June 9, 2006

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Parents, Protectors, Catchers In The Rye

Claire's beautiful post about a childhood doll (her LJ is friends-locked, I think also posted without friends-lock at the Supernicety) reminded me of something that happened to my mother. I started to write this as a comment on her journal, but I've decided to post it on mine.

My mom grew up on a farm, and she kept begging and begging to get a pony of her own. They had lots of animals, but she wanted her very own horse that she could ride and play with and feed sugar cubes. So finally, at some point, her father got her a pony.

And my mother adored her pony. She loved him, and groomed him, and tried to ride him as best she could, but he was a very stubborn horse. He didn't like having someone riding him, and was very tough to control. When no one was riding him, he was the sweetest horse, but he was just too stubborn to be a great riding horse. My grandfather (her father) especially disliked the pony, and kept suggesting that they get rid of him, and get a better pony. But my mom wouldn't have it. He was her pony. Her very own. And she wouldn't get rid of him, no matter how hard he was to ride. She figured she would break him in eventually. So she kept on grooming him, and riding him with difficulty for months, but she loved him the whole time.

And then one day she came home from school and went out to his stall. Her pony wasn't there. She ran into the house. "Where's PONYNAME?" (I can't remember the name)

Her father said, "Oh, that stubborn thing? I tried to ride him today, and he bucked me. I couldn't stand that damn horse any longer. I sold him today."

My mother was devastated. "How could you do that? He was mine!" She cried and cried, and wouldn't speak to my grandfather for weeks. Eventually she got over it, and I think there were other horses, but she never really forgave her father for selling her horse.

Then a couple years ago, several years after her father had died, I came home and my mother was crying. She's a very happy woman, and seeing her cry was a rare and difficult thing to watch. Naturally, I went and sat down next to her, and asked her why she was crying.

At first she just hugged me for a little while. Then, still sobbing, she said, "Do you remember the story I told you about my father selling my pony?"

She had told us that story many times, even pointing out how, though her father was a great man, he could sometimes be very stern and unforgiving. I told her that of course I remembered it.

My mother looked up at me through her tears. I realized that she had a strange look of happiness on her face. "I just mentioned my pony to grandma. I told her that I still can't, after all these years, understand how my dad could sell my horse. And do you know what Grandma said?" My mother choked up a bit and paused, sobbing through her strange smile before continuing. "Grandma said, 'Judy, your father didn't sell that horse.'

"'Yes he did,' I told her. 'Remember? I came home and he told me he'd sold it, and I was so mad at him that I wouldn't speak to him for weeks?'

"But then grandma told me, 'No, Judy. He never told you what happened. Your horse fell that day and crushed two of its legs. He had to put it down. Your father just couldn't bear to tell you that your horse had died, so instead he told you he had sold it. He said he'd rather have you mad at him than make you grieve over your horse.'"

And then my mother just held me, laughing and crying at the same time.

Posted at June 9, 2006 4:22 AM | Comments (5)

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