When my mother was a girl, she used to spend summers at her grandparents’ farm in Strickland, Maine. It was a special time and place for her and she has regaled us with stories for as long as I can remember. I knew that out of her love of the farm grew a love of horses, and that as a teenager she took riding lessons at Tomlinson’s Riding School in Westbrook and was also a member of the riding club at Portland High School.
Yesterday, I heard a new story. “Grandpa had workhorses,” she told me. “I used to like to help him. I remember sitting down on the side of the wagon as he was going through the fields and haying. I loved going with my grandfather.”