Ever since I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the woods, whether on a mountaintop or at the edge of my neighborhood. Whether it’s a meadow or a marsh, rolling hills or thunderous mountains, the beauty that calms the Hulk in me is green and serene.
When we first moved to Wylie, the real estate agent sensed this about me and was sure to drive me to the field at the end of my future street. My new neighborhood had a dead-end street and a field with multiple horses grazing and galloping. Who do I make the check out to?
Do you remember when you were growing up? There was a field and some woods. There was a creek and a forest populated with oaks and cottonwood trees that stretched high into the clear blue skies of summer. If you were lucky, you could plop down under one of those trees and when the wind blew, you were serenaded by nature’s symphony.
Over the years, I would take a walk to the end of my street. I’d lean on the fence made of steel wire and watch those beautiful horses graze and gallop, their walnut-hued manes shimmering in the sunlight. Some days, you could take a couple of apples with you, and these stately creatures would amble over and eat from your hand. I’ve had many a conversation about life with the horse I named Cinnamon.
I’m not sure that Cinnamon understood my ramblings about the frustrations of life, but over the years I was sure we had developed a very special relationship. I took my grandson, Miles, to the pasture whenever I could. Whenever he was about to embark on a visitation weekend with his dad or we just hadn’t spent enough time together, we would walk hand in hand to the pasture. He’d sit on my shoulders and gently offer some fresh long clover to Cinnamon. That horse would sense our emotions and, on more than one occasion, he would nuzzle up against our faces and we’d share a hug.
Then came the bulldozers and earth movers.
Miles asked me why Cinnamon had gone away, why the field was being transformed. Not so many years ago, my sons and daughter had asked why the dead end had become a thoroughfare. Then all the houses went up, and their questions were answered. It’s called progress. My neighborhood is filled with construction vehicles, coming and going. One of them crashed into a local elderly couple earlier this year, depriving some family of a mother and a grandmother. Alcohol was detected in the big truck.
Over the years, we all experience the so-called progress that fills the city coffers with tax dollars that help to support the schools and public library and make life a bit more convenient. The developing can go a bit overboard. Within a 2-mile radius of my house there are a Super Target, three Wal-Marts, a Kroger, two Albertsons and a Brookshire’s. All I wanted was an apple.
Cinnamon is gone, and they just poured concrete. Homes will begin to sprout from the field she used to graze upon. Miles will grow up, just like my daughter and sons did. Instead of walking to the end of my street, I fire up my bike and go on a ride. I haven’t found Cinnamon and probably never will. Wherever he is, I’m sure he remembers my grandson’s crystal blue eyes and sweet voice just as we remember his gentle nuzzling and chestnut-colored mane.
David McClure teaches science and coaches at Faubion Middle School in McKinney. His email address is dmcclure9066@yahoo.com.
