Son of a Coal Miner's Daughter

It was just a few years later that another unforgettable moment took place in this same area behind our house, in the northwest, the so-called chicken lot, the outhouse area. I know, because we still did not have indoor plumbing. My fathers’ dream was to own registered Belgian draft horses and breed them. It was not my dream but my father’s. I was to make the dreams come true by handling the physical end of raising and working horses, while he handled the finances and breeding lines. I like horses; it’s just that working them each day and feeding them, when you have too many of them, is so overwhelming. So, I was the reluctant horseman … boy… kid. My father bought this registered Belgian mare named Betty. She was beautiful. We arranged her to be bred to a registered Belgian stud and had to truck her nearly a hundred miles one way to the registered stud. Well, horses are not rabbits, and it’s usually difficult to get a mare bred. You have to catch the mare at the right time, etc., etc., etc. Not easy. This went on for two years. Finally we get her bred. Now it’s going to be eleven months and lots of loving, gentle care, watching her and being there for her when she has her colt. Sometimes mares need assistance.

It was early May; the time has come. We kept the mare in the lot close to the house and worried each night about her. She was making milk, so we knew it would be soon. Finally Betty lay down, she pushed, she pushed and she kicked and groaned, and more, and then out came a beautiful sorrel colt. Just what we wanted, except it’s a stud colt, not a filly colt. That’s okay: we have a beautiful stud colt. He was going to stand and nurse. He got up; he tried to get milk. The mare and colt went in circles. He wasn’t getting milk, yet around they went. We decided to help, hold the mare and hold the colt. But what was this? The colt’s mouth on the bottom of his lips was not complete; a rare deformity was keeping the colt from nursing and eating. It was no use; we could not save him. We had to shoot him. He was gone.

I’ve never felt so bad for my father. I felt bad, but not so much for me or the colt as for my father. He did not show much emotion, but he must have been devastated, not to mention the loss of money. Disappointment? There was no time. Go to work. Move on; no time for crying. Life can be and was tough, difficult, and unforgiving. It was for me a memory etched in time, like one without an eraser. It will always be there, in that lot in back of our house on a dewy, cool, misty morning.