A Part of the Sky

A Day No Pigs Would Die

Soup

Soup and Me

Soup for President

Soup’s Drum

Soup on Wheels

Soup in the Saddle

Soup’s Goat

Soup on Ice

Soup Ahoy

Soup 1776

1

“Robert,” he said, “thank you for coming on time.”

I smiled. “You can bank on me, Ben. Just as you could always count on my father.”

“Punctuality is a Vermont virtue. Perhaps our only.”

Mr. Benjamin Franklin Tanner, our neighbor, returned his watch to a pocket and held out a hand. Ben’s handshake was firm yet friendly. Together we walked toward Mr. Tanner’s freshly whitewashed horse barn.

“No school today?”

“Yes, but I don’t go too regular. I like school a lot. And my teachers. But we somehow got to keep our home. So the eighth grade can possible do without me.”

Mr. Tanner understood. My father, Haven Peck, died two weeks ago; I’d skipped school a few days
to work our farm, taking over for Mama and Aunt Carrie. Ben didn’t scold. I had choices to make. And made them.

We stopped in the long aisle outside a box stall where a stallion smell was male strong. It was seven o’clock on a May morning, so I had to squint to see beyond the stall bars. Inside, a powerful horse turned to stare at us. His name, neatly lettered on the gate shingle, read:

“This big gentleman might turn a lick frisky,” Ben warned, sliding the door a foot, “so best we don’t spook him. Easy boy,” he told his chesty gray.

“He’s right handsome,” I said. “Always is.”

General nickered.

Pulling a carrot from a shirt pocket, Ben Tanner snapped off a short orange log, offering the treat on his open palm. General Lee sniffed it, approved, lipped and munched. As he ate, Ben touched the stud’s massive neck with a cautious hand, then slipped a well-oiled halter over head and ears, fastening the buckle tongue to a snug but comfortable notch.

“Now then, Robert, let’s parade him out into the morning where I can see to check him over,
to certain that he’s sound. Mr. Haskell Gamp’s coming at ten o’clock and bringing a wet mare.”

We led General from his stall to a work area, a wide doorway that looked up to the main house.

“Here’ll do,” Ben told me.

Raising a hoof, General rapped the thick oak floor with his iron, making a hollow sound like a drum.

“Our friend knows something’s up.” Ben winked at me. “Perhaps he reckons he’s fixing to entertain a lady visitor. That’s the reason he wasn’t free in the meadow last night. I boxed him so he’d behave quieter.”

While I gripped the halter strap with a firm ten-finger purchase, Ben Tanner patted the gray withers, his hand floating softly and slowly, to inform General of his exact location and friendly intentions.

Bending low, he hefted a front hoof.

“Around any horse, Rob, be it familiar or strange, it’ll usual serve best to fetch up a front leg first. Even if you purpose to tend aft. Working with an animal’s brain saves time and sweat. A carrot’ll do ample more than a whip or a nose twitch.”

“Papa said such,” I agreed. “He killed hogs, but he had a gent’s way about him.”

Looking up at me, our neighbor offered a sad smile. “Indeed. I truly miss Haven Peck. So does Bess.”

It was sort of magical. Because hardly had Ben Tanner spoke his wife’s name, she appeared, walking toward us in a pink-and-white apron, carrying a glass of something in each hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Tanner,” I said, although I’d been told to use their first names.

“A morning to you, Rob,” she said with a smile. “Now, the pair of you, don’t start thinking you’re royalty. I’m cleaning out the cooler, and I happened to have two glasses of buttermilk in the way. So here you go. Partake.”

Ben downed his, I mine. It tasted rich and right restful. Bess wiped a corner of my mouth with a clean hanky and returned it to her apron pocket. As we handed our empty glasses to her, she took them with a wry face.

“The trouble with buttermilk,” she said, “is that the empty glass looks so untidy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

Ben nodded. We watched her amble back toward her kitchen, a dirty glass in each hand. Ben stood there holding his gray stallion until his wife disappeared inside the house. “At times,” he said
softly, “I treasure Bess so much that it’s all I can do to keep from letting her know it.”

He moved slowly to the stallion’s rear, maintaining contact, his shoulder brushing General’s furry flank. Winter was still thick on him, along with stall dust.

“How’s his hoofs?” I asked.

Stooping, Ben grunted. “Three appear solid. Now let’s handle number four.” Cradling the hoof between his knees, Ben used his thumbnail to chip off a few brown clods of dried mud. “Frog’s firm. The inside rim of the hoof feels soft and moist. That’s a blessing. Hard hoofs make a hard-hearted horse.” He paused. “But his shoe begs a reset.”

Ben left, returning with smithing tools. Under his armpit was a short fullering bar. In seconds, he loosened the problem shoe and pried it off. The iron fell clanking to the wood.

“Will we use a fire?” I asked.

“No need. Were I to attend him fresh footwear, I’d shoe hot. No other way.”

It made me almost grin to remember. Papa wouldn’t trust any farrier who would shoe cold. A mare was a lady who deserved warm slippers on her feet. I could hear Papa teaching me. I’d never forget any of his earthy reason. I carried his
lessons with me, hurting like a pebble in a boot that I’d never empty out.

Whack. Whack. Whack.

The noise of Ben Tanner’s hammer brought me back to where I was now standing, steadying my neighbor’s stallion.

Releasing the hoof, Ben straightened up slowly with a groan of age. “There,” he said, “he’s repaired. But before I twist off those nail points, cast your young eyes down yonder and lend me your opinion.”

As Ben held the halter, I squatted to raise the hoof. It felt solid set. Even all around. “Snug tight,” I said. Before rising, I discovered a few brown burdock burrs on General’s fetlock. Small ones. Placing my free hand on the pastern, to steady the leg, I eased off the burrs. Then I stood.

“Robert, you have a genuine touch for animals. That’s why I asked you to help me with my stud horse. You do possess a Peck manner. A quiet Shaker way.” Ben clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Never had I ever see a human being, man or boy, tame a pig the way you done last summer. That Pinky of yours, formerly mine, was close to a household pet.”

I nodded. “My mistake was giving her a name.”

“A shame you and your pa had to butcher Pinky. She was barren. Her end was a sorrow for you, Robert. Yet rightful and proper.” Ben sighed. “Manhood is doing what has to be done.”

Remembering that dreadful December day, I realized that Papa had also killed a part of himself. Ben knew all about it. Said so. He and Bess meant a lot more to me than just neighbors. I ached to thank him, but I never seemed to find the right words.

Before I could say anything, General Robert E. Lee tossed his mighty head twice, and rumbled his throat.

“This boy must’ve took a whiff of something he didn’t like,” Ben said. Looking at me sideways, he asked, “You been breakfasting to beans?”

Laughing, I pleaded innocent. “No, just some of Mama’s chicken giblet stew, spoon bread, vinegar, and turnips.”

“Hold him steady,” Ben said, “while I fuller that hoof to prosperity.”

Using tongs, he twisted off a silvery nail spike that was prickering up through the hoof, and bit off a second. He’d barely finished ironing when the stallion set to prancing his legs up and down, and I couldn’t manage to settle him.

“Whoa,” I whispered. “Whoa now, General.”

Ben stood. “Horse, what’s got into you? There’s not a bother of anything to smell.”

As he spoke, I sudden knew that Mr. Ben Tanner was dead wrong. Looking downroad, I spotted a horse and rider coming our way at a trot. I noted a bridle but no saddle; the horseman seemed to sit unsteady as he bounced along, feet pointing out on both flanks of the horse as though he weren’t too comfortable at riding. He rode stiff-legged.

“Somebody’s coming, Ben.”

The stallion wouldn’t hold still. He persisted his dancing, snorted, and shook his mane. His tail arched as he fluttered a louder noise in his throat. A bear of a sound.

“Hold him, Robert. Help me.”

It was hard to believe that somebody would actual ride a wet mare toward a stud. Yet this man rode closer, trying to contain his mount. It was a bay. A deep brown with a black mane and tail.

“Dang!” Ben spat. “It’s Haskell Gamp. That uppity man never could tell time, even if’n you painted a clock on his face. I particular asked him not to appear until ten o’clock, so’s I could afford General some extra oats and plenty of water to humor him down.”

When the mare nickered, trouble exploded.

There was no holding General Lee, now that he could see and hear a heated female he’d earlier caught wind of. Nostrils flaring, he reared high, boxing the air with his front hoofs. Ben tried to cling to the halter. His legs and my legs left the ground as I heard the halter snap. The gray stallion busted free.