Six Belgians Shod by Noon

By the time we crested the hill, it was light. A bright spring morning, clear and still.

The Yoder farm sat on top of the hill the way I remembered it. The white barn. The house with the green blinds pulled halfway.

A big garden already turned. The dinner bell on its post. Wash on the line, dark dresses and blue shirts.

Menno was waiting in the barnyard. He was in his sixties now, his beard gone white to the middle of his chest, his straw hat pushed back.

He lifted one hand when we pulled in, and that was all.

His boys had the horses ready. Two big chestnut Belgians stood tied along the barnyard rail, brushed until they shone like new pennies.

The others were inside, waiting their turn, stamping a little in the stalls.

I backed the truck up close and dropped the tailgate. I lit the forge and let it come up while I tied on my brown leather apron over my navy T-shirt.

My dad’s apron, cut down. The leather had gone soft and dark where his knees used to rest.

I pulled my blonde braid over one shoulder, where I could keep it clear of a hoof.

Paisley climbed into the truck bed and stood at the anvil with the coffee cans of nails, waiting, very serious.

Then the men started coming.

They came one at a time, from the house, from the field, from the next farm over. Straw hats. Suspenders. Blue shirts.

They didn’t come close. They lined the wooden fence along the barnyard, forearms on the top rail, and said nothing at all.

I didn’t look at them. My dad used to say a horse can tell where your eyes are.

You look at the crowd, the horse looks at the crowd, and somebody gets stepped on. I looked at the first horse.

He was a gelding, eight years old, Menno said, close to a ton. His feet were long, a couple weeks past due.

Lavern’s old shoes were worn thin at the toe. I ran my hand down his shoulder and his leg and picked up the front foot.

Front feet first. Pull the old shoe. Clean out the sole and the frog. Trim the wall with the nippers.

Rasp it flat and level. I did both fronts, and the gelding stood like a church pew, half asleep.

Then I went back to the hind.

A draft horse’s hind foot is where it happens, if it is going to happen. A horse doesn’t like it held up.

He’ll lean, he’ll pull, he’ll try you to see what you’re made of. A Belgian can lean nearly his whole weight on you if he decides to.

I picked it up and pulled it forward onto my knee, then back between my legs, braced in the apron, the way my dad taught me.

The gelding gave a long sigh, and then he leaned the whole ton on me.

I could feel the fence watching. I could feel it the way you feel heat off a stove. I did not straighten.

I leaned back into him, low, with my legs set, and I waited. Ten seconds. Fifteen. He shifted his weight off me and stood.

I heard somebody on the fence let out his breath.

I trimmed the hind and set the foot down and went to the forge. I took a shoe out with the tongs, brought it up cherry, and carried it to the foot.