by East, Ginny;
She lifted one eyebrow skeptically.
“Hey, teachers fail, too. A person can go through the motions of teaching, but if they aren’t really reaching their audience, the effort is pointless. That’s why you have to talk to me and let me know when you’re confused or frustrated. We’ll take tests, but when we do, we won’t be testing you. We’ll be testing me.”
She laughed at the possibility. “You don’t need a test. You already know how to read.”
“Yes, but we have to test whether or not I’m doing my job well. If you answer questions incorrectly, we will discover I didn’t convey the material in a strong enough way. Some people learn better when they see things; others when they hear them. I’ll have to try different ways of explaining the same thing until I figure out just how to anchor the material best in your mind. My just showing up is not enough, and I hate to tell you, but you just showing up won’t be enough to get the job done either.”
She smiled shyly and sat taller.
“Do you cook?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your best meal?”
“Hamburger Helper.”
I’ve made Hamburger Helper once or twice, and as I recall, I figured out how to go about making the meal by reading the back of the box. “How do you follow the recipe?”
“I look at the picture and just guess. Sometimes what I make comes out watery, but usually it’s pretty good.”
“So, you know enough math to use a measuring cup and all.” “What’s a measuring cup?”
“Never mind.”
Practical application assignments would hopefully be motivating as they impressed upon her that reading enhances day-to-day living. I made a mental note that as soon as she was able, I would bring her a recipe and all the fixings for a meal. She could follow the recipe and bring the leftovers to me the next day as homework.
I pulled out the flashcards and spread the first ten instant words on the table. She stared at the word “the” for a few moments and then correctly guessed what it was.
“How did you know?”
“I just sort of know “the” from seeing it all the time. Lots of sentences start with “the”.
Perhaps this isn’t going to be as hard as I imagined, I thought, as Kathy revealed a familiarity with the words “a”, “and”, “to”, “it”, “is”, “the”, and “or”.
I plunked down another flashcard and said, “What is ‘THAT’ word?”
She shook her head.
I tapped the cards patiently. “What is ‘THIS’ word?”
She shook her head again.
I waited until realization dawned on her.
“You told me the words as you set them down, didn’t you? Those words are ‘this’ and ‘that’. Gosh, I’m dumb.”
“Not dumb, Kathy. Never dumb. You just don’t know certain words yet. I bet you know a lot of stuff that has nothing to do with reading.”
“Like what?’
“Like how to raise chickens.”
“Well, anyone can do that.”
“Not me.”
She chuckled.
We worked more on the first ten flashcards, and then added ten more. Watching her wrinkled brow, the way her lips moved silently as she stared at the words, made me want to cry—for joy, for shame, for pity, for pride.
Donna had mentioned that many people tackle illiteracy because they want to read the Bible, so I thought I should explore whether that would motivate her. I’m not involved with organized religion personally, and frankly, I think the Bible is difficult reading even for advanced readers, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find a way to bring faith-based assignments to the table if they’d inspire my student. I asked Kathy about her faith, and she admitted that reading the Bible had recently become important to her.
We hung out for two hours, our student-teacher relationship curving in at the corners to establish a foundation for friendship. But as the lesson unfolded I had to accept that cooking homework was months away, and Kathy sitting down to read the Bible would be as big a miracle as any described within the good book’s covers. If she became competent enough to fill out a job application at the end of a year, I’d be amazed.
That night, I slogged through my MFA homework reading Faulkner. The literary finesse of this great author seemed somehow secondary to my awareness that his story was nothing but words, sixty-five percent of which are simply those 300 “instant” simple words, the kind of words Kathy would know by summer if I kept working with her. I was humbled to realize the most complex literature is really nothing more than good down-to-earth basics woven together in a lyrical manner.
The same could be said about life. Mark and I had left a world of clutter and confused priorities to live in a place where, hopefully, a good life story was just the basics woven together in a lyrical way. The conveniences that I once considered an important part of easy living were really nothing but excess verbiage mucking up the storyline.
“I ain’t never had homework before,” Kathy said as we wrapped up the lesson.
“Be patient. Learning new things takes time and trust,” I said.
But for all that I could teach the concept, adopting the principle was much harder.
“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
—Henry David Thoreau
MY BRAVE BRAYER
Imagine, if you will, a horror movie. The director wants to insinuate something so gruesome and revolting that instead of using special effects to demonstrate the alleged atrocity, he chooses instead to show you the face of someone watching the action. That face is contorted in such spine-chilling, harrowing disbelief that your imagination goes wild, conjuring up something much more horrific than the reality could possibly be.
That happened to be the exact look on my husband’s face as he stood by and watched the veterinarian neuter our donkey.
The animal slept through the operation. Mark wouldn’t sleep for a week afterwards.
“That neutering process was the most vile thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he said.
“You watched me give birth to two children,” I reminded him. “Yeah, but this looked like something that really hurt.”
“Oh, that’s right. The six-hour childbirth thing I suffered was gravy compared to a donkey that slept through his ten-minute ordeal.”
I turned my attention to the vet, now working on our horse, Dixie.
Dixie, he explained, was 14 1/2 hands high and weighed 800 pounds. She was not seven as we were told, but closer to 11. Beyond this, most of what we were told proved true. She was indeed pregnant and in superior health. Our donkey weighed 300 pounds and would probably live over 30 years. That meant he could be with us another 29 years, much longer than any of our kids. At least we wouldn’t have to send him to college and he didn’t talk back.
The donkey’s anesthesia had begun to wear off and he came to, staggering to his feet like a drunk.
“Is this little fellow going to be a guard animal or something?” the vet asked, taking the pet’s bridle and helping him stand. “You don’t seem to have anything for him to guard.”
What could I say? Does guarding against boredom count? Because this donkey is a symbol of everything I’ve failed to experience in life. He’s my new mid-life mascot, helping me to break out of the worn-out groove I’ve created over the years. He’s my rebellion from all things suburban, traditional, and familiar. And he’s my pal, keeping me company while my husband is engaged in his own endeavors.
“Just a pet,” I said, not up for explaining how Donkey broke the barriers of what did and did not define me. Just a week prior, I received a catalogue from a local folk arts school that offered dozens of crafts, hobbies, skills, and studies that interested me. I jotted down the classes that sounded interesting: chair caning, cloth doll sculptu
re, soap making, storytelling, basketry, pottery, hand spinning, winemaking, and even beekeeping. I was ready to explore all manner of country crafts and hobbies and in time, I actually would take courses for every one of those subjects. But for some reason, my first instinct was to enjoy our acreage and continue circling round to animals over and over again. I don’t know if the animals were surrogates for my dance students, or if I just felt more comfortable with creatures who didn’t judge me or turn away from my outstretched hand at this precarious time in my identity shift, but the only time I wasn’t battling loneliness or confusion was when I was fussing with the donkey. There is an entire science of using animals for healing. Perhaps that’s what was happening for me because my animal exploits seemed deeply poignant and offered me the calm and connection I dearly craved.
The vet certified that Dixie was healthy and could be ridden pregnant for many months to come. He packed up his truck and drove away while I stood there staring at my new horse, working up the nerve to rekindle my childhood joy. I was able to go riding for the first time in thirty-five years.
I put Dixie’s bridle on easily enough, but when I tried to saddle up, I stood there, fumbling with the girth strap, unable to remember just how to secure the leather. I pulled the straps through the metal loop and cinched everything up tightly, but creating a neat knot to hold the tack in place made me feel like a child trying to tie her father’s tie with no clue of how to accomplish the deed. I vaguely remembered a back strap that was fastened loosely around the horse’s midsection, but the saddle I had been given with the horse didn’t come with any straps other than the girth. When I tightened that, the saddle started lifting up in the back. Obviously, I was going to need a refresher course on the ins and outs of horse tack.
Mark flashed a bemused grin while I removed the saddle and hung the contraption back on the fence. “Memory lapse?”
“Saddles are for sissies,” I said, motioning him to lace his fingers together to give me a boost.
As a newly retired dancer, I still had enough flexibility to effortlessly swing my leg over the animal. I gave my husband a smug nod as the horse trotted away and I managed to hang on for about thirty seconds, my butt bouncing around in disgrace before I slid to the right. How did I manage to hang on a bareback horse when I was a younger and smaller person and my legs were both shorter and less developed than the gams I had now? I’d been a dancer and a runner for years, but despite all the fitness training, obviously I was in no shape to sit on a horse without a saddle. I pulled the horse up to a stop and slid down to the ground as quickly as I could.
“I think I’ll wait until I can use the saddle,” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking as much as my confidence.
“We can call Eric and ask him to give you a refresher.”
“Nonsense. I’ll remember,” I said, thinking I’d hit the Internet and YouTube as soon as I was alone. I patted Dixie on the nose and picked up the currycomb. “She needs grooming anyway.”
That night I ordered half a dozen horseback riding books from Amazon. I subscribed to Horse and Rider, Equus, and Horse Illustrated magazines. I surfed the web to read articles on horse care. As I gathered information, my heart sank. There was way more to horse ownership than I remembered.
“I’m going to need to worm the donkey and Dixie every six weeks,” I said.
Mark didn’t bother to look up from his log cabin building magazine.
“I’m supposed to stick a wand filled with paste in their mouths. Do you think that will be easy? Worming must be easy.”
He continued reading.
My eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “I’ll also need a farrier to shoe Dixie every six weeks or so. And Donkey’s hooves will need to be trimmed occasionally.”
He glanced my way. “What’s all that going to cost?”
“Well, I doubt as much as buying a pair of shoes for one of us,” I said. (Later I’d discover I could buy myself several pairs of shoes for the cost of the average farrier’s visit.)
“You did have horses as a kid, so you knew all this stuff would be important, right?”
“Well, we actually just rented a horse. I didn’t have to feed or be in charge of the animal’s health care or anything. I just rode, but lots of people around here have horses and most of them don’t have much money. How expensive can taking care of a horse be when you own the place where you can keep livestock?”
“I suppose that depends on whether you are a cowboy or a dancer.”
“I happen to be both ...” I leaned in to study my computer screen. “Feeding them isn’t going to be a problem...we have half a million dollars’ worth of grass. But I might need to give the animals a supplemental grain ration once in a while, especially since Dixie is pregnant and all. And vitamins.”
I had his attention now. “Anything else?”
“No, that should be all. Once I get organized, having a horse won’t be a big deal.”
He ripped a picture of a huge oak front door from his log home designer magazine and put the page in his ever growing “ideas” file.
The next day, I took a trip to the local feed store and asked some questions. I returned home with several fifty-pound bags of high-caliber feed especially suited for an expectant horse, a new bridle and lead rope, several feed buckets, a new saddle blanket, a second strap for the saddle, horse wormer, horse vitamins, equestrian shampoo, various grooming brushes, fly spray, horse treats, equestrian medicine for cuts and scratches, a salt block, leather saddle cleaner, fly mask, and a book of barn designs.
I hid the barn book under the seat of my car and owned up to the rest, not because I was feeling particularly inspired to confess my shopping sins, but because I had no clue where to keep all this loot and needed Mark’s suggestions for storing horse paraphernalia somewhere.
He offered me a corner of his workshop where I could stuff my saddle between his rusty tools and stacks of wood. If I wanted to ride, all I had to do was drive up to the workshop, haul the heavy tack into the back of my car, drive back to the pasture, and unload everything without letting the blanket or saddle fall into the dirt. Riding would be quite an undertaking since there was no place else to put the tack but on the ground, and after I enjoyed time in the saddle, I would have to haul everything back up to the workshop in my car and lug the heavy items through his tools again to the dusty corner.
“Mighty inconvenient, having to go all the way up to the workshop and carry this heavy saddle through your minefield of tools every time I want to ride,” I commented. “Not to mention that I’ll have to buy feed in small quantities, because storing grain in a trunk sitting out in the sun and rain will cause the feed to go bad pretty quickly.”
“What other choice do you have? Not like we have a barn.”
“Yeah. Most people with 50 acres and animals do have a barn. If we had bought a turnkey homestead...or let that company build us a less expensive house...”
He gave me a sideways glance. “You’d have a house without big closets.”
Again with the closets. My husband truly associated happiness with closet space. Or did he associate his happiness to building, and my need for a big closet gave him an excuse to follow his heart’s desire?
“I never realized living the simple country life would require so much stuff,” I said. “But at least once we get everything we need for farm life, we’ll be set up to live more conservatively.”
Mark nodded, understanding the twisted logic as only a fellow baby boomer of the disposable consumer generation would. “A barn is a little out of our budget now.”
“I was thinking a small storage shed would be enough. Just something to store feed and some tack so I don’t have to climb over stuff in your workshop.”
“I can’t afford to spend money on something like that,” Mark said firmly.
“I could use money from my student loan, and we could pay that ba
ck later.”
His head bobbed back and forth as if weighing the option, and he surprised me by saying, “I’d be OK with that.”
I perked up immediately. “That would be perfect. All I need.”
In my own defense, I really believed a shed would alleviate my need for an actual barn, but at the same time, a voice in the back of my mind questioned whether a shed was more or less than the cost of a trip to Paris. Not that the comparison made a difference, considering my wanderlust was going to have to be satisfied right in Blue Ridge until my husband was finished building. If I wanted to see the world, right now I had no choice but to do so from a saddle.
“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”
—Henry David Thoreau
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOR
Each day, I’d drive 30 minutes from our cabin to the land to feed the animals. Rain, sleet, snow, or a runny nose was no excuse; the horse and her donkey sidekick had to eat. I had planned on grass being the main course, but the pasture turned to mud overnight, which meant we had to start buying hay as well as grain. A few simple farm animals cost us more to keep than eating dinner out in a trendy restaurant, but since we now lived in a place without trendy restaurants, I chalked the feed bills up to a fair tradeoff for our entertainment dollars.
Caring for animals was more work than I expected. I tried to get Mark to help, but he insisted he couldn’t lift feed bags or shovel manure because his hips were so sore. All the ladders and tools he was dealing with were aggravating his infirmity. He began limping upstairs, explaining that bad hips were why he couldn’t do his share of everyday chores, like taking out garbage or driving the car when we went places. Just as I had done when we were dancing for a living, I begged him to get hip replacements.