Ride the wild ponies and more
Chasing after wild ponies out in a weedy hilly pasture was my idea of sheer joy back during my childhood. My sister, cousins Shirley Ann and Gary Lynn, and I would head out early with apples or pears to give the little Shetlands a treat. We just knew today would be the day that one or all of us would manage to get on the backs of these child sized critters and take off like Roy Rogers or Gene Autry.
It never happened. It wasn’t meant to be. More times than not, we’d end up eating the fruit meant for the ponies or we’d toss an apple or pear to see if the ponies would chase after them like German Shepperd dogs. They didn’t.
We even named the ponies, but the only name I can recall from that era of my life was Nipper. She was the smallest and would even let us come up to her and pet her. If anyone tried to climb on her back, though, she’d catch a bit of skin with her front teeth. Let me tell ya, it would pinch like crazy. We all had red marks and bruises on our upper arms and our legs.
No, we never were able to ride any of them, but just being free to run all over a distant pasture and have the adventure of chasing ponies was worth it. We pretty well knew that we’d never be able to conquer those ponies and in truth, the ponies loved making a game of it. So did we. Those ponies were wild and free and we were too.
At the old Emert homeplace, behind the house and up in another pasture, was a cantilevered barn. We kids loved that barn. We fashioned a rope and would swing down from it onto the hay below. I did my best to perfect my Tarzan yell, but all the others did was laugh hysterically at me. I’ve always had a deep voice-even as a kid-which didn’t help me get that Tarzan yell. I just kind of croaked it out.
Come to think of it, my mother never knew about our antics in that barn. I think she would have been horrified. I was this little bitty, tow-headed girl that could have passed for a five year old when I was eight. Just the idea of having a rope to swing on and drop 10 or so feet would have sent my mom into a hissy fit. We never told her. She would have thought I had totally lost my mind, but I hadn’t. I was just a little daring.
Sometimes, the same group of us would wade down Bird’s Creek across from the homeplace. In the summer, it was shallower than in other seasons. We’d jump onto large rocks in the middle and scamper up the banks to jump into deeper holes. None were too deep and I had been swimming since before my 5th birthday. I was never afraid of water, even icy cold water that came down from the Smoky Mountains and filled our creeks and watering holes.
This whole area was my daddy’s playground before he grew up. At night, we’d chase after lightning bugs and put them in jars with holes punched in the lids. I could never keep them in the jars. They had to be let go before bedtime, so they could fly again. I liked to think they were fairies. Maybe they were.
Sometimes when my dad had his military leave in winter, we’d come to Grandma’s. We cousins all piled into a big feather bed in what we called the “outside” room. It had no heat, but we were snug as can be covered with quilts made by our grandma and aunts. On a cold morning, we could see our breath and the only thing that would get us out of that warm bed was the aroma of Grandma’s country ham she had gotten from the smokehouse. We’d run like crazy to the warmth of that marvelous kitchen with the woodstove warming it. We had homemade biscuits, ham, eggs, grits, and sometimes some sausage. It was so good.
At night, Daddy and his brothers would get out their guitars, fiddles, mandolins, and harmonicas and play songs of the mountains and some ancient music from Scotland and Ireland. My Uncle Butler would get up out of his straight back chair and buck dance. He taught us how to do it. I still can, but my feet are not quite as fast as they used to be.
My childhood of times spent at the old homeplace are fond memories of a distant past. It was idyllic and carefree from chasing wild ponies to playing in the creek. How grand is that?