My pretty pony

This is Smokey. He was a Christmas gift from Santa to my sister and I when I was about five or six and Jen was three or four. Dad is a CPA, he has all sorts of clients from different backgrounds and businesses. Smokey belonged to one of his clients who substituted payment with trade. That happened often when I was growing up. Dad would trade goods with clients if they were having trouble with cash flow. At five, Smokey appearing at Christmas delivered by Santa, that was not inconceivable, it was not within my realm of imagination either. His appearance in the basement was nothing short of miraculous. I was already a horse lover, a pony rider. Mom was a cowgirl at heart and owned several horses. This was one I could ride without help, without permission, in any weather. Dad had fixed the quarter deposit box so that you could flip the switch and ride without putting in coins. Smokey has two speeds, he goes fast if you pull back on the reins (contradictory to a real pony). There has never been a time when he wasn’t set up in my mom’s home. Many, many years of play and imagination and dreaming took place on his leather saddle. I remember wishing we could put him on a track and motorize him like a train and ride around the basement. It seemed within reason to wish for my Dad to build. No matter what came or went, Smokey remained. Grand kids played wildly like my sister and I did. Smokey didn’t fit in Mom and Dad’s new house. But he has more rides to give, more dreams to fulfill. He is waiting on my porch for the next cowgirl or cowboy to bring him to life and ride in the rodeo. Imagination is all it takes.

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