We went to move the sheep out of the barn so we can dig out the manure – I can shovel it a bit now – and Deb and Ma refused to leave, a minor rebellion. Red went back in and escorted them out to the other sheep, peacefully but forcibly.
I stood in the park for two hours and focused my eye and camera on the people in the carriages, not the horses or the drivers. I saw children wide-eyed, parents beaming. I saw no one in the carriages on cell phones or ipads or game players. What struck me most were the lovers, in carriage after carriage, holding hands, their eyes filled with love and promise. They talked to one another, looked up in wonder at the beautiful park, the skyscrapers, the open skies above, the rich parade of people running and walking by.
We don’t often hear from real people in our public debates, our blog wars and press conferences. I learned as a reporter to talk to them instead of the politicians. They are wise, and say the most poignant and true things.
Last Friday, I waited for this carriage to come around and stop near seventh avenue. I was looking for the meaning of love and the carriage horses, I see it all the time inside the carriages.
Jamie and Caty, getting married in September, came to New York City to take a carriage ride, they wanted to begin their new life that way, it seemed both lucky and romantic to them, “what,” Caty asked me, “could be more romantic than riding a horse in a big park?” They plan to come often, throughout their married lives to ride the big horses in the park, to honor their marriage and mark the passage of time.
I asked her if she would come back and ride a vintage electric car and Jamie answered. “Why would we want to ride in a car in the park? What is romantic about that?” Jamie took Caty’s hand. “I asked her what she most wanted to do before we got married, and she said ‘I want to come to New York City, I want you to take me on a horse carriage ride through Central Park.” It was, he said, the only thing she asked for. They are from Michigan.
Caty said she had heard that the mayor wanted to ban the horses, but she told her father she didn’t believe it. “Why on earth would they want to do that? The horses are so beautiful, the drivers are so wonderful to us.” She showed me a bouquet of flowers that her driver had taken right off the side of the carriage and handed to her. She was taking them home, she would keep them in her wedding book. The driver always gives young lovers some flowers, he says, to remind them of New York City. He told them it was a magical place.
Caty looked as if she would cry at the thought that the horses would be banned, she went over and patted the big brown horse that had just pulled she and her husband-to-be through the park.
“Why would they take something so beautiful and romantic and natural and try and turn it into something nasty and ugly? What is wrong with them here, have they forgotten how to love in New York? I mean, what is love worth?”
Caty asked what is perhaps the most important question about the carriage horses, the one the reporters and the mayor and the animal rights demonstrators will never ask? Indeed, what is love worth? And what are the words of two lovers worth, in a city filled with angry and cruel words?
And what is magic and mystery worth? The horses carry magic and romance with them, if they leave, the magic and mystery will go with them, it can never be replaced.
When first moved to Bedlam Farm in 2003, I bought two antique signs, one said “Worms” and one said “Books.” I put the “Worms” sign out on the big front porch at the old farm, but I found that fishermen in the area kept pulling over and knocking on the door to ask me how much the worms cost. None of them could imagine why anybody would hang an old sign that said “worms” if they weren’t selling any worms.
The banging on the door began interfering with my writing, so I took the “worms” sign in and put up the “books” sign. No one ever came by or knocked on the door to ask me if I was selling any books. We brought both signs to the new Bedlam Farm but the “books” sign lay out on the front porch, we didn’t really have a good place to hang it. I don’t even know where the “worms” sign is. Jay Bridge moved it back when he began repairing the rotting porch. I was delighted to come across it again, it looks great on the back porch right above Flo’s chair, and it fits her regal bearing and contemplative ways.
It seems like a century ago that I bought those signs and lived in the other Bedlam Farm. Life is a wonder, really, it has a mind and a soul all of its own. Nothing turned out the way I imagined it. In a sense, the “books” sign has more meaning now than ever, and this is the perfect home for it. I am not prone to nostalgia, but I so feel some sadness this morning for the old farm. I can’t say I miss it, my life has moved on, but I feel some sadness for all of the many things that happened there, the gamut from joy to fame to creativity and accomplishment, learning and growth, sadness and pain, loneliness and loss, and then love. Wow, that’s a lot of stuff for one place.
I’m happy to see the ‘books” sign hanging up again.
