As walls went, it wasn’t very long or very tall. It measured at most five pony lengths long, and gradually grew to just about average pony height at its highest point before tapering gently back down into the ground. And it wasn’t very strait either. It curved around a small hill in a shallow double curve, outward in the left-hoof part and inward on the right, following the course of the small stream that divided the Russets’ north hayfield from east to west.
Just behind the wall rose a huge Oak tree, topping a small mound. The lonely giant grew from an earthen pedestal it had patiently pushed up in the middle of the field in centuries of growth. The stream had prevented the expansion of the mound on its southern side, eroding the hill, exposing roots, and putting the great Oak at risk of toppling should a bad wind from the wrong quarter come along, hence Jim Russet’s decision to shore it up with a solid wall, one that would also prevent further erosion.
Jim had only recently taken over the farm from his elderly parents, who had retired after years of farming on the rural outskirts in the then new settlement of Ponyville. Jim intended to continue in his parents’ hoofsteps, and as part of his commitment wanted to preserve the tree that dominated this part of the land on which he had been born and raised.
Taking a step back, he viewed his work, and muttered the word that came to mind: “Sturdy!”
This wasn’t Jim’s first wall and it showed! The lines were expertly leveled, the stones placed with care on a solid foundation of granite runners, backed with a deep drainage channel of several grades of gravel to keep the winter frosts from pushing the stones out of place and wall out of alignment. He has also filled the space between the wall and the tree with earth, one cartload at a time, topping it with sod and leveling the hilltop into the perfect place for picnic in the shade of the great Oak’s canopy.
He looked up at the tree.
“Hope you like it, Ol’ Tree,” he called out to the giant. It waved its massive head and murmured in the breeze as if in agreement, and Jim was satisfied that it was. The tree was after all an old friend and had stood here like a guardian as long as Jim could remember, acting as both refuge and confident when life’s inevitable hardships and heartbreaks drove Jim to seek comfort.
Brushing the dust off from his withers, Jim gathered his tools into the cart, nosed into its yoke, and pulled off in the direction of the farmhouse and dinner. A newly wed, he suspected Melba had more in mind for the evening than just gazing at the sunset. He smiled. Life was good!
Brushing the dust off from his withers, Jim gathered his tools into the cart. He wasn’t particularly tired as the wall really wasn’t much work to maintain each year. The Ol’ Oak wasn’t much bother neither, just fallen leaves and Melba had planted some fresh flowers.
She sat on her haunches, next to the spot on the top of the wall where Spud spent many of his colthood hours, reading, or telling the other foals stories, or looking off into the distance and dreaming of adventures, as youngsters were wont to do. Spud was a small bundle next to the Ol’ Oak, fast asleep in the early afternoon heat.
He was glad his son liked the wall so much. It wasn’t much, but it was something the whole family had shared. The wall had become the family’s constant backdrop, inanimate perhaps, but only the more appreciated for its steadfast, unchanging reliability. And next to the Ol’ Oak on top of this tiny hill, sitting on the wall sharing picnics and telling stories, time seemed to stand still as the family played and laughed, napped, or just listened to the crickets and cicadas in the long summer days. On hotter days they went down to play in the stream and cool off.
When Melba stirred, he came in close and helped her gently lift their son’s limp form into the cart, the colt snoozing away. He nosed into the cart’s yoke, and with a gentle pull began the slow trek back to the house. No words spoken nor needed, just the warmth of Melba’s flank against his, as she matched his pace all the way home.
Brushing the dust off from his withers, Spud gathered his tools into the cart. His dad had built the wall well indeed: it stood seemingly unchanged for as long as Spud could recall. And the wall really wasn’t much work to maintain each year on the anniversary. The Ol’ Oak wasn’t much bother neither, just the grave really, where he had collected fallen leaves and his mom had planted some fresh flowers.
She sat on her haunches, next to the spot on the top of the wall where they had spent many hours, playing, reading, telling stories, having picnics, or just being happy together, as families were wont to do.
When his dad had become frail and unable to do the farm’s heavier chores, he had started to come here more frequently than had been customary in the last twenty or so years. The wall had become his dad’ constant backdrop, and next to the Ol’ Oak on top of this tiny hill, it still felt like he was there, sitting on the wall, chatting with the tree as if he were an old friend, and looking out past the stream and into unknown horizons past and future.
When his mother stirred, he helped her rise to all fours, nosed into the cart’s yoke, and accompanied her back to the house. There were no words spoken nor needed, just the warmth of her flank against his, as he matched her pace all the way home.
