Conversations with a horse
My name is Egon and I have always been a bit spacy spending more time in my mind than in the real world. Play, storytelling, and other mind games, help me escape from a world that I have learned is dangerous. I know that is true and so does my brother Lothar. He is one year younger than me, a genius and he too lives in another world but his is made up of mathematical symbols. What matters to Lothar is math, chess and girls.
Lothar often made me laugh. He had few social skills and had trouble controlling his impulses, like telling one of his teachers…”You smell”. Lothar used me to read people and what was ‘appropriate’. He often didn’t take my advice.
Our parents, as refugees from the ‘old country’, didn’t know how our new culture worked and so it was my brother and I who were in charge of letting them know how things worked. That is the way many immigrant families worked.
Neither Lothar nor I have changed much since childhood. Do any of us? Now, as aged adults, we often reminisce about our lives growing up and laugh at some of our experiences. We both have excellent memories made up of snapshot album capturing our life experiences.
Ludwig, our tall distant father was the disciplinarian and would have made the world’s worst therapist. On the other hand, Anna our mother was the essence of warmth, caring with a generous spirit. She was also a passionate but limited cook featuring German peasant cuisine which included baking loaves of bread every other day. Lothar and I wished we could eat white bread like other kids we played with instead of the heavy dark bread she baked. We pleaded with her to get rid of her old wrap-around huge colorless aprons.
One of our German treats was hot duck fat poured over rye bread. The whiff of duck fat heating up in a saucepan would get us to stop anything we were doing. Her sheets of baked fruit tarts with little sugar, with one bite, could drive your tongue into the back of your mouth so that it would be lodged there forever. She also hung from the ceiling, cheesecloth balls filled with cottage cheese that slowly ripened, or is it rotted, and would give off a powerful cheesy odor which is when they were ready to be eaten”
When we described some of these great treats to our friends they often made gagging sounds.
When I was 11 my brother Lothar and I knew something wasn’t quite right in the family. Even Lothar understood that something was going on at home that was ‘off’. Why would our mother frequently cry while cooking her heavy-handed German dishes? Also, she had a strange blank faraway look when sweeping the floor. “We wondered why she no longer joked with us when we came home from school.”
Lothar and I couldn’t miss the frequent angry shouting that leaked past our parent’s bedroom door. We heard the bits and pieces of what was being said, in German, and understood the words but not their real meaning, or implications of the shouting.
We vaguely understood what Anna often repeated “Why couldn’t you have done more to get them out, my parents, brother, his wife, and kids” and she would repeat why, why and our father Ludwig kept repeating, “I did everything, I could and you keep accusing me and the shouting was interspersed with banging and slamming and pounding and then the noise would suddenly stop.
When we asked our father why our mother often looked sad and why were they shouting at each so often. He shrugged, “Sometimes parents argue and anyway people aren’t always happy and you will find out soon enough that life can be tough”. When we asked our mother “What’s wrong?” She gave an answer that we knew wasn’t true? like “sometimes families have some problems but everything is OK and you boys don’t have to worry, OK, OK? ”
Lothar figured I might figure out what was happening better than he could. I told Lothar “I don’t know what is going on but I think it has to do with getting out of Germany and who helps who and maybe they are going to get a divorce.” When Lothar heard that his eyes lit up so I told him, “Just kidding”.
I didn’t tell Lothar that some weeks early our mother had asked me what he thought if she left the family for a while and stayed with relatives in Houston Texas. I also didn’t tell Lothar that I thought that Ludwig was fooling around with another woman.
Ludwig rented for two weeks a small bungalow for Anna, Lothar and I. The bungalow was in central New Jersey. It was located in an area of small chicken farms. You could smell the musty chicken dung aroma coming from the chicken coops especially in the early morning mist.
There were no other little kids around just chicken farms and empty grassy fields. Lothar and I had to entertain ourselves. Lothar played chess games against himself and spent hours doing math puzzles. I slipped into my familiar world of fantasy play. I built crude ships with 2 by 4-inch pieces of wood I found near our bungalow. I would pound nails into the wood and draw pictures and write royal names on the wood like ‘The King Bismark’. I would launch my ‘ships’ in a small pond nearby. I also used my imagination to build a whole village of houses with sticks that I found scattered about.
On the third day of our stay, I noticed a horse in a wired in field of grass near our bungalow. I waved to the horse and the horse meandered over to me. I started to talk to the horse and I was sure the horse listened. I asked the horse “How would you like me to bring you some treats like maybe apples. I figure you would like apples because they are sweet and easy to chew?” I thought the horse nodded yes.
The next day I put two cut up apples and some pieces of bread in a bag and walked up to the field where the horse lived.
I waved to the horse and he slowly made his way to where I stood on the other side of the wire fence. I held out a big piece of apple and the horse sniffed at it and then opened his mouth and took the apple from my hand. I then held out a piece of bread and once again the horse gently took it from my hand and slowly, almost thoughtfully chewed it. I fed him the rest of the bread and pieces of apple and then waved goodbye and walked away. The horse looked at me as I left.
The next day I once again came to the fence and when the horse saw me he came trotting over. This time I brought more apples but also stale pieces of my mother’s plum tart. I fed the apple pieces to the horse and with my other hand stroked the horse’s neck. I started to talk to the horse as if it were a person. “Do you like the field you are in? Do you mind the wire fence that keeps you from running away?” As I talked to the horse and fed him apples I kept stroking the horse and then also rubbed his soft nose. I then asked the horse whether he would like a special treat, a plum tart. Maybe I just imagined it but I thought the horse nodded. I gave him a piece of plum tart and he started chewing it but then spit it out. The two just stood and looked at each other. I said, “Guess you didn’t like the fruit tart. Why would you like it? Too tart, right?” The horse didn’t respond but I stroked his neck for a few minutes and wandered away and the horse stood watching me.
My ritual continued for days. On the day before we were to leave the bungalow and return home, I had no apples, crackers, bread, pears, grapes, nothing to bring to the horse. This time I had to say goodbye to the horse. I sat down in the grass and leaned against a fence post. Just like every day the horse strolled over to me. The horse had never seen me sitting on the ground looking up at him. I was about to continue our daily conversation when the horse bent down and gently bit my big toe. It didn’t hurt but did make me get up. There we were looking at each other. I stroked his neck and rubbed his soft nose and then told him I had to leave but maybe someday I would come back and we could continue to talk to each other just like always. I know he must have understood me, and our friendship, and maybe didn’t mind that I hadn’t brought any treats for him that day. I walked away looking back at the horse and waved goodbye.
I will miss the horse especially when my mother was sad. I could talk to the horse and the horse listened. Lothar asked me, “”What is wrong with Anna. I answered “I don’t know.”
I do know that I miss my horse friend most of all when our parents were shouting at each other.
My name is Egon and I have always been a bit spacy spending more time in my mind than in the real world. Play, storytelling, and other mind games, help me escape from a world that I have learned is dangerous. I know that is true and so does my brother Lothar. He is one year younger than me, a genius and he too lives in another world but his is made up of mathematical symbols. What matters to Lothar is math, chess and girls.
Lothar often made me laugh. He had few social skills and had trouble controlling his impulses, like telling one of his teachers…”You smell”. Lothar used me to read people and what was ‘appropriate’. He often didn’t take my advice.
Our parents, as refugees from the ‘old country’, didn’t know how our new culture worked and so it was my brother and I who were in charge of letting them know how things worked. That is the way many immigrant families worked.
Neither Lothar nor I have changed much since childhood. Do any of us? Now, as aged adults, we often reminisce about our lives growing up and laugh at some of our experiences. We both have excellent memories made up of snapshot album capturing our life experiences.
Ludwig, our tall distant father was the disciplinarian and would have made the world’s worst therapist. On the other hand, Anna our mother was the essence of warmth, caring with a generous spirit. She was also a passionate but limited cook featuring German peasant cuisine which included baking loaves of bread every other day. Lothar and I wished we could eat white bread like other kids we played with instead of the heavy dark bread she baked. We pleaded with her to get rid of her old wrap-around huge colorless aprons.
One of our German treats was hot duck fat poured over rye bread. The whiff of duck fat heating up in a saucepan would get us to stop anything we were doing. Her sheets of baked fruit tarts with little sugar, with one bite, could drive your tongue into the back of your mouth so that it would be lodged there forever. She also hung from the ceiling, cheesecloth balls filled with cottage cheese that slowly ripened, or is it rotted, and would give off a powerful cheesy odor which is when they were ready to be eaten” When we described some of these great treats to our friends they often made gagging sounds.
When I was 11 my brother Lothar and I knew something wasn’t quite right in the family.
Even Lothar understood that something was going on at home that was ‘off’. Why would our mother frequently cry while cooking her heavy-handed German dishes? Also, she had a strange blank faraway look when sweeping the floor. “We wondered why she no longer joked with us when we came home from school.”
Lothar and I couldn’t miss the frequent angry shouting that leaked past our parent’s bedroom door. We heard the bits and pieces of what was being said, in German, and understood the words but not their real meaning, or implications of the shouting.
We vaguely understood what Anna often repeated “Why couldn’t you have done more to get them out, my parents, brother, his wife, and kids” and she would repeat why, why and our father Ludwig kept repeating, “I did everything, I could and you keep accusing me and the shouting was interspersed with banging and slamming and pounding and then the noise would suddenly stop.
When we asked our father why our mother often looked sad and why were they shouting at each so often. He shrugged, “Sometimes parents argue and anyway people aren’t always happy and you will find out soon enough that life can be tough”. When we asked our mother “What’s wrong?” She gave an answer that we knew wasn’t true? like “sometimes families have some problems but everything is OK and you boys don’t have to worry, OK, OK? ”
Lothar figured I might figure out what was happening better than he could. I told Lothar “I don’t know what is going on but I think it has to do with getting out of Germany and who helps who and maybe they are going to get a divorce.” When Lothar heard that his eyes lit up so I told him, “Just kidding”.
I didn’t tell Lothar that some weeks early our mother had asked me what he thought if she left the family for a while and stayed with relatives in Houston Texas. I also didn’t tell Lothar that I thought that Ludwig was fooling around with another woman.
Ludwig rented for two weeks a small bungalow for Anna, Lothar and I. The bungalow was in central New Jersey. It was located in an area of small chicken farms. You could smell the musty chicken dung aroma coming from the chicken coops especially in the early morning mist.
There were no other little kids around just chicken farms and empty grassy fields. Lothar and I had to entertain ourselves. Lothar played chess games against himself and spent hours doing math puzzles. I slipped into my familiar world of fantasy play. I built crude ships with 2 by 4-inch pieces of wood I found near our bungalow. I would pound nails into the wood and draw pictures and write royal names on the wood like ‘The King Bismark’. I would launch my ‘ships’ in a small pond nearby. I also used my imagination to build a whole village of houses with sticks that I found scattered about.
On the third day of our stay, I noticed a horse in a wired in field of grass near our bungalow. I waved to the horse and the horse meandered over to me. I started to talk to the horse and I was sure the horse listened. I asked the horse “How would you like me to bring you some treats like maybe apples. I figure you would like apples because they are sweet and easy to chew?” I thought the horse nodded yes.
The next day I put two cut up apples and some pieces of bread in a bag and walked up to the field where the horse lived.
I waved to the horse and he slowly made his way to where I stood on the other side of the wire fence. I held out a big piece of apple and the horse sniffed at it and then opened his mouth and took the apple from my hand. I then held out a piece of bread and once again the horse gently took it from my hand and slowly, almost thoughtfully chewed it. I fed him the rest of the bread and pieces of apple and then waved goodbye and walked away. The horse looked at me as I left.
The next day I once again came to the fence and when the horse saw me he came trotting over. This time I brought more apples but also stale pieces of my mother’s plum tart. I fed the apple pieces to the horse and with my other hand stroked the horse’s neck. I started to talk to the horse as if it were a person. “Do you like the field you are in? Do you mind the wire fence that keeps you from running away?” As I talked to the horse and fed him apples I kept stroking the horse and then also rubbed his soft nose. I then asked the horse whether he would like a special treat, a plum tart. Maybe I just imagined it but I thought the horse nodded. I gave him a piece of plum tart and he started chewing it but then spit it out. The two just stood and looked at each other. I said, “Guess you didn’t like the fruit tart. Why would you like it? Too tart, right?” The horse didn’t respond but I stroked his neck for a few minutes and wandered away and the horse stood watching me.
My ritual continued for days. On the day before we were to leave the bungalow and return home, I had no apples, crackers, bread, pears, grapes, nothing to bring to the horse. This time I had to say goodbye to the horse. I sat down in the grass and leaned against a fence post. Just like every day the horse strolled over to me. The horse had never seen me sitting on the ground looking up at him. I was about to continue our daily conversation when the horse bent down and gently bit my big toe. It didn’t hurt but did make me get up. There we were looking at each other. I stroked his neck and rubbed his soft nose and then told him I had to leave but maybe someday I would come back and we could continue to talk to each other just like always. I know he must have understood me, and our friendship, and maybe didn’t mind that I hadn’t brought any treats for him that day. I walked away looking back at the horse and waved goodbye.
I will miss the horse especially when my mother was sad. I could talk to the horse and the horse listened. Lothar asked me, “”What is wrong with Anna. I answered “I don’t know.”
I do know that I miss my horse friend most of all when our parents were shouting at each other.