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How I Earned My Pony
As far back as I can remember, I wanted a pony. This was a constant subject of discussion between my parents and me as a young child. My parents had grown up during The Depression and knew all about what it was like to do without. As a result, they wanted their children to have everything, so they were determined to grant me this wish as soon as they were relatively assured that I was old enough and mature enough to handle the situation.
By the time I was seven and in the second grade, this continued to be an ongoing conversation, and it was during this year that I had my first experience with a bully. I had spent the majority of my young life in the country surrounded by two sisters, and doting family and friends who loved me and did everything they could to support and nurture me. I knew very few children outside of family, and had never known anyone
with a malicious bone in his body.
So when I was suddenly pounced upon one day at school, for no reason at all, by someone I didn't even know, I was bewildered. The youngster (whom I will call James) was a first grader who happened to be a lot bigger than me. It was my first experience with aggression and I simply did not know how to handle it. I remember him knocking me down and then circling me waiting for me to retaliate and kicking me every now and then hoping to elicit a reaction. And I remember not being afraid so much as being totally confused about why someone would want to do this to another person.
It didn't last long before our school dietitian walked out of the lunch room, sized up the situation, and put a stop to the proceedings. What I didn't know was that she then called my parents to let them know what happened.
When I got home that day, my parents and I had a discussion, and I was informed that "You should never start a fight, but there are times when you have to stand up for yourself." My father actually bought a punching bag and mounted it on the side of the barn. I never got the hang of it but I did get the message.
I also remember there was some talk about getting a boxing lesson from our local barber, "Snooks" Bowles, a former amateur fighter. That never materialized either, but it did help me better understand why Snooks had a very flat nose, the kind that looked like his face was always pressed up against a window pane.
But most importantly, my father said, "You know that pony you've been wanting? Well, you stand up for yourself the next time something like this happens,
and I 'll get you that pony."
Not long after that, during recess one day, I saw James jump on my best friend, Jimmy "Beetle" Bailey, who was even smaller than me. I yelled at James, and told him to leave my friend alone. I will never forget the look of glee he shot my way as he dropped Beetle like a three day old dog bone and headed my way like I was prime rib. This time I had actually given him an excuse to jump me!
I remember wrestling James to the ground and getting on top of him and randomly punching him as I went through the motions of "fighting" as best I understood how it was supposed to work. It was actually kind of boring. And I distinctly remember James looking up at me with this puzzled look while asking, "What got into you?", or something to that effect.
When I got home from school that day, I went straight to my father and said, "I'm ready for that pony now." When asked what I meant, I said, "I beat up James today." And that, my friends, is how I earned my pony.
And as a bonus, after that day, I never had any more trouble with James.
A short while later, my father and I took the ultimate
guy trip; just the two of us, going to a pony farm to pick out my pony. I remember that we stopped at a roadside diner along the way, and my father ordered for me a cubed steak sandwich, on white bread with mayo. To this day, I still say that is the best meal I've ever had in my life.
When we arrived at our destination, I experienced the only thing more fun than the proverbial "kid in a candy store": a kid in a pony pasture; literally, ponies in every direction! Must have been two or three dozen. And that's where I found the prettiest little pony I'd ever seen; dapple gray with a white star and white mane and tail. I named him Scout, for Tonto's horse (if you don't remember Tonto, I can't help you) and he was my great friend until the inevitable day a few years later, when I outgrew him and "graduated" to a Tennessee Walker.
Too many years have passed, but I will never forget my old friend Scout, and the lesson I learned on that
part of my journey.
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