A Box of Broken Horses

“It has always seemed to me that broken things, just like broken people, get used more; it’s probably because God has more pieces to work with.” ~Bob Goff

On Thanksgiving of this past year, my uncle Jerry walked into the gathering and gave me a box. This is not surprising as he’s moving soon, so he and my aunt are frequently bringing items to family members that they “stored” for us in their large extra rooms over the years. That’s what happens when you have a big place and don’t move for a long time in this family. You accrue not only your own things but everyone else’s. My brother and I get special treatment because we also get to be given things from our parents. We have to laugh because we will be given the most irregular item that we’d never in a million years want in our own houses and will be told, ‘This was your mom’s.’ Or ‘Your parents had this picture in their house.’ So now some random pink rug from 1973 that has seen WAY better days, or a piece of wood panel artwork named “Linda” is ours to hand down or throw away. But it’s our responsibility now!

So on this day, a box is put in my hands, and on the top in Sharpie, it says “Allison Broken Horses.” And now I think we really achieved a new level with this game. I get a box of my broken toys. FUN. We had a good laugh about it. Jerry could throw this stuff out, and I’d never know it was in box for 30 plus years, but he chooses to sherpa these to all of us, which I think is how he shows love. I’m laughing and showing everyone in my extended family this great box lid, but then I pause and open it. The next thing I know, I’m transported almost instantly to my grandparents’ kitchen table and sitting with my grandpa. Because in it are not only broken horses, but repaired horses as well. And now as I gingerly pick them up one by one and look at their repairs, I’m picturing Grandpa with a glue bottle in hand holding a Breyer horse and gluing a front leg back on. I was a bit hard on those guys, and I was never chastised for it, just encouraged to bring them to him when they were “injured.” He frequently tried to use rubber cement. Fixes became more inventive as we soon realized how regular reinjury was with rubber cement alone. Some were rubber cemented with a wrapping of medical tape over both ends of the fix. He eventually contemplated a longer fix and drilled holes into each end of the breaks and inserted a portion of a toothpick so that the binding could possibly adhere a bit better. This graduated to a drill bit that he sacrificed to adhere both parts of a leg on a very special pony that we just couldn’t give up on because he was one of my favorites. That one held for a while longer, but we had to reglue it a few times and I had to take special care of that little guy to prevent his becoming a pirate with a peg leg before he was whisked back to Grandpa in the kitchen surgical site.

It amazed me how quickly this all came back just sitting there picking up each of those horses and looking at the fixes. And suddenly I felt a bit vulnerable because the box I was laughing about was possibly the most nostalgic and precious of all the ones I’ve ever gotten, because I went back in time to 1985/86 so viscerally. There I was just standing in the middle of my aunt Joan’s house with so many family members doing real life in 2024 all around me having a beautiful flashback that I cherish.

I wonder if my grandpa had any idea what impression he was making on a young me by insisting that we fix these horses that meant so much to me. I was sure they were beyond repair until the first one was fixed. Then I knew exactly who to bring all of them to after that—solely to him. He always fixed the Breyers, and Grandma always fixed my Starlite stuffed animals of the Rainbow Brite universe. Their gold feet would wear off and Grandma searched in the sewing shops for something to fix Starlite with. She eventually found golden yellow fabric tape, and he got a new set of golden hooves beautifully wrapped. I can only imagine how long that took…

Were they just living life the only way they knew—that you fixed broken things? Or were they making a point to me in the quietest way possible- that we don’t just throw things away? We take the time to fix them, and you get a reminder of love in the process.

Sure, I’m certain that part of it was them being adults who lived through the Great Depression, because they didn’t throw much away that could be used for something. But also, I had a lot of horses, so they didn’t necessarily have to fix them, because I still had plenty. I not only had my own Breyer horses, but I got a box of hand-me-down Breyers from the 1950s and 60s. But this act of love towards the old, discolored, and broken ones was almost more poignant than when it was towards the newer, fancier versions. It also extended to plain, plastic horses and those that maybe weren’t as precious to me personally, as I definitely had favorites. But they all got fixed. Every single one of them. When reins made of tiny chains broke, a piece of yarn was tied there instead. Pieces of felt were cut to be new saddle pads. Part of what strikes me is the time they took on these simple tasks that I in no way fully appreciated as a young kid. And I don’t remember being told how much time it would take or that I needed to appreciate this act of service… it was just freely given.

I wonder if they in some way knew that they were creating a legacy with this simple practice. As an adult in “real life” and an adult in my horse life, I’ve reached for this innate lesson so many times—the lesson that broken things can be fixed. Broken bar stools have been re-screwed, broken mugs have been glued, and broken appliances have been repaired.

But also—

*Broken relationships haven’t been given up on.

*Broken connections that I could have let go of with old friends have been revisited.

*Broken practices in my business have been reexamined and rerouted.

*Broken senior horses have been cared for. Even when it’s melanoma and there’s no lasting fix. Even when it’s chronic lameness. Even when it’s a chronic immune response that won’t improve…

*Broken and hurting dogs are given the TLC they need and all the necessary medical care and then some to help them feel better for longer.

And it just goes on and on really….

Because even now my son has a broken electric tractor currently sitting by my husband’s work bench, and the two of them are discussing if the plug can be fixed for a second time. This is all so that his beloved ride can continue to roll. And I have to smile and realize that though my son doesn’t know his great-grandparents face-to-face, he definitely still knows them through the legacy they’ve left in so many seemingly small ways. Taking the time to focus on the fix instead of the broken may be one of the most beautiful pieces of themselves that they left, and it just keeps going and going in a beautiful circle if we let it.