Visiting Grandma and Grandpa Paul at the farm might mostly be to enjoy Grandma’s cooking – especially if they have come to the farm to enjoy Christmas.

We always have Christmas dinner in the big kitchen, even though we now have to add a round youth table and also use the coffee table in the Livingroom.

The Vermont castings wood-stove is keeping the covered dishes hot. Grandma has just taken the potato rolls from the lower oven and our son is carving the turkey. Three kinds of pies are waiting in line on top of the freezer in the back room. Coats are hanging so deeply on top of each other that the door hardly opens to let the kids come in from outside. There is no space for any more snow boots, but no one seems to mind. Coming home to share God’s blessings together brings us all great joy!

Since the farm is in snow country, near the Adirondacks, they anticipate seeing the beauty of God’s art as He decorates His creation with snow. It might be balanced delicately on every single branch and twig of the old maple trees in the yard, on all the pines boughs in the swamp and on every weed and blade of grass on the hillside behind the barn. The snow might be over a foot deep and smoothed on the snowmobile trail making it possible to sled all the way from the top of the hill to the road. The frost on the bushes near the stream may have become sparkling balls of glitter, reflecting the morning light. There could be long icicles hanging from the roof in the sunshine, growing longer and longer as they reach down to touch the snow that has drifted up against the front door! Of course the long icicles indicate that the farmhouse isn’t well insulated and that a fire is glowing a hot orange in the Jotul fireplace inside.

They plan to have fun in the old farmhouse. There are lots of hiding places where boys can build a fort and keep the girls from intruding. The youngest grandchildren hope to find hidden Christmas presents in the closets. They are sure to look for treasures in the attic their daddy had when he was little.

It is cold outside. The young ones aren’t as interested in going out to the barn to help Grandpa Paul feed the animals as they once were. They have not met Bean Sprout, the new goat that is eager for kids to visit her. They don’t think of Zack or wonder where he is. That white, half-Arabian horse running in the snow, his mane and tail whipping in the wind, the snow powder billowing around him, is something they will never see again.

The older grandchildren certainly remember Zack.

Years ago Grandpa Paul wanted to own a pony to have a perfect farm to share. Of course the kids would love to ride him so he shouldn’t be too big. This pony should be gentle so even a child could lead him. He should be able to take apples or carrots from the grandkid’s hands and not bite their fingers.

I looked in the weekly advertising paper, the Turnpike Penny Saver farm section, to see what I could find. There were a number of ads where people were trying to sell horses, all were said to be gentle and well trained. There was one listing entitled, “Horses, Horses, Horses” that caught my eye. Beneath the title the seller was offering a pony. Of course all the characteristics promised were exactly what I had in mind and this one was cheap. Ellen and I drove out past Hartwick to take a look at him.

We passed several run-down farms where the barns were no longer kept in repair, the silos apparently unused, and the barnyards empty. Dozens of pieces of abandoned farm equipment, enveloped in tall weeds and just rusting down, lay scattered near the fallen barn. There was, however, a large tractor, with a round baler still hitched to it, at the edge of a flat hayfield. The huge cylindrical bales of hay dotted the field, each dropped off when they had reached full size and been bound with netting and baler strings. According to our GPS the horse farm was just ahead on the left.

There were no white fences, no horse buildings, no big box stalls and no horsemen around to tell us where we were to park. The area around the once white farm house was cluttered with all sorts of small cages filled with a variety of rabbits, exotic chickens, and other small animals. Cats preening in the sunshine, and a dog poking his hind foot gently at his ear. were making themselves comfortable. A light blue, battered pick-up truck had recently been used to get firewood, the tan driver’s door wasn’t closed and a couple of chain saws were on the tailgate. A fairly new horse trailer stood by an old barn which was partially filled with manure. Several horses were standing in the mud beside a half-eaten round bale of hay near an open shed. One was small, had a large stomach, a sagging back, and an open sore on her back leg, (possibly the advertised $100 pony).

A woman wearing soiled denim overalls stepped over a cat on the porch landing when she came out of the house to see who had entered her yard! It turned out she was the one who loved and cared for all these animals. “Yup”, she replied, “that’s the pony.”

I had no inclination to wade through the sloppy barnyard to take a closer look at the pony. She reassured me that she had over forty other horses she would like me to see. She stepped just inside the back porch, and came back out, putting handfuls of treats into her pockets. When she called, horses streamed in from the back pasture and we were soon surrounded! The horses loved her as much as she loved them, nuzzling her looking for treats. She urged me to look at the big friendly brown mare, but I was looking at the perfect proportions of the spirited, smaller, white horse that was searching her pockets. She is a Morgan, the perfect, gentle older horse for you and your grandchildren. I picked up the left front hoof on the smaller white horse. “He is gelded,” she said, “a registered Half Arabian, which we have taken to lots of shows.” I had seen him run as he came across the valley, galloping ahead of the rest of the horses.

She informed me that though they called him Zack, the horse’s name was actually “Asil Exactly That” born July 14, 2004, and he was five years old. Could any horse be more beautiful?

She brought me into the farm kitchen and cleared a place at the table cluttered with papers. She showed me the ARABIAN HORSE ASSOCIATION CERTIFICATE OF REGISTRATION number HAHR*1A366353. Sired by CEZAN out of SI DYNASTY whose ancestors were traced back three generations. Clearly she was preparing to name a price far above the price advertised for the pony. She eventually suggested ten times the price!

There were conditions. She was concerned about what I would do with Zack if I ever decided that I no longer wanted to care for him. She said, “I will only sell him to you if you will promise never to offer him to a commercial horse buyer or auction him. You may only to sell him to someone who will take good care of him, or you must return him to me. I’ll then take care of him for you and you agree to pay $50.00 a month for his care.”

I was more concerned about the price than my inability to care for Zack, so I asked if it was possible to include in her offer a saddle. She went upstairs and came back with a small English saddle of some sort, maybe something used for showing horses. It was rather plain and dusty, certainly not like the trimmed Western style saddle I had in mind. She also agreed to deliver the horse to my address.

She wrote up the contract and we both signed it.

Zack took to his luxury life on Grandpa Paul’s farm, found his pasture the perfect place to eat and run as he pleased, and the grain from the mill a great delicacy. He was always begging for more, trying repeatedly to open the grain bin with his teeth.

He immediately accepted me as his servant, but wasn’t interested in allowing me to saddle him or lead him. Zack had filled out, was full of energy, and needed training if I was ever to be able to give my grandchildren rides. One day I watched him gallop past the motorcycle he chose to race the length of his pasture and wondered if anyone could ever ride him!

My neighbor keeps horses and recommended a lady she knew who could board and train Zack when we had to be away from home for a while. She came to pick him up, took charge of him and led him out of the barn. Without warning Zack tried to bite her arm and I think he succeeded. She seemed unconcerned, loaded him in her horse trailer, and took him off to her ranch to train him. Her fee was $300. I hoped she would be successful.

When she returned Zack she led him out of her horse trailer, and offered me the opportunity to ride him. Zack appeared to be cooperative, so I accepted. She led the horse, walking him along the side of his pasture, similar to what I hoped to do with my grandchildren. I didn’t dare try to see how he might gallop, because I knew how abruptly he had stopped when he won that race with the motorcycle.

He was a very special addition to my farm and lived his own box stall in the red horse barn near the house. Jessie painted his name, Asil Exactly That, on a small sign, that turned out to be too short, then added his nickname below.

I knew nothing about caring for horses so I bought a book, Horses for Dummies, at the Barns and Noble bookstore in Utica. Apparently horses need regular hoof trimming and shoeing so I again got advice from my neighbor. The $25 cost to trim his hooves seemed very reasonable so I made arrangements for the Amish man she had recommended to come.

He was a pleasant young man and came with his small wooden box of tools. He knew his trade well, but Zack wasn’t very cooperative, resisting his services and refusing to stand still. I had no idea how I might help him. He had no doubt handled hundreds of horses and eventually had both his front hooves nicely trimmed. I was embarrassed that my beautiful horse had behaved so badly. I had seen the farrier lean into the horse as he picked up each front hoof and held it between his knees to work on it. How would he ever hold up a back hoof against that huge mass of uncooperative muscle that could accelerate Zack almost instantly to full speed?

He began putting his tools back in his box and, brushing straw off his pant legs he stated, “I’m not doing his back hooves.” It wasn’t hard to guess why, and I didn’t ask. I did, however, ask what to do about the chipping surface of the back hooves. “That is natural trimming,” he said. Actually that was great news to me since regular trimming and shoeing could become rather expensive! I paid his fee and thanked him. Zack never had to submit to another trimming of his hooves.

My magnificent half Arabian horse ran freely in his large pasture, wearing down his hooves naturally since he was never held in a damp stall. He didn’t need iron shoes either since he wasn’t ridden on the hard road surface for any length of time. He rolled in dust, mud, or snow as he pleased.

My Horses for Dummies book said he should be regularly washed, but the only bath he ever got was when Jessie took him to the pond. He took his showers in the rain. I found recommendations and techniques for proper grooming, but there too, I failed. Zack wouldn’t even stand still when I had to remove burdock from his mane and tail, so I developed a procedure. I took a partial scoop of grain and sprinkled it on top of the grain box, as a bribe for him to stand still. I didn’t want him to get too fat, so had to work on this minimum grooming as fast as I could, while he picked up the pellets with his lips as fast as he could.

He was required to be a beautiful horse and attract the grandchildren to visit our farm. Of course they expected me to give them rides, but I didn’t work with him daily to train him to obey me. I think he wanted to be in charge of himself, and only saw me as the one who served him.

Are we ever such fools as to think that God exists only to serve us? I wonder if Zack ever really loved me. He certainly didn’t want to obey me. Jesus said, “If you love me, keep my commandments.”