The Search for the Next “One”

Pa and the one and old TawnaMar

Most horse folks have heard of what is sometimes called the “heart horse.” For those who haven’t, it is “the one.” The one that is not only a joy to ride but a once in a lifetime horse. The one that crosses mountains for you and with you. There isn’t any other way to explain it. The horse that is “the one” is more of a feeling than a tangible thing you can identify. Usually a first horse, that horse is a partner like no other. Some have it, some long for it, and some had it once before and keep looking for it.

For Pa, that horse was TawnaMar. A buckskin quarter horse who ran races, carried Pa through battle at numerous Civil War events, and crossed mountains for him (more figuratively than literally, this is Wisconsin after all). Pa rode her though gravel pits, the up the trails at Wild Cat Mountain, and on many adventures with the old Civil War group. She was a sweet looking buckskin quarter horse with sandy muzzle, and she’s always throwing her head in the air in every photo because she wanted to go! Tawna was the fastest horse Pa ever owned and I think that was one of his favorite things about her, but there was more too. In the years when Pa was just out of high school, he spent a lot of time in the saddle and put on miles and miles and miles. Trail rides with friends included races and cracking cold ones under a shade tree on a rest stop along the way. The ladies who worked at the local A&W even kept carrots for the horses by the drive though window anticipating visits from Tawna and friends. Only the best horses can be trusted to silly business such as riding around the pasture seated astride, bareback, and backwards. And Tawna did all of this and more.

Tawna and Pa pulling up to round the judge 
during the Great Race

When out for a ride on Pa's regular route he would come to an open grassy stretch and he would ask her for a good gallop. Horses are smart, routine driven animals, and pick up on routines easily. After a few rides with this pattern Tawna began to prance in anticipation of what was probably her favorite part of the ride. Once after a long time of this routine when Pa finally let her go, Tawna lept into a gallop at a speed that likely would have won the Kentucky Derby. After that, Pa knew what it was like to fly. Fly - in a way that a horse will only do for you if they are very comfortable with you. Once in what I always hear referred to as the “Great Race” (I’m not sure how great its was since no one outside those that were there seem to know what it is) Tawna flew across the fields as if she had wings. This race was just two friends at a Civil War event. One boasted that his horse was fast and Pa noted that he doubted Tawna could be beat, so a race was called. Both reenactors and public spectators gathered to see which solider had the better horse. They were to race down the field turn around a judge positioned at the opposite end of the field and race back. The pistol sounded and Tawna was off like a rocket. Down the field she went, around the judge, and across the finish line. Meanwhile the other fellow raced down the field, missed the turn and landed himself in a trees in the fence line behind the judge. His horse came out of the shrubbery and finished the race without his rider. Pa was oblivious to most of this since he had made the turn well ahead of his opponent. Tawna won the race easily, with or without the other horse missing the turn. 

Mama says, “Tawna was not just a horse, she was Tawna.” And Mama is not a horse person in the same way that Pa and I are. Tawna colicked and passed on to greener pastures when I was a baby and my childhood memories of saddle horses are filled with quest for the next “one.” I wish I could have known her. Though Tawna was a buckskin, the search lead to a long line of mostly bay geldings, and they all sort of blend together in my head. 

Pixie was pretty chestnut mare ahead of my memory, but she is mainly remembered for being a pain in the butt, and her purchase a mistake. Judging by the short, home video of attempting to load her in the trailer to bring her home - that analysis seems accurate. I hope she found her person.

Pa and Scooper

Pa and Scooper

There was Scooper, whom some called Sunny. I only remember him as Scooper though. Pa rode at plenty of events and around the farm. Scooper was a gem of a horse. He might have been pretty near to the next “one.” I don’t remember a whole lot about him either, except that he eventually developed a bad cough. He coughed mostly in the winter when the horses spent time in the barn because of the cold and inclement weather. He was back to his usual self in the summer. Perhaps he had some sort of Asthma. The vet recommended he go somewhere cleaner, and was sold to an owner who had a newer, cleaner, barn. No matter how clean our old barn might be it is still a dusty, old barn. A short time later, Scooper ran away from his new home. He was found trotting down the road a few days later. Some thought he was trying to come home to us. 

Then there was Dimond, a lanky, bay Standardbred. Dimond is perhaps the most memorable for me and probably my favorite because he was also a buggy horse. The existence of Dimond on the farmstead meant Sunday afternoon drives. Trotting along down the road, Dimond clip-clopped along at a brisk trot, buggy sailing along gracefully behind with the steel tire rims creating a steady sound on the pavement and leaving a narrow calk line on the road behind us. This was a good time, and we had some nice rides with family and friends. We took him to a wagon train once, in our heads we envisioned clipping along with the rest of them but that was not how it turned out. We took up our usual place towards the end of the long line of horses and wagons plodding along down the road and Dimond began to put up a fight. Dear Mama was sitting on the floor of the buggy. Having had less than stellar experiences with buggies taking unplanned departures from the road she thought that was the best place to be. Eventually, we got to a place where the rest of the train was out of sight and he calmed down and went back to his usual self. We picked up a trot and caught up the rest of the group and Dimond when back to fighting. We repeated the cycle all day. The tattoo in his lip predicted this behavior. He was an off the track racehorse and being at the back of the pack just wasn’t his style, but it was Pa’s style. Dimond was eventually sold to a friend - he just wasn’t the one.

Somewhere in the line is a bay gelding named Banner. No one remembers much about him. In terms of leaving hoof prints on our hearts and memories, he comes up short. He was bay, and he wasn’t the “one,” and that’s all we need to know for now.

Standing on Smokey Joe

Smokey Joe was slower than dirt. He was a stocky, bay quarter horse that was advertised as former ranch horse, retired because he was too slow with poor stable manners. Turns out he had terrible manners. He bit, laid down on Pa a few times when he was riding, and he bucked. For Pa, these things added to his charm. Pa worked with him on these issues. He sat on his back in the slip stall and rubbed him all over. Smokey couldn’t bite him, and he learned to tolerate it, though he always pinned his ears in the stall pretty much until the day he died. Pa thought, and continues to think all of Smokey’s flaws and antics were, and still are nothing short of hilarious. A few of his first rides in his new home, Smokey laid down. Dad thought it was laughable, but the situation was remedied because he only pulled that a few times. He also wasn’t particularly fond of cantering. It seemed sometimes that he almost forgot how. The first canter of the day he would always, without fail, buck. After a few tries he would get the hang of it and there weren’t any issues the rest of the day. On long trail rides, Smokey Joe brought up the rear. Pa could stand on him just for giggles.  Smokey Joe was the next “one.” When he died, he was not replaced. 

Pa on Smokey and I on my mare Bacardi 
before one of Smokey's last rides

I, on the other hand, never had a great relationship with Smokey Joe. Sometimes when I rode him I couldn’t even get him to move. I never was particularly great at staying on him when he got the hang of his canter for the day, and he just wasn’t my favorite. For me, he even died at a poor time, just a few short months after I got my first horse of my very own. There hasn’t been a trail ride with Pa since. I like to think that someday there will be another “one.” Horses come and go, that’s the trouble with falling in love with animals with a shorter life expectancy than us. They trot into our lives and leave us with memories and stories that you would never get otherwise. Honest, I’ve never heard of an ATV with and attitude like Smokey Joe’s.

Corn Harvest

 Corn has never been my favorite crop. It seemed like every year Pa had a different method for harvesting corn. One year we binded and shocked it all, another we might pick all the cobs by hand or another year we would have the neighbor pick it with a corn picker. The possibilities are endless really. Some of these methods are more enjoyable than others.

The thing I remember the most about binding corn is the knotter malfunctioning. Knotters are fascinating bits of technology that require things to move seamlessly, which it often doesn’t. One of the years we hand corn bundles we built shocks, and they stood in the field all winter.  That wasn’t so bad for me. Pa ran through the feed cutter a few at a time most of the winter for cattle and pig feed. Corn shocks are built around a wood frame that would then be slipped out after the shock is complete. They don’t shed water quite like a barley shock, but they keep. See, and that is one of the great things about open pollinated corn.

 Seed corn cobs drying

Open pollinated varieties allow you to save seed and replant year after year. Mama and Pa both can list you a few advantages. One of the biggest ones in saving seed year after year. Another is livestock will eat it all without the fermentation of silage. Its stalk is more tender than modern varieties. This causes you to loose more bushels to the acre because the rows are further apart, not because it doesn’t grow as well. Mama would list red cobs as an advantage too. The old tradition of the husking bee has always said that if you husk out a red cob you get to kiss someone, sweet-heart, spouse, crush, what have you. Red cobs can be quite common in an open pollinated field. Mama insists on saving a few red cobs for seed along with Pa’s selections of the best quality, most uniform cobs. My twelve year old self failed to see the value in the red cob (Cue the embarrassed kid eye-roll).

Open pollintated corn cobs

One year our method of harvest was walking down the rows pulling cob off, husking them off, and then tossing them in the wagon. No matter which job you have it can be incredibly boring. Pa always worked the fastest, hands flying and the cobs making a rhythmic thud as they hit the back boards on the wagon. One year harvesting by this method, I got designated to drive the team. “Drive” is a relative term here. It was more like being a hitching post every five feet, Pull ahead five feet, stop for ten minutes, repeat. Pa informed me it was “great fun” and “quality family time.” I think I would have preferred a wagon ride that went more than a few feet without stopping, didn’t involve corn silk, and maybe included some cheese-its or skittles - but that is just my personal opinion. 

Most often these days, we pick a pail full for the pigs every evening. Whatever corn is left standing in the field before the snow flies it is put in the corn crib. Even through there is a saw mill standing where the old corn crib was, Pa built a little, wooden one next to the barn. It is a great deal smaller than the old one, but is exactly what is needed.

Corn stalks and stubble can make a mess of fall plowing, but Pa has this nifty way of just bending over the stalks as he picks along the rows. When he plows them under he drags a wire and all the stalks get tucked away under the sod, neat and tidy, ready for another year’s adventures. Fall plowing is the last of the field work for the year. The land will rest all winter long getting ready for the spring planting, because just as Pa says “threshing time is just around the corner!” 

The Old Maple

Taps on the Maple in 2017

 We haven’t always made maple syrup, but it seems like something we have done forever. This big maple in the front yard has been telling us the sap is running with its quiet presence. Finally, one year Mama tapped it and there’s been home made syrup on the table ever since. The maple tree is there like an old friend to our family season by season. First sap and then bursting buds in the spring, summer time sitting, fall colors, and its winter skeleton we know is waiting just like we are for spring.

The Maple in the early 90s as it looked pulling
into the farm

The maple tree is been a huge part of our existence on the farm. In The Land Remembers, Ben tells about the dangers of having a maple up on the ridge. A tree like that could come down on the house, or drop a limb in on the kitchen in a storm. Mother adored the tree and Father was always worried about the tree and watches it light up in the lighting during summer storms. He even tried to cut it down once but Lyle and Junior wouldn’t help. The claimed they were too tired and wouldn’t work up enough energy to finish the job for quite some time or something like that. I think it is the same for us. Sometimes my Pa maybe feels the same way about our maple tree. Not that he would actually cut it down, but if you were an expert watermelon seed spitter, you could probably hit the tree from the kitchen door, and it does get blasted windy on the farm. But the tree is there, adding rings and girth each year. Both Mama and Pa adore our tree. The Logans gathered under their maple on the ridge after noontime meals and on summer nights, and so do we. 

That maple tree grew up with me. When I look at early pictures of the farm from when I was little, the tree looks so small! But maybe it has always seemed the same size to me because I kept growing right along with it. Year after year we hung a piñata from the branches each birthday. A birthday for me and for the tree.

Me and the Maple in the mid 90s

One summer we took down the silos, and I commandeered the ladders from that project to put my unskilled hands to work on a tree house. Mama as nervous and Pa helped, or rather just build me a better and safer platform in the tree to the sound of my constant babbling. There was two distinct differences between Pa’s tree fort and mine. First, it was safe. Second, Pa never put a nail in the tree. The platform was engineered in such a way that is was built around, nestled into, and supported by the tree. I don’t know if it was Pa’s philosophy to do no harm or wanting to avoid hitting a nails when sawing the tree when ever the time came, if it came. Either way, Pa pulled out all my sorry looking, bent over nails and split boards, and up went a platform that saw many years of love and use. And it was later removed with no damage to the tree. 

Around the time of the tree fort, I also put up a swing. The swing is still there. Looking out over the pasture in spring, summer, fall, and winter, it is a comfortable and peaceful place. I swung on it plenty, Mama enjoys a turn now and then, and my kids love the swing too. Over the years, the tree has gown around the ropes and is now girdling the branch. It seems I have undermined the do-no-harm philosophy after all.

We never have had AC. Not then and still not now. Even here in the house I now call home, there is no AC - but there is a maple tree to shade it. There’s something about old farmhouses that feel cooler than modern construction. Perhaps it is the old lathe and plaster walls, or maybe it is just thicker walls in general. Who knows!? I don’t care much for AC. It’s it too cold. Too much contrast between the great outdoors and the inside temperature. It’s like walking into a refrigerator. I never think that it is very easy on the body. Too much of a shock to the system; change like that. However, a maple tree sets us up for a cooler house, comfortable living, and a relaxing summer. Laying out in the yard under the tree and watching the leaves sway and clouds sway reminds us to slow down enjoy that glass of ice tea at your elbow, and smell the roses. It’s the best place to bask in the satisfaction of a good day’s work, or recharge after a lunch break. 

The Maple as it is now

Our maple isn’t a sugar maple. It doesn’t turn brilliant shades of yellow and orange in the fall. It always seems to go right from green to dull, dingy brown. It is kind of how I feel when the wind switches around and I had to walk to the bus bundled up tight. Winter being just around the corner. The great old tree reminds us every year of the seasons changing. The lawn chairs under the tree are tucked away and there will be no more basking under the tree until summer comes around again.

All winter the tree waits. Just like me. I’m sure if the old maple had a nose to press against the Jack-frosted glass windowpanes, it would. I think March is a maple’s favorite month. A hint of spring is in the air and we start thinking about summer. A maple’s blood gets moving and it starts thinking about summer too. The sap flows and buds begin to appear. We both know summer is on its way.