Life is complicated

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Barney

Life can be, shall we say, interesting at times. No more so than when a person is thrust into a situation where they have little control over what is happening around them. For me, that is an especially hard task, as anyone who knows me well, knows I like being in control of my life.

Being dropped into a situation where I was 8 times zones away from home, in familiar but different surroundings. Barely understanding a language, that in the past I was fairly competent understanding, in a similar, but different culture. Surrounded by people I knew, yet did not.

I like exploring new things, discovering how other people live. I am inquisitive and want to learn, yet nothing is more frustrating than not being able to communicate that. The people I was with, understood that and were very patient with me, for which I am grateful for. I spent a lot of time, just looking around and listening and soon, between my broken German and their less than perfect English, we were able to carry on meaningful conversations, as both my German and their English became better with use.

Sure, there was the old, get the stupid Canadian drunk game played. That is, until they were reminded of the last time that game was played and that the stupid Canadian can still hold his own, even after all these years. Not that I drink a lot these days, honor must be upheld though.

Then something very strange occurred. I can be a little dense sometimes and it was not until I was back home that those events really hit me. Now I find myself revaluating my life and what is important to me.

I, like most guys, whether they admit it or not, have problems relating with women. I, in particular, suffer from, ‘foot in the mouth’ syndrome at times. Things come out of my mouth in the wrong way at the wrong time.

For instance, the to me, innocent statement:

“How long do you stay open?” To a female bar owner, can be mistaken for something else. Which it did and which I had to rapidly try and explain, that I was not hitting on her, just interested in how long she was open for business, which turned out to be 12 hours a day, seven days a week. I thought my old work schedule was tough.

Also, because of past issues in my life, I have trust issues with women. Yes ladies, women can and do hurt men badly at times. We might hide that fact, never the less, for me it was, and is, still an issue. An issue that I am trying to overcome every day.

Add in the fact, that for the first few days of my visit, I was forced to relive memories that have been slowly fading. I understood their reasoning. That did not lesson what those memories mean to me, or how I feel about them.

So, into this mess of emotions, past memories and fantastic reminisces about old times, came the first person to impact me.

Just newly graduated from high school, with all the exuberance and tribulation of the young about to experience true freedom for the first time. Into the small parking courtyard riding a well used Yamaha motorcycle, her presence lit up the yard. Her grandparents doted on her, she has them wrapped around her little finger. The more I listened to this incredible young lady, the more impressed I became. For, you see, she reminded me of me at that age.

Outside, the devil may care jokester. The person that could make everyone laugh. The person that pushed everything to the limit. But inside, the person that cares for those around them. The parallels were amazing.

I was the guy, who on cold and icy days, instead of riding the mile or so home in a nice warm buss, would grab hold of the buss bumper and let the buss slide me home.

I was the guy who saved all of his hard earned cash and bought one of the first skate boards produced. Yes kiddies, we had skate boards back then. Then promptly obtained a serious case of road rash, boarding down the steepest hill I could find.

The guy who thought slalom racing boring. Who preferred going straight down the men’s downhill course at Lake Louise ski resort, taking the fewest turns possible.

Despite the fact that I only had a learners permit, the guy who’s buddy let him drag race his high powered ’64 Chev in every important, that means for cash folks, street race.

The guy who drag raced a 1970 Charger RT for six miles down a city street late at night in his ’69 GTO, and won.

Later in life, wining outright four stages of a performance rally against the best rally drivers in North America. Including the fully funded Audi Quattro driven by the eventual series winner. On snow covered gravel back roads driving a rear wheel drive, ten-year-old Toyota Celica. On the edge of loosing control at all times. At one point the rear wheels in the ditch, going completely sideways, heading for what appeared to be a very large boulder that was coming right at the drivers door. Somehow surviving that unscathed and laughing. Then at the end of the stage, having made up the two minutes of separation between cars to the car in front me, crossing the finish line with inches between our bumpers and cursing the guy in front for not driving faster.

Then, as things tend to occur, life happened. Became more complicated. More busy. More boring.

This young girl reminded me of who I am.

Next came another amazing lady. A woman who not only runs her own business, but is a single mom as well. She runs the bar, and is the chef, so add the shopping for and prepping the food to the long day.

I had heard about this incredible woman. On top of the bar, she has horses and helps out in an animal shelter. Labor intensive endeavours on their own. I had, however, never met her and did not put two and two together until later that fateful day.

I was taken to yet another bar/restaurant and reintroduced to people I had met many years before. Answering yet again, questions and receiving condolences. This establishment was different than most of the other places we had been in. It was similar to one of our own sports bars and as the uncomfortable conversation became more in German as they remised about old days, I shut it off and watched the big screen, where, you guessed it, a car race was going on.

My concentration on the race was disturbed by a tap on the shoulder. It was the owner and she asked me if I still had my horses. To which I replied and she walked away. Later, outside having a smoke with the ex-police officer I knew from the old days, she came up and asked if she could talk with me. Knowing of her love of animals, I half jokingly asked the ex-police officer to hang around and be referee. She then started walking away, then turned around and gave me the come with me signal and bundled me into her car and drove away. Into what turned out to be a tree lined dirt track. Visions of old gangster and spy movies came into my brain as she stopped in a secluded clearing and got out. Sure enough, there was a couple of guys hanging about and I lagged behind, preparing to go down fighting. Well, as much as an old out of shape guy can anyway.

This is where the cultural and language thing became apparent. You see, this woman has the only three horses in the area and these guys had just come to look at them. Well, they call them horses.

The first was a white mare. She was smaller than an Arabian or Quarter Horse, but well muscled and very docile. I was allowed to walk up to her and I ran a gentle hand down her flank and back, to let her know I was no threat. Next came her two-year-old colt. Nice little guy and not as skittish as I thought he would be. Meanwhile, the woman had continued on and came up to a more normal, to me, sized horse. She looked back to see if I was still behind her and her eyes went a little wide as she saw me running my hands along the colt and he just standing there.

I walked up to the larger horse and she cautioned me that he was not exactly a friendly guy. His head, ears and eyes were covered by one of those bug net things, so it was hard to judged his mood, and I took her word for it. He was not quivering, twitching his ears or stomping a hoof as he came over to check me out. So I did what I was taught by my grandfather as a little guy and blew gently into his nostrils. Then I walked away.

I was then taken to some storage sheds and shown the hay, feed and tack, when I was not so gently shoved in the back and a nose was shoved under my arm pit. Here was this nasty beasty, begging for my attention. Nasty beasty, sure he was. He let me rub his ears and my hands down his legs. The lady could not believe it.

So, I explained to her with rudimentary German/English and a lot of gestures, how big my horses were. How I have been around horses most of my life and how my grandfather had been a horse breeder. Yes, I am not an expert, I do know my way around horses though. She showed me the rest of the property and back to the bar we went.

Then the once again unsuccessful get the Canadian drunk game with the ex-cop and the German friends started talking among themselves again. I saw the lady owner behind the bar doing paper work, the bar was shut down at that point, we were the only people there by then. I grabbed my beer and sat across from her at the bar and promptly stuck my foot in my mouth as mentioned earlier. It all worked out however.

What nobody knew was, that when we went to the home I was staying in, I sat in my room and let the memories, long supressed return. I had not even looked at a horse for four years, let alone touch one. The smells, the soft silky skin. The ripple of the skin as a hand runs down a back. The soft rumble of a contented horse as its rubbed behind an ear.

For me, a horse and I are a team. The horse relies on me to keep him safe and well looked after. When we are riding, especially where I used to ride, the horse is relying on my intelligence to keep him from harm and I am relying on his better sense of hearing and smell, to alert me of possible danger.

A deep bound is made between a horse and a rider. Especially the one I had with mine. He was only three when we became friends. He was young, inexperienced and very intelligent. Which made him very flighty and skittish. He was never a novice rider’s horse and you definitely never fell asleep riding him. We spent many days together in the back woods of the Rockies, in all weathers and all conditions. Sometimes in a group with other riders, mostly alone.

He was my best friend and I miss him dearly.

Back home again, a final great weight has been removed from my shoulders. I am walking up right, head up, no longer slouching around. I am no longer driving around town like a timid mouse. I find myself making plans for the future. Not simply existing. A promise made to myself to do nothing for five years is falling away rapidly. Changes are coming.

All because of two incredible women, from a far away country, whom I had never met.

Anna and Elka, you have no idea of the impact you made on me by simply being yourselves.