In London I took pictures of the bobbies on horseback patrolling the streets near Trafalgar Square.
In Chanhassen I took pictures of the Sheriff's Mounted Posse on horseback during the George W. Bush Rally.
In St. Louis I took pictures of the gold-buttoned carriage masters driving the Budweiser Clydesdale horses and red Anheuser-Busch wagon.
In New Orleans I took pictures of the horses in straw hats towing their taxi-carriages on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter.
On Mackinac Island I took pictures of tourists heading toward the Grand Hotel in horse-drawn carriages.
I've taken pictures of horses and their condiments at Canterbury Downs and the Carver County Fair and the Minnesota State Fair and other parts of the world unmentioned.  I'm not sure I even like horses, but they are a novelty to me - tamed yet prehistoric - and they attract my attention.
So what do you think I did last week when we went to Harmony, Minnesota?  Well, true to fact and form, I took pictures of the horses and carriages and the people driving them.
However, and this is the pithy part, I quickly learned that it was not always the harmonious thing to do in Harmony, Minnesota.  I'm still trying to sort it out.
It was a short and easy side-trip from Lanesboro, where Allan and I stretched a League of Minnesota Cities seminar into a mini-vacation far from the madding crowd.  It was a step back in time and also a step away from time.
Maybe you know that Lanesboro has curious shops, not unlike Northfield or Excelsior, and that Harmony is intriguing in a similar and nearby way.  So we were weaving and wending from antiques to quilts to toys and baskets.  Some of the general stores seemed lifted directly from the era of our parents and grandparents.
And then Allan, straddling the outdoor scenery, says, "Sue!  Look what's coming down the street!"
The horse and black carriage and black-dressed, black-bearded Amish man and young lad in big straw hats seemed also sights from another time, a storybook era.  I ran out of the general store and took pictures.  The man in the carriage turned his visage downward, on purpose it seemed, each time I clicked the camera, but I let it pass with nary a second thought and was pleased that the photo as a whole was captured and well composed.  I enjoy the instantaneous satisfaction of digitals.
As Allan and I crossed the street in Harmony, I spied a second horse and black carriage coming from the opposite direction.  I prepared to snap another award-winning photo when I saw that the Amish lady of that carriage was waving to me.  I put my camera down, waved back and waited for them to approach, prepar-ing for a close-up shot.  As I positioned my camera for the perfect photo, the lady waved again - what a glorious day! -- but then I heard her loud unpleasant voice, "No!  No!  No!"  And I realized her wave was not welcoming but shooing.
I brought my camera immediately to my side without clicking.  When I saw the anger on the lady's face, my mouth dropped.  It was an awkward moment as she passed, and there was nothing else to do except feel awkward.
I had, apparently and unwittingly, violated the lady's space.  She and her horse and carriage had a large space, the whole street, whereas I stood in a small space on a little corner of a narrow sidewalk in a tiny town far from home. 
Although I don't have the picture on my camera, thank goodness, it is indelibly imprinted on my mind.  The picture is well composed but blurred around the edges and not very charming.  Allan and I were taken aback at the occurrence. 
On the edge of town we stopped to look at the wares being displayed in a parking lot next to an Amish carriage in which sat two teens with straw hats.  I purchased a handmade basket, a jar of their mother's dill pickles and a jar of their mother's homemade strawberry jam.  As I doled out the required amount of cash, I asked if I could take their picture, they were so cute.
With shy demeanor and tone of voice, the older boy said, "Please not."  So I didn't.  I wouldn't.  Up close like that, I would always ask permission.  Common courtesy requires it in such an instance.  In any case, I was impressed with the polite boys and the uncommon phrase, "Please not."
On our way out of Harmony we drove past a large hayfield that was dotted with dozens of orderly arranged and neatly shaped shocks.  I hadn't seen such a sight but once or twice when I was very little, on a neighbor's farm. 
Then I spied an Amish farmer in a distant corner of the field and his two sons who were building the shocks of hay.  The unusual step back in time begged a photo, and since there was no easy way to get permission, because of the distance, I decided they'd just have to give me forgiveness if they perceived it a bad thing to do.
When I raised my camera, the little boys put their fingers in their ears and mouths and made faces and I laughed outloud at them.  The Amish farmer nodded in my direction, gave me an obviously friendly wave, then shooed his kids back to work.  The playfulness felt good.
It seems to me that harmony is a two-way street, even in Harmony, Minnesota.  Now where did I put my camera.        ~Sue