A Kitten for Kelly

           Kelly lived with her parents and older brother in a little house overlooking the ocean.  The house sat on the side of a granite hill surrounded by forest. Some of the little girl's best friends were the animals that lived in those woods. Every morning before school, she went outside to top-up the bird feeders, making sure they were full of seed. In the afternoon, Kelly checked the old stump that held peanuts and sunflower seeds for the squirrels. She had given names to many of the bushy-tailed neighbors. On weekends, she would walk down to the beach and sit on the pier, watching the sea lions lazing on the rocks, or the sea-otters playing in the surf.

            Kelly loved the wild critters, but she had always wanted a cat. Her teenage brother, Mark, had a dog named Skipper. He was a black and tan  mostly-German-Shepherd, and followed the boy everywhere. Mark had found him by the road one day, scraggly and skinny, and brought him home. He had bathed and groomed him and fattened him up. Now he was a part of the family. He was friendly and sweet, but he was really Mark's dog. Kelly was very envious.

            "Mama," she would say, "Don't you think I could have a kitten?"

            Mama would reply with a smile, "You be patient, sweetie, the time will come."

            So Kelly tried to be patient, and made do with her wild friends.

            Spring came to the forest and everything seemed to be growing. The leaves sprouted on the alders and the hummingbirds returned from their winter hide-away. The does appeared with tiny, white spotted fawns. They were so used to people that even Skipper did not bother them. Kelly's dad had built a fence to keep the friendly deer out of his wife's garden.

            This garden was one of the little girl's favorite places, with sweet peas and roses and strawberry bushes. She would stretch out on the grass under the apple tree and daydream, sure that fairies lived in the branches above. Sometimes she would set up her little farm with all its plastic cows, sheep and horses and play for hours. One day, just after lunch, Kelly was out in the garden when a huge, calico cat, appeared at the edge of the fence. Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. The cat stretched lazily, and began washing her face with a forepaw. Kelly giggled. She reached out her hand. "Here kitty, kitty," she said softly.

            The cat raised her head and looked, then casually turned and left the garden. Kelly was curious. She got up to follow. By the time she got through the gate, the cat was gone.

            After that, Kelly saw the cat regularly. Sometimes it was in the garden, and sometimes sunning on a rock or crossing the drive, going toward the beach. Try as she might, she was never able to get near enough to touch it. Soon she started leaving a dish of food near the garden fence. Each morning the dish would be empty, but she was never sure if it was the cat, or some raccoons that were enjoying the feast.

            Kelly decided to try again, "Daddy, could I have a kitten for my birthday? I'll be eight this year. Isn't that old enough?"

            Her father tried to look gruff, "An animal is a lot of responsibility. Do you think you could remember to feed and take care of it?"

            "Of course I could!" Kelly stated, indignantly. "I'd take the best care of it!"

            "Well," he gave in, smiling. "We'll see what we can do. But you better be extra good!"

            Kelly was beaming. Surely she would have her very own kitten soon.

            Spring wore on. The daffodils opened, wild all over the woods, and the tulips behind the fence raised their colorful heads. The herbs in mother's garden had soft new growth and a lovely fragrance. The bushes were alive with birds of all kinds. And the calico cat kept visiting the little girl.

            The day of Kelly's birthday was sunny, warm for late May. It was a perfect day for a party. Her mother had set up cake and games on the front deck, and several friends were expected that afternoon. It was a wonderful birthday. The girls played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and broke a piñata. After cake and ice cream, they played hide-and-seek in the woods. Kelly had a great time.

            That evening after supper, the family gathered for their own little celebration. The hearth was stacked with birthday gifts. There was a big box from her father. She decided to save it for last. Some muffled noises seemed to be coming from it. There were the  clothes from her mother, as usual, and a game from Mark. Finally she tore the wrapping from the big box. Inside was a cage containing a small black and white rabbit. For just a moment, Kelly was disappointed. Then she reached in pulled the bunny into her arms. The soft ears and twitching nose won her over instantly. "Thank you, Daddy! I promise I'll take good care of him!"

            "I know that you will," her father grinned. "I'm sorry that it's not a kitten, but no one in the whole county had kittens yet. I guess it's too early in the year."

            "That's ok," she grinned back. "This bunny is just perfect."

            Kelly named the rabbit Hoppy, and played with him every day out in the yard. Sometimes the calico cat would watch them, probably hoping for a rabbit dinner, but she never came very close. The girl made sure Hoppy was safely tucked into his cage before she went in for the evening. She loved her bunny, but she dreamed of having a kitten curled up in her lap when she did her homework. Of course, she never told her parents. They had tried the best they could.

            Spring turned into summer and school let out. The long lazy days stretched out in front of her. Hours spent playing in the woods and in the garden, going to the beach and fishing off the pier. She noticed that she hadn't seen the big cat in quite a while.

            One Saturday in early July, Kelly went to town to shop with her mother. They went to the mall and had lunch at a coffee shop. In late afternoon they drove back home, tired and happy. As they turned up the drive, Kelly spotted Mark on the front porch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them. What's he up to? She wondered.

            Mark came out to help unload the car. "Hurry up," He urged, "Dad has something to show you."

            In the family room, Dad was stretched out in his favorite recliner. He put his fingers to his lips as he saw them come in.  Lying on his chest, wrapped in a dish towel, was a tiny kitten. It raised sleepy eyes and uttered a tiny meow. Kelly gasped in awe, "Where did it come from?"

            "It was the darndest thing," Mark piped up, "I heard Skipper barking by the garden fence, and he wouldn't stop. So I went to see what was going on, and there was this little kitty, lying in the herb garden under the apple tree."

            "All by itself?"

            "Uh huh, all alone. And look, it can hardly walk, it's so little."

            Kelly took the kitten from her Dad. He could hold it in the palm of one hand. It was black, with a white bib, white whiskers and white hind paws. Its eyes were still blue, only having been open a few days, at most. She held it up to her face. It smelled of lavender and sunshine.

            "How did it get there?"

            "All I can figure," her father answered, "is that she got separated from her mother. They'll leave them sometimes, the littlest ones. But I haven't seen any stray cats around here."

            "I have," Kelly said, entranced, "A big black and orange one."

            "I've seen that one too," Mark nodded. "Maybe that's the mom."

            "What are you going to do with it?" the girl was almost afraid to ask.

            Her Dad smiled. "As I recall, I did promise someone a kitten."

            "Really?" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I can keep it? It's so cute! Is it a boy or a girl?"

            "Pretty sure it's a girl. But we'll have the vet check her all out anyway." Dad said, "I'll bet she was born right around the time of your birthday."

             Skipper came into the room. The tiny kitten arched her back and hissed at the huge dog. Skipper gave her a sniff, then with a slurp licked her from head to toe. Everyone laughed. "Well, I guess it's official," Mom said, "That little thing is part of the family now."

          Kelly went to bed happy that night, a basket full of kitten purring by her side. She was sure the old garden cat had not abandoned her baby, but had left the kitten just for her. Why else would she have been in just that spot in the garden, under the magic apple tree?

 

Charlie

           The old man glanced across the pick-up seat at the little girl sitting beside him. She wore faded jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, and Keds that had once been pink. She was eight years old, and the picture of her mother at that age. Blonde and tan, a tomboy from head to toe. In her lap she held a small, green plastic tackle box.

           It was late summer in central Oregon. An excellent time to take his granddaughter fishing, Hank thought. The water level in the canal had been dropped for the season, leaving the trout trapped in isolated deep holes. It was, almost literally, catching fish in a barrel.

           The pigtailed face turned toward him. “Papa, doesn’t it hurt the worms when you put them on the hook?”

           “Well,” Hank hesitated, unsure what to say, “I don’t think they hurt the way we do. Their brains are too little”

           “But can they swim? It must be scary if they can’t swim. Don’t they drown?”

           “They can breathe in the water,” he explained patiently improvising. He had no idea whether a night crawler could swim or not. It hadn’t occurred to the girl that the worms would be eaten alive by a trout. Grandpa was deciding it would be better to use Powerbait.

He cranked the steering wheel hard left and turned onto the BLM right-of-way. It was a rutted, hard-packed dirt access road, which meandered along, following the canal out into the desert.     

“Look, Papa!” Lucy giggled, pointing, “Look at those funny birds!”

A family of Valley quail marched, single file across the road. Mama was in the lead, followed by a six adolescent chicks, with Daddy bringing up the rear. Lucy was delighted.    

Hank slowed to an idle to let them pass. “They were most likely down at the water hole. Just up a bit is our spot.”

           The old truck rumbled to a stop by the side of the road. There was a bend in the canal here, where the water widened and slowed. This was the fishing hole. Lucy jumped out and slammed the door. They settled down on a fallen log and grandpa set their lines. He fixed the girl up with a baited hook, making sure no worms were injured in the process.

           “Hold down on this button,” he instructed, “then let go at the top of the cast.”

           “I know.” She grinned confidently, “Daddy showed me how.”  With a look of supreme concentration, she swung the pole through the air, the bobber landing with a plop. Hank nodded, proud of her. The child had been practicing.

           They caught four nice pan fish within the first hour. It was the perfect amount for dinner.

            The day warmed. Dragonflies floated on shimmering heat waves. Sometimes, a breeze rippled the water, or raised a dust-devil. Otherwise, all was still.

           When the sun was straight overhead, they went back to the truck. Hank put the tailgate down, and spread the lunch Nana had packed. Lucy munched on her ham sandwich, asking questions about the desert animals between bites. Her grandpa had lived in the area his entire life. He knew all about the wildlife, and loved to share his knowledge.

           “Look at them whistle pigs,” he said, pointing to a prairie dog colony the size of a football field, a few yards across the canal road. “They dig holes to hide in, deep burrows, and then just stand there on the edge and watch. If a hawk flies by, they’re gone just like that.”

           They decided it was getting too hot to fish, so they packed up the gear and started for home. As they bumped along the rutted road, a flurry of activity caught Lucy’s eye. Something had scattered a covey of quail, sending dust and feathers flying. Hank hit the brakes, swearing under his breath, as several birds erupted in front of the truck. They heard the thump of several bodies coming in contact with the vehicle. Lucy leapt out and ran onto the road. Most of the birds were across now, looking flustered. One, however, lay in the road, twitching. “Oh, Papa,” the girl cried. “He’s hurt! Did we do that?”

           “I think he ran into the truck in the dust cloud,” Hank answered. “We should put him down. He can’t survive if he can’t fly. He’d be someone’s supper before nightfall.” Damn birds, he thought could’ve cracked a windshield.

           The bird’s wing was badly damaged. “Can’t we take him home? I could take care of him while he heals up.” The pleading dark eyes were hard to resist. He melted like the marshmallow that he was. He couldn’t deny that the bird was still alive, and didn’t seem to be suffering. He wrapped the wounded quail in a shop towel, laid him in an empty pail, and handed it all to Lucy. “Gives a whole new meaning to a Bucket of Chicken.” He grinned.

           “This is Charlie Quail,” she announced after a bit of thought. “He’ll heal up better if he knows his name.”

           Grandpa nodded gravely, hiding a smile under his mustache.

           Back at the house, Fran found a box for Charlie. They lined it with newspaper and set it in a warm corner of the kitchen. Lucy got a handful of chicken scratch from the henhouse and the water dispenser they used for day-old chicks.

           By the time she was through fussing over the injured quail, dinner was ready.  They ate a fine meal of rainbow trout, baked potatoes, and corn, fresh from the garden. There was blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. After dinner, the neighbor kids came to get Lucy for a game of flashlight tag. She brought them in, one at a time, very quietly, to see Charlie. She insisted on slow movements and low voices. The children were suitably respectful. They had all nursed wounded birds. Most had not survived the first night.

           After the children had gone, Fran looked at the little quail. “What do you think his chances are, Hank?”

           “Oh, I’d say about fifty-fifty. He hasn’t died of shock yet. He’s not hurt that bad, but the kid might love him to death.”

           In the morning, Charlie was not only alive, but quite alert. He was up and pecking at the grain when Lucy came down for breakfast. His wing drooped, and he stood on one foot. Hank smiled, watching from behind his newspaper as his granddaughter painstakingly inspected the bird.  

           Days passed, and Charlie continued to improve. “He needs more space,” Lucy complained to her grandma. “How can his wing heal if he can’t stretch it out? I can’t turn him loose until he can take care of himself.”

           Hank and Fran smiled at each other. At least she wasn’t planning on making the thing a pet, they both thought. “We could put him out with the chickens,” the old man offered. “He’d have room, and company, too.”

           “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, Nana!” the girl cried enthusiastically, hugging them, “I’ll go get him set up!”

           That was how Charlie Quail came to live with fifteen white hens. Within hours, he was swaggering around like he owned the place, apparently forgetting about his injured leg. It was clear he felt he was in charge.

           Lucy looked after Charlie with tireless dedication. “For an animal that’s not a pet, he sure gets a lot of pampering,” Hank teased, “He’s getting fat on my chicken feed. You think he’ll be well soon?”

           The little nurse looked thoughtful, “He’s pretty much healed,” she decided, “I think he’ll be ready for release soon.” Evidently, she had been watching Animal Planet.

           The next afternoon Lucy confirmed that Charlie was ready to return to the wild. She put the now docile bird into a crate in her wagon and headed east. When she found a good field, she stopped and opened the box. After a wing-stretch and a feather ruffle, Charlie started pecking at sage seeds. Smiling with satisfaction, the girl returned to the farm.

           In the morning, Fran went to gather eggs. From the porch she saw a small figure on the wrong side of the fence. Coming closer, she realized that it wasn’t a chicken. Charlie had returned.

           Hank and Lucy decided they had released him too near the coop, and he was attracted back by the available food. This time they would go to the mill fields. There were other wild quail there. Two days went by, and there was no sign of the bird. Then, on the third evening, coincidentally at feeding time, Charlie came sauntering up to the hen house.

           “I think you’ve got yourself a pal,” Hank said to his granddaughter, “You better open the gate.”

           Charlie went right in and made himself at home. Strutting along the fence, he inspected the boundary. He was a comic little figure, bopping around with the big white hens. When Fran fed the chickens, he joined right in. Evidently, he intended to stay.

           Vacation ended and Lucy went home, but her grandparents promised to take care of Charlie. After all, the quail had chosen their chickens as his covey.

One Sunny Summer - a pony tale

 

My friend Nancy lived with her parents, in a house on her grandfather's farm, where, many years ago, he raised Shetland ponies. At some point, for reasons unknown to us children, he turned five mares and a stallion loose on 120 acres, to graze among the cattle. Apparently, this was the end of the pony-breeding venture.

Over the years, the herd multiplied naturally, and lacking any meaningful human contact, grew completely wild. By the time Nancy and I were twelve, there were nearly fifty little ponies running free on the farm.

Like many girls our age, horses were our passion. We had trail horses that we rode and showed, and were very active in 4-H. At one meeting, our club had a guest speaker who talked about harness training. She showed a film to demonstrate some techniques. We watched, star struck, as beautifully groomed and fitted Shetland ponies, strutted joyfully in front of two-wheeled carts.

I'm not sure which of us thought of it first. It may have been me. It's the sort of thing I would come up with, but Nancy was definitely on board. The idea was for each of us to catch a colt from Grandpa Dunham's herd, and train them to pull a pony cart.

Our first step was to get the barn ready. It was really more of a stable than a barn, consisting of six box stalls, a tack and feed room, hayloft, and a mysterious door called "office". During the winter, Nancy's father used the barn for his pet goats, but being spring, it was unoccupied.

We started with the tack room, which had not been used in years. Cobwebs clung to the single hanging light bulb. When lit, it revealed a floor buried under nearly a foot of debris. Rats or mice had chewed holes in old burlap feed-sacks, spreading the contents everywhere. Some of the grain had even tried to sprout. Baling string and other random trash had accumulated there, too.

Being too young and ignorant to worry about rodent-spread viruses, we grabbed shovels and started to search for the floor. It was a hot and dusty job, but worthwhile, too. Amidst the garbage, we found old horseshoes, halters and other treasures. There was even a complete parade set of silver-studded, black-leather saddle, bridle and breastplate. Fortunately, the oil used to treat the leather didn't taste good to rats. Nancy and I looked at each other and grinned. It was all pony size.

"Gramps was in charge of the Shetland Showdeo, way back when." Nancy told me, referring to the annual 4^th of July celebration. "He made my dad dress up and ride in the parade, until he got too tall."

That made us giggle uncontrollably. Her business-suit-wearing father was not the horsy-type at all. Nancy pointed at the office, "Come on, I'll show you. There's a picture."

We opened the door, almost reverently. We were not supposed to be in there at all. No one else had been in there, either, not in a long time. It was a room the length of two box stalls, but slightly wider. More than an office, it had once been a clubhouse. There was a desk, but also a bar, a couch and a felt-topped card table with chairs. On the walls hung old, black and white photographs of show ponies. A glassed-in case still held trophies and faded ribbons. The desktop held writing paper and pens, and a framed photo of Nancy's dad as a child. A fine layer of dust covered it all. It looked as though the last person to close the door had expected to be back in five minutes.

"Maybe we can clean this up, too," Nancy suggested, "We could set up our stuff in here."

I shook my head, no. It would have felt wrong. The whole enterprise must have been abandoned overnight. Even as a kid, I wondered what had happened. It was something I would never find out. We closed the door on the past, and went back to our chores.

We finished clearing the tack-room, and turned our attention to two stalls. The setup was perfect. Each stall was twelve feet square, with Dutch doors opening into a split-rail corral. Keeping the ponies in the stalls would make the taming job much easier. Direct access to the corral would also help. After spreading a deep layer of straw in each box stall, we were done.

Now we had to get permission from Nancy's parents and grandpa. We chose to follow the path of least resistance, and talk to Gramps first. That proved to be a good decision.

The old man's face lit up when he heard our proposal. "And don't worry about John," he said with a wink, referring to Nancy's dad. "I'll talk to him."

The following Saturday was the beginning of spring break. We would have a full week to devote to taming. We needed to catch our ponies. It was a very simple plan. Just bring the entire herd across most of the property, and drive them into the cattle pen. We would then separate our colts, trap them in one of the small side pens, and release the rest of the herd.

We set out on horseback, pleased to see the herd right away. They were all grazing on the nearest third of the acreage. Separating, we circled behind the ponies. There were four dozen or more, in colors ranging from pure black to pale golden. Nearly half looked young enough to consider. Definitely counting our proverbial chickens, we made our selections. I picked a black yearling with a blaze and four white socks. Nancy chose a palomino filly that appeared about three years old.

Waving our arms and shouting, we spooked the lead stallion, Thunder, into a gallop. The herd followed. This was going to be easy, we thought. The ponies slowed to a jog, and we kept them moving toward the pen. From a distance, we saw Nancy's older brothers at the gate. Her dad was standing atop the loading ramp, watching. As we approached the cattle pen, they opened the gate wide, creating a funnel. Thunder was caught off guard, and dodged right in. About a dozen ponies went with him, the gate slamming shut behind. The rest veered back down the hill at a flat run, Nancy's filly with them.

"At least we got one of them," I commented, immediately regretting my selfish words. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. Want to try again?"

"That's okay," Nancy shook it off. "It's not worth the chase."

We decided on the black one with the socks, and who ever else we could catch. It turned out to be another yearling, this one pure black. After a half-hour of effort, we had managed to separate them from the bunch into a side chute. Sweating and out of breath, we were completely happy. Behind us, Mr. Dunham opened the gate. With a snort and a buck, Thunder led the others out, off to rejoin the rest of the herd. Once the corral was empty, we turned the colts back into the main enclosure. They settled in quickly, and began munching on some alfalfa.

Nancy and I sat on the top rail and watched our ponies, considering what to name them. Having just the right one was very important. There had to be a full name, for shows, and something short and simple, for everyday. It should have some meaning, or be descriptive. Listing genealogy was always good.

"I think Candy was his mother," Nancy mused. "He looks just like her. So, for his show name, he can be 'Candy's Hi Hopes' spelled with an h-i, and I'll call him Pal."

I studied my new pony. In addition to the socks and blaze, he had a crescent shaped white patch on his rump. Otherwise, he was coal black. I tried and rejected several versions of 'Sox' and 'Blaze'. I pictured him clean and brushed, the white marking standing out against the black, his coat shining in the sun.

"Sun Crescent," I announced, forgetting no one had heard my thoughts. "Sunny, for short."

"Shouldn't it be Moon Crescent?" Nancy asked. 

"Sure, but doesn't it sound better?" I shrugged. "I like the name 'Sunny', but with a u, not an o."

We stayed there, watching our ponies until the fading sunlight, and hunger, drove us inside. I had gotten my parents' permission to spend the night at the farm. Nancy and I stayed up late, talking and planning. In our fantasies, we had Pal and Sunny harnessed as a pair, pulling a cart in the Grand Floral Parade. It was easy to get ahead of ourselves.

We were back in the corral early the next morning. Daylight brought a reality check, reminding us that the ponies were still wild as mustangs. When we entered the enclosure, they moved away nervously. Slowly, I walked toward Sunny, speaking softly. His ears twitched, eyes wide, as he watched me approach. I came to within four feet and slowly dropped to sit cross-legged in the soft dirt. This put us nearly eye-to-eye. I crooned and spoke baby talk to the colt, moving as little as possible. I sat like that for what seemed like hours. Finally, Sunny cautiously ambled over, stretched his neck as far as possible, and gave me a sniff. I fought the urge to reach for him, and stayed perfectly still. Cautiously, he sniffed again, and backed off. I had taken the first step to making friends with my pony. Within days, Nancy and I were both able to approach easily, especially with a bucket of grain.

On Thursday, Gramps pulled up in his pickup. He motioned us over. "Take a break and come to the feed store with me," he invited. "You can help me pick up some things.

A trip to West Union Feed & Seed always meant a stop at Larry's diner. It was on the corner where Cornelius Pass crossed West Union Road, across from the feed store and the railroad tracks. The milkshakes there were still handmade, with real ice cream. They used fresh local fruit, when it was in season.

Nancy and I sat on the feed store loading dock and sipped our shakes. Gramps was inside placing his order. I breathed in the wonderful aroma of alfalfa, molasses and cedar chips, and savored the creamy strawberry shake. I watched a red-tailed hawk circle above the filbert orchard across the road. It was paradise on a warm spring day.

"Girls!" Gramps called from within, "Come in here!"

We scampered across the warehouse, into the main store. Here the smells were of saddle soap, leather and sweat. "I was telling Mr. Kaiser what you're up to, and he has something here he thought you could use."

He produced two nylon web halters, small even by pony standards. "They sent me those as display samples, so I can't sell them." Mr. Kaiser said, "You can have them. Maybe they'll fit your ponies for a while."

We were sure that they would, and thanked him profusely.

"You get them ponies halter broke," Gramps told us on the way home. "Then you can move 'em into the barn. Get some real work done. They're tame enough."

Gramps was right. By Saturday, we had the ponies lead-broke. That was supposed to mean they would walk calmly when led. In our case, it meant they could be coaxed and half-dragged in the right direction, without freaking out. That was good enough to make the hundred-yard trek from the cattle pens, to the stable. 

Pal would be the first to go, since he was slightly more compliant. Nancy had the lead-rope in one hand, the grain bucket in the other. Like the carrot before the donkey, she walked with the oats just out of Pal's reach. He followed docilely, only hesitating at the stable doors. Once through those, the grain was enough to coax him into the box stall.

I hoped Sunny would be as easy, but it was not to be. The pony was not interested in the oats. He was too busy looking around. About halfway across the barnyard, he suddenly shrieked and leapt sideways, jerking me off my feet. He pulled me along for several yards before I was able to plant my heels.

Spitting grass, I approached the colt. He stood, quivering, his eyes wide. "What the heck was that all about?"

Sunny was in no mood to let me touch him, so I stood at lead length and looked him over. There was no obvious sign of injury, just a frightened look in his eyes. "Do you think he got stung?" Nancy suggested. "There used to be a hornet's nest up there."

We accepted that as a likely explanation.

Once Sunny settled down, we started toward the stable once again. The next meltdown came at the door. For some reason, stepping into a dark cavern didn't appeal to him. He came to a dead halt just outside, and refused to budge. Though small, Sunny was strong. When he planted his feet, there was no moving him. I cajoled, sweet-talked, coaxed and tried bribery with treats. I turned and walked him away, to circle back. No go. I was nearly sobbing with frustration.

Suddenly, the thunderclap of a cracking whip sent Sunny lunging through the door with me in tow. I looked back, startled to see Gramps standing a few yards away, a stock whip in his hand.

"Gramps!" Nancy scolded, "You scared us!"

"Thought you could use a hand," he stated matter-of-factly, as he turned back toward the house. "Big noise. Works every time."

It was a hard point to argue.

The rest of the school year went quickly. I spent every spare moment at Nancy's farm, working with Sunny. Both ponies were tame as dogs, now. They would walk quietly when led, and trot nice circles on the long line. It was time to start cart training. Now we would need actual equipment. Being twelve, and on a budget of zero, we knew we would have to make do with what was on hand. Fortunately, there was plenty, if we were willing to work for it.

We found two pony carts stashed in the corner of the hay barn, covered in cobwebs. One was a wooden monstrosity, a homemade version of a racing buggy. The wheels stood taller than the ponies' backs. It looked much too cumbersome to deal with. The other was more what we had in mind. It was light aluminum, with a padded seat and rubber tires. Some scrubbing and a bit of paint would take care of it.

That left the matter of the harness itself.  There were all sorts of bits and pieces in the old tack room. We had not discarded anything made from leather. Gramps said we could use anything we wanted, so we got to work. After what seemed like gallons of saddle soap and neat's-foot oil, we had a large pile of supple straps. Following sketches we found in a library book, we literally built two sets of harness from scrap.

The first day of vacation, we harnessed Sunny and Pal for the first time. They were too young to pull a cart, so in the beginning we would "drive" by walking behind.

Trying to remember the little we had actually learned about harness training, we started with Nancy and Pal. I stood at his head, while Nancy got in position behind. Relaxing tension on reins, she clucked at Pal, signaling him to move forward. He dropped his head and looked over his shoulder at her. She clucked again, "Hup, hup!"

Pal stared at her, blankly. "Should I walk forward with him?" I suggested, "Maybe he'll get the idea."

A few of false starts and an hour or so later, he really did seem to be catching on, enough to walk forward and stop on command. A good first day, we agreed. After lunch, it was Sunny's turn.

Sunny wasn't a mean pony. He was actually quite affectionate, as horses go. He was quite high-spirited, though. New experiences were not his favorite thing. As soon as I stepped behind him, his hind leg lashed out, catching me square in the left thigh. I staggered backwards, sitting down hard in the soft paddock dirt. Sunny stood staring at me, nostrils flaring. I winced slightly as I stood. There was a large lump where the little hoof made contact.

Approaching more carefully, I tried again. Speaking softly, I made sure Sunny knew where I was the whole time. This time he flinched when he felt the reins, but didn't kick me. A little coaxing and clucking, and we walked twice around the paddock. Visions of pony carts and parades danced in my head, easily overpowering the throbbing bruise on my thigh. After that day, Sunny got easier. I guess he just decided to trust that I wouldn't hurt him.

I split my time all summer between training Sunny, long rides on my mare, Duchess, and helping my dad rebuild fence. He used to joke that if it weren't for chores, he wouldn't see me at all. That was not far from the truth. The equines ruled.

June and July made way for August, and time to bring the hay in. Nancy and I took turns driving the flatbed while her brothers bucked bales. Gramps stood by, to supervise the unloading. He knew just how he wanted the hay arranged. When the barn was stacked to the rafters, the sun was high in the afternoon sky. It was much too hot to work the ponies, or even clean tack. We went swimming in the irrigation pond instead.

Training was coming along well. Both were calm in the harness, and could even pull a light load, but no carts, yet. Gramps advised against a heavy load for at least six months. The colts were still young, their bones developing. Since we didn't know their exact ages, it was better to be careful.

Labor Day weekend brought the end of vacation, and the Skyline Harvest Fair, a local tradition for decades. The main floor of the historic Grange Hall was filled with arts, crafts and textiles. The basement held the garden and food exhibits, and the kitchen. Starting with a pancake breakfast on Saturday, and ending with a spaghetti potluck on Labor Day, there was always good food. Outside there would be 4-H dog, sheep and cattle shows on Saturday. Horseshoe pitching and bingo games went on continually.

All of this was fun, but Nancy and I were really only interested in the horseshow. That was Sunday and Monday. We planned to show Duchess and Rocky in trail class and horsemanship on one day, Sunny and Pal in showmanship the next. None of our 4-H friends had seen the ponies yet. It had been our surprisingly well-kept secret.

As soon as we arrived, the girls from our club came over. They all knew about the wild herd, and were impressed by our progress. We showed them pictures of the ponies, still looking like scruffy mini-mustangs. Now they stood, bathed and brushed, ebony coats gleaming in the sunlight. When others wanted to pet them, both ponies stood patiently, loving the attention. Even Angela Peters, who rarely had a nice comment, had to admit we had done a good job. 

After some final primping, I stepped back and looked Sunny over. Showmanship was based on how well the animal had been cared for and presented. Not a fleck of dust marred the shiny coat or the flowing mane. Hooves blacked to a high sheen, contrasted with the snow-white socks.

Sunny behaved well in the show ring. He stood quietly for inspection, and only balked a little when we were asked to walk out and trot back. I was pleased with our routine, even though we didn't finish in the top five.

Nancy and Pal didn't place either, but she shared my enthusiasm. We hadn't expected to win. The day before, we got a ribbon each in trail, and Nancy got an Honorable Mention in horsemanship. Our awards were historically in the middle of the pack, and we were okay with that. It was all about being there.

School started the next day, and with it the usual fall activities. We were in junior high, now, and more homework meant less time to spend with my four-hoofed friends. When I got to the farm on the weekend, Nancy met me at the barn. Her dad said we needed to move the ponies by the end of the month. Cold weather was coming, and he would need the stalls for his goats.

For Nancy, it was no problem. She could simply move to the small pasture that housed Rocky. The little barn that stood there was big enough for two. Pal might be a bit harder to catch on two acres than in a corral, but it would work. My parents, on the other hand, were not thrilled about another horse, no matter how small. That was a problem I had not considered. I had to find a place for Sunny, or turn him loose again, to rejoin the herd. The thought of doing that made me cringe. I didn't know what to do.

With only a few days left before goat-day, Grandpa Dunham brought me the answer. He said there was a woman interested in buying Sunny. Her little girl had seen him at the fair, and wouldn't stop talking about him. They would be over that afternoon to work out the details. He asked my opinion, even though he didn't need to. Technically, Sunny was his property. I choked down a lump in my throat, and asked if I could meet the people.

I liked them immediately, although I was prepared not to. Mrs. Morgan was a vet, specializing in large animals. Her daughter Molly was seven, and as horse-crazy as I was. A huge smile lit her face when she saw the pony. She approached him slowly, but confidently, speaking in a low voice. I felt good. This was no spoiled rich kid with a whim. She would give Sunny the attention he deserved, even more than I could.

"He's just green-broke," I told her. "He's never been ridden, I'm too big, but he halters and drives. You could try a cart soon."

"You're light enough," Gramps nodded, "and you'll be riding him in a couple of months."

Molly didn't care about any of that. Her arms were around his neck and she whispered into the pony's ear. She wore the familiar expression of horse obsession. I was a little jealous that Sunny had bonded with her so easily, but I was glad, too. I swallowed another lump, and blinked back the tears as I watched the trailer pull away.

That was the end of my interest in harness training. Nancy continued for a few more months, but then we both went on to other projects. That was over thirty years ago. As far as I know, Sunny and Pal were the last trained ponies to come from the herd on Grandpa Dunham's farm.

 

Megan's Magic - a Christmas Story

            Ever since she could remember, ten-year-old Megan had wanted a horse. Growing up in rural Oregon. it was only natural. She was surrounded by horses, had ridden many times with the other kids in the neighborhood, she had even become friends with the ponies next door. However, she had never had a horse to call her own.

            One crisp, cold Christmas Eve, Megan was doing what she usually did: playing outside on her father’s small farm. Her adventures led her to the barn, where she found a litter of new baby rabbits in one of the hutches. She loved the barn. It was always cozy, smelling of alfalfa, molasses, and the friendly scent of warm cows. One of the barn cats yawned and stretched its way out of the nest it had built in the straw. It came over and rubbed its face against the girl’s leg. She scratched its head for a minute, then smiling, stepped back out into the cold dusk. Going around the corner to the chicken coop, she paused at the neighbor’s fence to feed a handful of grain to the ponies that waited for her. They were two aging geldings, black and white pintos, whose riders had long since grown up and gone off to college. They led a blissful life of retirement. “Merry Christmas, boys,” Megan said. “I’ve got to go get the eggs now, but I’ll bring you a treat tomorrow!”

            As Megan emerged from the hen house with her bucket full of fresh brown eggs, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the house. “Coming!” She yelled.

            “Where have you been?” Mom asked when Megan stumbled, breathless through the kitchen door.

            “Just outside.” Megan answered, “Here are the eggs.”

            “Hurry up and get changed,” her mother said, taking the bucket. “We’re going to be late for Grandma’s. And take a shower!” she called to her disappearing daughter.

            Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house was a family tradition from time out of mind. Several generations would gather in the old farmhouse, which had been in the O’Brian family for nearly a hundred years. Megan always liked to spend time there, especially when all the aunts, uncles and cousins were present.

            They arrived in time for dinner, in spite of mother’s concern. Megan was a little squirmy in her frilly, girly-girl Christmas dress. She would have been much more comfortable in her Levis and a flannel shirt, but mom insisted.

            The house was brimming with Christmas cheer. The aroma of a ham baking and Wassail on the stovetop. The sounds of laughter, coming from the kitchen where the adults always seemed to gather. But the center of it all was the huge, sparkling, tinsel-covered tree that Grandpa had cut from the back field.

            Megan heard her cousin, Jill, call from the den. All the cousins were playing Monopoly, and she went to join them. The game went on until grandma rang the bell for supper.

            The center island in the kitchen groaned with food, to be served buffet style. Once everyone was seated, Grandpa said grace, and then it was okay to eat. Everything was delicious, as it always was at Grandma’s house.

            After dinner, the whole family gathered in the living room, around the Christmas tree. Dad and Uncle Jim took out guitars and Aunt Judy sat at the piano. In the midst of the singing came the sound all the kids had been waiting for a jingle-jingle from outside. The younger ones, Megan included, rushed to the window, while those who were more “grown-up” grinned and kept their seats, not wanting to admit that they, too, really believed in Santa Claus. In a minute, the jingling had moved to the front door, and a highly anticipated knock followed. Grandma, as she did every year, grumbled as she went to the door, “Now who could be coming to call on Christmas Eve?”

            “Merry Christmas!” exclaimed the red-suited figure, his presence filling the crowded room. “Are there any good children here tonight?”

            The kids all rushed in at once, nearly bowling over the jolly visitor, who truth be told, held a striking resemblance to Uncle Joe wearing a false beard. Starting with the youngest, they took their turn sitting on Santa’s lap and expressing their wishes. There are no skeptics on the night before Christmas. Megan fell somewhere near the middle of the bunch. When it was her turn, she felt a little shy. She knew that things at the farm had been somewhat lean, as her father would say, and that gifts were not what the holiday was all about. Even so, maybe Santa could do something.

             “Well, Megan,” Santa smiled, (he always knew the names of all the kids) “Have you been behaving yourself this year?”

            “I think so,” she replied. “I’ve been remembering to do my chores without being told, most of the time.”

            “Wonderful, wonderful! Now what would you like for Christmas this year?”

            “Well, some new cowboy boots, a watercolor set, a copy of ‘My Friend Flicka’ and…” she hesitated, “and…maybe…a horse.” She finished almost in a whisper, as though speaking her wish would make it disappear.

            “My, my, that’s quite a list.” Santa grinned. “That’s a pretty tall order. I don’t know about that last one. It would take a really special kind of magic, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”

            Megan gave him a big hug, (he smelled very much like Uncle Joe) and scampered back across the room. She didn’t really have much hope, but at least now, it was on the record. She had never told anyone before.

            The rest of the evening went fast. Shortly after Santa left, Uncle Joe joined them, complaining as he always did, that those darn cows took longer to feed every year. Grandpa settled into his favorite chair, and a hush came over the room. He lit his pipe, cleared his throat, and began, “’T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house…..”

            Megan was warm, content and sleepy, when dad deposited her in her room at home. She dropped the velveteen dress at the foot of her bed, crawled under the covers and dreamed of horses.

            She woke to a gentle snow falling against her window, and the sounds of breakfast cooking in the kitchen below. Remembering that it was Christmas, she bounded out of bed and into her jeans in one motion. She grabbed a warm sweatshirt and rushed down the stairs.

            Mom was frying pancakes and Dad was sitting at the table with his morning coffee. “Good morning sleepyhead,” Dad grinned over his newspaper, “What took you so long? It’s almost ..7:30..!”

            “Morning Mom, morning Dad,” she bubbled. “Merry Christmas! Is breakfast almost ready?” She knew no gifts would be opened until after they had eaten, and cleaned up.

            “Almost,” said Mom, “but I need you to do me a favor, before we sit down. Please go out and check on that batch of bunnies. It got really cold last night, and I’d like you to put some extra straw in their hutch.”

            Megan pulled on boots and a jacket and ran outside. She raced through the door into the barn and skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open. There, in a previously unused box stall stood the most beautiful horse that Megan had ever seen. She was a smallish mare, barely larger than a pony, and a golden palomino in color. On her halter was a big, red bow, with a card attached to it. Megan approached softly, as she had been taught, and stroked the velvety muzzle.

            “Well, what do you know about that?” Dad’s voice came from behind.

            Megan turned; she had not heard her parents come in behind her. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she breathed. “Where did she come from?”

            “There’s something hanging from that bow,” Mom pointed out, smiling, “Why don’t you see what it says?”

            Removing the card, Megan read aloud, “Merry Christmas, Megan. My name is Magic. Santa said you would take good care of me. I’ve come to live with you.”

            The girl burrowed her face into the warm neck. “Hello, Magic. This has been the best Christmas ever.”

****
The story is fictional, but Grandma’s recipe is a very real part of our family Christmases. Although I personally prefer the non-alcoholic version, you can add a shot of spiced rum to each cup, if desired..
Wassail 

6 cups apple cider

6 cups cran-raspberry juice

1 orange, thinly sliced

1 tsp. whole cloves

2 cinnamon sticks

Combine all in a large saucepan. Heat to a simmer. The longer the spices steep, the richer the flavor will be. Serve hot with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

(A Crock-pot set on low works really well, keeping the wassail hot all day)