Some Dreams Do Come True

Dad loved the farm on Hog Creek, but unbeknownst to us, he was keeping his eye on other places too.  We learned one day that a property he had admired for years, was up for sale, and our family was buying it.  This was not good news for a boy who loved the farm, the river, the neighbors, and the cats.  But it was settled.  Dad’s dream was coming true, and we were moving.

We said goodbye to our Hog Creek farm the spring of 1962 and moved a few miles away to our new home on Grubb Road, a little west of Elida, and south of Route 30. It was a nice two-story farmhouse—probably a bit newer than the one we moved from.  Included in this package were a chicken house, a small shed, and a nice gambrel-roofed barn.  One small field of several acres brought Dad’s workload down to a more manageable size, while he continued his regular job at the Lima Lumber Company.

The Ottawa River, known as Hog Creek.  Our home in the background.  

Our milk cows didn’t make the move, but the sheep and a couple steers came along.  They shared a pasture that had a creek running through it.  Not a river, mind you.  Just a small creek.  Corky, the little black-and-white dog, happily came along, as did a couple tame cats.  All in all, this was a very nice mini-farm of six acres, and we were so close to our Mennonite school that we could walk or ride bicycles most of the time.  

Somehow though, our new place didn't feel like home.  I missed the old house, the old barn, the cows, and the big old iron bridge.  Most of all, I missed Hog Creek.  It had been our place of adventure and fun—where we hiked with our cousins, played on the sandbars with our tractors, waded in it on hot summer days, and skated on it in the winter.

And of course the cats—those trusting creatures who “willingly” risked their lives for science, suffering multiple humiliations at the hands of the *RSRG—if only for the sake of these poor animals, this move was a blessed event.  Finally the Hog Creek cats could stop looking over their shoulders, and sleep peacefully at night.

The barn is still there.  We played a lot of basketball in the loft, and Silver lived in the stall below the loft.

It took some time, but we began finding things to enjoy at our new place too.  This barn was nicer than the old one.  It had two hay lofts.  One was used for hay and straw storage, and the other was swept clean, with basketball hoops mounted on either end.  Here, we could play indoor basketball to our heart’s content, rain or shine.  Other kids came to play too, and our barn became the basketball hot spot for friends and neighbors.  It was a lot of fun, but I was limited to games of PIG.  The hand-eye coordination required for dribbling the ball was not a part of my skill-set.  (Nor has it ever been.)

One day, two of our second cousins showed up to play—Jay Daniels and his younger sister Jeanie, who was about my age, maybe a year older.  I scoffed inwardly as Jeanie climbed the ladder into the loft.  A girl!  I gave the ball a toss at the hoop, and then Jeanie got hold of it.  She ran, she dribbled, she shot, and she was good!  This was long before girls played sports in school.  They were supposed to stand on the sidelines watching the tough guys play.  Not Jeanie.  I don’t think I touched the ball again until she went home.  This was an awakening.  So much for what girls can’t do.

Under the basketball loft there were several tie-stalls for horses.  I’d look at them and dream.  What we needed was a pony or two to put in them, but I knew there would be no point in thinking about that.

Summer slipped into fall, and fall marched into winter.  It was early December now, and it was impossible to know the plans that Dad was making.  One day we learned that he was actually going to buy us a pony for Christmas!  He had been talking with someone about it and heard of a pony that was available.  It had been part of a six-pony wagon team—trained to ride and drive.  If excitement could be measured by a tachometer, I’d have been deep into the red.

According to Mom’s diary, it was December 15, 1962—less than one year after the lesson of the birthday bluejeans.  She wrote, “Dick and David went with someone to bring the pony home this afternoon.  Dick got it for the boys for Christmas.”  (Dad went by the nickname, “Dick”)

We arrived at our destination, and there stood the most beautiful black and white pony in the world.  His name was Silver, and he came with a bridle, saddle, pony-cart, and harness.  It was all there—everything we needed to ride and drive our very own pony.  I was in heaven!

Brother Wes holding Silver's head.  Little brother Keith sitting next to a very happy me in the cart.

When we arrived home with our prize, Dad was anxious to harness him up for cart rides.  He surprised himself by remembering exactly how to do it.  It must have been twenty-five or thirty years since he had handled a harness, but it came right back.  Dad and I climbed into the cart for the first drive down the road.  We went a ways, then turned around and trotted rapidly back.  It was great fun, but what I really wanted was to ride on the pony, not behind it.  We pulled into the driveway and dad asked us if we wanted to ride.  Are you kidding!?  He saddled up the pony, explaining how to cinch-up and tie the belly strap.   He gave Silver a pat on the neck and said, "I’ve always loved the way a horse smells, ever since I was a boy helping my Dad with them on the farm."  I loved the scent too.  And I loved the sounds Silver made—the whinny, and the gentle nickering.  He seemed calm and friendly, and his large brown eyes watched us trustingly.   I rubbed his velvety nose and pinched myself.  It wasn’t a dream.

Now it was time to ride, and Dad explained how to get into the saddle.  For the first time in my life my legs were straddling a real pony, and what an incredible feeling.  In an instant I became Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger wrapped up in one daring package.   

Dad led Silver around for a little while so I could get used to the feel of him, then asked if I wanted to run.  Of course I wanted to run.  So with dad still leading, we broke into a trot.  Holy Moses!  It was a hard, jouncy ride, and it felt like I’d be thrown to the frozen ground at any moment.  I clamped my hands onto the saddle horn with a death grip and asked Dad to slow it down.  This wasn’t anything like the electric pony in front of the Williams grocery store that whirred and rocked when you climbed on it’s back and dropped a nickle in the slot.

A fifty year old picture of Silver, taken with my first camera, a "Brownie."  I still have it.

It wasn't long though, before we were saddling and riding Silver on our own. This pony was no dummy, and he had apparently come with a bag of tricks that he was eager to share with us.  It was obvious that he liked the attention we gave him, but he didn't particularly enjoy being ridden.  When we attempted to put on the bridle, he’d clench his teeth together.  We had to learn how to wiggle it into his mouth anyway.  Then when we’d put on the saddle and began tightening up the cinch strap, he’d hold his breath, which made the saddle slip when we tried to mount him.  We quickly learned to watch his breathing, and give the cinch strap a hard pull when he exhaled.

Next on his list was an attempt to discourage us from getting on his back.  We’d put our left foot in the stirrup to swing up onto him, but as we did, he’d reach around and nip the back of our leg.  That hurt!  So we learned to wrap the right-side rein around the saddle horn. That fixed that.   He still had some more tricks up his sleeve.  One of the next things he thought we should learn was what it felt like to go under low hanging branches.  If we rode in the pasture, he’d do his best to head for just such a tree, and even managed to get me scraped off once. This guy was smart and devious, but he was also so lovable that it was easy to forgive him.  He wasn't through with the lessons yet.

Silver was never a problem when he was pulling a cart down the road, but for some reason, he didn’t enjoy being ridden in any direction that was headed away from home.  Barn sour, they call it.  He wouldn't gallop and would barely trot.  So it was slow going until we turned and headed for the house. Then look out!  With very little encouragement, he’d race for home like there was no tomorrow.  He scared me half to death one day when I took him across the road and back through a field.  When it was time to head for home he did his thing. The problem was the road.  It became obvious that he wasn't going to slow down for the approaching car.  I pulled with all my strength, but he had the bit clenched firmly in his teeth, and I was no match for him.  As a last ditch effort I got both hands on one rein and pulled like my life depended on it—which in fact it did. That worked.  His head came around, and his body followed his head.  Whew!  That was close!  But I loved him anyway.

That summer and the next with Silver were great fun. We didn't always go for rides or drives. There were plenty of times when it was fun to just brush him down, then lay on his back while he munched grass in the lawn.  He never attempted to run away.  He was getting what he wanted, and I had my dream come true.   

These days, it’s easy to relive those childhood experiences when Amish children drive pony carts past our home.  For them, it is not so much a dream, as an everyday reality.  Just the same, watching the Amish with their horses, and the children with their ponies, it is obvious that they love the interaction with them.  It puts a little longing in my heart to still be a part of that scene.

 

A couple friendly Amish boys.  Took this photo yesterday near Mt. Hope, Ohio.

It’s not likely that we will ever own another horse or pony, but we’ve had our share.  Over a period of years, I can count three ponies and four horses that have lived in our barns—not to mention several donkeys.  What’s really nice now, is that our next-door neighbors board horses in their barn.  Our small pasture is connected to theirs, so we let the two horses and one pony keep our pasture trimmed up too.  It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, and I can have contact with a horse any time I desire.  No feed bills.  No vet bills.  Just soft, velvety noses, the aroma of horses, and plenty of fertilizer for the garden.

That reminds me.  Gotta go pick some sweet corn for supper, and slice up some nice big tomatoes to go with it.  We are especially thankful this time of year when delicious garden crops are plentiful for eating and canning.

From Kidron, Ohio, where the homely men enjoy reminiscing about the good old days, and the lovely ladies keep getting better with age.  They’ve earned every wrinkle and wisp of gray hair, and enjoy each day together.

As a younger man, my prayer was that we’d live long enough to see our children into adulthood, and out on their own.  We’ve been blessed that God allowed that.   And we are grateful. So long.

*RSRG - Ross Scientific Research Group.  Referencing the writing from two weeks ago, "Pets."