BIG RED MAPLE

My younger brother and I used to ride horses on that farm near our father’s house in Pennsylvania. Posting around the ring, the instructor, a university student with blonde hair past her shoulders, Mary, seemed quite serious, and we behaved accordingly. We stood young, short and attentive and listened. She, a young woman gently taught us; our attention never wavered from her and the horses. She seemed like a big sister, who brightened our day like the sun over the green hills.

She wore her jeans below a wide, western leather belt, and her soft flannel shirt hung loose over her strong frame, and beside her tan neck, but her soft shirt seemed covered in faint, pollen-like hay dust. She instructed us in “Kerry combing” our horses in circular motions over their warm chestnut backs and “withers” to remove the ring dust after our lesson ended.

But before we walked the horses from the barn, she also showed us how to clean the mud and dirt from the horse’s hooves with a curved metal “hoof pick.” She brushed her hand over the horse’s shoulder and withers as we stood in the barn that first day, talking softly to the horse while brushing his forelock. Her voice almost singing a soft melody before she leaned a bit against his flank and ran her hand down past his knee to his “fetlock” as he obliged by lifting his front right hoof as her hand slid over his “cannon” and “pastern.” She said we should check and “clean the horse’s hooves” before each ride if needed, and certainly “clean the horse’s hooves after each ride.”

She showed us the bridle and bit, a soft dusty canvas bridle for walking the horse from the stall, and the leather bridles and metal bits for riding, and ran her hand over the deep brown leather reins. Shortly after, methodically she lifted a saddle blanket and draped it over one horse’s chestnut back, then hoisted a smooth, softly glowing leather saddle from where it rested in the wooden barn and placed it over top, then pulled the strap under the horse’s girth and tightened and buckled it. She did the same for a second, smaller horse before we walked from the barn.

The large head and round, wide eyes of the thoroughbred I rode made me wary in the barn, especially when he snorted and exhaled. Earlier, that afternoon, I heard her say across the ring, “Keep posting . . . your younger brother is getting better than you . . . practice, count a rhythm.” After awhile I got a rhythm and I found pleasure in it, even as the sky went from cool, late afternoon early summer and the weeks moved toward late summer then early fall. I realized learning to ride and post seemed like learning to skip; once you got the right rhythm, it seemed easy, but who would I boast to of this? None of my friends back home rode horses.

After waiting with Mary’s mother in their small, old farmhouse parlor, dark with maroon velvet drapes, for what seemed an interminable amount of time, our father eventually returned, and my brother looked over to me, as we both climbed in opposite sides of the back of our dad’s Scout truck, and said, “You know what I mean honey?”

I chuckled, and said, “Mrs. McGraff says that over and over Dad, at least twelve times this afternoon: ‘You know what I mean honey?’ while we waited for you.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m late, but how’s the riding going? Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s ok,” Ed said.

“I like the horses, but they are a little scary and big, and I like Mary, but she likes little Eddie better.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Dad said. “She likes you two about the same. How are my horses treating you? Is Mary treating them well and teaching you how to ride?”

“We’re learning; Ed’s really good at posting. Mary seems to love the horses.”

The next week we arrived later in the morning, instead of the afternoon, as the sun still climbed the grey-blue sky faintly through the haze.

In the barn Mary said, “It might rain, let’s get the horses saddled fast, and we’ll comb them at the end. You are both perfect for English.”

In the ring Mary walked around with us then said, “Let’s see a trot and some good posting,” and we began trotting around the large oval over the tan earth.

“You’ve got it now Billy,” she said cheerily over to me and smiled. “You’re built like a jockey, like your dad, short and light like a bird.”

I did not know whether to say thanks or what, but I smiled inside and leaned forward, and let the heels of my hands, the warm pads below my thumbs touch the withers of the horse and feel his warm neck and chestnut coat. I heard him snort and turn his head a bit in the bridle when I pulled in the reins and gave him a little encouragement with the heel of my right sneaker.

“You’re going Billy; that’s more than a trot; that’s a canter, almost a gallop.”

I bounced over and across the far end of the ring just holding on, then pulled the reins in a bit in on the horse’s left side and made the turn around the far-left corner of the ring. I could see Ed out of the corner of my eye, but I concentrated on holding on and making the turn and leaning forward with my butt out of the saddle.

I saw Mary waving in the distance, and then heard her call out, not quite yelling, “Woah, woah boy.”

As I pulled back on the reins my horse slowed; I saw my younger brother trotting in a disciplined manner around the side of the ring, the side I had just raced along.

As Duke Man, my stallion slowed, Mary reached up and took his bridle in hand, then little Ed came trotting up to us.

“I posted too high a few times and almost lost my balance,” Ed said.

“But you stayed on; I saw that; you did fine. It looks like soon you’ll be taller than your brother.”

What she uttered I knew to be true, and her saying it disappointed me.

“You will be good and strong, maybe you could ride western someday.” Then she paused, “But your brother’s built like a jockey; he’s born to ride, light and fast; but I’m not sure he can stay on always either, the way he rides like the wind so fast and free.” She paused again, still holding my horse’s bridle, then exhaled and sighed heavily as if she felt some burden of pressure on her shoulders. Then she said, “Let’s see you two go round once more, together, side-by-side, in a nice walk, then trot, and then canter.”

We both rode around the back near side of the ring, side-by-side walking, then I sort of followed Ed’s lead to an even trot; he bounced like a dressage expert and I looked over to my right and could see how good he rode, then he heeled his horse to a canter, and grinned. I sat amazed at the transition, as if he shifted gears on his bicycle at home, then I followed his rhythm, and we both bounced side-by-side round the far end of the ring, then curved back and headed along the opposite rail as Mary smiled and walked across the soft tan earth to the other side of the ring.

“That’s really fine boys,” Mary complimented. “You’re the best sixth graders I’ve seen ride.”

I felt afraid to tell her I had just finished seventh grade and my little brother had just finished fifth.

“Let’s get down and walk the horses back to the barn boys; it looks like rain.”

Indeed, just as she said that the wind shifted, and turned colder and the sky grew darker, then light rain began to fall from the deep grey, Cobalt-blue sky.

While I still sat atop Duke Man, I watched Ed swing his leg over his horse’s back and saddle, but his foot hit the back end of the saddle, and when he swung over, he lost his balance a little, and his right hand slipped down from the saddle, and then when his feet landed he tipped a little and ended up on his butt.

Mary smiled and laughed then joked, “OK little Mister graceful, if that’s your only or worst fall, you’ll be alright.”

I smiled too, and then Mary turned to me and said in a stern tone, “Now you, you rein it in next week; you ride free like the wind . . . You should control the horse, don’t let him control you; and if you ride like that fast and free, hold on, or you might end up worse off than your brother.”

As we walked back toward the barn, she turned to us and said, “Don’t let the horses step on you. I have a carrot for each; here, give one each to your horse; don’t let the others see. They’ll pick on each other in the pasture later.”

Combing the horses in the barn we could all hear the rain softly pattering on the metal roof soothing us and the horses as we continued our circular combing. I could see above and out the side barn windowpanes the grey sky and the rolling hills of Pennsylvania’s green corn beyond.

Waiting again in Mrs. McGraff’s parlor I studied the old-fashioned oil lamp on the table, and wondered why Mary never entered this room, or it seemed the house even. Then that afternoon as Ed looked down at the oval roped rug and the mud on his sneakers, Mrs. McGraff noticed his muddy sneakers and said, “You boys will need riding boots next week; it might be rainy and muddy; but it’d be good practice to ride on a soft day.”

“What do you mean ‘soft?’” Ed asked.

“A rainy day, honey, soft; it’s an Irish expression. Didn’t Mary say that and to wear your boots next week?”

“No, she seemed in a hurry after we got the horses stabled, and she jumped in her truck.”

“Oh, she’s got a beau that girl; don’t mind her; she’s in love. She should’ve reminded you. Wear boots like your dad wears when he rides; he was quite a jockey in his day. He could ride like the wind!”

As we sat in that dimly-lit room, I watched the Sheltie resting peacefully at the older lady’s feet, then the dog lifted her head and with its eyes alert and ears up began barking vociferously, right before we heard a truck arriving in the gravel drive outside. I could see the old wooden, schoolhouse clock slowly move as its dull brass pendulum swung like a metronome behind its small glass door; nearly an hour had passed, sitting in that room before we heard our father’s truck out in the gravel drive, and then his horn honked. As the Sheltie dog kept barking, I saw Mrs. McGraff’s eyes open; her head of cropped, wavy brown-grey hair had dropped a little and her chin touched the front of her apron as she nodded off a moment before, but now the dog awakened her, barking loudly. Mrs. McGraff pushed herself from her slumber and up from her armchair and called out “Peppy it’s ok girl, ok, good girl, ok. Their father’s here for the boys,” then she turned toward me as I walked toward the door, “Don’t let Peppy out.”

As I walked down the two flagstone steps outside the side door and saw Ed out walking ahead of me, I pulled the door shut and we walked across the grassy ground toward the gravel drive. I saw over past the far pasture, down a slope, a V of geese curving and heard their honking as they flew under the cool grey sky toward the south. The rain had momentarily subsided. The green-blonde hills looked like a Wyeth painting dad had admired in the museum the year before.

“Might be fall before we know, three months ahead,” dad said.

“Did you used to ride a lot?” Eddie asked him.

“Oh, a bit at the track; I was just a practice rider, a warm-up jockey, never in a real race though.”

“Mrs. McGraff said you were pretty good,” I remarked.

“Oh, she has a fondness for me, that’s all. You boys too. She knew me when I was younger; we were neighbors before I bought Buster, and Duke Man, and that Morgan horse, Finals.”

“Why don’t you ride still?”

“Oh I do some, but I’m getting older, and I like driving the carriages best now. Buster loves pulling the carriage. Maybe next summer we can visit The Morgan Horse Farm in Vermont; your mother used to work on a dairy farm near there.”

“How many more riding lessons will we have Dad?” Ed asked.

“Well, just five or six more after today; Mrs. McGraff’s daughter is going back to veterinary school at State College, but the last week the farrier supposed to come, and I want you to see him shoe the horses.”

“That sounds interesting,” I said. “We read a story in school about that; it was something about a boy’s horse.”

As Dad talked about the horses, and when he mentioned Buster, I recalled when he first introduced me to his horse near the stables out in the pasture last spring, and I saw how he touched him and rubbed his cheeks and nose and forelock, and I learned for the first time that a horse is like a giant dog, and my dad loved his horses, especially Buster. I also recalled a few winters back when I said I wanted to ride his big horse Duke Man, and how much trouble Dad went to, to saddle him on a cold winter evening with just one bare bulb burning in the barn that freezing night that became so cold and dark, and as I rode around the ring, Dad took a photo of me riding atop the big deep brown horse. He put in so much effort just to give me the chance to ride his horse on that first cold winter night. All of that went through my mind as he talked, then he continued.

“Also, maybe tomorrow we can go canoeing on the canal; it is supposed to be sunny, and I have some free time. Would you like that?”

“Sure, remember last summer when you caught a fish with your kayak paddle and it flew out of the water and dove back in? That was funny,” I added.

“That was funny; I think I back paddled with my wooden kayak paddle; I must have caught him and scooped him out of the canal.”

“I remember that,” little Ed said while laughing.

“Yea, the stretched wetness went over the water until the fish splashed back in the canal,” I added. “I thought he was gonna land in the canoe.”

“That was fun, but after tomorrow let’s concentrate on riding for a few more weeks, and Billy, you can learn to drive the carriage with me too.”

“OK, Dad. But Dad, Billy and I brought our mitts, maybe we can have a catch like last year? Remember when the baseball got caught in the big red maple back at the house and you reached high up in between the branches?” Ed asked.

“Oh, I do remember that. But I want you two to widen your horizons and really learn to ride. But maybe we can have a catch. and at the end of the summer we can go to a Phillies game too.”

“That would be great, Dad,” Ed said. Then Ed went on, “I hope we can go canoeing down in the streams between the lakes again after Labor Day too like we used to.”

As Eddie said that I saw Dad turn to look backward as he drove, and his hazel eyes looked bright, and I saw his solid stainless steel watch band from his Navy years glint on his wrist as the light faded to dark grey outside the truck windows.

Then I added the same thought, “OK. Dad, we’ll concentrate on riding.”

But I knew once little Ed and I started remembering there would be no end to the memories of canoeing around those broad, then narrow streams under the low, green tree branches south of here and then we’d remember fishing at The Shore and catching six weakfish, two each out in the deep ocean swells off Cape May and cleaning and eating them back at the campsite and eating corn on the cob out front under the porch in the summer and that one time playing catch out under the old towering big red maple out front of the house . . .

“Well, you boys are lucky I have Duke and Finals boarded here. And Buster too; once Ed gets bigger, he can ride Duke Man also, but he should stay with riding that Morgan horse Finals for now.”

As my dad spoke, he rolled down the side window, and the cool wind came in and caused the thin red and blue neckties he had draped over the rearview mirror to sway back and forth.

“Duke can really run once he gets going,” I said. “I think I had him going faster than a canter; I think we were near full gallop.”

“Well, you be careful son. Don’t ride with reckless abandon.”

“Mrs. McGraff says we should wear boots next week.”

“Well, my old ones should fit you, and I’ll find some rubber ones for Ed; you’ll be alright.”

“Thanks Dad,” I said.

“Oh, before I forget, I’ve got something for you; I just picked this up down the road at the International Harvester center.”

As he finished talking, he reached down beside his seat, just behind the three tall gear shifts and pulled out a rectangular paper calendar. “I know it’s six months old, but it has great paintings of trucks; there’s two scenes with Scouts in there. I know you like art. Now don’t forget it; take it with you when you go back to see your mother at the house.”

“Thanks,” I said with a dry throat.

Soon the sky grew even deeper grey, and we heard thunder and a cloudburst. “Reach up and pull that silver knob to turn your wiper on Billy,” Dad said.

“Now remember in the fall to rake up all those leaves in front of the house right out front under the maple trees.”

“OK Dad, we will.”

I followed his words and reached up and heard a pneumatic hiss from the black box above and then the wiper started going back and forth outside the canted windshield. I heard the rain thrumming the white metal roof of the green Scout.

The next week our oldest sister drove us across the countryside and up the steep, narrow, rocky road under the trees leaning in from both sides to the McGraff’s farm. She had returned from Lake Forest College in the Midwest and visited with us.

“Wouldn’t you boys rather be playing baseball or basketball or something?” she asked as she drove down the steep, dirt and gravel path.

“Well, I like soccer, and I like playing basketball, but I think I’m too short for it,” I said. “And now I’m too old for Little League. I am really starting to like tennis though. But Mary thinks I could be a jockey.”

“I like skateboarding,” Ed said.

“Well, that’s more dangerous than riding horses; at least with riding you’ll only fall on the soft earth,” she said.

“Or in the horse dung,” I joked, and smiled over to Ed sitting by the other window.

I started to think that if Ed kept growing and I didn’t grow as much, maybe riding would be the only sport I might be better than him in, maybe not better, but faster. During the other months, back home at the house, we did not see our dad much, and when my sister was away at college, I would read her old horse book and study the black & white photos of the great champions: Whirlaway, Citation, Count Fleet, and War Admiral.

“Dad says later in the summer, after we return home, we can go to a Phillies game,” I added.

“Well, that would be cool,” Keeley replied. “He likes to relax at those games in the evening after work.”

“Last time we sat in the yellow seats nowhere near any other fans,” my brother noted. “Dad took of his dress shoes and stretched out his legs.”

“That’s funny,” Keeley said as she laughed.

Our sister Keeley drove us again the following week, but we arrived on Sunday instead of Saturday, and right before we jumped out of her old black VW Bug she said, “Dad says we might be able to see Secretariat at the Garden State Track in the fall after he takes you back home. He’s going to race in the Juvenile Stakes as a two-year-old,” she said. “He really likes spending time with you boys,” she added. “But I might be back in college at Lake Forest then.”

“He just loves horses,” I said. “That would be cool to see Secretariat in a real race; I heard they call him ‘Big Red.’ I’ve only been to that track once for 4th of July, and I like to be back home at the house, but I don’t think he minds us visiting him up here,” I added.

When Mrs. McGraff saw us drive up, stop, and bound out from the car, she called from under the broad front porch under the trees as we stepped out. The sky seemed darker above, and it seemed cool and damp as if it might rain again.

“Meet Mary in the barn; she’s waiting for you boys. Good to see you have your boots.”

When we walked into the barn it seemed even darker than usual until our eyes adjusted, and then we could see down past the first few stalls, Mary standing by the windows, and she reached up and pulled a white string tied to a dull brass chain of a bare bulb over her head. I could see the other leather bridles hanging on the wall near her, their leather still supple and dully shining and dad’s silver carriage bells beside them. We could see some straw strewn on the ground and in the stalls as usual. The barn smelled of sweet, fresh hay and something else.

We could see right away she dressed better than usual, in tight pale tan riding slacks and high brown boots, and a close, pale blue shirt over her curves we hardly noticed before. Her blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail just touched past her shoulders. She looked like the professional riders and jumpers we saw nearly each spring in The Devon Horse Show bounding over the fences and gates, which Dad always took us to. I had asked Dad in the fancy tack shop there about helmets and bridles, and he sort of quietly said, “You might need a hat someday. But not now.”

“Oh let’s get going boys; Duke’s eager for some exercise, and we must get in some practice before the rain.”

Ed and I walked our horses out toward the ring since Mary had saddled both for us, and she flung a small denim jacket over her shoulder.

“I want to see what you boys can do today; you’ve had a number of lessons; let’s see you two walk, then trot, then canter your horses around the ring twice.”

After mounting we followed her commands as she called out from the opposite end of the ring, “Now trot . . . that’s good . . . Now canter . . . posting boys, rhythm . . . good.”

It felt good to hear her encouragement and know she seemed pleased and seeing her smile and her blue eyes brighten gave me a good feeling.

“OK, once more around, controlled boys, let’s see it.”

As Ed began trotting at speed up the near rail, he seemed to canter with great energy, his Morgan nearly high stepping, then I began to trot about ten yards behind him, then canter right before where the ring curved around the far corner round to the back of the ring, a long way from Mary, then I kicked the heel of my dad’s boot into the left side of Duke’s belly and he snorted and began to gallop, across the far end of the ring, then curved around the far corner past Ed as he cantered and high stepped on Finals, his Morgan. I posted up from the saddle and I seemed to be flying; I leaned forward and pressed my hands and fingers into the horse’s mane as it flew into my lowered face and felt the wind rushing by my ears and the rhythm of the horse galloping below. I could hear the horse’s hooves thudding the earth. My butt stayed above the saddle and I held on; I forgot about posting and Ed, as I felt Duke storming into a third, then fourth gear, a gear I barely knew he had, and I did not know how fast he could gallop; the horse’s hooves sounded as I felt his rhythm as we reached a full gallop alongside the far rail and I just held on as I saw Mary looking over toward me, her mouth dropped open, and I saw her blonde hair shining in the afternoon sun above her soft, open lips.

Nonfiction by Daniel Picker has appeared in The Georgia Review, Harvard Review, The Sewanee Review, The East Hampton Star, Middlebury Magazine, The Copperfield Review, A New Ulster, The Stanford Daily, and more, including short prose works in Poetry(Chicago) and Harvard magazine(online). Fiction by Daniel Picker appears in The Abington Review, The Kelsey Review, The 67th Street Scribe/ Scribe(CUNY), A New Ulster, and several more. Daniel Picker won The Dudley Review Poetry Prize at Harvard University, and received a fellowship from The Dodge Foundation and The Fine Arts Work Center. Daniel's book of poems is "Steep Stony Road"(Viral Cat Press of SF). Previously, several of Daniel's short stories, works of fiction, appeared in The Adelaide Literary Magazine of NYC.