I’d been oohing and aahing at the sleek thoroughbreds grazing on pristine meadows of  Kentucky bluegrass, I had no notions of eating into our road schedule by stopping anywhere horsey.

That next morning as I wiped sleep from my eyes and reached for my phone, Bob was already browsing the Kentucky Horse Park website. Then I noticed our sister-in-law, Darla, had sent a text the previous evening which said simply, “Go to the horse museum.” They were teaming up on me, making sure I didn’t miss out on an experience I would regret missing.

And so we found ourselves with an hour and a half to experience Disneyland for horse lovers.

Before I even reached the ticket booth, my face had broken into a cat-ate-the-canary grin.

We started our tour of the park inside The International Museum of the Horse, an Equine Smithsonian, brimming with horse art, lore, and accoutrements.

This model of a horse being lifted onto a ship was so lifelike, I stood underneath it and stared. Meanwhile, Bob galloped on ahead and was several rooms away by the time I stopped gawking.

I also got stopped in my tracks by a rearing horse and its human, both devoid of flesh, because it so stunningly illustrated the size difference between the two species.

If you’ve read Geraldine Brooks’ novel, Horse, you will understand why I had to pose with the portrait of Lexington. I’d read Horse in March and was captivated by its interwoven story lines, so I was thrilled when the museum clerk told me both the photo and the bones were here.

Horse fictionalizes the true story of a famous race horse whose bones went on to live at the Smithsonian. The story jumps back in time to Lexington’s birth and career with focus on his trainer and the many obstacles that young man faced as a slave, his relationship with the artist who captured the horse in oils, and forward in time to the woman who put Lexington’s bones together for the museum.

Back outside, we encountered a large globe welded from horseshoes.

As globetrotters and equestrians, we were naturally drawn to the horseshoe globe. Plus, I felt compelled to share a photo with my horse buddy and art welder, Sharyl.

We spent some time in the breeds barn before walking over to the Mounted Police Barn.

I am pretty sure it was the mounted police of New York City that sparked my horse addiction. It took my breath away to see horse and rider weaving their way through traffic or trotting across a public park. And when an officer rode up and asked me, a tiny grade-schooler, if I would like to pet their horse or perhaps sit up on it, I was forever smitten.

This is Henry, an eight-year-old Spotted Draft Cross (probably Belgium and American Paint) who came to the park at two months of age.

Many of the horses were catching a little lay down on clean bedding after breakfast and a bath, and before working their exhibition shows. Bob and I would be gone by the time the shows started, but it made us happy to peer into the stalls at these beautiful, well-cared for animals.

This is Junior, a 1700 pound American Cream Draft, a breed I had never heard of or seen before. Like many of the others, he was catching a nap. Junior is nine years old, was previously employed at the Breeds Barn, and is learning to be a police horse.

Officer Sedlaczek was bathing Billy, an twenty-two year old Gypsy Vanner who also came over from the Breeds Barn. She was happy to answer our questions and pose for a photo, and I probably told her the story about my young self falling in love with a Bronx police horse.

On the way back to our car, I paused to admire a bronze Morgan horse. The Morgan is one of my favorite breeds because of their superior intelligence and ability to emphasize with we humble humans.

I recall one memorable bareback ride on a sturdy little Morgan gelding when I was in my twenties. We were traveling at a good clip over a construction road on the prairie east of Denver, when I felt him consciously level up his back as we cantered around a bend. I thought I’d imagined it, but he repeated this maneuver with each subsequent curve, proving that he was making a conscious effort to keep me from sliding off.

I probably shared this story and others as they bubbled up during our long drive to Columbia, Missouri—all prompted by our visit to the Kentucky Horse Park. Bob was, of course, happily engaged as one might expect from a supportive and loving spouse. I also let Darla know how much I appreciated her prompting. They knew before I did, that it would have been wrong for us to come to horse country without dipping our toes into this vast pool of equine lore.

“No,” you say. You don’t think so. You’re going to do nothing. You are going to lay in the hammock talking on the phone and eating bon bons.

And for awhile you don’t take on anything new, but your days are full anyway. You learn about time and yourself as your activities expand to fit the time allotted. You slow down.

The garden becomes weed-free, the mulch pile gets deployed, and you add another weekly walking date to your calendar. But you never do get around to napping or day-reading, although you sometimes make calls from the hammock. No bon bons.

When the barn door opens, spilling out opportunities to ride, you have to make room. And then you join the gym. Now you are scurrying again, choosing time wisely, determined to hit all the high notes.

But you have the time because you are retired. Keep saying it and it will feel true. And you wish you could go back and answer the question put to you by so many when you first retired. “I’m getting back into horses,” you’d say, clear-eyed, and standing tall.