Metamorphsis

   I first met Barb in high school, and I remember even then, I thought she seemed a bit odd. Being only fifteen and lacking in worldly wisdom, I didn't have a clue as to why Barb was different; I just knew she was. For instance, Barb couldn't seem to keep her hands off my best friend, Sandy. Barb and I bonded because of our mutual love of horses, but when Sandy was around, I ceased to exist. Barb did touchy-feely hugging things with her so often that Sandy headed the other way when she saw her coming.

  Barb didn't lack in the looks department. Her long blond hair hung down to her butt, and her curves caught the eyes of every boy in school. Her lovely blue eyes were framed by long black lashes the rest of us girls would have killed for. But Barb wasn't the least bit interested in boys unless they had horses. Her favorite pastimes included watching the cheerleaders practice, discussing horses, or playing basketball. She became an outcast, and the girls avoided her, whispering behind their hands when she walked by. The boys considered her weird. Barb and I remained friends, mainly because she never tried the touchy stuff with me. I don't know if she figured I wouldn't put up with it, or if I didn't appeal to her.

    Barb and I spent the summer between our junior and senior years working at Old Trails Riding Stable, and it was while we were there that Barb decided she wanted to be a farrier. Roy, the manager and blacksmith, started teaching her all he knew of the trade, and Barb picked it up quickly. Soon, she was trimming the hooves of the riding horses along with Roy. I thought it was a strange thing for a girl to do but to each their own.

   After we completed high school, Barb and I went our separate ways. I married the stable manager, Roy, and Barb paired up with a gal named Judy. Now I realized why Barb seemed so different, but it still shocked me. Until that point in my life, I had never heard of same-sex relationships. It was seldom mentioned in the early sixties and never discussed in my family. If someone told me a person was gay, I thought it meant they were a happy person.

 The years passed, and Barb and I lost contact with one another. I knew she made her living as a blacksmith, but I hadn't seen or heard from her in ages. Then, over fifteen years later, we met again.

  Roy and I eventually parted company, and a few years after we divorced, I married a dairy farmer. After divorcing my blacksmith, I still owned horses but needed to find another farrier. I tried several blacksmiths while looking for one who knew what he was doing. There were, and still are, many guys who call themselves blacksmiths but have never had a lick of training. They are dangerous because a bad trim job can cripple a horse. I could spot the difference when they started trimming the first hoof on one of my horses, and I would send them packing.

 My niece, Debbie, told me about a farrier named Brandon who lived in Tustin, Michigan, and did excellent work. She said Brandon had done her horses, and she was more than happy with the results. Being fussy like me, Debbie wouldn't have recommended the guy unless he was good. I couldn't find anyone close, so I decided to call the man and check him out. Brandon said he had other horses in the same area and would be down in a week. It sounded good to me.

 On the designated day, Brandon arrived in his beat-up old truck. There was nothing exceptional about the guy, just another partially bald man with a short, reddish-colored beard and a tad on the portly side. His faded jeans and blue, western-style shirt looked like they had seen better days. I went outside to introduce myself and show him the horses I wanted trimmed.

"Hi, I'm Jessica," I said.

 Brandon laughed and said, "You don't recognize me, do you?"

 "No, of course not. I’ve never met you before in my life."

 "I'm your old high school buddy, Barb. What do you think? I look a bit different?"

 "Barb! You're the Barb I went to school with? You have to be kidding; Barb was a girl, and you most definitely are not." I thought the guy was trying to be funny, although I didn't know why.

 "Yep, I'm Barb. I changed my name to Brandon after I had a sex-change operation a few years ago. I always felt like I lived in the wrong body, so I finally did something about it. I joined a group of people trying to cope in a world with little tolerance for people like us. A prominent doctor who wished to stay anonymous took pity on us and did the operations for free. I'm much happier now that I don't have to hide who I am. I'm married, too, and have two little girls."

  Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. We talked while Brandon trimmed the horses, and he convinced me he really was my friend, Barb, somewhat altered but still the same person. The transformation was amazing. If I had met Brandon walking down the sidewalk, I never would have guessed Barb was in there somewhere. He looked and sounded like a man in every way, but as I observed him closely, I could see some of Barb's mannerisms in how he moved and spoke.

  After Brandon completed the trim job on my horses, we headed for the house and coffee. I had recovered from the shock of Barb changing into a man, and we chatted comfortably like the old friends we were. Brandon was almost as shocked by the fact that I had married a dairy farmer and milked cows for a living.

  “Do you milk the cows yourself or hire someone?” Brandon asked.

  “I milk them myself, along with my husband and step-children. I answered. We are up at four seven days a week. No rest for the wicked,” I laughed. On top of that, I cook for the hired help, mow, garden, and clean the house. It’s a busy life, but I love it.”

“Wow, I never would have guessed. You were such a girly girl in high school. I thought you would marry some guy and be a stay-at-home mom or a nurse, some girly occupation. I could imagine you with horses but not three hundred cows that you milked yourself. It blows my mind,” Brandon said.

 “So, we're even,” I chuckled,” I certainly didn’t expect my friend, Barb, to turn into a man.”

  We talked for some time before Brandon had to leave. As I watched him drive out of the driveway, I was amazed at the different roads life takes us down. One never knows what’s around the next corner.