I was an only child for a year during the War.
Big sisters in college, brother out west for his
health. I went to a farm auction with my dad;
the farmer had died, and the wife was selling
everything. “Do you want a horse?” my dad
asked. “Sure!” I replied. So, my dad paid $100,
and put me in the saddle, slapped the horse’s
flank and said, “Ride him home!” I started out
but the horse proved to be a skitterer. He
balked at everything, going backwards round
and round. Torn paper fluttering in a fence,
the concrete culvert markings. He’d refuse to
go forward, then shoot ahead and gallop for a
mile. I was near tears when my dad caught up
to me and had a hired man take over riding the
horse. I rode that horse after school every night –
he would inch away from the farm, with
many of kicks and when we turned back he would
gallop like wind to the barn. He finally hurt his leg
so badly he went to the dairy for nursing and glared
at me when I visited. I stood with my uncle watching
the injured beast. My uncle said, “We had a pony when
we were kids. I walked out behind the barn once and
saw a hired man doing something very peculiar.” I
walked away and never rode that pony again, I didn’t
ask my uncle, I sort of knew what. My horse never
healed enough to ride and my dad sold him. I think I
earned $100 worth in Horsemanship!
2026 Jacqueline Jackson
This article appears in July 23-29, 2026.
