|
As part of my send-writing-to-Frank-in-the-hospital project, I finished this that had been back burnered. It is a true story and happened sometime in the late sixties, early seventies.
Summer days in Florida, especially at Gramma’s and Grampa’s house in Holly Hill, were hot and slow. Gramma and Grampa’s tiny self-built cinder block house was near the ocean, but it was still a drive, not a walk, to get there. A trip to the beach involved the active participation of unwilling and lethargic adults to chauffeur. And the ride back to the house was a slow torture of hot seats, sticky salt water and abrasive sand in crevices and seams.
The damp heat sucked the breath and energy from your body. The shade out back was prickly, full of sweet gum balls and sharp dry leaves. The huge front lawn was treeless, nearly grassless and desolate. The only cool spot was in the drainage ditch along the driveway, damp at the bottom after a rain and shaded by the rampant growth of the untended property line. The adults set up lawn chairs under the open garage door. The old style door was one solid piece of wood that cantilevered out like an awning, casting shade onto cool concrete. With concrete under foot, a little breeze, the dark recesses of the garage behind them, an ice tea and slow conversation sustained the adults. The occasional stroll across the street to the tiny convenience store for an orange popsicle, small plastic toy, quart of milk or carton of vanilla ice cream and bottle of root beer served to amuse the children, when eavesdropping on adult conversation lost its novelty.
Such was it this day. I imagine the cicadas whirred in the heat, as was often the case. A slight breeze may have pushed the spanish moss a bit. Perhaps a train moaned and clattered on the nearby tracks. Certainly the tea, served in quart glass jars, was cold and the clear glass sweaty and slick.
Suddenly an unfamiliar sound, rhythmic, yet chaotic. Whoops and yells. Then a rush of colors, colors of the earth, ochres and yellows and browns and dirty whites and blacks, heads bobbing, hooves hitting pavement with fierce joy. How many, after all these years I am not sure. At least ten. Perhaps more. It seemed like more. It seemed like a parade. A self guided parade of horses without riders, flaunting their wildness, their freedom. Following them were pickup trucks, full of men waving hats, yelling and laughing. I never found out where the horses and men had come from. There were still little pockets of rural, even that close to Daytona Beach, where you could find pastures and truck farms and bee keepers. I am sure the horses were recaptured, because it could not be otherwise. Coastal Florida was no place for them to run wild. For a moment though, that sleepy afternoon, the horses were wild. They ran for joy. They ran for delight. Those that chased them felt the joy and not panic. They whooped to be part of a stampede, even as the pursuer, for it would likely never happen again. So savor it. Roll the salty air through your lungs and holler. Tell your ancestors that yes, you remember how to be wild, how to hunt, how to capture your prey. How to run and toss your head.
_________________
Because Life is a Treasure Already!
|
