Where the Arrow Points to the Rainbow: Part III

Jan Jan Johanson owned a small dairy farm in Wisconsin, just across the Illinois border.
Like most small farmers, he was gradually sinking into the quicksand of debt and it was his job with the railroad that kept him afloat. I can't quite recall whether he was a conductor or what.
I think he was more or less in charge of the tiny Illinois Central station at Englewood, Illinois, about a 30 minute train ride from the Chicago loop.

I don't know how he knew my father, but they were pals of some kind. Maybe Army buddies. Maybe jail mates.

Jan would stop by our place for a coffee or a beer from time to time and always brought a little something for each of us kids -- piece of candy or something like that.
And he always called me "Best."

"Where's Best?" he'd ask. "There he is. Come one over here, Best. How'd you get to be such a good kid, huh? You're the best boy I know." And so on.

That may not seem like a very big deal.
But when people beat the shit out of you every day and tell you what a rotten, worthless bastard you are, having someone express such a different opinion --- well, there aren’t really any words that can describe it.
Remembering his kindness, even now, I can feel my eyes start to tear up.
Can't help it.

At least one time, probably several times, we visited Jan's farm. My dad did some work for him, I think. Worked on his tractor, maybe. My dad was good with machines.
Too bad I hadn't been one.

When Jan Johanson lifted me up onto the back of one of his horses, it was a delight for the senses: the sounds (creak of leather, thud of a hoof stomping away a fly, swish of tail, muted nickering – like a horse chuckle); the smells, (saddle soap. horse sweat, fresh hay, manure); the feelings (hard saddle seat, cool gust of wind rippling my shirt, hot sun on my back) the sights (horse’s ears like the front sight of a giant pistol, people looking smaller and less powerful from way up on horseback, and being so high up I could see farther than even the adults); and the taste --- the taste of freedom.

At some time or other, Jan was in the saddle and I rode on his lap. The reins ran through my tiny hands, wrapped inside his huge, gnarled paws, so that he could pretend it was I who was doing the riding.
"Ask him to go this way, Best, look over there..." and we went. "Ask him to trot, Best," and he brought us up to a trot for me. "That's the way! How'd you learn to ride a horse so good, Best?"

We cantered, too. It's an exquisite feeling, hips rolling forward and back in synch with that triplette hoofbeat, wind thundering in your ears, horsemane flying.
It can take you beyond mere time and space.
Way beyond.

One Christmas, I got a special present from Jan.
It was a toy horse, like a rocking horse, only suspended by four heavy springs. A golden pony with a white mane and tail.. I spent every waking moment I could on that plastic palamino -- and I’m told I would often climb on her clad in cowboy hat and jammies and go to sleep in the saddle.

Those are about the only good memories I have from my childhood.
Most of it is a blur of abuse, one day indistinguishable from another, and I’m sure I’ve buried it to avoid remembering, the way you’ll black out when pain is too great to bear. But these good memories, I don’t know.
Maybe I hid them away so no one could take them from me.
Going to the horsebarn for Casey’s birthday brought them back where I could find them.

And it brought back another horse memory, too…


(TO BE CONTINUED)