Pretty Picture




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" January 30, 2003 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" You are receiving this newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. To subscribe send a blank e-mail to subscribe@write2theheart.com. ------------------------------------------------------------ Once again love and compassion flow from Pamela's home and family. Christian love seems to be the underlying theme in all her family does. ------------------------------------------------------------ A Pretty Picture By Pamela Jenkins ------------------------------------------------------------ I struggled through the weeds and wet ground next to the fence, careful not to damage the camera I carried or ruin my shoes. Just a little closer and I would have a good shot. "Hey, Bandit, look over here!" I called. The old grey horse raised his head slightly as I focused the camera lens. Bandit's ears stuck out sideways and his eyes were half closed. His head tilted sideways as his mouth stretched open in a tremendous yawn. Certainly this wasn't the image I was trying to capture on film. No amount of coaxing was going to make him perk up and look pretty today. After a few minutes, he ambled off slowly to find a napping place a little more private and where nosey neighbors wouldn't bother him. Now, usually I'm not the nosey neighbor type, but I had a mission and I wasn't about to be stalled by a contrary old fellow like Bandit. A few weeks earlier, we had visited our sweet neighbor Mr. Perry in the nursing home where he had lived for the past year. He didn't remember us at first, but at the mention of his horse, the old man sat up straighter and took interest in our conversation. "Is my horse still there?" he asked hopefully. We told him that Bandit was still out in his pasture, fat and sassy, and was being well cared for by Mr. Perry's son. He still enjoyed his oats every morning, and loved to stand out under the ancient cedar tree and be brushed. "Are you sure?" he questioned us. "You know, he's a good horse. He's the best horse I've ever owned, and I've had a lot of 'em over the years." The next half hour was filled with recounting memories of horses, especially Bandit. Mr. Perry told us that Bandit used to be a dapple grey, but time and old age had bleached his hair coat to almost a pure white color, except for the blue on his nose. My children and I talked about it, and decided we would find a way to put Mr. Perry's mind at ease. We would take a picture of Bandit. It would look nice sitting in a frame on the bedside table in his room. With Christmas just a few weeks away, it would make a lovely gift. So began the adventures in pursuing Bandit around his field. I've not been one to trespass without asking, or climb through and over fences, so I restricted my ramblings to my side of the boundary and along the roadside ditches. I started carrying a camera with me, waiting for the chance to get a good photo. Bandit wasn't interested in photo opportunities, however. He seemed determined to flaunt his independence and steadfastly refused to pose properly. Either one ear was cocked back, his nostrils flared, or his head was looking the wrong way. Offers of carrots and apples were ignored, and a rattling bucket didn't tempt him either. Day after day, brushing away flying gnats, I trod through sodden leaves and stepped in puddles while following Bandit's retreat. On one occasion, the old horse simply turned around and presented his rump to me. "Well, there's a pretty picture," I scolded him as he swished his long tail. "Wouldn't Mr. Perry love that!" Finally, the day came when I noticed Bandit grazing close to the fence. I grabbed my camera and tiptoed through the tall grass. My two youngest children decided to follow along and watch Mom at work. Bandit still showed no interest in modeling, but he seemed to study my children. Perhaps he had not been around many little people before. That gave me an idea. "Kids, do you know how to do jumping jacks?" I asked. They nodded and smiled. "Well, I want you to do a few for me, okay?" Both the children started to do their jumping jacks, one on either side of me. Up and down, giggling and clapping their hands over their heads, they made crunching sounds in the dead leaves. Suddenly, Bandit's head rose up. His eyes widened as his ears flipped forward. He had never seen such a display before and didn't know what to think. I snapped pictures as quick as I could, laughing at the comical expression on his face. All too soon, though, the light faded to dusk and the moment was past. The next day, I picked the prettiest of the pictures and set it in a wooden frame. The sun had been shining on Bandit's white coat, making it glow against the back- ground of brilliant autumn colors. His blue nose and deep dark eyes made him all the more beautiful. At the nursing home, Mr. Perry took one look at the framed photo and said, "That's not my horse." We were all stunned. "No," he protested sadly. "My horse is old. This horse isn't mine." We pointed out the blue velvet nose and dark eyes, and finally convinced Mr. Perry that the photo was indeed of his old pal, Bandit. With care and good feed, Bandit was weathering his golden years quite well. Mr. Perry studied the image for a long time without speaking. As we left the nursing home that evening, I overheard Mr. Perry talking to another resident. He was holding out the frame and pointing at the horse in the photo. "That's my horse, Bandit," he said proudly. "Best horse I ever had, and I've had a lot of 'em!" Just hearing him speak those sweet words made it all worthwhile. Pamela Jenkins ramblinrabbit @ juno.com (You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses and email harvesting programs. Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com) ---------------------------------------------------------------- Pamela Jenkins lives on a farm near Tulsa, Oklahoma with her husband of twenty-two years and their four children. She is an office manager for a veterinary clinic and enjoys writing in her spare time. The inspiration for many of her stories comes from witnessing the loving bond between people and their pets. -------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers -------------------------------------------------------------- I laughed so hard at Alison's Senior Moment. That sounds like something that would happen to me. But now I know I have something to look forward to, freebies! Kim -------------------------------------------------------------- Military Prayer Reminder As you read over this list of names, please pray for these young people and their families: Chris Speir, Tim Speir, Jason, Howard, Alan and Thaddeaus. If you have friends or loved ones in the military, or who are being called to go overseas, send their names (first and last or first only) to be included in our prayer reminder. --------------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner My secret is out! One of Jeremy's friends now knows I suffer from dual personality disorder. The phone rang at 1:30 in the morning. I stumbled to answer it. A voice asks is Jeremy home. "At this hour?" I respond, "He doesn't live here any more!" And I hang up. My family has learned, do not wake mom up unless it is a matter of life or death. I'm tolerable during the day, but wake me and I snarl and growl. The reason for the call? He was looking for a ride to school the next day. He has agreed to call when the sun comes up. God Bless, Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2003 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors.