The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse’s ears.

— Bedouin Proverb

It’s an easy thing to sit down every week and write an article about the birds and the bees, what the cat is doing, how the goldfish suddenly died unexpectedly, or how beautiful the fields and lakes are as viewed from the sunroom. It’s another thing to write of something you care deeply about and leaves your heart broken and your eyes flooded with tears in the strangest and possibly inappropriate places. A friend once said, “There are people in your life who stand around you like fenceposts.” I’ve thought of her statement many times, even visualizing certain people being my fenceposts. Two weeks ago I lost a fencepost; so, I’m faltering.

For the last twelve years it’s been my privilege to deliver a weekly column to my editor, Jan Swoope. Jan, editor extraordinaire, died June 30 of cancer. A number of people have written about their life and times with Jan because everyone wants you to know how amazing and kind she was. Because each person is unique and had his or her own special relationship with Jan and because Jan had so many interests in life, we all have a different perspective on how it was to love this wonderful person.

As a writer I should mention writers do not always love their editors, as shocking as that may be. However, Jan was generous with her compliments. She was meticulous in her editing. She wrote articles as well as editing and formatting other writers’ articles. She was a sometime-newspaper photographer. After a work day or on the weekend, as happens with newspapers, she would attend an event, a play, a concert, a book signing, and so on. Not only was it something she would write about, it was something she loved. She never complained.

There are editors who edit a writing so that when they are finished it is hardly recognizable as the original. There are times when the editor’s voice seems to override the writer’s voice so that it no longer sounds like the writer’s writing. Only once can I remember Jan questioning a word choice. “Did you mean to use the word ‘mire’ in ‘Sam mired up in the mud?’”

I replied, “No, Sam said he ‘marred’ up in the mud.” We laughed and went with what Sam said. He had marred up in the mud.

Jan was not just an editor to me. She was a Prairie Woman, a neighbor, and friend. I’ve been known to text her frantically, myself knowing nothing about horses, “Jan, the horse is down. Is there something wrong with it?”

She’d reply, “No, it’s okay. They do that.”

“Jan, Oop (Jan’s husband) is jumping the horse. Is he supposed to be doing that?”

She’d reply, “Like anyone could stop him.”

Flipping through the magazine, “Catfish Alley,” I realized Jan must have written about a thousand or more people in her career. In an interview with Weldon Merchant she wrote, “Riding beside him on the seat of a wagon pulled by two of his Spanish Mustangs…” The love  of horses was like heaven to Jan. I shall always think of her as riding with the wind. Goodbye my friend.

Shannon Bardwell is a writer living quietly in the Prairie. Email reaches her at [email protected].

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