I guess every country boy wanted a pony. What farm kid didn’t back then? 

Santa Claus never saw fit to bring one, and I think there may have been some serious discussion between him and my parents about the costs involved.

But then, sometime in the mid-1950s, we got something far better than a pony. We got Charlie. I don’t remember the precise year, but it was a short time after the Branch sisters, owners of two neighboring farms, were killed in a horrific auto accident and their property was sold at auction. 

Walter Cecil Rawls of Southampton County bought the farms and allocated a portion of one to his brother David, who owned a Norfolk clothing store. The brothers built neighboring houses that still stand on Cypress Creek, and David briefly brought his old — actually, very old — Tennessee Walker horse to the farm.

He quickly decided Charlie could use a bit more attention than he could provide. He and our parents agreed that we would take the old horse. It was kind of a loan that turned into a gift. It was also a commitment by our parents because it meant one more mouth to feed, though Charlie, getting along in years, didn’t really eat so much.

To the three children, but particularly to my younger sister Betty and I, it was a gift indeed. Charlie — who quite naturally became known to us as Charlie Horse — came with an old bridle and English saddle. As a cowboy wannabe, I would have preferred western, but a gift is a gift and I had been taught by Connie Yeoman, another neighbor, how to ride English, so it worked out just fine.

When Charlie arrived, we first had to learn to care for him, feeding, brushing, combing mane and tail. Benny Poole, a legendary farrier in Isle of Wight and Surry, was called to give Charlie new shoes and I learned from him how to clean hooves.

Horse chores complete, Betty and I would saddle Charlie and ride. He was about as gentle as a horse can be, and tolerated whatever we did. For example, there was a low-hanging limb on a red oak tree in the back yard, and I would ride Charlie under it and swing up onto the limb — you know, like cowboys in the movies did. Charlie would take about two steps and stop, knowing something was wrong.

There was also a long-forgotten plow horse harness hanging on stanchions under the shed of a barn, and we (probably I, more than we) got an idea that we thought was downright genius. 

Betty and I put an old horse collar on Charlie, followed by hames (the wooden frames to which trace chains are attached). We attached a pair of trace chains to the hames, hooked a single tree (a short pole that connected to a plow or cultivator) to them and tied that to an old red wagon. Two cotton plow lines (reins) completed the array and we piled into the wagon, clucked one time, and Charlie began pulling us. 

One thing we had neglected was a way to stop the wagon when we said “whoa” and Charlie did. Betty was the brakeman. She dragged a stout stick when we were ready to stop.

To his credit and our good fortune, Charlie never bolted while we were riding around in that wagon. Nor did our mother intervene. She was at least as patient and tolerant as Charlie.

I came within an ace of killing Charlie quite by accident one day. I was riding him around the yard, playing Zorro, I believe, and stopped to go in the house. I tied Charlie to a cedar post that stood at the corner of the kitchen, atop which was the old farm bell, by then no longer used. I ran in the porch door and, as was my habit, slammed the screen door.

The sudden noise caused Charlie to throw his head back, jerking the reins tied to the bell post. The post was rotten at its base and fell, as did the bell. That heavy, cast-iron clanger fell just inches from Charlie’s head. It was a “no harm, no foul” event since no one knew the bell post was that decayed, but I felt awful about it.

Charlie outlived our youth. Both Betty and I went off to college and left him on the farm. He died a few years later and our older brother Philip got a backhoe and buried him in the corner of a field. It was the end of a long and cherished relationship.

 

John Edwards is publisher emeritus of The Smithfield Times. His email address is j.branchedwards@gmail.com.