My Million-Dollar Donkey

by East, Ginny;

  A few days later, Mark’s fully loaded tractor was delivered. We stared at that alien monster of a machine as if someone had dropped a helicopter in our driveway.

  Mark gave me a nervous smile and climbed into the cab. “How hard can driving this thing be?”

  I’ve seen my husband drive many vehicles in our eighteen years together. He had always been a truck man, claiming he needed a pickup for toting supplies to and from our dance school, and for carting stage props to the recitals. We rented U-Hauls on occasion and even owned a used RV one summer. He ran the dang thing into an overpass only once. But for all that my husband was fairly adept at maneuvering big vehicles, nothing prepared me for seeing my boy ballerina behind the wheel of his spanking new orange Kubota, scratching his head as he stared at the variety of levers, knobs, and buttons from his swivel seat.

  Mark fumbled to maneuver the huge claw-like bucket attachment into the air. The wheels spun backward instead of forward and he ran over a clump of daffodils. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure this out. I’ve seen fourteen-year-old kids driving tractors all over town.”

  Fourteen-year-old kids were more adept than him at working a computer, a cellphone, and an iPod too, but I kept the comment to myself. A tractor was BIG—a man’s undertaking. After years of wearing tights and choreographing ballet, my husband deserved an all-man toy if that was what he wanted. I was just glad he hadn’t lusted for something more dangerous, like a crossbow.

  The tractor had feet that dug into the earth for traction and arms that were interchangeable. One end of the machine was used for digging, the other for hoisting, so Mark simply had to spin in the seat to shift from one chore to the next by changing the direction from which he operated the two-headed monster.

  “You’re doing great, babe,” I called over his mumbled swearing, thinking he reminded me of Ripley in Aliens when she strapped the loading dock machine to her body so woman and machine could become one finely-tuned weapon of efficiency.

  Watching his arms tug at levers as he tried to steer at the same time, his body swiveling to and fro in the cab, was like witnessing my former dance man in a silent tango with frustration rather than the graceful duet that our neighbor farmers seemed to pull off.

  He’ll get it, and I’ll never see the old boy in tights again, I thought to myself.

  Not that I was bothered by the idea. I thought Mark looked just as good in overalls as he once had in tights. I even liked the way the sun was bringing out the gray in his new mountain-man beard.

  Eighteen years with the man had taught me never to be shocked by my husband’s ever-changing looks, life ambitions, or attitudes. Inside his wedding ring were words I’d engraved when we first fell in love: You are all men, a romantic tribute to his diversity and constantly changing persona. I believed his eclectic interests, multiple talents, and morphing personas meant I’d never need or want any other man. Here was a partner who embraced the talent, excitement, and charm of every man.

  Only later did I realize his varied talents and interests were a result of hopes and dreams that swung like a pendulum, dissatisfaction seeping into the seams of whatever he did once his initial obsession with a project waned. I loved him fiercely, but I never knew which husband I’d have from year to year. His weight escalated or dropped a hundred pounds or more at least three times during our marriage. Sometimes he stopped eating all together, becoming so slight that the veins stuck out along his neck and his hips disappeared. Other times his obsession with working out and taking protein supplements made him look like a puffed-up cartoon superhero. Most years, excess soft flesh hung over his belt, making him hide behind the kids in every family photo. But no matter how his exterior changed, I only saw Mark, the man I loved.

  He’d had his hair shaved, as well as grown long enough for a ponytail, which he liked to pull up into a little fountain on top of his head like a sumo wrestler. His hairstyle changed from straightened to curly, dyed, shaved, shaped... I’d seen him with every manner of facial hair, too, from full beards and goatees to the sexy George Clooney three-days-growth of hair I favored. His constant desire to get just the right “look” led to braces on his teeth, Lasik surgery, monthly facials, weekly colon cleansing treatments, and every sort of vitamin, mineral, herb, or muscle supplement money could buy. I watched him go through periods of wearing nothing but overalls and torn work clothes to teen-inspired fad clothes few men his age would dare attempt to pull off. Some phases had him wearing tight t-shirts, dark glasses, and gold chains like a GQ model. Later, it would be sporty baseball hats, followed by floppy brimmed hats. Next it was cowboy hats, and the year he went “ghetto” it was ski caps and grunge all the way.

  I watched my husband follow a variety of diets, too. He became a vegetarian, a raw foodie and juicer, a candy- and junk-food-crazed binger, and a consummate carnivore and protein-obsessed eater, all in the course of a few years. He variously gave up sugar, carbs, wheat gluten, alcohol, soda, and meat in a never-ending cycle of experimentation, passionately insisting he had one or another physical affliction that made it necessary to follow a special diet. He was going to write a book about whatever health regimen he embraced in the moment, but before he ever wrote a page, he’d be binging on those very things he had blacklisted only a week prior.

  His ever-shifting moods affected me personally in ways outsiders would never understand. I’d experienced months where he was a sensuous, extraordinary lover, followed by years where he would go to any length to avoid touching me in any intimate way, his excuses so thin and the periods of abstinence dragging on so long I was left questioning his sexual orientation and the authenticity of our married life together. At times like these, I was convinced marriage to him was just an excuse to play house. I desperately craved a lover rather than a glorified roommate, but loved him too much to do anything other than share my heartache in endless heart-to-hearts with him as I begged him to visit his issues so we could both be emotionally and physically satisfied. There were always plenty of excuses and reasons for his abstinence, so when nothing improved, I just prayed for the next period of change in hopes his veil-thin excuses for why he was disinterested in a physical relationship would eventually be expended. Sometimes I’d get lucky and we’d have short periods of intimacy. They just never lasted long and always left me more deeply feeling the poignancy of loss.

  I patiently endured periods where my husband claimed all he wanted in life was to become a dancer, a potter, a landscape designer, an interior decorator, a singer, a business manager, a playwright, a wood artist, a graphic designer, a realtor, an architect, and a Tony Robbins life coach. I watched him enroll in college but never finish, discuss business ideas that were promising yet never went beyond the talking stage, and listened to him type out the first chapter (only) of several books or a play he planned to write. I was always encouraging and supportive, but over the years had learned to never get too excited or drawn into his enthusiasm because as soon as we devoted the lion’s share of our resources to his proclaimed passion, and the time came for him to dig in and face the drudgery of hard work, he’d announce, “Never mind, I’m over that now.”

  Yes, I was supportive, but at the same time I had to do whatever was necessary to keep his feet nailed to the ground to keep our life from imploding. There simply wasn’t room in one family for two artists indulging their every whim, so I buried my natural instinct to approach the world in my own romantic, dreamy way, and became the voice of logic and practicality.

  I was always amazed that despite my husband’s flighty changes of heart, the one and only thing he had remained committed to in life had been me. His loyalty may have been more a matter of convenience than anything else, but I clung to his disinterest in other women as validation that he did indeed love me, despite any evidence to the contrary. Deep down, I always feared that one day, if ever I demanded any kind of true sacrifice from him, he would turn away from me just as easily as he turned away from our bus
iness or any one of his other passions du jour. Proclamations of love were in abundance but I longed for sincere acts that showed love.

  I was determined to believe things would be different this time. At long last, I had released my constant grip on practicality and said yes to one of Mark’s idealistic dreams. I said yes to fifty acres because not only did I want change as much as he did, but I thought this plan we had hatched to simplify life could work, thanks to the wealth of resources we had at hand. I had, without reservation, given him exactly what he wanted, which I trusted would earn me the love I so desperately craved. Maybe I’d earn the life I craved too. The idea that I could pursue my own dream to write and parent my children with full attention and awareness and not worry about money was almost too exciting to bear.

  I had purchased Mark a bright orange hardhat on eBay, a symbolic gift of support and encouragement. Now seemed a fine time to present him with my thoughtful gift.

  “You expect me to wear this?’ he said, laughing at the plastic hat when I held it out to him.

  “Just in case a tree falls on your head, city boy.”

  “If a tree falls on me, a plastic hat isn’t going to help. I’ll be nothing but an orange speed bump.”

  “The man in the tractor brochure wore one. I even picked one out in orange to match your nifty new Kubota. You’ll be a vision.” “I’ll look like a Village People impersonator.”

  I placed the hat on his head, pausing to kiss his cheek. “Humor me.”

  He took the hat off. “I’ll tell you what, the day you can point out one farmer wearing a hard hat in these here parts, I’ll put it on.”

  I suppose I should point out now that Mark never did wear the hat. I instead inherited a nice orange hard hat planter, good for nothing more than sporting a few pansies. I suppose a man finds it far more appropriate for the hat to wear a pansy than the man to look like some kind of pansy wearing a hat.

  Within days, Mark had figured out enough tractor basics to go roaring along our gravel road or across our field, hoisting a tree stump or digging in the mud to clear weeds out of the creek. One day, he announced he was taking our son Kent out to cut firewood. Twenty minutes later I watched the tractor roll by with our boy lounging in the bucket, his hands behind his head as if he were relaxing in a hammock. The two of them waved merrily.

  I quelled my kneejerk reaction to shout a reprimand. Other moms in America were fretting because their sons were bumming a ride to hang out at the mall. If my biggest worry was my kid bumming a ride in the jaws of a tractor careening across a meadow filled with poppies, I really had no worries. Both of my beloved boys—husband and son—were at long last immersed in a world that supported and integrated their masculinity. Life here was raw, dirty, and filled with boyish adventure. I couldn’t help but be happy for them.

  As the weeks rolled by, Mark grew ever more adept as a tractor pilot. I’d walk down to wherever he was working and wait until I could catch his eye so I could hand him a mega-sized lemonade. As Mark lifted heavy logs the back tires would lift right off the ground and the cab would tip. I’d catch my breath, certain the vehicle would land out of kilter, but eventually everything would level out and return with a thud back to a centered position and my heart would start beating again. This was the same feeling I had about our entire life now, a feeling that I was holding my breath, waiting fearfully for things to even out and settle rather than topple.

  When Mark wasn’t on the tractor, he was stalking trees with his chainsaw, or chainsaws plural, I should say. Every day new tools, wood, and machines were added to Mark’s stack of man-toys in our temporary garage. Our old all-purpose chainsaw stood abandoned in the corner now that several new chainsaws had arrived. He’d bought one for debarking trees, as well as one for cutting small limbs. He’d gotten a Paul Bunyan-sized contraption for big jobs, the size and weight of the machine taxing even before it came in contact with wood. The heavy-duty chainsaw seemed his favorite because he could take down trees as easily as I would weed a garden now, which, to be honest, is a fair comparison because I consider weeding rather hard.

  Out with the beetle-infested pines that were as quick to drop at your feet as a fainting goat when you yelled “Boo!” Out with the pesky, spindly trees that took sunlight and nourishment from the hardwoods. Out with the deadwood that made our forest look as ominous as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, engulfed with a hundred years of ignored undergrowth. Out, especially, with those select beautiful wood specimens possessing character and interest because they were destined to be a part of our dream home.

  Most of the time, Mark’s calculations were fine, but occasionally he’d emit a low whistle as a trunk came crashing to the earth in the wrong way. “Um...I guess I cut that one at the wrong angle. You didn’t really want that azalea bush, did you?”

  “No,” I’d whisper, my breath catching in my throat, but as I watched him sidestep catastrophe, I felt compelled to learn at least the basics of driving a tractor just in case I might discover my mate with a tree lodged on his chest someday. If I didn’t, I imagined myself pushing the wrong buttons, squashing him into that messy little speed bump I was so worried about him becoming.

  “I want to learn how to drive the tractor,” I announced, thinking that explaining my request would be too gruesome.

  “Why?” he said with that same wary tone a little boy uses when he suspects someone untrustworthy wants to play with his favorite new toy.

  “For safety purposes.”

  “For safety purposes? Get real. You have trouble backing up the truck.”

  “I’ll only go forward, I promise. Besides, I don’t want to drive the tractor; just learn how all those levers work.”

  “Is this because my hard hat is now a pansy planter?”

  I kicked at the dirt with my toe. “I’m afraid something will happen to you. All these falling trees. The tools. Hillsides. A few months ago, you were gluing sequins to headpieces. Everywhere I look now, I see something that could snuff out the life of my loved ones. I’m uneasy.”

  “And I have to worry about a donkey kicking you in the head.”

  I glanced over at Donkey, standing docilely at the fence, blinking in slow motion. He was too lazy to shake the flies off his nose. Big threat.

  Another tree careened to the earth, causing even the donkey to take a step back.

  Mark slid the brim of his new cowboy hat to the back so he could better see debris filtering through the air, and swatted at a sweat bee with an overly dramatic swoop of his hand.

  “I hate bees,” he said, overreacting in my opinion, considering the bee was the size of a speck and Mark was looking rather Viking-manly-like in his tractor seat.

  The bee flew off, allowing Mark to continue carving away at the land as if he was working on the Thanksgiving turkey. I stood there, the roar of our new, quiet life drowning out my plea for his assurance that all would be well.

  “In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.”

  —Henry David Thoreau

  FRIEND FOR DONKEY

  As months slipped by, I grew more adept at country ways, though I felt more like I was on vacation than permanently encased in a new life. I longed to feel as at home in our new world as Mark seemed to be, but my old persona clung like a deeply embedded tick. Certainly there must have been a time when dance didn’t define me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember when.

  I did recollect spending one summer riding horseback as a child. That was a glorious, carefree summer filled with great non-dancing memories, and perhaps the origin of why I found a donkey so appealing now. My new life mascot was like an old dream that went blurry around the edges, turning the great steed of my deep youthful desires into a plodding ass, a f
air match for my middle-aged self.

  I was only eleven on that dance-free summer. My sister, ten years my senior, had gotten her first job and bought herself a high-strung palomino. Inspired, my father “rented” the family a second horse so we could all ride together. We devoted that entire summer to horseback riding, experiencing what you could call “limited-liability horse ownership.” Whoever paid the monthly rental fee was responsible to ride and groom the beast, so my summer responsibility was to provide exercise and care for the horse, and ride as much as I could to validate the rental fee.

  I still had vivid memories of riding through the mountains, pausing to pick blackberries or swim in the lake while my horse, Chiquita, grazed nearby. I was a fearless pre-teen, standing up in the saddle in an attempt to master tricks, urging the horse to run every time the land opened up, and when I wasn’t in the mood to hoist the heavy saddle I’d ride bareback, even though the horse’s sweat made the skin between my thighs itch for hours afterwards.

  Every day, I toted a quarter to the stables to buy a bottle of orange soda from the vending machine. I’d pour the pop into my hand and share with my chestnut mare, her warm tongue lapping at my palm as her trusting and appreciative eyes gazed into mine. I gave her baths, soaping her up like a car, both of us ending up squeaky clean as the water cooled our mid-summer flush. If I held up the hose just so, the water cascaded over my wrist to form a fountain. We took turns drinking, both the horse and I, sucking water through pursed lips, nudging each other aside to assert our right to the next gulp.