The Open Gate

I was one of those children who desperately wanted animals and didn't have them.

I was one of those children who desperately wanted animals and didn’t have them.

Not because we lived in the city. Not because animals weren’t allowed where we lived. We simply didn’t have them. I wanted a dog with an intensity that is difficult to explain to someone who did not grow up that way. A cat would have done it. A horse would have been even better. I would have settled for almost anything with fur and a heartbeat.

Instead, I mostly had longing.

When I was sad, and I was sad more often than I care to admit, I would imagine what it would be like to have an animal beside me. Someone to talk to. Someone to touch. Someone who would be glad to see me.

Children often do not have the words for what they are missing. They only know what they are reaching toward.

For me, that reaching looked a lot like animals.

Once in a great while there would be a family gathering at my aunt and uncle’s farm near Rochester. One of my cousins would be getting married. There would be relatives everywhere, food to prepare, people to greet, photographs to take, and a hundred other things demanding attention.

My uncle Marvin always seemed to notice only one thing. The horse-crazy little girl. He had pinto pony named Jill. And somehow, despite everything else going on, he would take the time to get Jill out and let me ride her.

I don’t remember how long those rides lasted, although never long enough. I don’t remember what anyone else was doing. I don’t remember what I wore. But I remember Jill. And I remember Uncle Marvin.

Looking back now, I don’t think the gift was really the pony. The gift was that somebody noticed. In a world where adults had important things to do, he understood that horses were important to me.

He opened the gate.

It was probably a small thing to him. Children don’t remember how long something lasted. They remember how it felt. What he gave me was the feeling that my joy mattered enough for someone to stop what they were doing. That memory has stayed with me for more than fifty years.

Today, people sometimes visit our farm and ask, “Can we see the horses?”

Of course.

“Can we visit the sheep?”

Of course.

“Can we look at the chickens?”

Of course.

The answer is almost always yes. Partly because I love sharing the animals. But partly because I remember what it felt like to stand outside the gate. To want something with all your heart and only get glimpses. To know how much it matters when someone says yes.

I have often joked that I am making up for lost time with the number of animals I have now. There may be some truth to that. But I think something else is happening too. Maybe I am not collecting animals. Maybe I am collecting open gates.

Every horse a child gets to pet.

Every sheep someone gets to scratch behind the ears.

Every chicken a grandchild gets to hold.

Every nervous visitor who discovers they are braver than they thought.

Another gate opening.

I have told my sons that at my memorial I want someone to stand up and say I have one last request. If you can, adopt a puppy or a kitten. Save a life that way. And if you can’t, at least be kind to animals.

And always, always be kind to children. The older I get, the more I think those are really the same request. Pay attention to those who depend on the kindness of others. Children. Animals. The ones who cannot always open the gate for themselves.

A little kindness can change everything.

An open gate can change everything.

I know.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted a horse more than anything in the world. And an uncle named Marvin who took a few minutes away from a wedding reception to open the gate.