But the pivotal moment in my equine odyssey arrived at the tender age of 10. Pooled from my hard-earned babysitting and chore earnings, I joined forces with my Dad and sisters to acquire our pony, "Ginger," for the sum of $75. A retired racer from Picton Fairgrounds, Ginger's hooves had trodden the tracks for the last time. Though his lineage possibly held a hint of Shetland, beneath his beguilingly furry coat lay an obstinate spirit entirely his own. And thus began the inaugural chapter of my misadventures with horses.

Pony on a mission

Our family home was on a large property on Picton's Main Street West, with enough space for not only a barn but also a spacious corral. Skip ahead to the month of December, when the Picton Santa Claus parade was gathering its merry forces at the LCBO just a stone's throw away from our house. Out of the blue, a neighbor called to let us know that they had spotted what looked suspiciously like Ginger hanging around the parade assembly area. Lo and behold, a pony-on-a-mission, Ginger had broken out of the corral and hoofed it to where the action was. The realization hit me that this pony's past life was all about racetracks, fairs, and parades. From that time forward, Ginger and I were destined to turn parades into our thing. Honestly, it beat the alternative of playing hide-and-seek with our pony-gone-rogue.

A policeman comes to call

To ensure Ginger had some equine companionship, we also boarded horses during periods when they weren't actively engaged at a nearby boys' summer camp. The task of tending to these horses was shouldered not only by me but also by my sisters, Joan and Linda. In today's world, the idea of keeping a stable of horses smack in the middle of Picton might raise a few eyebrows, thanks to all the modern bylaws.

Apparently not all our neighbours were happy about our mini-ranch in town. My sister Linda recalls the time we had a visit from a police officer, the kind you usually meet when there's not-so-pleasant business afoot – or in our case, a-hoof. When the doorbell chimed, my sister Linda took one for the team and answered the door. The police officer was responding to a neighbour's complaint about horse poop on the sidewalk. The officer, with a straight face, asked if she was the proud owner of a pony. Linda, without missing a beat, confessed to being a pony partner. And then came the curveball: "So, which part of the pony is yours?" Linda, with her quick wit, staked her claim on the front half and hilariously pointed her finger at sister Joan, firmly assigning the back-end responsibilities to her. Classic blame-shifting at its equine best!

Horses at the cottage

During the sunny summer months, our horses accompanied us to the family cottage at Morrison's Point. Those days were a blend of swimming, fishing, and horseback rides with the Black River riding crew. I cherish the memories of the riding lessons at Kettlewells and the leisurely rides through the picturesque Grimmon’s Woods. At the cottage, the horses enjoyed unrestricted exploration across the entire acreage. My Dad and Grandpa had built cedar rail fences hugging the property's perimeter, even extending out into the water. This arrangement allowed the horses to leisurely sip from the shoreline whenever they fancied. All was working well in this setup, until the summer when a notion struck us: "Let's take a swim with the horses!" And let me tell you, the sensation of liberated exhilaration, being drawn through the water by a powerful equine force, is a feeling like no other. Yet, as often is the case, the unintended consequence crept up on us. Those horses, once timid of the water, had realized that the water fences were no longer a barrier to venturing onto neighbouring properties!

The battle of the chuckwagon

One of my most cherished memories revolves around our chuckwagon expeditions through South Bay, a community that held special significance for my father during his formative years. Thanks to a blend of my Dad's carpentry prowess and my Mom's sewing skills, they created a bespoke chuckwagon designed specifically for Ginger to pull. The small wagon, mounted on rubber tires, was just spacious enough to accommodate our essential supplies. An ingenious soup kitchen was strapped at the rear.

Every year, a week was dedicated to the exhausting task of getting Ginger accustomed to the harness. He put up a spirited resistance, employing all his might — galloping, kicking — until exhaustion tamed his rebellion. In this contest of stubbornness, my Dad, equally unwavering, emerged victorious. Still, it became an annual ritual, a clash of wills. The saying "stubborn as a mule" found a new muse, as Ginger's tenacity proved he could give any mule a run for its money. Once Ginger reconciled with his fate, our escapades with the chuckwagon flowed smoothly. A sight to behold, our convoy included me and my sisters astride horses and bicycles, flanking the chuckwagon. This spectacle became an irresistible magnet for kids throughout the South Bay vicinity. My Dad's name was well known and respected in the community, and under parental blessings, youngsters trailed along on their chosen modes of transportation — horses, ponies, bicycles, and a few even camped overnight with us, slumbering under the stars. It was akin to the enchanting tale of the pied piper, with a local twist. My Dad reveled in the camaraderie, and the parents generously contributed extra sustenance. Dad took charge of the Coleman stove, conjuring up meals for everyone. These were the kind of moments that etch themselves into memory — times of joy and shared adventures.

And so, the misadventures, camaraderie, and laughter with the equine ensemble leaves me with fond memories that will forever be etched in the scrapbook of my heart.

This story was featured in County Magazine Winter 2023 issue.