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And just 'cause it's hard to post without a snap, here's a pic I may have taken myself as a very little girl of my mom and one of our newborn foals--just to show I was into newborn photography even back in Ontario in the sixties. We had a turquoise Bakelite intercom, and through this, mom would spend weeks listening for the sounds of the mares going into labour. What will it sound like? I'd ask. How will you know? Mom, can I watch? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?
Finally, on one occasion, I remember my mother waking me up and carrying me in her arms out to the barn in the middle of the night. The air was chilly against my bare feet and I wiggled my toes, testing it, and could feel the hem of my long flannel nightgown. I'm guessing it was March or April. The stars winked as if someone had poked holes in black fabric, and I was enchanted by the sight--and by being in my mother's arms in the dark, still night. In the barn, where my dad was waiting, it was warmer, and smelled of manure and ammonia, and it was quiet in every stall except for the last one where a restless mare was down on her side, ribs heaving, nostrils flared. Mom tucked me into a corner, burrowing me in straw, then turned to soothe the mare, stroking her cheek and neck and cooing in a reassuring tone.
The mare showed the whites of her eyes, and struggled to her feet as the foal came slithering out hooves first in its white bag of cowl, falling gently to the yellow straw, and sending up plumes of steam into the chillier air. The foal twitched in her bag. My mother pulled the cowl open, and the mare licked the birth bag away. Minutes later, the little foal rose on shaky, spindly legs, fell, then got up again for good, nuzzling for milk.
I was beyond enchanted. I was in love with every tiny particle of this experience, and have been in love with birth--and mothers and babies whether animal or human--ever since.
I wrote a poem about that magical night once, though I don't think I included it in either of my poetry books.
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