My mother was a horse trader. Not one of those that gives horse traders the reputation for fleecing unsuspecting horse buyers (and less experienced horse traders) by representing three-legged man-hating horses as kid-safe and sound. Still, sainthood will forever elude her.

My family engaged in pretty much any horse-related activity that can turn a profit. We rented, boarded, bought, and sold horses. We supplied ponys for pony rides at parties and events, and horses for the judges at field dog trials. And for a fee, we picked up dead and injured livestock from the homes of distraught owners. Most of these were anxious to get the ordeal of a dead or terminal horse over with as quickly as possible. They were content to have us pick up their animal and leave with as little spectacle as possible. Some were not quite so accomodating.

The phone rang one morning. In a tearful voice, a woman spoke to my mother. “My name is Rebecca Rhoades, and my horse Charlie just d-died,” she sobbed. “I have no idea what to do with him now. Do you pick up d-dead horses?”

No funeral mortician who ever consoled a grieving patron could exude more sympathy and compassion than could my mother, the horse trader. “Yes, we do pick up dead horses. Judging by the pain evident in your voice, you obviously loved Charlie very much. How long did you have him?”

“I’ve had him since I was 12 years old. I grew up with him. He was 10 years old when my Dad bought him for me, but he’s 29, now. Well… I mean he was 29.”

When horse owners called and said their old horse had died, or that they had one that was terminally ill and would need to be put down (euthenized, if you prefer), they occasionally asked what we did with the body. My mother would describe our farm, and explain that we had a special section of the farm where we buried the horses. Few people ever elected to have any kind of marker or memorial. Indeed, nobody ever visited the graves of these horses. Fortunately.

When Rebecca asked, Mom’s response was a variation on this theme. “We have 200 acres of gently rolling meadows, partially wooded, with one particularly pleasant hillside overlooking a scenic pond. Our own horses graze nearby. I think Charlie would like it here very much. You could say goodbye to him in your own familiar, comfortable surroundings, then we could pick him up and lay him to rest here. How does that sound?”

Rebecca thought about it for a few moments, then said that she would like to visit our farm, to see Charlie’s final resting place. My Mom invited her out and gave her directions, then immediately mobilized the entire family in a whirlwind clean-up. We mowed the lawn, cleaned the stalls, and replaced a couple of fallen fence boards. By the time Rebecca showed up, the place looked about as good as it could on short notice. It didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful early summer day, with a light breeze sending gentle waves across the lush pasture. Ms. Rhoades was moved by the ambient beauty of the day, by the peacefulness of the spot my Mother had chosen, and by the evident kindness of a stranger. She agreed to have us pick up Charlie.

A few hours later that day, after we had picked up the deceased horse, Rebecca Rhoades phoned again. As before, she was in tears. “I’m so sorry to do this,” she cried, “but I just can’t bear the thought of not seeing Charlie one more time. Please. You haven’t b-buried him yet, have you? I need to see him once more, to say good bye one last time.” My Mother should have simply said that it was too late, that Charlie was buried. That’s what most horse traders would have done. It would have been so much easier.

What my Mother actually said, was “I think our heavy equipment operator just finished digging the grave. I can run out there and see if I can catch him before he finishes burying Charlie, and try to hold him up until you get here.” She then made two phone calls of her own, to call in favors from old friends. The second call was to Leonard Joseph, our “heavy equipment operator”, to see how fast he could get to our farm with his back hoe.

Most successful business managers will tell you that you have to leverage your strengths and resources, and we did this in a variety of both obvious and discreet ways. We knew people in the rendering business (a polite way of saying “slaughterhouse”), who would buy horses that nobody else wanted. The slaughter house was owned by a couple named Darryl and Sharon. They weren’t supposed to use dead stock, but since the horses were rendered for dog food and not human consumption, enforcement of this rule was lax to say the least.

By now it should be obvious that my Mother had never intended to bury Charlie on our farm. Her justification of this deception was easy for her. Money was tight, and it wasn’t easy raising 5 kids on a small farm. Charlie was beyond caring what happened to him, and Rebecca was happy with the version of reality my Mom had given her. The problem of course was that this version of reality was on the verge of collapse.

My Mom’s first call had been to Sharon. “Have you rendered that horse we brought you today?”

“Well, I think I just saw them take him in a few minutes ago. Why?”

“Stop them! I need that horse back as soon as possible!”

Sharon left the phone momentarily, then came back on the line. “Bah! You’re too late. That horse has been processed already. The only things that I can even identify are his head and his two front legs.”

“Well… That will have to do. Grab them and get here as fast as you possibly can. Please! I’ll explain it all later.”

The worry my Mom was experiencing at this point was obvious, even to us kids. The big concern of course was the possibility that Rebecca would arrive too soon, and realize that there was no fresh grave. The resultant unraveling of the truth would lead to harsh confrontations, shattered trusts, bad publicity, and quite likely, a lawsuit. The waiting had Mom up tight, and before long this feeling had been transmitted to the rest of us. The tension became all but unbearable.

Leonard was the first to arrive. “Carol Anne, this better be important. You pulled me off a job site, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I know! I’m sorry, but this is an emergency. I need you to dig a hole for a horse out on that hillside,” she said, indicating the supposed burial site. When he started asking what was so urgent, she said “Please hurry. I promise, I’ll explain the whole thing later, just bear with me and follow my lead if anyone else shows up.”

Next, she instructed my brother and sister to gather some wildflowers from alongside the road where they grew. About that time Sharon showed up with poor Charlie’s head and front legs. We got into the truck with her and she drove out to where Leonard was digging the “grave.” Fortunately, he was good at his job, and the hole was already about half as deep as it would need to be to actually bury a horse. Acutely aware that time was not on our side, my Mother decided that the hole was deep enough for the improvization she had in mind.

Mom quickly explained the situation to Sharon and Leonard, and they put the head and legs in the hole. Leonard jumped down in and arranged some of the loose dirt around the body parts. He was climbing back out of the hole just as Rebecca arrived with her husband. My Mom started talking as soon as they got out of the car. “I am so sorry. I got out here as fast as I could, but Leonard here had already started burying Charlie. He can’t use the backhoe to uncover Charlie now, the best he could do was use his hands to uncover Charlie’s head and a bit of his legs.”

Rebecca looked at Leonard, who simply nodded. She looked down into the hole at Charlie’s remains. It was obvious to us that poor Charlie’s embodiment consisted of a head and two legs poking out of a pile of dirt. She looked around. I followed her gaze as she took in the trees gently swaying in the breeze, and our horses grazing in the distance. She saw my brother and sister standing beside the grave, each with a little handful of wild flowers. Then she looked back at my Mother. Time seemed to stand still. Everyone but Rebecca and her husband was holding their breath, awaiting the accusations and recriminations that seemed immenent. Her eyes welled up with tears and her chin began quivering.

“Oh, Carol. It’s all so beautiful! You have all done so much for me. I can’t believe all the trouble you’re all going through. The flowers, your friends and family here for support…” She was openly crying now. “You’ve made this such a wonderful, spiritual, moving experience! I could never repay you for all the kindness and understanding.” She turned and buried her face against her husband’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably for a few minutes while her husband did his best to console her.

After a while, my mother suggested to Rebecca that she, her husband, and my mom return to the house while Leonard finished his job. The three of them drove back to the house in Rebecca’s car. Sharon drove her truck, while we kids stayed and watched Leonard fill in the hole. My brother and sister put their flowers on the “grave,” and we walked back to the house ourselves. Leonard passed us on the way with his truck and trailer, hauling the back hoe. It was parked in the yard when we got there, next to Sharon’s truck. Rebecca and her husband had gone home.

I found the adults in the kitchen. There was an open bottle of whiskey on the table, and my mom, Sharon, and Leonard all had a drink in their hands. The relief permeating the atmosphere was so palpable, had I been more enterprising I could have bottled it up and sold it, and I’d be rich right now. At first the mood was a bit somber, but time, Canadian Club whiskey, and the immense relief of a disaster narrowly averted combined to put everyone in a more celebratory frame of mind. In time, this celebration came to be known as “Poor Old Charlie’s Wake.”