Roadkill Commentary - Amish Auction

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J.C. Milliman
April mud

I've always had a thing for blondes.

Ask my wife.

Not that she's blonde, but she did approve of a relationship I had with a couple of them when we were stationed in Hawai'i. In a land of Polynesian beauties, there I was hanging out with a couple of tall, blonde Europeans. Just too cool.

Then there were two here in Southern Maryland a couple of years ago. Sadie and Sarah. Ahhhh. Is she a great wife or what? And then, this past weekend, two more caught my eye up in Charlotte Hall. Tall, well-built - they were just right. Maybe a little young, but I could deal with that. Their probable inexperience wasn't all bad, though. All that really means is that I could put the finishing touches on them myself and train them up just the way I think they should be.

Did I mention they were tall?

As I eyed them, I figured they were about 18 hands. And even though they weren't quite mature yet, I was thinking they could go about 2,500 pounds each before they were done filling out. Of course I'm talking about draft horses (Belgians, to be exact). Why, what did you think I was talking about?

You can have your Percherons, Shires, Clydes and Suffolks - it's Belgians for me. So there I was, at an Amish auction Saturday morning, slogging around a very sloppy, muddy barnyard with a bunch of other farmers. Good thing I brought my rubber boots along. Mostly, the crowd was Amish and Mennonite farmers, many of whom I know to varying degree. There were a few "English" like myself there, too. We were all there mostly to socialize, but also to see what was there and possibly even come home with a needed farm "prize."

I hadn't really thought much about going, even when I read the flyer posted at the feed mill. I pretty much have everything I need to make my Christmas tree farm go, but it's fun to see the stuff. And when my Mennonite neighbors expressed a desire to go (it's a loooooong buggy ride from Oakville) and ride with me, well that was it.

We got there about 45 minutes before the auction was to start and found ourselves in line to park - a collection of farm vehicles, both horseless and horse-drawn. The former out numbered by the latter, but all muddy. Soon, we found an island of firm ground in the sea of mud to stash the truck where it hopefully wouldn't sink or get stuck when it came time to leave.

Squishing my way through the rain-loosened quagmire (being it is a farm, you probably don't want to know the exact composition of the mud), I made my way between rows of horse-drawn implements, gas-powered clothes washers, hydraulic posthole augers and other neat stuff. But it was the barn that drew me like a gnat to a night light. And that's where I saw them.

The horse sale barn, no matter where the auction is, always attracts the diehard horse crazies. The horses themselves, oddly enough, don't seem to mind the small crowd eying them and occasionally prodding them here or lifting a hoof there (you always have to inspect an auction horse's feet - no hoof, no horse, you know). They pretty much just stood there placidly, waiting on both a hay snack and their fate to unfold. And the two on the end were just absolutely stunning. A lot of the Belgians you see in the County are hard workers who aren't always groomed to show standards. And that's okay - the farmers using them instead of tractors don't really care what they look like as long as they work well and hard.

But these two Belgians were blondes (most are sorrels, roans or bays), groomed well, leggy, large hooved and were going to make an impressive team - if they sold together (two-times the money). Once again, I was smitten. And Peggy had even made the mistake of giving me the chequebook that morning!

All my best efforts at self-control failed miserably and quickly. As if inexorably drawn by some Star Trek-esque tractor beam, I found myself transported from the barn door to a spot right in front of them. I couldn't help but think their eyes were hopeful as they looked down into mine.

The Standardbred next to them nudged me in the back, as if to say "Hey buddy, forget about them. Take me home." Being a life-long horse owner/lover, I knew he was really checking me over for carrots. Cute or not, he was still a Standardbred so I ignored him.

I just stood there like an idiot (well, maybe I am an idiot…) trading stares with the two Belgian brothers, my brain racing with thoughts of hayrides, walking plows and all the other fun things I could do.

My friend Nathaniel, standing nearby, shot a couple of questions in German to the young Mennonite lady tending the sale horses. They were brothers, 3 and 4 years old, green broke to harness and quiet. Oh the possibilities! I knew I was heading into dangerous waters, the kind the charts show as "uncharted shoals." Only I knew were the rocks and ledges are. The rocks I know as "stall mucking" and the ledges are represented by the lack of a life we horse owners "enjoy" from being tied to horse chores twice a day. Oh sure, the joys of horse ownership outweigh the drudgery (mostly…) but did I want to jump right back in so fast?

Reason quietly reasserted itself in my consciousness and spun it back down.

As painful as it was, I said my goodbyes to the boys and bade them good luck - a working life awaits wherever they're likely to go. Days filled with creaking harness and heavy loads, plows and wagons, rakes and threshers. I don't feel sorry for them, as that's not necessarily a bad fate, though, if my neighbor's team is any indication. Each morning he works them he takes a few rounds to settle them down and get their minds "in the groove." They're truly happy, like any professional, to get to do that which they're good at and sometimes they're a little excited when they get to do their thing.

Alas, but not with me. They won't do it with me.

I slogged back through the mud to the truck, still perched on its island, without looking back. The sun started poking through the overcast as Mel, the auctioneer, kicked off the festivities. I listened for a while to his sing-song pitch before kicking Mr. Cummins to take me home.

Other than Mr. Cummins' steady growl, it was a silent ride home.

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