That White Pony

My job was to get the pony for the party. So I rode my bike about a mile over to my neighbors to pick the pony up. The pony had a 20 ft piece of rope loosely knotted around its neck, which I turned into a halter with a quick loop around its nose. Now I could ride the pony like this or lead the pony as I rode my bike. I choose that later not wanting to leave my bike. I made two loops of rope around the handle bars, not wanting to tie it, so the pony could be released. I could imagine a terrified pony galloping into the sunset dragging my bike behind it.

The pony trotted along beside me as we started on the return trip everything seemed fine. Turning on to the 3/4 mile straight away that lead home I played out about ten feet of rope and the pony broke into an easy gallop. The world seemed grand cruising along at one pony power with the wind in my hair. As I played out a little more rope the pony cranked its head around to look and the rope sipped off its nose leaving me with no control. From the whites of his eyes I could tell that we were no longer fellow travelers but pursuee and pursuer. What a difference a little change of perspective makes!

I still had a 1/2 mile to go and a fast ride suited me just fine but as I approached our neighborhood I realized the horse was not slowing down. I began hitting the brakes and sliding the bike sideways enough to pull the ponies head around but it wouldn't slow down. I was starting to wonder how far this pony could run. I thought of spending my afternoon searching for the birthday pony and returning to my neighbor to report that the pony had gotten away from me. I kept up the breaking and sliding with out much effect until I reached my road. I broke hard and held the brakes and slid side ways until I laid the bike over. The pony didn't stop and started to pull me over the bike. I had one last chance and hauled back on the rope with all I had. The force pulled the pony around enough to allow the rope to slide up to the top of his neck and I gained control.

With my bike in one hand and leading the pony with the other, I came through the gate. Heidi looked up and asked, "did you walk all the way?"
"no" I reply, " we had ourselves alittle ride."

Laughing in a Barrel

In January of 1983 I was stuck for five days in a very cold Brussels waiting to continue my trip to Kenya. I noticed advertisements for a film festival and with some asking around found the theater and bought a ticket. The only English language film that was showing was "Diner" and the theater was huge. As the film began I noticed that half the screen was taken up by subtitles, one in French the other in Flemish. Now "Diner" is a funny film, not slap stick, but very funny and I was laughing. The only one laughing in a theater of a thousand or more people. My big laugh was echoing all over that place and I could have cared less. I imagine my fellow theater goers squinting at the sub titles trying to decipher the meaning of what could possibly be so funny. Diner is still one of my favorite movies and that night in January it was the perfect medicine for a cold, home sick student.

Ornery Ponies

When our boys were young we lived in Mexico and they never missed a chance to ride a pony. One day we saw a mother trying to give her daughter a ride on a pony with a long reputation for being ornery. The pony was spinning trying to keep the girl from getting on her back and tossing her head nipping at the mother, so we went over to see if we could help. The pony seemed to obey me a little more and we got the girl on with out any trouble but after half way around the loop the pony swung his head and tried to give me a nip. I responded with a smart smack to his nose and in a low voice told him he was nothing more than a small bit of excrement. I glanced over my shoulder suddenly worried that she might know English but she seemed happy and oblivious to the little battle going on between the pony and I. We finished our ride with out any further trouble from the pony, coming to a stop she hopped off the pony, gave me a big smile and asked in perfect English, "Are you from Houston too?"

The joy of ponies

I remember my little cowboy suit with the black pants, black shirt
with the red yoke and fancy stitching, the boots and the hat. All the
grandkids must have gotten a cowboy suit from grandma to go along with
the black and white pony named Tammy that they kept at the farm. When
I was four it was time for me to take my first independent horse ride
over the fields and through the woods to my great-grandmothers, only a
half mile away, but to a four year old it was a great mission. It did
not take me long after starting out to realize that Tammy was moving
awfully slow and the summer sun was beating down on my little black
cowboy hat creating a deep inpatients in me. Ahead was the cool green
shade of the woods and relief from the sun. With out any thought I
grabbed the end of the reins and gave Tammy a smack on the neck, the
response was instant. She bolted, head down ears back, pony express
style, straight toward the woods with me holding on to the saddle horn
and getting the ride of my young life, what ever I had expected it was
not this. We entered the woods hell bent for leather and made a curve
where Tammy spied some grass under the willow trees and pulled to a
stop to eat. I slid off into the grass and began to cry. I wasn't
hurt or scared just shocked at the response and speed of that little
pony. Any time that I had to think was cut short as grandmas Cadillac
fill with the cousins wheeled around the corner and skidded to a stop.
All faces were against the glass, eyes wide and mouths open, expecting
to see me dead on the ground. Was I hurt? No. What had I done?
Smacked the pony with the reins. Why? So we could go faster. Did I
want to get back on? No, I was happy to slide into the air
conditioned sedan and ride the rest of the way to my great grand
parents. The length of this sprint was about one hundred yards the
duration probably less than ten second but it gave me the first
inkling that my actions could have an effect on the world around me,
and defiantly produce a reaction. More pony stories to follow…..

I received a late call to substitute teach music at a school that I had not
heard of and only had a vague notion where it might be. I arrived with
about five minutes to spare and was ushered into the music room. As I was
searching for the lesson plan the kids began marching and sat on the floor.
I could think of nothing else to do but tell stories. I had a good bear
story from my youth and a skunk story that my dad told us as kids and a few
odds and end that I could add and subtract as I needed.
The students were very attentive and enjoyed themselves, the forty minutes
flew by and as the first group trekked out the next group entered to replace
them. By the end of the morning I had given seven recitations and was
beginning to wonder if I could make it though the rest of the day. Good
story telling can take a lot out of you.
I ate lunch in my room and looked further for the missing lesson plans but
with no luck. The next group came in and I started all over again. After
the next class a teacher asked me if I shouldn't be teaching music, to which
I responded that I didn't sing, dance or play and I had to do something to
fill the time. At the next break the principal came in and asked me why I
wasn't teaching music. I told her that I had not found the lesson plan and
was forced to fill the time with stories. She stayed for the next session
looking around the room and listening to the story. After about fifteen
minutes she stopped me, asked the students to leave the class room and told
me to collect may things and meet her in the OFFICE. It has been a while
since I have been to the principals office but I knew what was coming.
As I entered the office the principal invited the secretary to come in for
Legal reasons and asked me again why I was not teaching music. I gave my
standard reply to which she waved the paper in her hand. "I found the
lesson plan on the piano bench" (I have no Idea what she was waving around)
"After fifteen minutes?"
I asked.
To this she made some reference to my age, (44 at the time) the stories
that I was telling and inferred that some of the children may need
counseling to over come the effects of the bear story.
She then told me to leave the school. I thanked her for the opportunity and
that I had enjoyed myself and that anytime she needed a sub she could count
on me.
The teacher who tattled was standing in the hall way long faced, I wished
her a good afternoon and walked out into the afternoon sunshine.
I have no idea what was going on at the school on that day but I was made to
feel that I had skulked into impart some evil knowledge that would bring
hordes of news anchors, satellite vans, lawyers, counselors and lynch mobs.
I was an unknown element in the school, sharing in the most simple and timeless pleasure
know to mankind, story telling, and the children responded.