April Violet
It was in April after Easter when the cherry trees flowered in white and the greening grass was sprinkled with wild violets. As morning light rose over the opposite mountain and flooded my room, I thought, “Today may be the day to see a foal born.” I walked up to the pasture where the mare grazed, a tall beauty, my head just below her ears, and I cooed to her. I slid my hand along her rump and gently moved her tail to one side. She was steady, not skittish. She looked so ripe, ready to go, so I announced, “She’ll foal tomorrow.”
What did I know? It was Hite who should have known because, just two months before, Trixie had been his mare. Hite was born to generations of mountain loggers and horsemen, but he would never ride again. He had worked a stand of wood in Avery County when the tree he cut took its revenge and exploded back into his groin, shattering his pelvis, partially cutting an artery. Thank God his brother Steve was there to bind the bleeding and call emergency. A copter took him to Johnson City Hospital in Tennessee. After multiple surgeries and rehab, Hite would walk, but he would never again ride Trixie. He brought her here as a gift. If I liked her foal, I could buy it.
Over two months, Trixie and I became friends. I massaged her along her spine that day. She must have liked it because as I was finishing she turned with her ears up and spoke to me with her eyes. I knew she would foal the next day.
At 7 a.m., when I walked up to the barn, I heard a new sound — whinny, whinny — the first time Trixie had called out to me. Then I saw on the ground a wet dark heap struggling to stand on spindly legs. It would attempt to straighten up, then fall, then try again, gaining each time until it was finally upright on wobbly legs. She was a filly!
I named her April Violet.
-
Share this story:
