Poncho

“Ponies are too mean,” Mom would say every time she had time to respond to my request for a pony.  She had one as a child, so she should know. But, she didn’t seem to have been hurt by the experience. I was a needy child. My needs were great. I had a cowboy hat, cap gun and holster, and I needed a BB gun, a hunting knife, and a pony. The pony was on the very top of the list. One could get along without a knife or rifle, if you had a pony.  

The pony of my dreams arrived one hot July afternoon. It was my birthday. It was a brown and white Pinto with a black, diamond-studded saddle, bridle, and martingale…just like the Lone Ranger! It arrived in the back of a pick-up truck. The driver parked in our drive, got out and went in the back door of the house. I wasn’t waiting for any birthday cards. I was in the saddle in a heartbeat. Moments later dad, the town vet, came out of the house. “David. Get off that pony. He’s sick.” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. So much for that.

Never take no for an answer. Persistence pays off. If you can’t get what you want, you can always get what you need. Take your pick. These sayings are true at least half of the time. I do not remember the occasion, but Mom finally caved, compromised, whatever… “How about a nice Sicilian donkey?” she asked.  Montgomery Wards had a donkey in their catalog for $60 plus shipping. I had no problem substituting a donkey for a pony. It was clear I was never going to live long enough to get a pony, and a donkey had four legs, sort of looked like a horse, and you could put a saddle on it.  She ordered the donkey and a new bridle at the beginning of summer. The donkey was to be shipped from Mexico by train.

The bridle was shipped parcel post and I had it in a week or so.  I took it to Wischnewski’s jewelry shop and Bruno engraved “Poncho” on the sides. Homan Lumber Company sold me the posts, wood, shingles, etc. to build a barn and to fence in the back yard. A farmer who used to farm with mules gave me a double-girth mule saddle and some sage advice.  “Any time a mule does something to you, you have to do it right back to him or you’ll lose control.”  Disaster struck as soon as I finished the barn…a railroad strike!

That was when summers lasted forever. My job that summer was to paint the windows on the house. One window a day was enough for me. There was plenty of time for the pool and rambling around town with Rich. Everywhere we went people would ask about the donkey. “When is the donkey going to get here? When is the strike going to be over?” I understood their interest perfectly and was asking the same questions myself. Finally, very late in summer, the strike was settled. A few days later the phone rang with news that we had live cargo coming in on the noon train! We all piled into our 1951 Plymouth Suburban with the intent of bringing Poncho home in the back.

We were all on the siding when the train pulled in on time. The noon train was a passenger train. When the baggage car stopped in front of us, there was Poncho, standing with his feet close together in a crate without a top. He was a donkey alright, or was he a mule? He was certainly no little Sicilian donkey. There was a red bandana wrapped around the rope around his neck that was tied to the front of the crate. Standing next to him was the conductor, holding the rope with the biggest, whitest smile you ever saw. Apparently, he had some previous positive experience with mules.

Poncho was too big to even think of trying to get into the car. So Rich and I led him home, pulling on the rope and pushing his behind all the way. The barn and fence that I had built couldn’t be expected to hold him either, but modification didn’t take long and it was no time before we were enjoying the luxury of having a donkey to play with. We took turns riding him, going mostly where he wanted to go. He never really did much except to let his donkey dong hang out, much to the delight of the girls in the neighborhood. The only time he ever galloped was when one of the Schumacher’s, who was aiming for me, hit him with a pellet. Then, I thought he would never stop. Mom had it figured out. He was safe and he wasn’t a bit mean.

Poncho served an unexpected function for the town of Remsen. I never heard anyone complain but Monsignor Schultes claimed that he no longer had to set his alarm for six-thirty Mass. Poncho brayed in the morning like clockwork, although he never did awaken us.

On at least one occasion Poncho managed to break out of his barn to wander downtown into one of the local bars - gaining access through the open alley door. This time it was late one evening and Ralph Augustine, Dad’s Office Manager, was playing cards in the back of the bar with other locals.  With a lot of coaxing, he pulled on Poncho’s tattered rope, got him back outside, and literally drug the reluctant donkey home. So much for a quiet evening of cards. Thank you, Ralph!

We had an arrangement with Uncle Sylvester to get hay for Poncho. Occasionally a new bale would show up, pretty much like magic. I never gave it a thought but Dad must have been bringing it in. No doubt, he was helping me to be responsible in the care of an animal. Sylvester had a sense of ownership with Poncho. I once loaned Poncho to him for use in a Democratic parade. Cousin Tom had the chore of leading him with Cousin Danny pushing him.

The next morning Poncho was gone but the fence was intact. Where was Poncho? At school, we heard that the Democrats had too much to drink the night before, had taken Poncho and dragged my ass all over town! Rumor had it that a cattle feeder outside of town and down the road past the cemetery had Poncho. Rich and I rode our bikes out there and found him in the feedlot with all the cattle. When we told him we wanted our donkey back, he told us that Sylvester said that he could have him. We didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. But, he may have had too much to drink too.

Poncho must have been bored out of his donkey mind. In the summer, he had plenty of kids crawling all over him. In the winter, his coat would get very long, and while he seemed comfortable enough in the cold, there were no kids, except for me feeding him before and after school. One morning, I broke off a slab of hay to throw it over the fence and he reached over the fence and picked me up by the shoulder and held me up in the air for a minute or two while I flailed around unleashing my considerable vocabulary upon him. Finally, he slowly let me down, whereupon, remembering what the farmer had told me, I jumped over the fence and bit him as hard as I could for as long as I could with that thick fur in my mouth and nose. He didn’t even flinch. I left for school with sore teeth and a very sore shoulder. I don’t know why I ever thought that I was in control.

The excitement in Poncho’s life must have increased considerably the following spring when Dad sold him to the circus. Don’t ask me why.  

Not a pony for this adult birthday, but David seems happy with the gift from his mom.

Marvel and oldest son, David, enjoy a moment at a birthday celebration on the farm. 1970’s.