Tis Wondrous Strange

Ain't all that great to be named after a cookie, you know, Shortbread grumbled to my daddy, his mournful face in a serious pout as he laid out fresh haddock in day old newspaper and efficiently tied it with a length of string. Some of them jokes get real old, real fast.

My daddy smiled.  

Nothing in a name, my friend, he replied kindly, handing Shortbread a quarter and and me the haddock, They wouldn't ride you if they didn't like you.

Mebbe so, Shortbread shrugged but he didn't look convinced.

He'd been, my daddy had told me, a premature baby, born barely alive and not expected to survive his first few days.  But survive he did, even without life saving treatment and all the best available medical help.  Ol' Doc McDaniel had been cautious with his parents, warning them not to expect a good outcome, to prepare themselves for the worst but Shortbread was a fighter - he made it through his first week, then his first month, then his first year - and though he was underweight and tiny and struggled harder than anyone could've predicted, he made it.

On his third birthday, he went missing for several hours and was discovered half underwater in the pond where we went eel fishing, waterlogged and nearly drowned.  

He was five when he fell through the rickety rungs of the loft ladder in the old hay barn and landed smack dab in a milking stall.  

Poor ol' Bessie went dry for three days, his mother confessed, Thought we'd lose'em both for awhile.

At six, he caught his arm clean up to the shoulder in a milking machine, at seven his daddy ran over him with a tractor, and at eight he contracted polio.  By then, beginning to believe that this small and adventurous child was invincible, his mother and daddy simply force fed him massive doses of vitamin C, wrapped his legs in hot packs and splints daily, gave him oatmeal baths and oxygen and re-taught him to walk with the aid of iron braces.  He was clumsy and awkward and would never run free again, but he survived, more or less intact and during the long days of that dreadful summer, the island women brought cakes and pies and homemade ice cream with shortbread cookies. 

Boy could eat his weight in them shortbread cookies, his daddy would say and smile, Reckon it could be worse.

After a rugged start, the years between eight and eighteen were relatively uneventful - two bouts of viral pneumonia, a broken upper limb here and there - the iron braces gave way to lighter weight and more flexible aluminum and with increased mobility, Shortbread was inclined to take more risks.  Snapped his elbow when he stumbled on the steps and tripped over the dog.  Dislocated a shoulder when he plowed straight into a ditch teaching himself to drive.  

Been through more broken bones than Carter's got pills, Rowena complained as she patched him up for the dozenth time, Boy, you ain't never gonna see twenty-one less'n you slow down some!

When a standard transmission turned out to be more than he could handle though, it was Rowena who suggested he learn to ride.  She had, as it turned out, a reasonably young mare who could still kick up her heels and knew tricks - how to count, and turn on a dime, and best of all, how to kneel to be mounted.  

Just a matter of balance, she told Shortbread patiently, She kneels, you get on.  She gets up and you go. You're lighter'n feather, boy, hug her sides with them braces and she'll carry you anywhere.

What's her name?  Shortbread asked doubtfully.

Rowena laughed.

That's the best part! she said and gave the mare a light pat on the rump, It's Lorna!  Like Lorna Doone! She might 'been named after a cookie just like you! She's got the same kinda stubborn streak you do!  You were made for each other!

It was, the entire island had to admit although not at the time, an inspired idea.  A lonely, young mare who could run like the wind and missed being ridden and a boy just slightly broken and in need of legs came together and became lifelong friends.  When my daddy and I left the factory and started across the road and up the path, Lorna was contentedly grazing in Aunt Lizzie's front yard.  Shortbread whistled and the now elder horse unhurriedly strolled toward him, knelt gracefully so he could climb on, and then rose up with a pleased whinny and a toss of her mane and carried him home.

Years and years later, Ruthie wrote me about Lorna's death.

Nigh onto 28 she was, the letter read, and she jist laid down in the pasture one evenin and didnt get up again. We cant imagin whats to become of Shortbread.

The second letter arrived a few months later.

Shortbread died yesterday mornin, Ruthie wrote, Rowena done found him down in the back forty by the hangin tree where he buried Lorna.  He werent never the same after losin that mare and Ro thinks he jist give up. 
Funny thing is that crooked ol man-tree be more n a half mile from the house and we looked all over creation but aint nobody found his braces. Somes sayin Lorna come back fer one last ride on account of Shad swearin he heard hoofbeats round dawn but I reckon he pitched em and they was carried out by the tide mebbe but even so I been thinkin bout that Shakespeare verse we learnt in Bible school, the one about there bein more things in heaven and earth, you remember, "Tis wondrous strange" or some such.  Reckon theres things in this life we aint meant to know.

I think so too.