Sometimes this farmer likes writing about farming more than I like
farming. Other times I don't like writing at all. Those times always
coincide with the sadness inevitable in farming.
Just last month, another of our beloved workhorses passed over to the
Elysian Fields. Less than a year ago, we had six draft horses, which
was a little crazy considering the size of our farm and the size of
our budget. But we hated to send away our four retired horses, after
they'd worked with us so well and so long. We thought we'd have a few
more years together.
But last summer we lost Moon, our funny half-brave, half-timid horse.
Then we lost Clyde, who was steady as a rock. Now we've lost Benny,
who was born on the farm in 2002. He's the only foal we've ever had
the honor and challenge of raising.
Here's a Benny story from my Small Farmer's Journal article of several
years ago, when our herd was three black Percherons, each with a white
star. "Betsey, Belle, and Be-en," we'd call out to them, and they
would come running (sometimes).
One day, after haltering mama Belle in the pasture, and haltering Ben,
in his cute teeny-tiny new halter, my fellow heads back to the barn,
leading Belle, with Ben docilely following. I come a bit after,
leading auntie Betsey on one side, and holding our daughter’s hand on
the other. Our just-turned-two girl, working hard, puffing, hefts an
extra halter and lead rope, just in case she needs to catch a horse.
She is a strong and clever daughter, I am thinking, and I am also
enjoying cute Ben walking nicely ahead in the sunshine, and the
red-winged blackbirds calling.
But suddenly Ben, who is almost a month old now, and certainly cute
but also a little dopey, and who has hardly left his mother’s side,
turns around. He turns around purposefully, leaving Belle, and heads
straight back towards Betsey. And towards me, and towards our little
girl.
Both mothers get into an immediate flap, Belle nickering in distress
and me outright hollering in distress. “Help! Help!” I plumb the
depths in mere seconds, imagining all sorts of kicking, biting,
rearing, stampeding and the like in the immediate vicinity of my
strong, clever, and very little daughter.
“Take your horse back out!” my fellow calls from ahead, and we turn
around, quickly, back to the pasture.
Then we all watch dumbfounded as Ben, Ben the Slow, Ben the Dopey, Ben
the Not Quite Here in This World, abruptly stops short, kicks, bucks,
and proceeds to gallop gleefully in enormous circles, around Betsey
and company, under the electric fence, among the apple trees. We are
all openmouthed, astonished, including Betsey and Belle, their heads
high and alert. Who is this lively and vigorous being? Where has he
come from? Where will he go?
Ben keeps running and running and kicking and bucking in sheer foal
joy until he finally tangles himself up in the fortunately
unelectrified electric fence. We let both mares go; the show over,
Betsey moves immediately to the hay feeder, and Belle goes to Ben,
nuzzling him, while my fellow untangles the sheer foal joy from the
fence. I nuzzle my little daughter, and all we parents relax again,
back into a blissful doting.
Oh, that blissful doting: Benny has been featured in many of my
articles, from his snowy middle of the night birth, to his big feet
that thought lettuce heads were mere trifles, to his collapse from
roaring, a breathing condition, two summers ago. He's been part of the
retired gang since then. We like to think of him meeting up in horse
heaven with his mama and auntie and pals. But we sure do miss him here
on this earth.
Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, March 5 - 11, 2025