The Team
It was early spring…..probably April, probably early April. We were headed up to the Mennonite community to pick up an order at Howard Habeggar’s store. It was more of a shop or a small shed full of hardware and sometimes Mennonite children. Actually Howard kept all the food orders in the house, but you had to go to the store/shed first. I think this was the hard sell for Howard, as hard as he could be was to direct you to the pots, pans, halters, knives, lanterns, nails (horse shoe and wood), buggy whips, sorghum and garden tools….and axes. It was one of those incredible warm sunny spring days that make Tennessee shine like a newborn. Full of new old promise’s and great expectations. Full of next and everything. The leaves were just begun on the trees bordering the fields. Only the early leaves like Beech or Oak, were beginning to pop. As we slowly drove down the old dirt road to Howard’s store we could see some dirt flying from the heavy disc being pulled by six big Belgium horses. Five were big working horses owned by Johan Gunther, one was Flatt’s daddy’s mare being trained in the harness with the other far more experienced horses. When I found out I had a picture of Hobarts mare working with the Gunther horses I made sure he got one from Flatt for fathers day Flatt and I are long time buds, years ago we castrated, de-horned and vacinated many cows and pigs together…..both of us learned better later. Getting beat up by large animals doesn’t pay well, and is usually reserved for the hell-bent farm boy mentality that we managed to not acquire. The dirt was flying because one of Johans son’s was working a big assed heavy disc over about a 15 acre field full of dirt clods and last years corn stalks. The fields he was working were rolling, not flat. The sun was high in the sky and the wind was blowing just enough to form a small cloud of plateau dirt around the almost grown boy who was guiding these incredible animals in a ritual of motion that required both harmony and control. This man/child Mennonite was driving 8 or 10 thousand pounds of pure pulling Belgium horses, and the lead horse threw his head, not in defiance, just sheer joy at the purpose of it all. The genetic memory that moves him to pull and lead the others, to work the old corn stalks in, to make the ground smooth and ready. The family tradition of working horses bringing joy to the man/boy Mennonite…him not knowing he will be the last of the horse workers in Muddy Pond. Change is coming. A big store with gas pumps and toys for sale. The women driving small cars with tape decks and the men in trucks, hauling cows or pigs…not too many horses. John’s wife will hold out and drive the buggy……she’s the last I guess. They work that field with tractors now…..I’m sure it’s faster and not so full of joy. Hobart died anyway, I guess Flatt had to sell his horse. by
Jack Stoddart
um...I had to join to comment...I just wanted to say that this story is beautiful & if there is going to be a book of these I'd like to read it...Online is fine...thank you...reminds me of a bullrush & popsicle reminiscence I once wrote & lost...
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