What a Pony Taught Me

With Grandpa, Mimi and Taffy, 1966

When I was little, I had a pony named Flicka. I once went storming up to my Grandpa and told him I couldn't catch that stupid pony. He assured me the problem was there was no such thing as a stupid pony. He walked right up to her and put the halter on. Flicka was Grandpa's pony and she let everyone know this.

Flicka was designed to deter me from horses or to concrete my resolve. Isn't this what all ponies do? All little girls want a pony, until they get one and realize that most ponies consider the price of domestication a little too high and draw the line at hauling little children around on their backs. Who doesn't know the pony trick of the disappearing head with sudden stop. Or trotting along in a straight line and next being wrapped around a tree? Or the simple sidestep involuntary dismount?

In fact, most Flicka dismounts were involuntary. She did not discriminate: young, old, short, tall, she dumped them all. Even practised horsemen, especially the ones who bragged that they could ride that pony. Flicka loved dumping the braggards, usually in the first ten seconds. It was a sport to her. Grandpa was the only human being she never even tried to throw.

She came very close to killing me several times. But I got back on every time, because Grandpa made me. Somewhere along the line I got as stubborn as Flicka and I think by the time I was 10, I could stay on for as much as five or ten minutes at a time. But I could never catch her without chasing her all over the farm for half an hour. Every time she dumped me she ran off to find Grandpa, and shortly after, he would come leading her back down the lane, chuckling to himself.

I would inevitably be mad as a wet hen, stomping up the lane, ready to kill that pony. He would tell me if I could learn to ride this pony, I would be able to ride anything. So I got back on, got dumped, got back on, got dumped...I was going to ride that pony. Grandpa never told me the secret to riding the pony. He let me figure that out for myself.

After five years of spending more time on the ground than on Flicka, someone decided it was just too embarrassing watching me get dumped all the time and I got a horse, who was as sweet as Flicka was ornery. I loved Gypsy with my whole heart and soul and she never once tried to dump me. I spent many happy hours on her back, often with Grandpa riding Flicka next to me. I once asked him why Flicka didn't try to dump him. He just laughed and told me I'd figure it out someday.

When I was sixteen, I decided to take Flicka to the county fair and show her in halter. I had two other horses going and Grandpa told me I had no business taking Flicka because I hadn't been working with her enough. "Oh, Grandpa," I said. "It'll be fine." The evil pony, who never let me ride her, who hadn't been off the farm in 10 years, who hadn't been worked with enough won Grand Champion Pony. Grandpa threw his hat in the air and leaped up and down clapping and dancing around at the in-gate.

I never saw him be happier. It was a defining moment. I didn't know who he was more proud of: me or Flicka. But as I was handed a giant purple ribbon and an even bigger trophy, I looked at the pony and for the first time in our lives we agreed on something. Grandpa loved us both, it was something we shared. From that moment on, I never had trouble catching Flicka. I even rode her a few times without incident.

Working with horses requires a certain amount of determination and stubbornness, but those traits have no business on their backs, or while trying to catch them. The best tools for training horses are love and respect. Flicka taught me this. I didn't learn it easily, but she never gave up on me. I still have the trophy to prove it.

Bless the ponies. And the grandpas who love them.

Kind Regards,

Michelle Blackler

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