Our youngest graduated from college last May and since then I've been thinking about my own college days.  One amazing story remains alive in my memory.  It goes like this…

During the spring of 1979 I was enjoying my first semester at Flagler College in St. Augustine, Florida.  St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States, is a picture-postcard in natural beauty and old world architecture.

On this particular day, the warm sun shone brightly in the mid-day sky and the salty breeze blowing in from the Atlantic invigorated my stroll along the bay front.  With the historic Bridge of Lions to my back I paced northward on the walkway along Avenida Menendez.  The formidable three-hundred-year-old fort, Castillo de San Marcos, loomed ahead at the end of the walkway.

I paused to soak in the splendor of it all.  As I looked to the east toward the blue Atlantic, I noticed the stately homes dotting the shoreline of Anastasia Island.  In stark contrast, across the channel leading to the open sea, sandy Vilano Point lay barren and lifeless.  Beyond, the open Atlantic rolled and broke in frothy combers.

A ketch glided into the cut from the ocean.  The crew busied themselves trimming sail as the skipper steered the helm.  I pondered what it was like to enter the channel in days of old.

Suddenly, the irregular clip-clop of an old spavined mare shook me back to the present.  Turning toward the street, I saw a horse-drawn carriage pulling to the curb.  Well, I guess you could call it a horse, as the old nag barely qualified belonging to the equine family.

The sway-back mare was donned in an old straw hat, her ears drooped through two holes on the sides.  Pinned to the hat, a fresh yellow flower waved in the breeze.  All the while, the driver, an aged African-American man, wearing an old straw fedora sporting an identical flower, conversed sweetly to the old nag as if it were his sweetheart.  She obeyed his gentle commands.  It was plain to see that he loved the old horse.  They were a team.

To the relief of the nag, the ancient driver stopped the carriage and after winding the reins around the handbrake he struggled in dismounting the buggy.  He limped to the mare, patting her neck affectionately.  Reaching into a coat pocket, he grabbed a handful of oats, and held them out to the nag who sniffed once then gobbled the oats, cleaning the man's weather-beaten hand.

The old man looked out over the bay scanning the enormous beauty set before him.  He turned to me and smiled through a worn yet gentle visage where I spotted etchings of a painful life.  Times must have been very hard for him, growing up in the south where Jim Crow ruled and civil rights broiled.

"Ain't it a beautiful day?" he hailed in a gentle, gravelly voice.  "Good day to be alive!"

I nodded, but before I could respond verbally, an elderly couple approached the old driver desiring a ride in his carriage.  He bowed humbly.  After helping the lady into the buggy, the driver labored as he climbed into the driver's seat where his leathery hands unwound the reins from the brake.  He mumbled some affectionate words to his old nag.  She dutifully responded and slowly labored away from the curb.

The friendly old driver winked at me, tipping the brim of his fedora.  I waved back watching the driver as he guided his beloved old spavined mare towards the fort.

 

With the echoing of the horse's irregular hoof-beats fading in the distance I realized that no college class could possibly teach the lesson I just learned.