Dear John(78)

“Good job. Now just scrape the mud out and go to the next hoof.”

Savannah had finished the other six horses by the time I finished one. When we were done, she opened the gate and the horses trotted into the darkened pasture. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but Savannah moved toward the shed. She had two shovels in hand.

“Now it’s time to clean up,” she said, handing me a shovel.

“Clean up?”

“The manure,” she said. “Otherwise it can get pretty rank around here.”

I took the shovel. “You do this every day?”

“Life’s a peach, isn’t it?” she teased. She left again and returned with a wheelbarrow.

As we began scooping the manure, the sliver of a moon began its rise over the treetops. We worked in silence, the clink and scrape of her shovel a steady rhythm that filled the air. In time we both finished, and I leaned on my shovel, inspecting her. In the shadows of the barnyard, she seemed as lovely and elusive as a wraith. She said nothing, but I could feel her evaluating me.

“Are you okay?” I finally asked.

“Why are you here, John?”

“You already asked me that.”

“I know I did,” she said. “But you didn’t really answer.”

I studied her. No, I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure I could explain it myself and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Surprising me, she nodded. “Uh-huh,” she acknowledged.

It was the unqualified acceptance in her voice that made me go on.

“I mean it,” I said. “In some ways, you were the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I could see her expression soften. “Okay,” she said. Her response reminded me of my father, and after she answered, perhaps she realized it as well. I forced myself to survey the property.

“This is the ranch you dreamed of starting, isn’t it?” I asked. “Hope and Horses is for autistic kids, isn’t it?”

She ran a hand through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. She seemed pleased that I remembered. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Is it everything you thought it would be?”

She laughed and threw up her hands. “Sometimes,” she said. “But don’t think for a second it earns enough to pay the bills. We both have jobs, and every day I realize that I didn’t learn as much in school as I thought I did.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “Some of the kids who show up here, or at the center, are difficult to reach.” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. Finally she shook her head. “I guess I thought they’d all be like Alan, you know?” She looked up. “Do you remember when I told you about him?”

When I nodded, she went on. “It turns out that Alan’s situation was special. I don’t know—maybe it was because he’d grown up on a ranch, but he adapted to this a lot more easily than most kids.”

When she didn’t continue, I gave her a quizzical look. “That’s not the way I remember you telling it to me. From what I remember, Alan was terrified at first.”

“Yeah, I know, but still . . . he did get used to it. And that’s the thing. I can’t tell you how many kids we have here who never adapt at all, no matter how long we work with them. This isn’t just a weekend thing; some kids have come here regularly for more than a year. We work at the developmental evaluation center, so we’ve spent a lot of time with most of the kids, and when we started the ranch, we insisted on opening it up to kids no matter how severe their condition. We felt it was an important commitment, but with some kids . . . I just wish I knew how to get through to them. Sometimes it feels like we’re just spinning our wheels.”

I could see Savannah cataloging her memories. “I don’t mean that we feel like we’re wasting our time,” she went on. “Some kids really benefit from what we’re doing. They come out here and spend a couple of weekends, and it’s like . . . a flower bud slowly blossoming into something beautiful. Just like it did with Alan. It’s like you can sense their mind opening up to new ideas and possibilities, and when they’re riding with a great big smile on their faces, it’s like nothing else matters in the world. It’s a heady feeling, and you want it to happen over and over with every child who comes here. I used to think it was a matter of persistence, that we could help everyone, but we can’t. Some of the kids never even get close to the horse, let alone ride it.”

“You know that’s not your fault. I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of riding, either, remember?”