High Horse Stories

"Amy!  Tell me a story from when you were little!" 

This is what I heard as Owen bounded down the hallway towards his room in his blue and brown striped thermal jammies. 

The next thing I knew I was tucked in right beside him in his bed, telling him the tale of the first ride on my brand new horse Molly on a spring day when I was eleven.  The tale of the cinch on the saddle that wasn't tightened properly enough for galloping full speed down a gravel road.  The tale which ended with me heaped in a pile on the side of that road with my horse Molly looking down at me with the saddle under her belly and the look of by golly, what are you doing down there in her eyes. 

Of course when I tell a story I like to add in some dramatics.  Especially when it's a bed time story and I've been requested.  But they don't transfer well so imagine those here.     

After my story I said, "Now you tell me one." 

And what I heard was about his important job of telling his grandpa when the hopper on the combine is full.  "Amy, there is a buzzer that goes off it gets too full.  But that's not really good enough so he likes to have me sit beside him and watch it." 

Oh Owen.  You are one of the lucky ones too.  Do you know that?  I will start whispering it your ear from now on. 

Then I hugged his striped jammie shoulders with a "Goodnight buddy." 

He threw his arms in the air and in utter exasperation said, "I suppose you are going to drink wine with my mom now aren't you?!" 

"Yes.  Yes I am.  Sleep tight little one.  Sleep tight." 

What I didn't know was at that point I should have said, "And we are going to pod peas from the garden while we drink it.  Do you want to know what that's called Owen?  That's called productive wine drinking.  Are you taking notes on this stuff?" 

Because that's just what Danae and I did in the late hours of last night.  Drank wine and podded peas at her butcher block island.  With some solving of the world's problems thrown in.  Because when you are going through some rougher patches in life, you want your friends.  You need your friends.  

You thank your stars you are one of the lucky ones who can show up at the doorstep to be welcomed in and accepted.  High horse and all.  With a side of crisis mode.  If you are one of the really lucky ones, your friend's husband doesn't judge when he comes home after a long day of harvesting to his wife saying, "You guys finished the peas?  Well so did we!" in a mildy tipsy voice.   

Not only does he not judge the ridiculousness, Blake joins right in by watching my comedy routine in his living room.  The routine about my rib cage and other body parts we won't mention here.  He's good like that, even adding in his two cents.  The laughter was flying around the air so I poured myself another glass.  "Oh you're having another glass?  Good.  You should.  You really should."  As if I needed his encouragement at that point. 

That last glass, or fine maybe it was really the one before, is the reason I found myself waking up on their couch this morning to two bed headed kids snuggled on each side of me.

 
Then finding myself walking to the kitchen with a baby on my hip to get the coffee.  Get the coffee quick.  I'm just glad it was of the blonde variety.  Sometimes you need to match.  You just do.

I can only imagine the stories Owen, Emma, and Autumn will tell of when they were little.  The stories of the nights Amy showed up at their house and the mornings they woke up to sing and dance with her and their mom in the kitchen while pancakes were flipped and coffee was sipped.  I can only hope we are adding to the cycle.  The cycle of the lucky ones.