In the spring of 1974, my family and I had acquired my grandpa’s cherished farm, a place where I had joyfully spent nearly every sun-soaked childhood summer. Bursting with excitement, we moved from the Sunshine State, eager to embrace our new, rustic life. I was particularly thrilled about tending to the cows and transforming into a bona fide cowboy. All that was missing from this idyllic picture was a trusty horse.
My grandpa would often take me to the bustling Greenville flea market, an enchanting trove of antiquated items such as farm utensils, worn tools, beagle hounds, and, every so often, a horse or two. I had earlier discussed with my mom the possibility of buying a horse, and she kindly agreed that if we could find a suitable one for $50, it could be ours.
The next Tuesday, my Grandpa, sister Karen, and I loaded up in his 67 pickup and slowly snaked the curves and hills of Allegre Road to the flea market in Greenville. Filled with determination, I instantly spotted a small, dark, and richly brown horse Its deep, intelligent eyes seemed to beckon me. I knew this was my dream horse. I excitedly rushed over to admire its beauty, it was love at first sight.
I frantically searched for my grandpa and finally found him deeply engrossed in a knife trade. Knowing better than to disrupt such a delicate negotiation, I anxiously waited for him to conclude the deal so we could go hopefully purchase the horse. When the knife trade finally came to a close, I excitedly informed him of the horse, and together we went to discuss terms with the seller. As we walked,I said a small prayer that the horse would be in my price range. That’s when we stopped and Grandpa cautioned me not to utter a word during the negotiation, as he aimed to secure a lower price. You had to know my grandpa he was a master of negotiations.
Finally, we approached the horse’s owner, a crusty old-timer with a face weathered by years of hard work under the sun. His eyes squinted as if he were always gazing into a strong wind, and he chewed on a toothpick as if it were the last one in existence.
Grandpa inquired if the horse was broke to ride, and the man confirmed it was, but with one caveat: I could only ride bareback. The horse couldn’t tolerate a cinch under his belly and would fiercely buck if saddled. That’s when Grandpa pulled me aside and asked if I could ride bareback. I lied, assuring him that I could. (The truth was I had only been on a horse a few times in my life and that was horseback riding in a group with ultra-trained horses that didn’t do more than walk.) Now came the big moment for me, what was the price. The man wanted $45. I couldn’t believe my luck, I looked at Grandpa trying to contain my excitement. and was waiting for him to pull out his wallet to pay Mr. Toothpick.
However, my grandpa, a masterful trader, frowned and countered, “Oh gosh, that’s too high for an old horse he’d have to ride bareback.” He boldly offered a mere $20. The man laughed heartily and declined the offer. Unyielding, Grandpa insisted to the stranger that $20 was the horse’s true worth and began to walk away. Crushed, I swore silently never to speak to Grandpa again. Grandpa knew what he was doing but he didn’t let me in on the secret
Much to my amazement, just as we were 50 yards away, the man hollered, “Hey, I’ll take $25.” Grandpa, unyielding as ever, countered with $20, which the man finally accepted, explaining that he was running out of hay to feed the horse. In that instant, I felt like the happiest kid in the world, ecstatic to be getting a horse!
After paying the man, we led the horse to our truck, where we encountered yet another challenge: transporting the horse home. Grandpa, always the resourceful problem-solver, devised a brilliant plan. He used an old hoe, a rake handle, and two other items with handles stuck them into the standard holes all pickup used to have. After it was done we had created makeshift corner posts in the bed of our pickup truck. We guided the horse onto a grassy bank and then into the truck bed. Grandpa wrapped a rope around the handles, constructing a sturdy rope cage With the horse safely secured and me clutching its lead out the window, we embarked on our slow journey home.
The trip was uneventful other than Karen who was sitting in the middle would stick her foot under the accelerator and slowly try to raise it without Grandpa noticing because he would get too fast on the curves. We probably looked like a scene out of the movie dueling banjos. Upon arriving at the farm I knew I had everything I needed to be a true cowboy: the cows, the farm, and now, my very own dream horse.
Over the following month, I rode that magnificent horse nearly every day, rapidly honing my bareback riding skills. Geronimo himself would have been envious. We reveled in swimming across glistening ponds and meandering creeks, the cool water splashing around us. Galloping through open fields, our hair and manes whipping in the wind, we ran like two untamed spirits, free and wild. Yeah, I fell off at times and received my fair share of bumps and bruises but that’s the price you have to pay to be an expert. I took immense pride in being a real cowboy, or perhaps even a fearless Native American warrior.
Together, my horse and I embarked on countless adventures, exploring the wonders of the countryside and forging an unbreakable bond. We became inseparable, a true testament to the love between a boy and his horse, and I forged memories that would last a lifetime.