An Easter Birth

I am a townie, a diehard one.  For those of you who do not know what a ‘townie’ is, the townie in me feels awful for you.

All kidding aside, I grew up in a suburb of a major city, with around 30,000 people and although we were only 12 miles outside of a major metro area, it felt like a tight community of great people and still does today. My husband calls me ‘the city girl’ just to poke fun at me. John Mellencamp’s song “Small Town” brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. I know almost every square inch of that town. I rode my bike or walked on every concrete sidewalk there was, I do believe. In my hometown there is a bar, on average, every 100 feet or so, give or take a few feet. In my hometown you know at least 100 people who will always have your back.  When it comes to my hometown, there are more than 100 reasons for me to want to move back there. Maybe, even more than 100.

I have not lived there now for 14 years and many days I wish desperately that I could move back. I am only a little over a 1 hour drive away in a neighboring state, but that doesn’t matter. There are 3 major reasons why I don’t move back there.

My husband and 2 kids love where we live now. We have set down some serious roots. As most families are, we are embedded in the area we now live in.  Sometimes, I think I will literally go crazy if I don’t go back, and then I look at the faces of my children and realize that this is their hometown. We live in a small, rural town of 1200 people with one police officer, more horses than people and a town center that lovingly boasts a historic Inn, a library, a Mom and Pop country store, a church, a tiny town hall and an even tinier post office.  Blink and you’ll drive right through without even noticing it.

My 11 year old daughter started riding horses about 2 years ago.  We lease a horse, because it is the next best thing to buying one, without the financial responsibility. She is in love with her horse ‘Snuggles’. My daughter rode her up until this January, stopping because Snuggles was pregnant and was expecting a little baby horse this month.  We informed the owner of the farm, that given the opportunity, we would love to be at the birth.  I explained that it didn’t matter what time of day it was, to please alert us when Snuggles went into labor, and I would do my best to get us both there so that we could experience this exciting event. I stressed that even if it happened while my daughter was at school, I would leave work and go get her. 

Side note: My kids do not miss school unless they have a fever over 102 degrees, have lost a limb, or have blood pouring out of more than one orifice. I decided that I would make an exception in this case. What could be more educational than a live birth?

Starting about 12 months ago, my daughter and I voluntarily mucked stalls every Saturday morning at the farm.  I thought it would be best if she learned all aspects of caring for a horse.  For those of you who do not know what mucking is, it is the removal of the horse’s waste from their stall, shoveling it into a wheel barrow, and then dumping it into a bigger pile of manure, or a manure pit, located a short walking distance from the barn. Once the stalls (11 of them) are clean, new shavings are layered on the floor of the stall and the whole process gets repeated every day.

On one particular day, that I have so far unsuccessfully tried to erase from my memory, while attempting to dump a very large pile from a wheel barrow into the existing enormous pile, I lost my footing and fell in to the manure pit, up to my knees.  It had rained quite a bit the week before, so let’s just say the enormous manure pile had become extra ‘juicy’.  As I struggled to free myself from the pit, I could hear one of the men who lived on the farm say out loud: “Now that’s gross.”  When a lifelong farmer calls something gross, you know it’s gross. 

This past Easter Sunday, I got a text picture message from the owner of the farm. The picture was of Snuggles and her new, freshly birthed, baby colt.  The message underneath the picture said: “Look what I found this morning!” Snuggles had quietly given birth in the dark hours of Easter morning. No witnesses in attendance. Exactly how nature had intended.  The colt was impeccably clean and standing tall in the picture.  I immediately yelled for my daughter telling her that Snuggles’ baby colt had finally arrived at which my daughter burst into the happiest tears I have ever seen. We ran to the car, shouting to my husband and son to watch the turkey in the oven on our way out of the house.

I marveled at my daughter as I watched her approach her horse with her newly born baby.  She did so in such a lovingly maternal way, that it brought tears to MY eyes.  The colt was playful and unsteady and adorable. Unbelievable for a horse that was only 7 hours old. My daughter hugged her horse with so much affection and spoke softly to her saying: “What a good job you did”, “I am so proud of you” “I love you, Snugs”, over and over. What an education.

This town that I live in now, is my second home, it’s true.  I hate admitting it, but it’s true.  My first love will always be the town I grew up in. I have often thought that my kids were at a disadvantage growing up where we live now.  They don’t have a gaggle of kids who live on our street to play with and grow up with. No whiffle ball games in the middle of the street or lengthy games of tag or of hide and seek.  They can’t ride all around town on their bikes or walk to a fast food restaurant and meet up with whomever. I realized, after reflecting on the Easter birth, that maybe they are not as bad off as I think they are.

My children will keep their hometown in the hearts forever. This place will bring about that feeling of familiarity, safety and warmth for them as my town did for me.  I inched ever so slightly closer to being a country girl this past Sunday.  I’ll probably never go all the way, but something is better than nothing.

As it is with every season of spring, birth and rebirth abound.  As is with every Easter, new life will always be given.  As it is with every one of us, home will always be the place we return to.