LIP BLUBBERING

I have taken leave from my FaceBook account. I realized the other day that there is no joy there. It began as a cool way to keep in touch but that didn’t last. Now FB is just a lot of uninvited, electronic junk mail. If someone sends me a message, I get a notice on my telephone and I can check it without suffering through the adds, insults and pet pictures. Still, I took some pet pictures a couple of weeks ago that I’d like to share. 

Once upon a time, The ‘Robinson’ family was shipwrecked on a remote island and. . . no, wait, that was the Swiss Family Robinson. My story is about the Scottish Family Robinson. They lived on a wonderful old farm a mile or so west of us in St. Joseph County, Michigan. Mrs. Robinson was a teacher at our elementary school, had two of my kids in 3rd grade, different years. I was a high school science teacher in the same district; had her youngest in my Biology II class. James Q. was plenty smart but didn’t particularly care about being the Number 1 GPA in the class. He just wanted to learn everything about everything. His energy and motivation elevated the scope and depth of instruction, much to the angst of others in the class. I gave them open ended assignments to chose a research topic of their choice, from a list I provided; (anaerobic respiration, environmental succession, nerve impulses, etc.) write a paper, 3 pages, 3 sources. This was 1982 and they didn’t like it, all except J.Q. 

J.Q. was several years ahead of my oldest boy but they were friends. He went off to Michigan State to study Veterinary Medicine but we kept in touch. He went on to teach Veterinary Medicine at a university on St. Kitts in the Caribbean. We tried to get together last year in Michigan but something happened and we missed. A few weeks ago, we tried again. His father had passed away and he was back on the family farm, working at a clinic in Indiana. We had lunch and he invited me out to the farm. His mother at 96 still gets around very well in the big house. Two of his sisters lived there with her. I stayed for supper. 

I noticed Mr. Robinson’s pets outside in the pasture between the house and the road. He loved playing his bagpipes and working his draft horses, kept teams for farm work and for competition at county and state fairs. They had excellent tractors but you still have to feed horses when you use the tractor. Some people train small dogs to run obstacle courses; others train really, really big horses to pull heavy, heavy loads. They were his babies. We went through the gate at the corner of the yard. When they saw us they came running, not hungry, just curious, just wanting some attention. I understand when a Rottweiler or Doberman leans hard against you it’s a clear message. With half a dozen horses it’s not leaning, just getting close enough for some hands-on affection. Everybody gets moved around and we take it personally. The patting on the neck and smoothing the jaw; the smell of horse flesh is one of a kind. It only took a fraction of a second to digress, I was 8 or 9, coaxing our horse up to the gate with a hand full of grain. I would climb up, grab a hand full of mane and pull myself aboard, then turn around, lay down with my chest on his rump, put my head down on folded arms. We would lazy our way around the pasture, all afternoon, out of earshot, out of sight. 

With his dad gone, the horses don’t get the attention they were accustomed to. His sister still works them but not as often, not the same. They were happy to see us. As much as I loved having them so close, breathing on me, nuzzling my chest, doing that sloppy-horse, lip blubbering, I had to keep track of their feet. They weren’t interested at all where mine were. It was driving all day, back to Missouri the next day but I came with some great photographs. Thanks J.Q.