Once Upon A Pony

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has, what I like to call “The Romance of the Horse.” You know, that phase where she dreams about owning a horse, longs to ride and imagines herself astride Black Beauty, golden tresses flying in the air as she gallops her trusted stead across the hinterlands. (There will also be a guy on his own horse, riding in at some point to save the day. This male will be a combination of Prince Charming and Marlboro Man; magnetic and devilish, a Rhett Butler sort of man, yet fully capable of quoting poetry and whispering tender sonnets in the young lady’s ear.) In lieu of an actual horse, any and all books and movies about a girl and her horse will have to do.

I was raised on a dairy farm where there wasn’t a remote chance of convincing my father to trade in milk cows for beef cattle. Still, I fantasized about herding cattle, seeing clearly in my little girl mind that rounding up the cows for milking could be done in half the time if done on horseback. Never mind that I had never been on the back of a horse in my lifetime—the dream was clear—and very romantic!

Whether I was munching popcorn as I watched the weekly installment of “My Friend Flicka” on TV, or curled up tight on the couch clutching a well worn copy of “Misty of Chincoteague”, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of owning my own pony.

In the field behind our house, there was a gas tank. Nestled in a structure formed by 2 x 4’s, its round galvanized form provided an excellent place for me to practice my riding skills. With a bailing twine reign and a vivid imagination, I rode that pony hard, outrunning Indians, chasing stagecoach robbers and jumping hurdles as I competed against National Velvet. When the gas tank was moved and access to the top of the barrel became too challenging, I traded in my galvanized stead for a much narrower perch – the fence that circled our back yard.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to train one of our dairy cows to let me ride her but the bony back was a deterrent, not to mention a bovine stubborn streak a mile wide.

You can imagine my giddy delight when I learned we were going to take care of my uncle’s horse while the family went on an extended vacation. I had nothing but covetousness for my cousins who had access to this pretty little Shetland pony whenever they wished. By this time I had been lucky enough to have ridden on Brownie’s back when visiting and despite the fact that my cousin led Brownie around the field while I clutched her mane with all my might,  I had been over the moon with happiness. This had also whetted my appetite for my own horse even more.

I was at school when Brownie was delivered to our farm. When I got home, I hustled to change into my faded jeans and flannel shirt, positive this was the sort of clothes Calamity Jane would wear. Lacking cowboy boots, I tied my red kerchief around my throat, grabbed a shiny red apple from the fridge drawer, and raced out back to where Brownie was tethered.

My wild dash to the padlock came to a sliding finish as my red canvas shoe made contact with a fresh pile of horse droppings. Gross! I calmed myself long enough to wipe the offensive matter off on the grass that was already looking trampled by Brownies little hooves. Brownie, whose head had been buried in a nice bundle of hay, didn’t seem nearly as excited as I was to exchange greetings. As I called her name, she raised her head up and down with snorts and whinnies, registering some displeasure over being interrupted. I tried to woo her by proffering the apple. She snorted again and shook her mane.

I didn’t know much about Shetland Ponies then but I have since learned that while most Shetlands are thought of as excellent pets for children, due to their gentle nature, they can also be opinionated, headstrong, and even ‘cheeky’. I was about to learn that Brownie the Beloved, had a mean streak.

I held the apple out and I could tell she’d glimpsed the treat by the way her eyes rolled back and her head bobbed enthusiastically. She took a step towards me but instead of stretching my arm out more I brought the apple closer to me. My thought was to get her close enough to pet her silky nose and perhaps even be able to mount her. My cousins often rode her bare back, using her mane to hang on and their knees to guide her. All that training I’d done on the gas tank and the fence was about to come into good use.

I brought the apple close to my middle and spoke soothingly. Brownie snorted again and took another step closer. Suddenly she knocked the apple out of my hand and bit me! Right through my shirt her teeth went. There was no velvety brush of her mouth against me, just painfully sharp teeth. I gasped, the pain searing through me like a bullet. I backed away instinctively and Brownie, convinced she’d conveyed her annoyance with me, snorted again, and went after the apple that had bounced to the other side of the padlock.

Sucking desperately to catch my breath, I felt the hot tears rise and my chest heaved. I stared disbelievingly at this act of betrayal and then spinning around, I ran as fast as I could back to the house. In the privacy of my bedroom with my face buried into my pillow I sobbed until all my sorrow had been released.

Later that night I looked solemnly at the purple bruise, teeth marks clearly delineated. I refused to share my unfortunate incident with anyone in my family for fear of a scolding and for the rest of Brownies visit I stayed far far way. That was the day I hung up my saddle and bridle and retired my fence riding. 

Summer Day

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It’s hot, the kind of hot that makes the tar patches on the road soft and gooey, and dogs crawl under front porches to rut in the cool dampness of the earth. The kind of hot that makes Mama cranky and Grandpa lazy.

 Dawna June wishes she had fifty cents so she could buy an ice cold coke at the corner market. She sits on the top step of the peeling wooden front porch, absently scratching at a mosquito bite. She’s already ridden her bike through the sprinkler, steam rising as it sizzled off her shoulders. She wishes she lived closer to the creek. Her head tilted slightly she thinks longingly of the cool water trickling over rocks made slippery and smooth by the constant flow. She knows the perfect spot to wade in. Under a tall Elm tree, with a grassy knoll and a sandy strip of beach. She’s been there many times with her older brother Jake. But Jake is working in the fields with Papa and Mama won’t let Dawna June go to the creek by herself. But she might let her ride her bike to the corner market for a coke.

The screen door creaks and Dawna June glances up. Mama steps out, her plump cheeks rosy and glistening. She holds a shallow pan in one hand and Dawna June catches a glimpse of the green beans that will undoubtedly make an appearance at supper tonight. Mama’s gaze settles on Dawna June and a tired smile graces her face.

“Child, help me snap these beans.” Mama’s voice is soft; she never yells. Dawna June recognizes an opportunity to gain favor. She accepts the pan and a scoopful of beans and begins snapping.

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 “Mama, when I’m done with the beans could I ride over to Eli’s and get a coke?”

“May I and I reckon that’d be alright. You got money?”

“Um… no Ma’am…” Dejected, Dawna June sighs resignedly. Grandpa, who has been dozing on the sofa on the other end of the porch, his straw hat covering his face, mumbles something.

“What’s that Pa?” Mama speaks without turning to look. Dawna June looks hopefully at the overall clad figure, now swinging his legs over the cushions to upright himself.

“Said I reckon I can cough up a couple quarters for the girl. Providing she brings me back one too.” He fans his face with the hat and winks at his granddaughter.

Dawna June grins, her snapping picking up speed. Done with her portion she looks expectantly at both adults. Mama takes the proffered bowl of beans and adds them to her own. Grandpa struggles to fish the change out of his pocket, his ample girth making it all the more challenging. Dawna June has already mounted her bike by the time her grandfather has come down the stairs and places the warm coins in her eager hand.

“Come right back, y’hear?” Mama instructs. “And mind you watch for cars!” This last bit of instruction shouted as Dawna June’s short legs are already pumping her down the driveway.

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She picks up just enough speed to create a breeze and delights in the cool refreshment as it lifts her damp bangs off her forehead. She dips her head back slightly and grins. The road to Eli’s Corner Market is mostly straight and the traffic is nil. She experiments with riding one handed, then, recklessly outstretches both arms at her sides and whoops as the bike wavers. Three seconds. She’s improving.

Pretending she’s riding a horse, as she approaches the store she dismounts while the bike is still moving, nearly wiping out when she miscalculates her speed. Mrs. Finney, who has just left the store lets out a cry of alarm as the two nearly collide. Some fussing from Mrs. Finney makes Dawna June slow down, but just barely. 

Dawna June can almost taste that cold liquid gliding down her parched throat. She hurries to the deep chest located at the front of the store and plunks her money down on the counter with one hand, lifting the squeaky hinged lid with the other. Mr. Eli palms the coins and nods as Dawna June wrestles two green coke bottles out of the icy cavern. One she tucks carefully into the back pocket of her shorts, the cold wetness making her draw in a quick breath. The other bottle is immediately angled at the side of the cold chest, where the bottle cap is popped off by the built in opener.

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She walks outside and stands on the wooden porch, and lifts the bottle to her lips. The dark caramel liquid bites slightly, the peppery taste always a shock to her taste buds in that first sip. A hiccup breaks free and she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Finding a seat on the empty bench outside the store, Dawna June enjoys the soda while watching nothing. 

It is a perfect afternoon.