By: Jefferson Weaver
Old Red wasn’t happy.
He’s a cranky old galoot, as befits a rescue horse who’s been bounced from pillar to post over the last decade or so. He doesn’t gladly tolerate fools. A quarterhorse-and-something gelding, Red has been there, done that, and doesn’t want the t-shirt – much less a blanket, despite the frigid temperatures.
He let me know that in no uncertain terms a while back, carefully and maliciously planting one of his large feet on my bad knee whilst I tried to swathe him in a warm winter coat. With virtually no warning, he sent me flying, and came very close to earning a cussin’.
While Red has stayed perversely warm (there’s a long-haired horse in his woodpile somewhere), my knee has gotten progressively worse. My usual hitch has become a full-bore limp. I figure that my pain threshold won’t make it to the end of February, but I’ve been trying to make it to the end of trapping season before visiting the doctor. Medical offices of any kind tend to be full of extremely unselfish people hacking, sneezing and sharing whatever brought them there in the first case, and I have no desire to test my usually strong immune system.
I changed my usual footwear the other morning with the limp in mind, and if you will forgive the pun, that rather pedestrian act reminded me of one of my favorite Celtic songs, Rambles of Spring.
In the song, the narrator takes to the road with his fiddle under his arm, and little or nothing else to his name, save a “fine felt hat, a strong pair of brogues, and rosin in me pocket for me bow.”
As I laced up my replacement boots the other morning, I realized again that I am a very fortunate man.
In the first case, despite my sinful nature, I know I am saved by the blood and grace of Jesus Christ. With that salvation comes the promise that we need not worry about earthly things. Indeed, the Messiah reminds us, in Luke 12: 28-30: “And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”
I consider myself beyond blessed to have such a loving, strong church to call home; true, we have our problems like every church, but when one can’t wait to come back through the doors, God’s got a lot going on. I’m fortunate to have a tiny, tiny part of it.
I am fortunate because I am an American, and even more blessed by being a North Carolinian and a Southerner. I can take pride in those things because of the sacrifices of people like my nephew and his comrades in arms, my friends down at the Vietnam Veterans chapter, those of the Greatest Generation and my grandfather, amongst so many others. Were it not for them keeping the wolf from the door, we would all have been slaughtered as sheep years ago.
I have a job I love, which is far more than many can say. Even when it wears me out and leaves me frustrated, cussed at and disgusted, there always seems to be that one person who says thank you, or who compliments something I’ve written, or who remembers a story that made a difference for them, long after I’d filed those words in the archive of memory. Those are the folks who make it worthwhile, and help me remember how fortunate I am.
I’m blessed to live in the country, where one has room to reach and spit and holler, if one so desires, without unduly disturbing the neighbors. I can’t imagine being so unfortunate as to be forced again to live in town, and I pray fervently that never happens again. Anyone who doesn’t feel fortunate to live in the country has some serious issues, in my opinion. I have stars – I don’t need streetlights.
When the fields dry, or this knee heals, or I have time, I have a new section of woods to wander, some that haven’t been hunted or trapped regularly for decades. I’m like a kid at Christmas when facing new ground, since there’s no telling what’s there, what’s hungry, and what’s smarter than me.
Alexander the Great had good reason to weep when there were no new lands for him to conquer; while my aspirations lean more toward furs and deer, arrowheads and artifacts, I can understand what it would be like to know you’ve done it all and have nowhere else to go. It would be horrible – but I’m fortunate, in that this new section awaits extensive exploration.
I’m fortunate to have critters who love me, and who keep me warm, safe, amused and reassured. There’s nothing in the world as therapeutic after a really sorry day than a big pair of brown eyes and long ears, accompanied by a wide, drooling, panting smile; a purring lap robe; or the fresh-hay smell of a thousand-pound beast who thinks you hung the world (and are hiding peppermints in your pocket).
I am most fortunate to have a wife I adore, who tolerates me, and has my back, while holding me accountable, too. Close on her heels are a family separated by miles, but joined by blood, and friends whom I could call at 2 a.m. in a snowstorm and know they’d be there to help, as I would them.
I have a decided advantage over many folks, since I was fortunate enough to have a wonderful, strong, loving, godly set of parents. Indeed, it was from my father I inherited the habit of wearing a hat, and while we seem to stay broke, I’m fortunate to have an inheritance that would make the rambling spring fiddler envious – the love given and lessons learned from a wonderful mom and dad.
And there are so many other ways I’m so blessed, I can’t really figure out why I whine and complain sometimes. After all – I have far more than the Spring Fiddler desires, and none of Alexander’s problems, so I have good reason to stare the devil in the eye and laugh.
On top of everything else, the jonquils and daffodils are blooming, the river is falling, and spring is truly right around the corner, despite temperatures that will make your fillings pop out.
I am, truly, a fortunate man.
About Author
