by Diana Stone
I move closer. I can’t believe what I see. He looks better, much better. The swelling has gone. His wounds are still there, but they’ve lost their angry, red look. He looks happy as he rubs his head on Eric, then nibbles his collar. Eric wraps his arms around him, buries his face in his neck and cries. I give them time alone and move to the other side of the horse. He looks good. I mean to say he looks almost normal. Except for the cuts all over him, with sutures, iodine, and DMSO stains. This is a freaking miracle!
Eric softly calls to me, we both meet at the tail. He wraps his arms around me and thanks me from the bottom of his heart. “You have no idea how I felt,” he takes a deep shuddering breath. “I thought he was done for. My dog looked like this when she was dying. Calypso was shutting down, I could see it,” he pauses for a second. “A few minutes after he came in here, he began to turn around. He gained strength and healed. This place is miraculous.”
“I’m so relieved. You came here on my word that it would heal him. I think the walk almost killed him.”
He reaches up and wipes away a tear on my cheek as I continue. “I know you hated me, but we had to push forward.”
“Jess, I didn’t hate you. Calypso had that look when he got off the trailer. The only reason he managed to come so far was his obedience and heart. I hated what I was putting him through. Whatever you thought, it wasn’t against you. Those were your fears, but not my thoughts.”
He releases me and continues, “You’re a very special lady. I want you in my life. I’m thankful you saved my horse; he’s been a good friend.”
“Did you smell the sage?” I sniff the air.
“Yes, it was amazing, it was like a spiritual scent. I don’t see any sage, and there isn’t any wind from the outside. It strongly came and went. I can’t smell it now.”
“Last month, I smelled it when I got insight into the inner me. That’s the part I often ignore. Usually I’m so busy with the outer me that the inner me gets stepped on,” I’m thinking out loud.
“I’m pretty intuitive by nature, and this made it very clear where I need to go,” he pulls me into a tight hug again. A few moments later he relaxes his tight hold. “With my insight, I saw Calypso galloping around. You and I were laughing and having fun. Like when I was a kid, playing with my best friend. I hoped it wasn’t Calypso playing with us in heaven. I was afraid it was.”
The darkness is losing its hold as the dawn chases it away. The night healed Calypso and gave me insight. I love tonight for what it gave us.
Calypso walks toward the doorway, and we hurry to catch up just as he trots out toward a clump of tasty tumbleweed. Yes, a hungry horse is a good sign.
27
The Next Few Days
I text Jack to let him know that the vortex saved another life. I’m sure Rafael will tell him. I need to let him know that we trudged across his property with a horse, in the dead of night, hoping for a miracle that came true.
He replies, “I’m glad it worked again. Don’t put too much faith in it. Hope you’re doing well. I’ve been busy.”
I read it several times trying to read between the lines. First, he doesn’t sound upset about my venture across his land. Good. Secondly, it sounds like the vortex doesn’t always work. I’m glad it did last night! Third, he adds a personal note for me, and an excuse that he’s busy.
Throughout the day, I think about my insight that Jack is able to exercise free will. I really must relax my tight control, have fun, and learn to enjoy myself. I will, I promise. It’s time to stop looking for a magical man to rescue me. One who has money, looks, land, and owns a vortex. I have a friend in Eric, and he feels the same way. This insight stuff is fantastic. It sure clears the air and also, if you’re inclined to listen, sets you on the right path for yourself.
Eric just sent a text, letting me know Calypso is healing and is feeling frisky again.
I lead rides for three days, and on the afternoon of the forth, Eric drives in with the truck and trailer! He unloads Calypso and they amble over to join my riders.
I hurry over to stroke his horse’s neck. “I can’t believe he looks so good. He’s a little scratched up but looks fine!”
He nods. “We were very lucky. I spent the last few days welding and securing that damned roof. Now it won’t come off in a tornado!”
Of course, the ride goes very well. Eric is friendly and entertaining. He mingles with everyone. It’s like he is the welcoming committee. He certainly is good for business. There is one gal who is obviously attracted to him. She is ignoring the rest of her friends and keeps moving her horse next to his. I just happened to overhear him tell her he has a girlfriend. Otherwise, he’d love to meet her after the ride. He knows how to carefully turn them down, so as not to hurt their feelings. He certainly is tactful.
He’s staying away from the wine tasting, taking care of his horse. When the people drive away, he comes out of hiding to help me with unsaddling and grooming. We give them carrots and feed them a big dinner.
“I have something for you to taste, I’ll be right back.” He sounds eager.
Oh, food? What could he have, a meal, or a snack?
He returns holding up two antique looking bottles. “This is mead. I made it six months ago,” he says with a grin.
“Mead, like an Old-English druid’s honey-wine?”
He adopts a scholarly tone and explains that mead was created long before that. It’s simply fermented honey. The honey turns to alcohol the same way grape sugar turns to alcohol. Since honey has a lot more sugar, the alcohol content is a lot higher. The best part is that you can also add flavors.
“After it fermented, I bottled this one with ginger, and this,” he holds out the other, “is the original.”
“Interesting.” They look different, not like wine or beer bottles. “Sure, I’d love to try your mead.”
His bottles have a fun flip-top kind of device to cork them. They’re also old and round.
“Wait, let’s do this right, come and sit down at the table,” he quickly moves to the tasting area.
I reach into the cabinet and select two clean wine glasses and the box of crackers. Then I sit and eagerly await the uncorking.
He flips the wire gizmo top from the ginger mead first and pours each of us the usual ounce pour. We clink glasses.
“I hope you like it. I had a tiny taste yesterday and liked it. See what you think…”
I put the glass to my nose and take a sniff. “It smells somewhat like beer, but not. And like ginger.” I take a sip. “Interesting, mild and light. It has a high alcohol content, doesn’t it? I think I like it, I’d better have another taste or two.”
“You’re right about the alcohol; it can go up to 18%. I’ve been messing around with different flavors for a few months. It’s fun and it’s easy; just add 3 pounds of honey to a gallon of water, along with a packet of yeast. I threw in a slice of orange and a few raisins, then waited a month and tasted. Anyone can make it at home.”
“May I try the regular one? It’s interesting, it’s growing on me.” I take a few sips.
He pours another glass for me. I take a sniff, then a sip. “It has a slight scent of orange. It’s pretty good, do you like it?”
He takes a sip, “I think it needs more time. My friend Ralph makes mead in 5 gallon buckets with all kinds of flavors. Perhaps I should ask him for advice,” he takes another swallow. “His are really good; he pairs them with everything he cooks. He has a garage full of refrigerators filled with bottles of this stuff.
“I like it; it’s certainly not a byproduct of a grape, but it’s interesting. I bet there are lots of flavors it would mix with.”
“Mead is similar to wine in that it continues to develop over time. If you try it when it’s too young, it’s awful, flavorless and strange. Give it a month, and it’s much better. A few months later, it’s darned good.” He takes another sip. “I like to use these bottles because they’re old looking.” He picks one up. “You can get all the things
you need at a local home-brew shop, or from Amazon. I like to use the local guy because I also get hands-on advice and help. It literally only costs me a couple of dollars more. The advice saves me a lot of ruined batches,” he explains.
“It sounds creative, and I like that you can make it at home.” If I had a kitchen.
“Would you like to practice with a flavor you like? I have the buckets, siphons, and wine yeast,” he sounds eager.
“I’d love to. I keep sipping this and it has a way of growing on me. I also think it’s like a base, you know, like grain alcohol. You can add coffee, chocolate, and sugar to make coffee liqueur. With mead, I bet we could experiment with lots of flavors.” I’m getting excited about this.
“Fine, let’s first start with the base. I have a great book on mead making, but I need to work out a few kinks. It’ll take a few batches. They all take time to mature, so we should try this once a week so we have staggered finish dates,” he suggests.
“Was this supposed to age?” I laugh as I finish off the last of my glass and pour a little more. “I don’t see this aging with the way I’m drinking it.” Actually, I think I’m getting a bit sloshed.
We set time aside to do some educational work with the book, pencil and paper. I’ll go over to his house tomorrow since Veronica will be leading the afternoon ride. It’s perfect timing.
“See you tomorrow. I have plenty of honey, so don’t worry about bringing anything.”
“I’ll bring something for dinner.” Oh dear, what am I going to bring? I have no idea.
“Don’t worry, I’ll whip up something,” he says with nonchalance.
28
Mead Making
I’m careful to select a cute spandex top from my small collection of clothes. Snug jeans and black leather flip-flops complete the outfit. He may not be a date, nor my potential soul mate, but for some reason I want to look cute. I’ve pulled my hair into a messy twist with tendrils ,and applied a small amount of mascara and lip gloss. I scrutinize myself in the mirror; I look ready. I’ve heard if a woman believes in herself, and has confidence, the man will believe she’s gorgeous. There are many ordinary women who have amazing men draped over them. So I’ll change my attitude to correct what nature didn’t give me.
Driving to Eric’s house is gorgeous, he lives off Ballard Canyon Rd. It’s an area of 10-acre properties, with cattle grazing in the golden summer hills. I roll down the windows to feel the ambiance. You just can’t get that with the air conditioner blasting and the radio on. Oak trees are scattered by the handful throughout the canyon. It’s as if a benevolent being scattered acorns with both hands and added rain.
Here’s his mailbox. I wonder if he owns the house or if he’s renting. Is that tacky of me? Either way, there’s a quiet tranquility to it. Old oak trees frame the potholed and cracked asphalt driveway. The drive winds upward, with streaks of late afternoon sunlight slicing through the dense trees. I’m already driving so slowly that it’s no problem to brake for a doe bounding across the road and up the hill. Just being in this dry, late summer beauty is emotional. The grass has crisped to a golden hue. The oak trees are dark green, with dusty dry leaves. Everything is dusty. The natural beauty of California feels timeless. If I were in this same spot a hundred years ago I bet it would feel the same.
Once I crest the top, I see a charming older home. It looks like it’s been remodeled with big windows to let in the view. They’ve created a natural look. There is essentially no landscaping except for an old stone fountain with a stone pillar in the center. Small copper pipes run the water out into a travertine basin. On the ground, there are a few stone bowls of what I assume is water for the small animals. Sage and other natives are artfully scattered around a decomposed granite garden. A bench sits quietly, taking in the views of the hills and the distant jagged mountains.
Eric appears at the door with two partially filled wine glasses. They look like wine, but knowing him, will be a fruity mead. What a terrific way to start the evening.
“Welcome to my house. You have to try this one,” he’s smiling, and raises the glass in his hand.
Amazing, he’s coming outside to meet me. How could I have missed the fact that he looks so good? He’s wearing jeans that emphasize his slim hips and fit thighs. A brown t-shirt clings so well to his knockout physique. He must have had a shower within the past few minutes since his hair is damp and lightly waving around his head. I haven’t seen him without a hat since the soiree, but he’s without one now. It’s been my experience that men who wear hats are usually hiding bald spots and receding hairlines. Not him. His hair has sun-kissed streaks of summer highlights mixed with the light brown. And no sunglasses either, are his eyes light brown? Wow, he has the golden eyes of a lynx. He’s as strong and athletic as one and has the natural slinkiness of a cat.
I’ll play it cool and look at the scenery. “This place is terrific, it’s like stepping back a hundred years.” I stand in quiet awe looking at the view. “Is that water in the bowl?” I ask, pointing to the ground.
“Yep, that’s for the little guys. The deer drink from the fountain, but the little fellas get thirsty too. The yard is low maintenance and reasonably water-wise, but everything gets thirsty.” He lifts his glass again… He really wants me to take it.
I take it, and we clink glasses. “Cheers.” I take one sip and another. “This certainly isn’t wine. It’s a luscious-fruity-berry-something, but there’s another subtle flavor. What is it? I can’t place it.” I’m never good at that anyhow. “I also get the taste of the honey-mead flavor in the background. I like it.”
“It’s one of my older batches. This one is blackberry with spice,” he shakes his head. “The spices are a secret because I threw in a little of this and a little of that, and didn’t write it down. I really have no idea what I added,” he laughs happily, with that smile of his.
We stand here for a moment, looking at each other. An unexpected lull breaks our conversation.
“Would you like to have a look around the place?” he asks, breaking the pause.
“I’d love to, it’s so serene up here. I’d hate to leave.”
“You’re obviously not one of those city girls I’ve run across,” he replies in a testy voice.
“Oops, I guess not everyone likes it here?”
“Right, she had something like a two-day limit, then she fled,” he stops for a moment. “I guess I shouldn’t bore you with details.”
“I’m a woman, I always like relationship details.”
We walk to the barn to visit Calypso. Eric calls his name and the gray whinnies.
“He answers you! Bunny answers me too. It really does something to my heart when they speak.”
“I can’t thank you enough for saving him,” his voice shows his emotion.
Calypso has his ears pricked toward Eric and is lifting his front hoof in the air. “Is he okay?”
“Oh yeah, I trained him to beg and now he does it to ask for a snack.” He steps to the side of the barn and pulls a few blackberries off the tangled mound of vines, then feeds them to his big friend.
“This is your blackberry stash, lucky you! I’d turn purple if I had them growing in my yard.”
“I eat a lot, the animals eat a lot, and now I’m trying them in the mead. I like to spread the wealth,” he smiles.
“So… I’m curious, what kind of girl were you seeing who didn’t like it here?” Seems to me he’d go for a natural woman.
“I went to dental school at USC, but didn’t finish the program—I don’t like dentistry. Anyhow, I met Andrea in class. We dated for 2 years, got engaged and lived down in L.A. We rarely came up here,” he looks off for a moment. “Finally, we came for Christmas break, but it wasn’t good,” he says with a sour voice. “I was in love with her, so I ignored the disaster. A few months later we came up again because I was homesick. I needed to get away from the city noise. But it was clear she hated the quiet and seclusion. We got into a fight, but there was nothing to
fight about. Things were the way they were, and we were forcing it. She was a city girl through and through. I tried to live that life, but it was awful for me. We both agreed it wouldn’t work,” he takes a cleansing breath. “I rethought my major and changed it to business. Then I followed my nose, until now here I am, back home again.” That sums up Andrea in just about two minutes.
“Well, speaking as an unbiased outsider, it’s good you didn’t compromise and stay in the city. It can be pretty bad not being your true self.” I stop with a frown. “That sounds like I know what I’m saying. I have no idea, really. I hope I don’t sound like a know-it-all.”
“You’re right. I was living a life that wasn’t true to myself. Now I’m being me and I’m happy,” he turns toward the house, “Would you like to try your hand at mead making?”
“I’d love to.” I’m deep in thought as I follow him.
He leads the way under a free-standing wood beam pergola. Grape and wisteria vines wrestle for supremacy. He sees me looking at the vines and laughs.
“My mother planted those years ago. She didn’t know which one she wanted, so she let both have a chance. The winner would get control of the pergola. Some years the grapevines look to be winning, other years the wisteria takes control. We don’t get many grapes, but it’s fun to watch the birds hanging upside down to eat them.” He clearly likes this piece of family history.
The inside of the house is aged, but inviting. My eyes immediately travel up to the open, vaulted ceiling. It’s the color of light wood, like maple. The walls have been bumped out and it’s open, leaving the living area and kitchen all in one. The island is an expanse of white, old-world looking Carrara marble. There are bottles and buckets, honey containers, spices, and clear plastic tubing taking over the counter.
“What a massive island. Does anyone actually cook?” I wonder.