THIRD WRITING PRIZE WINNER –
WINTER 2021-2022
is Kate Hawkes
of Sedona, Arizona – USA
FOALING SEASON
By Kate Hawkes
The old black thoroughbred stallion lived in a gumtree-ringed, deep-sand paddock with a corrugated tin shed and a wooden manger, a freshwater trough, and a wonderful view. I know that it is anthropomorphizing to say this, and my father would point it out to me, but I am sure Saul appreciated that view.
Whenever I went to visit the thoroughbred and cattle property in Victoria, I always made time to go and visit that horse. We’d stand quietly, almost side-by-side, me on my side of the electric fence and he on the other, and after a brief nod to each other—I didn’t have the courage to risk putting my hand through that fence—look out across the green pasture and down the lane where the yearlings cavorted.
Some years, there were up to fifteen of them, growing into their legs and trying out their speed in short bursts. They barely seemed to interest this grand old man. He still had a mare or two, and always came through, gentlemanly, efficient and one hundred percent successful, but he didn’t need the action anymore.
The only time he crossed the sand to greet anyone was when my father came down to the yard just beyond the house. Sometimes it was with feed, or to lead one of those dancing youngsters up to the house yards. More often, in the last six months, it was for a walk, to see if the koalas were still in the big red gum, to admire the new grass after the first rain of autumn, or to listen to the many birds that lived in and around the river and surrounding land. But he always stopped to say hello, and the horse always came over.
I was living in the United States when he arrived, this fine new stallion with which my father planned to build his dream of breeding the best racehorse he could, maybe even a Melbourne Cup winner. Glossy pictures, and later, digital images of this handsome horse crossed the ocean; and while I bred Arabians and had a sexy little chestnut stallion of that breed, this big black horse effortlessly commanded my respect and awe.
1.
I had grown up with horses, working cattle, riding miles over the property on school holidays, and later helping with breeding and breaking in. Only then, it was Arabs, and that was what I stayed with. But there were always thoroughbreds in my family and with it that essential optimism in the face of seemingly non-stop setbacks and disappointments. I am an optimist myself, but never tested the depth of that gift in the thoroughbred industry.
The first thoroughbred I can remember was a big red horse in my grandfather’s huge wooden round-yard when I was maybe eight or so. I can’t remember his name, but I do remember being told not to go in with him, even though there were other horses I helped with and even a pony to ride when I went there.
I stood right up against the rubbed-shiny railings, as twisted as the gumtree limbs from which they were made, and let the smell and the dirt he kicked up as he went by wash over me. It was thrilling in a scary way. I am sure that I have seen pictures of that same horse enshrined in the photos of horses charging past the finishing post, his neck stretched out in front of whoever was behind.
Even after he left that property, my grandfather always had a racehorse or two. My aunt and uncle trained racehorses very successfully for many years. And I had a boyfriend who was keen on racing, and sometimes, at least when we were together, I went to the races.
But I never got what all the fuss was about. It seemed very risky to me, and I didn’t like betting. (I have other ways to lose my money!) When my father, years after I had grown and moved to the states, dove into thoroughbreds, it was more for the breeding. Of course, if you are a breeder, you need winners; thus, it’s pretty much the same thing, just a different entry point.
I would come back every three-to-four years, and the convoluted names and lines of breeding, the numbers of horses filling up the place—neatly separated by age, gender, stage, and potential—increased almost maniacally. Books and magazines, newspapers and photos, a few trophies and other objects sitting on sideboards and bookcases multiplied. Two more stallions joined the big black horse, each a different line, bringing new hope, a slightly new angle into the dream.
2.
I don’t remember all the horses or any of the bloodlines, or where each of the items of recognition came from. I do remember how my father’s sheer enthusiasm and hard work drew me in, carrying me along into the marvelous future, and the belief that this time, this stallion, this mare, this trainer, this race would be what we had been waiting for, what he had been working toward.
When I was there, driving out to a pasture, leading a mare, or admiring a new foal, surrounded by all those beautiful horses, in that rich Victorian river land, I forgot why I didn’t like racing. Under the spell of my father’s knowledge, his whirring mind embracing the game, and his genuine love of the horses, all I saw was great hope, a magnificent dream, and the incredibly hard work.
He didn’t believe in God or have a particular religion. But he had faith. Faith in the land, birds, animals, and the possibility of hard work alone. He struggled to be practical when in his heart he was a dreamer. Inspired by ideas, enthused by stories, and powered by an inherent optimism and delight in life itself.
Most of all, he loved the horses, even when they were eating every penny, providing the local vet with more work than he could handle, when the time and effort necessary was 24/7, when he could hardly make the short walk to the yard where the old black thoroughbred lived.
I have watched replays of horses who were galloped until their front legs snapped; I have seen horses, rail-thin, in muddy yards with dilapidated horse trailers in the corner; I have attended sales where horses went through simply as dollar signs—as few as possible out against all the potential possible dollars in.
I have also pushed back a great swell of tears as I witnessed a horse miraculously make it past the line of horses in front as it rounded the turn until its nose bobbed first across that magic line. I have laughed at a field of foals dancing around their shining-coated mothers under huge gumtrees on green carpets of grass. I have seen a man lean on a fence railing and simply watch the horses in front of him, for a moment not counting money in and out or dreaming, but just marveling.
However, it wasn’t until I spent eight weeks at the property with my father and his horsewoman wife that I really got what these horses meant to my family. Much of that time was the foaling season. Twelve foals were born, always in the middle of the night, often needing assistance, while my father was dying.
3.
She and I would go out in the night, and for a while, we could tell him the next morning what we had been doing. His face would light up and there would be a discussion about how the foal’s legs looked, what its full brother or sister had done, or a possible name.
One week we were keeping a foal alive, encouraging it to drink often enough and long enough to gain strength enough to keep itself alive, while at the same time the man in the house was becoming less and less interested in food and the world outside.
Later he couldn’t know. The foal alarm would go off, the lights in the house would come on, and the two of us would troop out in the rain or fog. And he’d sleep through it, blissfully released from the pain of cancer that was slowly taking him further and further away.
I remember the last time I went with my father to see Saul. It took him a long time to walk which used to take just a few minutes. I had been trying to interest him in what was happening in the place—the dogs, the birds, the garden. It was hard for both of us. I said, “Let’s go down and see Saul.” And he agreed.
We walked. It wasn’t far. But it was for a man whose strength was fading and whose heart was sad. We did it. I had to slow my pace and reduce the length of my steps when I used to have to lengthen them. Then I’d speed up my stride almost to a trot to keep up with him.
We had to walk through some yards, just before the electric fence that kept Saul’s world the haven it was. It was muddier than I had expected, and I was anxious my father would lose his balance, but I knew better than to reach out to take his arm. He clearly wanted to go back. This was taking far more effort than either of us had imagined.
However, the stubbornness of a man who had leapt into the thoroughbred industry at an age when many were quitting it, kept him moving forward. That and the horse standing in the deep-sand yard, his head turned away from us, watching the view.
As we approached the fence, having somehow made it safely across the muddy yard, my father raised his head, the light came back into his eyes, and a smile, ghostlike, crossed his face. He even quickened his step, and suddenly he spoke, “Saul.” He sounded like he had always sounded. The tenor, volume, confidence, and warmth, are all there. Saul turned and slowly came over as he always did. Not hurrying, but sure and steady–wins the race.
`The two of them stood side-by-side with the electric fence barely between them, and my father, without thinking, with all his old confidence, reached through the fence and rubbed the old horse’s nose. I stood back. This was their meeting as it had always been.
Softly lit in the coming spring sun, these grand old gentlemen didn’t need to talk. It may have been a goodbye, although as neither of them was at all sentimental, probably not. Simply two old friends saying hello as they had for years. I was honored to observe it.
4.
Throughout my life, and still, as I ride and care for the horses I have now, the horse has been both a means to an end and a friend. The thoroughbreds that filled my father’s last property and dominated his life became more than that, I think. They were, maybe, a mirror of his life.
Watching the first two long soft hooves, knotted together in a neat bundle, pressed against the long nose and long-lashed eyes, emerge from the mare, always triggered a smile. As cold as it might be, the night mist hanging about us, through the anxiety as we waited for the foal to stand and the mare to nuzzle it firmly to her, for it to take that first drink, the miracle of birth never failed to warm our hearts and, at least temporarily, even our feet and hands.
Each wide-bodied mare with legs bearing the stress bumps of a few years on the racetrack, each gawky, awkward-looking weanling had begun this way. Each of the younger stallions, shining in the sun, curious and alert to every coming and going on the place, almost bursting with their energy and power that seemed to radiate everlasting life—they had all struggled into the world the same way.
Those younger bloods will become like that old stallion, standing quietly in his special paddock, removed from the day-to-day activities both by geography as well as dwindling energy. But when I looked at Saul, I saw that the years of wisdom and experience saving him from wasted shouting and dancing also surrounded him in an aura of forever. He may not always be there, but the stories he had given us, the pictures in the thoroughbred books, and his offspring would endure as his legacy.
Along with watching foals being born and Saul quietly regarding the scene before him, I also observed my father. He was no longer at the physical center of the activities that continued. Horses need to be fed; foals will be born; mares have to be served on time. But everything we did during that time bore the imprint of my father’s experience and delight in the horses.
I realized that just as these horses, with their potential for bringing to fruition some of the greatest dreams we can imagine, inspire us to keep working and keep dreaming, so do our parents.
How many of my life choices have been shaped by my father’s life and to what extent is my attitude toward life’s ups and downs informed by his example? I don’t know. I do know that a large part of that influence was the encouragement to go out and be myself. He may not agree with or understand me, but he enjoined the debate with love and enthusiasm for my individuality.
The horses, with all their complicated bloodlines, careful feeding and preparation regimes, were each their own beings. Living with them for years, withstanding the disappointments and committing every penny to their care, in return for what was often little, if anything, of a tangible nature, can do one of two things.
You can become bitter and lose your joy, constantly seeking to blame someone or something for why it didn’t work out, or you can celebrate the glorious moments that the unique character of each horse, in this business, gives you.
For my father, I think the vicissitudes of the thoroughbred world in many ways reflected and even validated his approach to life. Seize the moment, celebrate the small victories, persevere with the dreams and hopes, get dirty and work harder than you think you can. Take the time to simply watch, in wonder and in awe, the life that is embodied in the horse before you. This gift from my father has served me well. The morning Dad died, one more foal was born. His stable name is, of course, Bob.
5.
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About the author:
Originally from Australia, Kate holds degrees in Education, Counseling, and an MFA in Directing. She has worked professionally in all aspects of theatre for over 40 years, including management and arts in healthcare. In Oregon, she taught in the theatre department of a liberal arts college for 18 years, founded an arts in healthcare company focusing on storytelling and performance, and was Artistic Associate at a professional theatre company.
In Arizona, Kate is co-founder/Producing Artistic Director of Red Earth Theatre (Sedona) as well as directing many of their productions. As a Director of more than 50 shows over the years – readings, full productions, classics, new works, and collaborative endeavors – there are no favorites!
As an actress, my favorite roles include Medea (Medea), Evy (The Gingerbread Lady), Dysart (Equus), Dian (Escape from Happiness), Artie (Eleemosynary), Latrelle (Sordid Lives), and Monique (Sky…Diamonds).
A playwright, her work includes Loplop and the Queen about Surrealist artists Max` Ernst and Dorothea Tanning; the award-winning Sky…Diamonds, exploring a family’s experience of Alzheimer’s; Ungodly Behavior, a retelling of the Demeter/Persephone story; and Walking On Butterfly Wings. She has also had numerous 10-minute plays for young audiences produced.
Kate recently ventured into the world of screenwriting with some early encouraging results. She developed Performing Wellness™ and offers workshops tailored for individuals or groups. She regularly facilitates writing workshops for veterans at the VA.
Balancing all this creative endeavor is her passion for the outdoors as a horsewoman, hot-spring lover, and trail runner.
