Equine Appraisal Newsletter

I was first tossed into the saddle upon Tony, a mannerly aged black gelding who was retired from service in the United States Calvary, probably in the mid- late 1940’s. He was old. I was two. By the time I was four, I was exploring the fields of my great uncle Sheldon Stoddard’s dairy farm at a canter, provided I could motivate Tony to do so.

This pastoral setting was in Maple Grove, NY, back when there was a grocery, post office and clock repair there, situated at a T where two dirt roads met under mature Sugar Maples. These trees contributed to the local economy by nature's design. They provided sap for syruping late winter, and were none the worse for wear come summer when shade was needed for Mr. Coon’s farm 's heifers there on the hamlet’s edge.

Photographs of me on Tony show a fairly little child on a pretty big horse with reins, pigtails and stirrups flapping, and a great smile on my face. Apparently I didn’t have a great need for stirrups either.

It was a long way down, either dismounting or falling off, for when Tony chose to, we did a fast trot back to the barn which involved a sharp right that took a while to get the hang of. However, once I did, the very next learning experience was a timed event: pulling up my knees and ducking my head for a trotting entry in to the barn. I can practically hear my mom or her Aunt Peg now, crying out in dismay, “Barby! Barby! Duck your head!” as I disappeared into the black rectangular hole.

Once there, though, I would surrender with grace. I’d find somebody who could reach the untacking responsibilities, freeing me to climb up to the cow’s molasses barrel. I would lean in and, with the wooden staves dark and sweet around me, scoop up a handful of molasses for Tony, who generously helped clean up by licking my fingers, arm and elbow til I was—well, still sticky, actually.