Circle M Farm

Just about four years ago now we picked up our family and moved from a crowded two-flat in Chicago to this big place in the country. The first thing our pre-teen girls wanted to do when we got here was find a puppy. We got the puppy before we even moved, actually, at the Bargain Nook thrift store in Darlington on a weekend trip to clean up the new house. But that’s another story. The second thing they wanted was a horse, of course.

And so Shakespeare entered our lives. The way he came to us was just as providential as the way our thrift-store cowdog did.

The first thing I wanted when we moved out here was a little flock of lambs. The flock turned out to be three lambs and five goat kids, purchased on a whim one day when I spotted sheep grazing on a neighbor’s hill farm and pulled up the steep drive to see if I could take some home. While learning my shepherding skills outside in the fields, I became increasingly excited to learn some woolcraft skills inside. Specifically, I dreamed of sitting in front of my new woodstove, turning my flock’s fleece into yarn on a beautiful wooden spinning wheel. Unfortunately, living that dream would cost me at least $500, the price of the cheapest wheel on the market. So I prayed for a used spinning wheel to come my way.

Shortly after, I found myself shopping in the little fiber and art store on our town’s tiny Main Street. While I browsed in the wool, I overheard another customer ask the clerk whether it was possible to bring in a used spinning wheel to sell at the store. I immediately introduced myself and before too long we’d arranged for her to meet me back at the store in several days with a lovely barely-used wheel I would take home for $250. In the course of our chat, I mentioned that I’d actually been praying for a used wheel! For some reason I went on to say that I’d also been praying for an old, tame horse for my girls to learn to ride.

My new friend, Sharon, gasped and paused. “We’ve got the horse, too,” she said, and went on to describe the 17-year-old former parade Arabian who had been her granddaughter’s first horse. The granddaughter was now a teenager, and interested in training one of the Morgans Sharon raised on her farm. “Freckles really needs a little girl to comb his hair every day and feed him treats,” she said, explaining that the younger, stronger Morgans bullied the older horse away from the food and she would be very happy to give him to us. So I took my girls, who were 9 and 11, to meet Freckles. Sharon introduced them to the striking speckled white gelding with a look of tender sadness on her face. “I think you will really come to love him,” she said. My Emma looked up into the horse’s large and liquid black eyes and said quietly, “I already do.”

Freckles came to us in early spring. His second day here was misty and raining gently, but I couldn’t resist going out to look at him while he grazed in the grassy front pasture. As he lifted his regal head to look at me, I suddenly saw a complete rainbow arched above him. He was a gorgeous, magical creature. With the breeze slowly rippling his silky white mane and tail, he was like a majestic mount of myth and story. Not a Freckles.

A Shakespeare. I later learned from my horse friends that people often rename horses and that horses tend to live into their names. One friend has since encouraged me to rename my hot young filly, Breva, something quiet like Betty. I’ve been tempted. But I think one day I’ll be a confident enough rider to be thankful she’s a Breva, which sounds like “brave-a” and apparently means fast wind in Italian. With Shakespeare, it’s pretty much all about his looks. In spite of his flared nostrils, the high carriage of his head, and the spirit in his Arab lineage, he’s a pussycat. In fact, I once saw him back away from a barn cat who wanted his food. Shakespeare was once a parade horse, injured while wearing a heavy harness as part of a dressage show team, and has a shoulder that is atrophied from nerve damage. He’s old and sore, but I think he’s also got the personality of a lover, not a fighter.

And that’s why, in addition to his looks, Shakespeare made a great first horse for our family. He stood quiet and patient while we all learned how to groom, then bridle, then saddle. Finally he sort of taught us to ride. He’s been a fixture at our farm festivals since we started having them, carrying countless small children on pony rides around the corral and even submitting to exuberant bath times surrounded by squealing wet kids wielding sponges and brushes. My second son, Jake, led him out to the woods with girlfriends on his back. I practiced my training and lungeing skills on him before I attempted to school my two four-year-old mares. But it’s come time for Shakespeare to move on to the next family who needs him, and now I understand the look I saw on Sharon’s face when she passed Shakespeare to us three years ago.

“I think you’ll really come to love him,” I said this morning to my friend Jodi, as we loaded Shakespeare on to her small trailer. I found it difficult to say goodbye to this beautiful, empathetic and intelligent animal who’d given me so many delicious cozy massages with the bony bridge of his nose. But I felt a sense of deep satisfaction that Shakespeare was going on to a place where there was still good work for him to do. We’ve outgrown Shakespeare – all of us here are too big for him to carry comfortably in his old age, and Zinnia, our pretty red Paint, is ready to take over pony ride duties for young visitors. Jodi has four boys that are all at the perfect ages and sizes to learn to ride on a such a gentlemanly steed. He’ll be loved and employed. So Shakespeare, farewell. Thanks for the years you served us. Blessings to you at your new home.