One morning, we found him perched with his good wing extended, the crippled one quivering helplessly. All day he remained in this position, a piteous rasping cry coming from his throat. Finally we saw what was troubling him: High in the sky over his pen, another red-tail hovered.
His mate? I wondered. How could it be? We were at least thirty miles from where we'd found Hawkins, far beyond a hawk's normal range. Had his mate somehow followed him here? Or through some secret of nature, far beyond our understanding, did she simply know where he was?
"What will she do when she realizes he can't fly?" Scott asked.
"I imagine she'll get discouraged and leave," I said sadly. "We'll just have to wait and see."
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Our wait was brief. The next morning, Hawkins was gone. A few broken feathers and bits of down littered his pensilent clues to a desperate struggle.
Questions tormented us. How did he get out? The only possibility was that he'd simply pulled himself six feet up the fence, grasping the wire first with his beak, then his one good claw. Next he must have fallen ten feet to the ground.
How would he survive? He couldn't hunt. Clinging to his perch and a strip of meat at the same time with one claw had proven nearly impossible. What about the coyotes and bobcats? Our crippled hawk would be easy prey. We were heartsick.
A week later, however, there was Hawkins perched on the log pile by our kitchen door. His eyes gleamed with a brightness I'd never seen before. And his beak was open! ''He's hungry!" I shouted. The bird snatched a package of bologna from Scott's hand and ate greedily.
Finished, Hawkins hopped awkwardly to the ground and prepared to leave. We watched as he lunged, floated and crashed in short hops across the pasture, one wing flapping mightily, the other a useless burden. Journeying in front of him, his mate swooped back and forth, scolding and whistling her encouragement until he reached the temporary safety of a mesquite grove.
Hawkins returned to be fed throughout the spring. Then one day, instead of taking his food, he shrank back, an unfamiliar squawk coming from his throat. We talked to him softly like we used to do, but suddenly he struck out with his beak. The hawk that had trusted us for nearly a year was now afraid. I knew he was ready to return to the wild.
As the years passed, we occasionally saw a lone red-tail gliding across our pastures, and my heart would leap with hope. Had Hawkins somehow survived? And if he hadn't, was it worth the try to keep him alive as we did?
Nine years later, when Scott was twenty-three, he met
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an old friend in Phoenix, who had lived near our ranch. "You won't believe this, Scott," he said, "but I think I saw your hawk roosting in a scrub oak down by the wash when I was home for Christmas. He was all beat up, broken wing just like Hawkins."
"You gotta go take a look, Mom."
The next day I drove north until the dirt roads became zigzagging cattle trails and finally no trails at all. When a barricade of thorny mesquite trees and wild rose bushes stopped me, it was time to walk. Finally an opening through the maze led me down to a twisting, sandy river bed; a paradise for lizards, toads, tarantulas, snakes and small rodents of the desert. It was also an ideal feeding ground for a hawk.
Flanked by the spiny overgrowth on the banks above, I walked for hours, but saw no trace of Hawkins. But hope plays such tricks on the eyes, ears and mind, I confess there were moments when the rustling of leaves, the clumps of mistletoe swaying on high branches and the shifting shadows against gnarled tree trunks both kindled my fantasies and snuffed them out in a single second. Finding him was too much to hope for.
It was getting cold when I sensed I was being watched. All of a sudden, I was looking straight into the eyes of a large female red-tail. Roosting in a mesquite less than fifteen feet away, she was perfectly camouflaged by the autumn foliage surrounding her.
Could this magnificent creature have been Hawkins's mate? I wondered. I wanted so much to believe she was, to tell Scott I had seen the bird that had cared for her mate, scavenged for his food and kept him safe. But how could I be sure?
Then I saw him!
On a low branch, beneath the great dark shadow of the larger bird, hunched a tattered little hawk. When I saw the
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crooked wing, the proud bald head and withered claw, my eyes welled with tears. This was a magic moment: a time to reflect on the power of hope. A time to pray for the boy with a gun. A time to bless the boy who had faith.
Alone in this wild, unaltered place, I learned the power of believing, for I had witnessed a miracle.
"Hawkins," I murmured, longing to stroke the ragged feathers, but daring only to circle around him. "Is it really you?"
Like a silent echo my answer came when the yellow eyes followed my footsteps until he was looking at me backward, and the last rays of sunlight danced on one red feather.
Then, finally, I knewand, best of all, my son would know. It had been worth the try.
Penny Porter
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Albert
I am only one, but still I am one; I cannot do everything; but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
Edward Everett Hale
Working in a hospital with recent stroke patients was an all-or-nothing proposition. They were usually so grateful to be alive or just wanted to die. A quick glance told all.
Albert taught me much about strokes.
One afternoon while making rounds I'd met him, curled in a fetal position. A pale, dried-up old man with a look of death, head half-buried under a blanket. He didn't budge when I introduced myself, and he said nothing when I referred to dinner "soon."
At the nurse's station, an attendant provided some history. He had no one. He'd lived too long. Wife of thirty years dead, five sons gone.
Well, maybe I could help. A chunky but pretty divorced nurse avoiding the male population outside of work, I could satisfy a need. I flirted.
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The next day I wore a dress, not my usual nursing uniform but white. No lights on. Curtains drawn.
Albert hollered at the staff to get out. I pulled a chair close to his bed, crossing my shapely legs, head tilted. I gave him a perfect smile.
"Leave me. I want to die."
"What a crime, all us single women out there."
He looked annoyed. I rambled on about how I liked working "rehab" unit because I got to watch people reach their maximum potential. It was a place of possibilities. He said nothing.
Two days later during shift report, I learned that Albert had asked when I'd be "on." The charge nurse referred to him as my "boyfriend" and word got around. I never argued. Outside his room, I'd tell others not to bother "my Albert."
Soon he agreed to "dangle," sit on the side of the bed to build up sitting tolerance, energy and balance. He agreed to "work" with physical therapy if I'd return "to talk."
Two months later, Albert was on a walker. By the third month, he'd progressed to a cane. Fridays we celebrated discharges with a barbecue. Albert and I danced to Edith Piaf. He wasn't graceful, but he was leading. Tear-streaked cheeks touched as we bade our good-byes.
Periodically roses, mums and sweet peas would turn up. He was gardening again.
Then one afternoon, a lovely lavender-clad woman came on the unit demanding "that hussy."
My supervisor called; I was in the middle of giving a bed bath.
"So you're the one! The woman who reminded my Albert that he's a man!" Her head tilted in full smile as she handed me a wedding invitation.
Magi Hart
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The Racking Horse
The first time Bart told me about his horse, Dude, I knew their bond had been something special. But I never suspected Dude would deliver a wonderful gift to me.
Growing up on a one-hundred-year-old family farm in Tennessee, Bart loved all animals. But Dude, the chestnut-colored quarter horse Bart received when
he turned nine, became his favorite. Years later when Bart's father sold Dude, Bart grieved in secret.
Even before I met and married Bart, I knew all about grieving in secret, too. Because of my dad's job, our family relocated every year. Deep inside, I wished we could stay in one place, where I could have deep, lasting friendships. But I never said anything to my parents. I didn't want to hurt them. Yet sometimes I wondered if even God could keep track of us.
One summer evening in 1987, as Bart and I glided on our front porch swing, my husband suddenly blurted out, "Did I ever tell you that Dude won the World Racking Horse Championship?"
"Rocking horse championship?" I asked.
"Racking," Bart corrected, smiling gently. "It's a kind of dancing horses do. Takes lots of training. You use four
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reins. It's pretty hard." Bart gazed at the pasture. "Dude was the greatest racking horse ever."
"Then why'd you let your dad sell him?" I probed.
"I didn't know he was even thinking about it," Bart explained. "When I was seventeen, I'd started a short construction job down in Florida. I guess Dad figured I wouldn't be riding anymore, so he sold Dude without even asking me. Running a horse farm means you buy and sell horses all the time.
"I've always wondered if that horse missed me as much as I've missed him. I've never had the heart to try to find him. I couldn't stand knowing if something bad. . . ."
Bart's voice trailed off.
After that, few nights passed without Bart mentioning Dude. My heart ached for him. I didn't know what to do. Then one afternoon while I walked through the pasture, a strange thought came to me. In my heart, a quiet voice said, "Lori, find Dude for Bart."
How absurd! I thought. I knew nothing about horses, certainly not how to find and buy one. That was Bart's department.
The harder I tried to dismiss the thought, the stronger it grew. I did not dare mention it to anyone except God. Each day I asked him to guide me.
On a Saturday morning, three weeks after that first "find Dude" notion, a new meter reader, Mr. Parker, stopped by while I was working in the garden. We struck up a friendly conversation. When he mentioned he'd once bought a horse from Bart's dad, I interrupted.
"You remember the horse's name?" I asked.
"Sure do," Mr. Parker said. "Dude. Paid twenty-five hundred dollars for him."
I wiped the dirt from my hands and jumped up, barely catching my breath.
"Do you know what happened to him?" I asked.
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"Yep. I sold him for a good profit."
"Where's Dude now?" I asked. "I need to find him."
"That'd be impossible," Mr. Parker explained. "I sold that horse years ago. He might even be dead by now."
"But could you . . . would you be willing to try to help me find him?" After I explained the situation, Mr. Parker stared at me for several seconds. Finally, he agreed to join the search for Dude, promising not to say anything to Bart.
Each Friday for almost a year, I phoned Mr. Parker to see if his sleuthing had turned up anything. Each week his answer was the same. "Sorry, nothing yet."
One Friday I called Mr. Parker with another idea. "Could you at least find one of Dude's babies for me?"
"Don't think so," he said, laughing. "Dude was a gelding."
"That's fine," I said. "I'll take a gelding baby."
"You really do need help." Mr. Parker explained that geldings are unable to sire. He seemed to double his efforts to help. Several weeks later, he phoned me on a Monday.
"I found him," he shouted. "I found Dude."
"Where?" I wanted to jump through the phone.
"On a farm in Georgia," Mr. Parker said. "A family bought Dude for their teenage son. But they can't do anything with the horse. In fact, they think Dude's crazy. Maybe dangerous. Bet you could get him back real easy."
Mr. Parker was right. I called the family in Rising Fawn, Georgia, and made arrangements to buy Dude back for three hundred dollars. I struggled to keep my secret until the weekend. On Friday, I met Bart at the front door after work.
"Will you go for a ride with me?" I asked in my most persuasive voice. "I have a surprise for you."
"Honey," Bart protested, "I'm tired."
"Please, Bart, I've packed a picnic supper. It'll be worth the ride. I promise."
Bart got into the Jeep. As I drove, my heart thumped so fast I thought it'd burst as I chatted about family matters.
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"Where are we going?" Bart asked after thirty minutes.
"Just a bit farther," I said.
Bart sighed. "Honey, I love you. But I can't believe I let you drag me off."
I didn't defend myself. I'd waited too long to ruin things now. However, by the time I steered off the main highway and onto a gravel road, Bart was so aggravated that he wasn't speaking to me. When I turned from the gravel road to a dirt trail, Bart glared.
"We're here," I said, stopping in front of the third fence post.
"Here where? Lori, have you lost your mind?" Bart barked.
"Stop yelling," I said. "Whistle."
"What?" Bart shouted.
"Whistle," I repeated. "Like you used to . . . for Dude . . . just whistle. You'll understand in a minute."
"Well . . . I . . . this is crazy," Bart sputtered as he got out of the Jeep.
Bart whistled. Nothing happened.
"Oh, God," I whispered, "don't let this be a mistake."
"Do it again," I prodded.
Bart whistled once more, and we heard a sound in the distance. What was it? I could barely breathe.
Bart whistled again. Suddenly, over the horizon, a horse came at a gallop. Before I could speak, Bart leapt over the fence.
"Dude!" he yelled, running towards his beloved friend. I watched the blur of horse and husband meet like one of those slow-motion reunion scenes on television. Bart hopped up on his pal, stroking his mane and patting his neck.
Immediately, a sandy-haired, tobacco-chewing teenage boy and his huffing parents crested the hill.
"Mister," the boy yelled. "What are you doing? That
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horse is crazy. Can't nobody do nothing with 'im."
"No," Bart boomed. "He's not crazy. He's Dude."
To the amazement of everyone, at Bart's soft command to the unbridled horse, Dude threw his head high and began racking. As the horse pranced through the pasture, no one spoke. When Dude finished dancing for joy, Bart slid off of him.
"I want Dude home," he said.
"I know," I said with tears in my eyes. "All the arrangements have been made. We can come back and get him."
"Nope," Bart insisted. "He's coming home tonight."
I phoned my in-laws, and they arrived with a horse trailer. We paid for Dude and headed home.