My Pony

We had a pasture next to the house where Dad planted corn. It was perfect for playing in—the stalks grew taller than us, turning the field into a secret hideout. Even after the corn was cut, we still had fun running through the stubble, making forts out of the dried stalks.

Then Dad got a couple of calves.

We were told not to bother them. He wanted them to get fat.

One day, out of the blue, Dad asked, “Want to go look at some horses?”

Of course, I did!

We drove to a horse ranch, and while Dad talked to the owner, I wandered around, staring at all the horses. Then I heard the owner say, “I’ve got one his size.”

Dad turned to me. “Want to take a look?”

We walked to the barn, and there stood my size horse. Except… it didn’t look my size at all. It looked big.

The owner asked if I wanted to try it out. I wasn’t sure what to say, but Dad answered for me.

"Yeah."

The man grabbed a saddle and strapped it on. “Put your foot here and swing your other leg over,” he said. I could barely reach the stirrup, and when I tried to swing my leg over, he had to give me a little push.

"Always get on from the left side," he told me.

He led the horse around the barn a couple of times, then stopped and handed me the reins. “Pull this way to turn this way, pull that way to turn that way, and pull back easy to stop.”

I could hardly believe it—I was riding a horse! We didn’t go far, just a straight path, before he helped me down. Good thing, too. I wasn’t quite ready to try turning.

On the way home, Dad and I talked about the horse. He told me it was a Welsh Pony—smaller than regular horses. I really enjoyed that day, but I didn’t think much more about it afterward.

A few days later, Mom asked, “Your birthday’s coming up. What would you like?”

I wanted toy cars.

On my birthday, we had cake and ice cream. Someone sang “Happy Birthday,” and then Dad stood by the door and said, “I want to show you something.”

We walked outside to the pasture—and that’s when I saw him.

The pony from the ranch.

"He's yours," Dad said.

My eyes widened. "Can I ride him?"

"We don’t have a saddle. Want to ride him bareback?"

"Okay!"

Dad led the pony to the fence so I could climb up and get on. The pony already had a bridle and reins—this was definitely the plan all along.

I climbed on and rode where the pony wanted to go most of the time. Dad tried to tell me what to do, but I was too caught up in my own thoughts—I had a pony!

Dad named him Sarge. After a short ride, he helped guide Sarge back to the fence so I could climb down.

That was the best birthday ever.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?