Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Mack And The Children
by easywriter
Haying time again. Mack Finn was probably the only man left in the county who used horses to bring the yellow bounty in from the field. These days everyone was using state of the art machines to do most of the work. Not Mack though, and the village children loved him for it, they would trek up main street in groups and pairs, head about a mile down highway 7 to meet ol' Mack and hitch a ride the rest of the way to the shorn meadow; the ancient wagon bouncing over the rough shoulder of the road, rocking to the sweet rhythm of plodding Bess and Dobbin. Mack always liked a helping hand when it came to haying. The children had been there to help with the cutting too, carrying armloads of the sweet grasses and laying them across the racks to dry. How many baby birds were cradled in those calloused hands when he was busy with the mowing to be gently placed into the tender clasp of children weeping for the ruined nests? "A few, a few" Mack would state with a nod of his head if anyone had cared to ask.
"Take care now." Mack's voice was a soothing rumble. "You're all the Momma that baby's got now and no help for it child. The hay's got to be brought in." He would continue wiping streaming cheeks with an old hanky that he always kept in the pocket of his overalls. "You dry your eyes now and after we're done here we'll go make a new nest and you can keep watch over that little bird until it's strong enough to fly." At that comforting speech the sunshine would return to brighten tearful eyes and Mack and the children would buckle to with renewed vigor 'cause there were more important things waiting to be done.
Haying time again. Mack Finn was probably the only man left in the county who used horses to bring the yellow bounty in from the field. These days everyone was using state of the art machines to do most of the work. Not Mack though, and the village children loved him for it, they would trek up main street in groups and pairs, head about a mile down highway 7 to meet ol' Mack and hitch a ride the rest of the way to the shorn meadow; the ancient wagon bouncing over the rough shoulder of the road, rocking to the sweet rhythm of plodding Bess and Dobbin. Mack always liked a helping hand when it came to haying. The children had been there to help with the cutting too, carrying armloads of the sweet grasses and laying them across the racks to dry. How many baby birds were cradled in those calloused hands when he was busy with the mowing to be gently placed into the tender clasp of children weeping for the ruined nests? "A few, a few" Mack would state with a nod of his head if anyone had cared to ask.
"Take care now." Mack's voice was a soothing rumble. "You're all the Momma that baby's got now and no help for it child. The hay's got to be brought in." He would continue wiping streaming cheeks with an old hanky that he always kept in the pocket of his overalls. "You dry your eyes now and after we're done here we'll go make a new nest and you can keep watch over that little bird until it's strong enough to fly." At that comforting speech the sunshine would return to brighten tearful eyes and Mack and the children would buckle to with renewed vigor 'cause there were more important things waiting to be done.
Comments:
You have awakened some memories in me with that story, easywriter. Back in the Eighties when my daughter was just a couple of years old we lived in a tiny little town high up in the Sangre de Christo Mountains of Taos County, New Mexico. The population of the town was only three hundred and there was only one paved road running through the town.
The town was situated in a little mountain valley and at the very end of the valley lived an older man named Martinez. I never knew his first name. Everyone just called him Martinez. Anyway, the fellow did not "believe" in automobiles and refused to use them. If he wanted to go somewhere he just hitched up his team of horses to his wagon and went there.
But he didn't just use his team of horses for transportation. They were how he earned a living. With no job, Martinez was dependent on his horses to earn money. Each Fall, he cut people's hay with his horse-drawn haycutter and he hauled hay in his horse-drawn wagon. After hay season he hauled firewood for people with his horses. In Springtime--mud season--he helped people get their cars and trucks unstuck out of the mud with his horses. And then he would plow fields with his horses. He also sold composted horse manure to gardeners. His entire livelihood was centered on his team of horses.
I lived on that one street in town that was paved. It was the state highway that went through town. When Martinez turned his horse and wagon onto the highway you could hear the clip-clopping of the horses across the valley. I remember fondly how my little daughter would get very excited and drop whatever she was doing when she heard the approaching clip-clopping of Martinez's horses. She would run to the window or door and watch for the horse and wagon to pass. Martinez always waved at her and she always waved and giggled back. Ever since then I always get a warm fuzzy feeling when I hear the sound of horses clip-clopping down a street. It's not something I've heard recently and I miss it.
Thanks for sharing your story of Mack.
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The town was situated in a little mountain valley and at the very end of the valley lived an older man named Martinez. I never knew his first name. Everyone just called him Martinez. Anyway, the fellow did not "believe" in automobiles and refused to use them. If he wanted to go somewhere he just hitched up his team of horses to his wagon and went there.
But he didn't just use his team of horses for transportation. They were how he earned a living. With no job, Martinez was dependent on his horses to earn money. Each Fall, he cut people's hay with his horse-drawn haycutter and he hauled hay in his horse-drawn wagon. After hay season he hauled firewood for people with his horses. In Springtime--mud season--he helped people get their cars and trucks unstuck out of the mud with his horses. And then he would plow fields with his horses. He also sold composted horse manure to gardeners. His entire livelihood was centered on his team of horses.
I lived on that one street in town that was paved. It was the state highway that went through town. When Martinez turned his horse and wagon onto the highway you could hear the clip-clopping of the horses across the valley. I remember fondly how my little daughter would get very excited and drop whatever she was doing when she heard the approaching clip-clopping of Martinez's horses. She would run to the window or door and watch for the horse and wagon to pass. Martinez always waved at her and she always waved and giggled back. Ever since then I always get a warm fuzzy feeling when I hear the sound of horses clip-clopping down a street. It's not something I've heard recently and I miss it.
Thanks for sharing your story of Mack.
