Every Wednesday morning I drive my son Caleb 
to our local CSA farm so he can pull weeds and harvest veggies. 

This he does grudgingly as a barter for our weekly share of veggies. 
We head out around 7:30am, bleary-eyed, a cup of coffee under our belts.

I smile as we head down our hill. 

 Brooklyn Valley rests at the bottom of our hill.  
It is green and lush on this mid-summer morning,
 and clouds of morning mist rise from the rolling hills 
reminiscent of Appalachia. 

Truly a postcard-picture with the small white church nestled 
in the nook of the valley and the red barn on 
the side of the hill surrounded by contently grazing cows.

Turning down County Rd 12 heading toward the farm, 
we drive through a small Amish community. 

 The first homestead is already awake: 
a small fire has been built outside and I spy 5 sheep lazing 
outside the worn barn, chewing contentedly, framed by the thin white smoke.

 An Amish man is carrying buckets to bring to his cows 
who are waiting eagerly in the adjoining field. 
He is dressed in customary blue, straw hat placed neatly on his thick hair, and he nods in friendly acknowledgement as we pass.  

I scan the roadside in anticipation as we near the bend up ahead.  

Every week on our journey to the farm we pass him, 
rain or shine, 
so I'm sure to be vigilant as we approach the curves.  

We rumble over the metal-deck bridge 
and I spy him just ahead: 
a boy of about 11 atop a beautiful black horse,
 galloping down the road with one hand behind him cowboy-style. 

My heart never fails to brighten at this sight. 

 I pass slowly and give him a wide girth.  
I can imagine how different his journey down this country road is from ours.  The misty morning air in his face, 
the smell of the woodsmoke from the fire down the road, 
the obvious joy of riding his companion -
 one hand lifted jauntily behind his back.  

What is it in me that is stirred- always -by this sight?  

It is not uncommon around these parts to hear 
the clip-clop of horses hooves or see a buggy pass by.  
In fact, it surely is a daily occurrence if traveling from point A to point B. 

Some say it is a reminder of simpler times, yes. 
But, I also believe it is something more. 

It stirs a memory of a past we have long forgotten
 but still hold on a cellular level. 
Deeply.
 In our very bones. 
It reminds us of all that we have lost in our quest for more. 

I drop Caleb off and drive back the way we came. 
 The boy is still galloping up the road and this time I am heading toward him. 
 I can see his wide smile as I rumble by (embarrassed) 
in my gas-guzzling Honda Pilot.
 He gives his horse's rump a little slap for effect and I hear him say "Haw!"

I thank him silently for the gift he unknowingly gives me every week. 

~ j