By Molly MacDonald
In going through old photo albums, I came across a picture of my sister, Sheila, at about age six, pretending to hoe Don Smith’s garden. I say pretending because I don’t think she had the foggiest idea how to actually hoe. She was, after all, only six.
I have written before about Don Smith’s garden. It was where the St. Cecelia parking lot/school playground is now, across the street south of the church. At that time, it was part of my great-grandfather’s land, next to the house he built in the late 1800s, where I now live. There were two other houses on the property then – the one next door to my great-grandfather’s house, which was built as a wedding present for my parents. My sister and I grew up in that house. The other house was on the northeast part of the property – it was rented to Don and Dot Smith for many years. On the land beside that house was Don’s garden, a huge plot of land (at least, it seemed huge to Sheila and me when we were little).
Each spring, Don borrowed two farm horses, Dick (brown) and Sam (sort of white) to plow the dirt. I can still see those magnificent horses slowly pulling the plow, bowing their heads with each step. Monsignor Gearen, long-time pastor of St. Cecelia’s, once told our First Communion class that horses bow their heads when they walk because they’re praying the name Jesus with each step. As a seven-year-old, I thought that was a magical teaching. I still think so.
Dick and Sam were not the first horses I ever encountered. Also in that old photo album is a picture of my dad holding one-year-old me on the back of a horse. I wish I could say it was love at first sight but, sadly, the picture shows all too clearly that I am terrified and want nothing more than to be lifted off. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with horses ever since. I love the thought of them, but up close and personal, they’re awfully big. And kind of scary. Nevertheless, I asked for a pony in my letter to Santa Claus every Christmas for years and years. I never got one, even though I was, for the most part, a good little girl.
My mother once asked me where I would keep a pony, should Santa bring one. “In the garage, of course,” I answered airily. The fine points of stabling a horse obviously escaped me. I did rig up a pretend horse for a time. The newel post at the bottom of our stairs was flat and just wide enough to be a saddle. A jump rope tied to the stair railing made perfect reins, suitable for shaking enthusiastically while yelling, “Giddy up, Dobbin.” And, yes, I named him Dobbin. Don’t judge.
Since this column seems to have wandered from gardens to horses (I never know quite where I’ll end up when starting to write), I’ll tell you that I once had a racehorse named for me. I think I’ve written about this before, but you probably don’t remember – at least pretend you don’t. She belonged to a local farmer who was a client, and admirer, of Bing’s. Said farmer owned several racehorses and named one of them “Bing’s Molly.” She had a successful racing career until she pulled a muscle and had to retire. When daughter Meg was in high school and worked at the A&W Root Beer stand, she spotted a picture on the wall of a racehorse with a winner’s blanket draped over her. Under the picture was her name – “Bing’s Molly.” Meg was so excited she hurried to finish mopping the floor so she could rush home to tell us. Wielding a mop whilst hurrying isn’t a very good combination and Meg accidentally knocked the picture off the wall with the end of the mop handle, breaking the frame and glass. O well.
Thus concludes this instructional narrative on gardening and horses. And mops.
I trust you’ve learned a lot from it.