One of the unmistakable sounds of summer in this small town is the clanging of horseshoes on Thursday evenings. It's the regular gathering of the oldest horseshoe league n in the State of Connecticut. It may be that some of the fellows who were playing back n those earliest years of the league are still playing today. They come week after week for bragging rights to their skills at horseshoe throwing, but also for the pure pleasure of it. They tell stories, laugh, share a beverage or two, and enjoy the smell of sausages and hot dogs being grilled by a woman who appreciates these local men and women who have become friends over the years.
Horseshoes hasn't made it to being an Olympic sport quite yet. It's
one of those specialties that probably originated in rural communities
where the equipment was easy to find. My great uncle Emil, a German
bachelor farmer in the fields of Iowa, was equally proficient at
horseshoes and checkers, for which he claimed to have been the state
champion in his early years. He taught us to fling his red or blue
painted horseshoes with the old "flip" method, which he thought was easy
for us to master.
The good players seem to pitch the horseshoes so that they turn sideways and open just as they get to the stake. The object, of course, is to get the horseshoes wrapped around the stake, a ringer. Maybe a double ringer on a perfect summer night is just about as good as it gets for most of us. And if, for this moment, it makes us glad to be here, then perhaps it is possible to take pleasure in the other small victories that make our lives, our world, a little better.
Ringer
Somewhere a dog barks,
and the breeze carries the distant sound
of a band concert on the green.
Bicycles whiz by down the street,
and a couple strolls along,
hand in hand, in love.
They pause to watch the horseshoes fly
smile at the art of it, the love.
The shoes thunk into the dirt,
clang against the iron stake
as a cheer goes up, or a curse.
In these parlous times
evil claws at fearful hearts,
and sickness and death lurk
in the shadows of innocent days.
This earth itself makes its circle
around the sun without guarantee,
waiting for an errant comet
to intercept our path, our peace.
But on this summer afternoon,
an old man in overalls steps up,
heaves a horseshoe into the soft air
where it makes a perfect arc
(for all that is good and joy and timeless)
and rings true,
like a bell.
--Timothy Haut
The good players seem to pitch the horseshoes so that they turn sideways and open just as they get to the stake. The object, of course, is to get the horseshoes wrapped around the stake, a ringer. Maybe a double ringer on a perfect summer night is just about as good as it gets for most of us. And if, for this moment, it makes us glad to be here, then perhaps it is possible to take pleasure in the other small victories that make our lives, our world, a little better.
Ringer
Somewhere a dog barks,
and the breeze carries the distant sound
of a band concert on the green.
Bicycles whiz by down the street,
and a couple strolls along,
hand in hand, in love.
They pause to watch the horseshoes fly
smile at the art of it, the love.
The shoes thunk into the dirt,
clang against the iron stake
as a cheer goes up, or a curse.
In these parlous times
evil claws at fearful hearts,
and sickness and death lurk
in the shadows of innocent days.
This earth itself makes its circle
around the sun without guarantee,
waiting for an errant comet
to intercept our path, our peace.
But on this summer afternoon,
an old man in overalls steps up,
heaves a horseshoe into the soft air
where it makes a perfect arc
(for all that is good and joy and timeless)
and rings true,
like a bell.
--Timothy Haut
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