Out of the house, across the yard and a patch of stonedust and we were there. Poppop’s barn. Inside waited a bizarre but familiar mixture of smells: freshly shaken straw, sweet-feed, coffee and the smell of one of Mommom’s homemade cakes.
On an old trunk he sat quietly, a glowering giant with nary a word to say. He didn’t look up; instead, he just opened his thermos and poured some coffee into the cap. Brad and I waited, sometimes quietly, sometimes patiently, but rarely both. Either way, Poppop always did the same thing. After rooting around in his thermos-case and pretending that he couldn’t find anything, he’d pull out a nicely wrapped piece of cake. It was one of the rare occasions when the quiet-giant spoke, “Here, kitty kitty.”

The barn cats were rarely far away, and they never missed a chance to get the little crumbs of cake he tossed to them. Brad and I would wait our turn. When he thought we’d shown sufficient patience, he would turn to us as straightfaced as ever. We’d just grin back and wait for him to hand us the other pieces of cake mysteriously waiting in his thermos-case.

His breaks didn’t last long, and he’d soon be busy with the business of training standarbreds. With a steady and quiet hand, he worked his art. He’d spend much of his day in a jogcart, circling the half-mile training track. When Brad and I were small, he’d let one of us sit on his lap, but as we got older things changed. One day we came out to find that he’d bolted a board to the back of one of the jogcarts, which created a place for Brad to sit on one side and for me to sit on the other. We’d ride around for hours while Poppop half-hummed, half-sang the same tune, “Ei dee di, ei dee di.”

As time passed, Poppop began letting us drive while he sat on the board; it was fun, and, at times, terrifying, but there was something about connecting with the horse, communicating through the leather lines. The sound of hooves on stonedust, the feeling of gliding and bouncing along, birds singing from the hedgerows, and rabbits darting through the fields made it seem almost magical at times.

It was during one of those times that I was driving; Poppop rode silently on the board. I counted off each lap, knowing we were supposed to go five miles. I was proud that Poppop let me drive, but I wondered if I really had what it took, if I was ready. Brad was older, better, and seemed to have a natural skill with the horses. I spent a good amount of my time just trying to avoid being bitten or stepped on. When I reached the tenth lap, I knew it was time to turn the lines back over to Poppop; walking the horse from the track to the barn required more skill than did jogging around the track. But when I turned, he was gone, his decision already made.

I slowed the horse and looked around, but I saw no one. I was on my own. As I made the turn and slowly walked the horse up the curving path, past tractors and fenclines, I was filled with a mixture of fear and pride. I approached my grandfather’s barn determined to prove he’d been right. I’d seen horses balk at the barn door, refusing to go from light to dark, as if there were some invisible barrier, but I got lucky and the horse simply walked in and stopped at the first set of crossties.

I climbed from the seat, hung the lines, and helped get the horse unhooked. Poppop moved with practiced precision and led the horse into the wash-stall. He never said a word about it. There was no need. I knew.

I’m glad to have pictures like this one. Thanks to Brad for scanning them.

<Added Pictures. See comments>

Weary Don at Brandywine

I’m chillin’ with Darth Vader, and Laurie is strutting her short shorts.

Short Shorts rule, and leave it to me to hog the spotlight only to suddenly realize I’ve eaten something I shouldn’t. Note Jeremy levitating in the back.

The Dozer at Brandywine