But, hey, I wrote it for college as my earliest childhood memory and it may as well be seen amongst people who would appreciate it. Buckwheat and Me Crystal Epona 5/28/01 After passing the elegant buildings of stone lining roads shaded by trees, driving down Uncle Joe’s driveway was like entering another world. The driveway was dirt and baked by the sun. To the left were rows of corn and to the right, preceded by a large lawn, was a white farmhouse. I don’t remember exactly what the house looked like because as children we were more interested in the barn. We knew every nook and crany in there. The barn appeared dark and mysterious inside as I remember it. The first stop was always the blood stained wall just inside the door on the left, where the evidence of cattle being slaughtered would gross us all out. (We never stopped eating burgers or became violent criminals, btw). Watching melted ice cream from a local dairy slopped into the pigs’ trough from large cardboard cylinders on a hot day left me unable to stomach vanilla and strawberry ice cream well into adulthood, though. Newcomers were always dared to enter the bull’s pen in those days. This trip to Uncle Joe’s farm was different on this day, though. There was business to take care of. My oversized hazel eyes were eager with anticipation as I sat in the back seat of our car, clutching my ceramic piggy bank shaped like a girl with her dog. The bandana on her head was painted yellow and her dog was painted brown. As we rode down the bumpy driveway, my thick, dark hair was bouncing at my shoulders in two ponytails, which seemed too large for this five-year old’s head. The next scene I remember was Uncle Joe letting out a loud whistle by a pasture gate just beyond the rows of corn. Uncle Joe was really my father’s uncle. He was a mountain of a man, red-skinned from working in the sun, including his balding head. His voice was booming, but he was always jolly. The wisps of graying hair above his ears somehow reminded me of the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz. We followed Uncle Joe’s gaze past the rundown farm machinery that littered the pasture like skeletons in a desert. First we heard the thunder of hoof beats coming from over the hill, followed by the sight of a cloud of dust. Then we could see the herd of ponies within that dust cloud. They are frisky, running and bucking at one another; coming at us full boar. As the herd mulled about by the gate, one pony caught my eye. He was a strawberry roan: reddish with white specs throughout his short coat. His bushy mane and tail were wheat colored with streaks of red. The pony reminds me of fire. He is the one! Uncle Joe caught the roan for me to inspect. The roan looked like a large dog next to Uncle Joe. The roan’s withers were at eye level for me as I circled around him trying to look official in my inspection of him. I passed behind him only to see the bottom of a hoof just before it caught me under the chin. When I came to and shook off the dizziness in my head and the dust from my bottom, my mother asked if I would like to choose another pony. I could only reply, “no!”. It was unthinkable. My mind was set. Next we were at the kitchen table in that white farmhouse. I do not remember details of the kitchen because it was dark, the shades being drawn to keep the hot sun out. Before my eyes are the shards of a porcelain piggybank beside a pile of change and dollar bills on the table. Large hands are separating and counting the money. A few pennies are put in my hand: it is my change. I had just purchased my first very own pony. My mother took the family car home. My father and I walked the roan home from Uncle Joe’s farm. The walk, although taking all day into the coolness of early evening, seemed short because I was so excited. It was then that the pony got his name: Buckwheat. Buck is what he did upon introduction (OK, so it was really a kick, but I was a kid)and wheat was the dominant color of his mane and tail. (It was also the name of one of the Little Rascals whose hair stuck up like the roan’s mane). The first in a long line of Buckwheat’s victims, that I remember, was my cousin Barbie. She was a willowy teenager with long, dark hair, and her legs hung awkwardly close to the ground as she sat upon Buckwheat. Barbie was carried directly to the neighbor’s pumpkin patch and dumped. Buckwheat came galloping home to me with an empty saddle and stirrups flapping at his sides. It became routine that he would dump other people who tried to ride him in that pumpkin patch. Although it was a source of pride for me to be the only one allowed to remain in the saddle by Buckwheat, my father felt he had to break the pony of rearing up. Reminding me of old paintings of Napoleon in battle, sword raised and horse rearing; Dad (who was of similar stature and coloring as Napoleon) would be on the rearing pony with one hand held out, ready to smash a water balloon on his head when he reared up. After a few balloons, thinking he had hit a ceiling and caused blood to run down his face, Buckwheat stopped rearing. When I grew up, I learned that my parents had actually paid most of the cost of Buckwheat. Breaking open my piggy bank and taking my money was just to make me feel more mature and show me what saving my money could accomplish. This was not a big disappointment, though. The feeling of pride that the memory conjures up was not diminished. Buckwheat would always be mine in a way no money could buy: I had earned his friendship by enduring the kick to my chin and loving him anyways. There are many legends supporting this principle, I learned when I grew up, and it set me to helping difficult horses 'til this day. I had also learned to have confidence in myself, and yes, I also learned to save my money. Blessings, Epona

-- Epona (crystalepona2000@yahoo.com), June 13, 2001

Answers

Sorry all, in the original there were spaces and indentations for paragraphs. I did get an "A" if that matters:)

-- Epona (crystalepona2000@yahoo.com), June 13, 2001.

Hey Epona! Not that I'm an authority on much of anything-[thanks for the compliment tho] I don't see a single thing wrong with this little story! You really know how to capture ones attention--really enjoyed it. Yep! It's an "A" for sure. Thanks. ole hoot. Matt.24:44

-- hoot (hoot@pcinetwork.com), June 13, 2001.

Wonderful story. Thank you, Daryll

-- Daryll in northwest FLA (twincrk@hotmail.com), June 13, 2001.

It kept my attention all the way through. You did a real nice job!! I enjoyed reading it and it was descriptive enough, I had a picture in my head the whole time.

-- Pat (mikulptrc@aol.com), June 13, 2001.

Taking the story down to a poorer level,(older generation) if you can imagine the visit. If not, please exit and excuse an older experience. No harm intended. We were refugees from the farm. Father had a job as a mechanic, Grease Monkey, not paid much money. Mother was a cashier in a local grocery, less money. All relatives were much more "poor" than us, and we had almost nothing. Had no television until about 1953. Radio sufficed until then. Radio was Good! It ignited ones imagination. TV programs were good after that, they brought Light and Goodness (even though TV went off at 11:00 p.m) It was not the end of the World. The story about saving enough to buy a pony was good. But there are others who came before you, who could never save enough. The closest I ever came to owning a horse, was freely visiting a horse and saddle store. Oh, the smell of the leather saddles, what sweetness. And by the way, that was an era where Kids were safe to roam for hours, on foot. I never met an evil person on foot,(except one supervisor in late life) save that poor brain damaged fool who exposed himself, and my cousin and I ran away quickly on the dirt road. The high light of your modern day farm life was getting a horse. How about one's story, of visiting a relatives share cropper farm, sleeping there with cousins, two, three, to a bed. Everyone calls out Good Night. The Mother Figure calls out to the oldest Daughter, "Barbara, are the Ribs out for breakfast?" Now I am a almost proverty city kid, I am hungry even when I go to bed. I await the long night, belly rumbling, waiting expectations of BarbeCue ribs in the a.m. Surprise! The ribs were not Barbecue, they were fried. No tender meat here, and I had young teeth. Different Lives.....

-- My Story (andi@sticking.com), June 13, 2001.

I don't need an Editor. My gain is not about money. So "Stifle". My Gain is about Free Truth. The "pox" is upon your head to decide. Watch how quick this message gets transfixed to confuse. I have been around for almost four years, to see their tricks. You investigate, and decide.

-- My Story (andIam@sticking.com), June 13, 2001.

uh well gee, nice story there. hey by the way, when's the last time you had your meds adjusted?

-- nobody (nothing@nowhere.no), June 14, 2001.

Thanks for the praise; Hoot, I consider it an honor:) wow! way out there after that man! Never intended it to become a competition over who was poverty stricken the most. 'What drugs' is right! And a little conspiracy theory thrown in for good measure. Thought I had been trippin' myself when I read that post! hehe, Good stories are always a pleasure though.

-- Epona (crystalepona2000@yahoo.com), June 14, 2001.

That's a wonderful story Epona. We never forget those memories!

I was 8 and it was June 6th, 1965, 2 days before my birthday, and my dad drove me way out into the country to a farm. I had no idea what was going on. The man led out a very big (to me) Buckskin Quarter horse with the ugliest head you have ever seen! I had to use a step stool to get on. He had a round track that wound thru the trees, and me and Buck went round and round while my dad talked to the guy, it seemed forever, like time was just standing still. Well, I got Buck, and we had many adventures together, most of which I never told my mom or dad about! He would take the bit and just fly anywhere he wanted to go and I just held on and laughed! Buck seemed to know we had to get out of sight of the house before he could do this. My dad was a big man! Buck never bucked like your Buckwheat, he just loved to run as fast as he could.

-- Cindy in KY (solid_rock_ranch@yahoo.com), June 14, 2001.

What a great story! I can see why you got an 'A'. Thanks for sharing such a wonderful memory.

-- Jackie (miller672@cs.com), June 14, 2001.

Cindy, sounds like your Buck was alot of fun. I outgrew Buckwheat and got a Palamino cob sized horse and I remember spending my days just like you growing up, riding like the wind through the woods and fields. Wouldn't have traded it for anything.

-- Epona (crystalepona2000@yahoo.com), June 14, 2001.

After Buck, I got a paint mare. Her markings on both sides were identical, like a kalidescope. They would've used her for the movies, but her one eye was blue. Her name was Jujubee. We always pretended we were riding on the "Ponderosa"! Going to save the day!

-- Cindy in KY (solid_rock_ranch@yahoo.com), June 14, 2001.

My Story, Does Schizophrenia ring a bell with any of the voices in your head?

-- Antipsychotic drugs 4 U (you need help@Haldol.soon), June 16, 2001.