Growing up, Grandmother lived on a farm in Fulton, New York, with her parents, two brothers, and four sisters. Her father, Harold Phelps, Sr., was a teamster who hauled coal, sand, gravel, soil, and rocks. He had fourteen wagons and twenty-eight giant horses to pull them. Naturally, he also had on the property pits for the coal, gravel, etc. His fourteen drivers worked the standard work-week of six and a half days. On Sundays, they had only to come in, bathe and groom each of the horses of their team, clean and make any needed repairs to their wagons, make sure the horses’ stalls were spotless, and then they could have Sunday afternoon off.
With all this wealth of horse flesh, there wasn’t a riding horse in sight, and the children grieved. In time Harold Jr. grew old enough, twelve, to get a job, save money and buy a beautiful little—by comparison—horse that could be ridden. All the children adored him, fought over who got to groom him, took turns lovingly riding him, and snuck away to pet him and give him treats whenever they could.
There was a small shed on the farm. It had been used to store this and that, but Harold got permission to clear it out and put his little horse in it. All through spring, summer, and fall, the little horse was ridden almost daily and fed and groomed into a sleek beauty. But it was an unusually hard winter that year. The big horses had to be brought out, but they had the bulk and strength to plow through the snow, dragging the heavy wagons behind them. The little horse was kept in his little shed, but not ignored. The children still loved him and petted him and gave him treats every day.
Come spring with the deep snow melted, Harold went to get his horse out for some exercise. All the children ran with him to see their horse in the sunshine at last and to beg for turns to ride him. But the shed was a shed, with a human-sized door for an entrance. The little horse had gone in easily enough, but three months of standing still and being fed treats by seven children daily had turned it into a roly-poly, stuffed toy of a horse that was a good half a foot wider in the middle than the door.
Children were rolling on the ground giggling. Mama Bessie came to see what was so funny, covered her face with her apron, and doubled over laughing. Harold Sr. was called in to consult, and laughed til he cried.
He studied the problem, then conceded that the shed was so old and rickety that there was no safe way to take out just one wall. It would have to be pulled down entirely. He helped his son start with the roof so it wouldn’t fall on the horse, and they took the shed apart, board by board. It was evening by the time they were able to walk the horse away from the debris.
Epilogue: A space was made in the big barn for the little horse and it was begun on a rehabilitation program—no treats allowed.
Can you remember how long it took for the pony to regain its muscles again after no exercise – and how its hooves were after such a long time.
I’m sorry, Anne. That wasn’t part of Grandmother’s story—just that it was done successfully—and they all lived happily ever after.
Great story! No surprise, horses seem to be very special to children as they grow up. Lovely tale about the one you knew.