Unexpected Loss

Saturday night, we unexpectedly lost a treasured human friend.  I still can't wrap myself around the size of the hole he has left in our lives.

I don't know exactly how old he was.  Maybe in his 70s, but up until a couple of years ago, he was strong, active, & capable of working harder than I was.  The past couple years though, he has been taking care of his wife, who has terminal cancer, which has dragged on far longer than anyone expected.  I can testify that the exhaustion & stress of watching cancer eat alive the person that you love is a deadly threat.  And so it was - Richard collapsed of a massive heart attack & a relative found him in his home Sunday morning.

"Heartbroken" does even begin to describe how I feel.

The first time I met Richard was when I came out to look at this property in 2013.  He was selling his back pastures, so he was also looking for a good neighbour.  As he carried me back through his fields in his utility vehicle, his soft-spoken kindness & gentle humour immediately put me at ease.  I fell in love with the parcel which became Flying Solo Farm, but part of that was due to added feature of having Richard next door.  For two people from two very different generations, we had a whole lot in common.

We both loved horses; Richard with Buddy the Appy, last April

FSF sits on the foundation he created.  He bought this parcel as cut-over timberland & transformed it to rolling pastures edged with mature oaks, pines, & sweetgums.  He built the fences by hand, hung the gates, established the forage that my horses use today.  He could have made more money selling this property to someone else but that was never what Richard was about.

I never could have built this place without him.  He used his enormous tractor to bushhog over-grown fields for me.  He moved & re-drove fenceposts so I could make new gates & he built the entrance road.  He taught me how to repair & adjust the hi-tensile fence so it stayed safe for horses.  He helped me improve my tractor bucket skills & pitched in to any project that was too big for my equipment.

2016: Fixing my driveway culvert

What defined Richard, though, was his generosity.  He owned every tool known to man & offered any of them to me.  It didn't matter how busy he was, if I needed a hand with something, he was there for however long it took.  And it was the same for any other person he met -- he lived to help others, no matter who they were.

As is common with those of generous spirit, Richard also had a deep & open love for animals.  His quiet, gentle way with them endeared him to dogs & horses with the same effect he had on people.  Broken hearts with darkened pasts found a balm for all the sharp edges that life cut into them.  He was a quiet port in which to rest, safe for a moment from battering seas.  It was his gift to abused equines.  It was also his gift to me.

Richard loved horses above all.  An avid trail rider, he showed me the vast network of trails across neighbouring properties that he'd strung together over the years & kept maintained.  Although he had a weakness for a flashy paint, his favourite horse, his Solo, was an old-school, plain bay TWH named Big Boy.  A big-moving, big-headed mahogany gelding overflowing with energy, the two of them used to do 15-20 miles a day the first few years I lived here.

I can't find any Big Boy photos, so here is Nobody, another of Richard's TWH & this was Richard's contact photo in my phone

Big Boy died suddenly last fall -- he was found dead in his pasture, not a mark on him, no sign of a struggle.  He was somewhere in his 20s & retired & we suspected his heart just gave out.  Richard buried him where he found him, on top of a hill looking over the fields where he had lived out a good life.  It's a little eerie looking back now, that they both went the same way. 

There's so many more good things I could tell you about Richard.  He was well-loved in this community & you'd be hard-pressed to find a person he hadn't helped.  He & his wife both grew up here in this small-town county & were related to everyone by blood or marriage.  He went far too soon & I know I'm not the only person missing him terribly.

2014: Driving anchor holes for my first hayshed w/ 100 HP behemoth

One of the things he was most looking forward to was eventually getting back to riding.  He hadn't been able to do much of anything due to his wife's health needs & he always put her first.  I worried so much that he wouldn't survive the stress, because I knew what a similar situation had done to me.  My deepest sorrow for him was that he didn't make it to that goal.  He missed riding so much & he never stopped cleaning his tack in hopes that he would get to use it again.

One day last summer, I did manage to coax him out on a brief ride in May, his first in two years.  I didn't know then it would be his last ride, but it makes me doubly glad I did.  It was a beautiful day, with summer sun dappling through the leaves & he kept telling me over & over how good it felt just to sit on a horse.  I couldn't stop smiling watching him.

That ride:  Richard & Smokey, me & Buddy

I've spent the last few days aimlessly wandering the farm & sitting on the porch, alternately weeping & cursing the unfair universe.  I miss my dear friend, I miss his gentle teasing, I miss his unintelligable phone calls of southern-mumble-quiet-drawl where I had to guess at every other word.  I miss his looking out for me:  if we didn't cross paths in his yard (my driveway goes through his farm) & he hadn't heard from me in a while, he'd randomly come back to the house & knock on my door just to see if I was ok & have a chat. 

Most of all, I miss one of the biggest hearts & kindest, most generous natures I have ever known.  I owe him so much - I tried to repay him via barter whenever I could, grooming his horses when he couldn't get to it, fixing small things for him, mowing a fenceline while I was on the tractor -- but he was so dang capable, I felt like I could never keep up.

2015: Plowing my driveway with his skidsteer (part of this amusing story)

I will forever be grateful to him for this farm, which has become my quiet sanctuary, although it will never be the same without his ready smile.  I will try to do what I know he would tell me to do:  enjoy the land, enjoy the horses whenever & however I get a chance, & enjoy quiet walks on pretty days.

I would ask this of you, readers, in honor of Richard:  look for opportunities for a small (or large) good deed, which can be as simple as checking in on someone who is on their own.  Don't wait to be asked - kindness unbidden is always a welcome gift & it is one that I will try to give more often because I know what it meant when given to me.

For Richard:  I don't think anything magical happens when we die & I don't think you did either.  Nonetheless, I choose to think of you meeting Big Boy on the other side, where you calm his anxious energy with a touch just like you did in life.  May the two of you step out together on the trail that never ends, free of the aches & worries that piled up behind you, with not a single fly in sight.  There will always be a part of you here on Flying Solo Farm & I will try my best to do it justice, even though I can never do it as well as you.  I will never forget all that you did for me & I will miss you always.

Farewell, my very dear friend.  Ride free.