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Friendships That Last
Lived by (and Written by) Chris Juhasz
Lived by (and Written by) Chris Juhasz
"A Tradition of Magic. The Company of Good Friends." So states the border of a framed
United States Pony Club (USPC) poster I acquired in 1983. The USPC is an organization
promoting safety, opportunities for instruction and competition in English riding, horse
sports and horse management for youth ages 8-21. Glancing at that poster reminds me of
my first Pony Club experience.
It was a cold January day in 1980. In the middle of the Midwest, where our parents' brains
had clearly frozen months earlier, when they decided it would be fun for us to have a game
day. We were a new Pony Club, filled with new parents and fearless children on fearless
steeds. We were going to have all sorts of relay races and games of broomstick polo that
day, provided our extremities did not freeze off.
We set up for the first race, where the object was to gallop to the opposite end of the arena
as quickly as possible, gobble down a gingerbread man cookie, remount, and gallop
back. It was determined we would perform the exercise without stirrups, to improve our
balance. We lined up on our fuzzy, winter-fur ponies, reins shaking in mittened hands,
clouds of cool steam emitting from our nostrils. Our district commissioner blew his
whistle and we kicked our ponies into full gallop, eyes focused on the gingerbread treat
ahead.
United States Pony Club (USPC) poster I acquired in 1983. The USPC is an organization
promoting safety, opportunities for instruction and competition in English riding, horse
sports and horse management for youth ages 8-21. Glancing at that poster reminds me of
my first Pony Club experience.
It was a cold January day in 1980. In the middle of the Midwest, where our parents' brains
had clearly frozen months earlier, when they decided it would be fun for us to have a game
day. We were a new Pony Club, filled with new parents and fearless children on fearless
steeds. We were going to have all sorts of relay races and games of broomstick polo that
day, provided our extremities did not freeze off.
We set up for the first race, where the object was to gallop to the opposite end of the arena
as quickly as possible, gobble down a gingerbread man cookie, remount, and gallop
back. It was determined we would perform the exercise without stirrups, to improve our
balance. We lined up on our fuzzy, winter-fur ponies, reins shaking in mittened hands,
clouds of cool steam emitting from our nostrils. Our district commissioner blew his
whistle and we kicked our ponies into full gallop, eyes focused on the gingerbread treat
ahead.
For the rest of this story, I must rely on hearsay. Within two "gallop" strides (roughly six feet
from where we had started), Scout (aka Pig on Sticks), my 12 hand Paint pony, had
successfully managed to buck me off. I lay there dazed, wondering what had happened,
while Pig on Sticks stared down at me. I swear he was laughing.
While I lay there resembling Ralphie's little brother in "A Christmas Story" -- unable to get
up due to the bulky layers of clothing and my rubber riding boots that prohibited me from
bending my knees, I found my mother (the nurse on duty for our event) did not fawn over
and pity me for a duration I felt was satisfactory, given that (a.) I was nine years old and (b.)
had never fallen off before. It turns out I was not the only casualty during that "exercise." In
fact, of the fifteen Pony Clubbers who started the race, only three had finished. Well, five
had eaten their cookies but were too short to remount, so ended up trotting their ponies in
hand back to the finish line. The other ten of us had become dislodged from our
transportation and were spitting out arena dirt while seeking our mounts.
Most of the falls were similar to mine, a simple crow hop or two that launched us into what
we thought would be lore of the National Finals Rodeo for that year. Another pony had
proven her proclivity toward Grand Prix stadium jumping by sailing over the arena railing
with a foot to spare. Yet another, who was actually an ex-reining horse, took his rider's
"WHOA!" to heart. He was simply doing as he was told, driving his hocks into the ground
and sliding to a stop. And sending his rider headlong in the arena wall.
There were no serious injuries that day. And almost 20 years later, I gaze at my wedding
photo hanging next to the Pony Club poster, and notice that two of my bridesmaids -- one
who rode the arena jumper and one who rode the reiner -- were Pony Clubbers who lay in
the dirt next to me on that cold January day,..... and still remind me of that poster's motto: "A
Tradition of Magic. The Company of Good Friends."
from where we had started), Scout (aka Pig on Sticks), my 12 hand Paint pony, had
successfully managed to buck me off. I lay there dazed, wondering what had happened,
while Pig on Sticks stared down at me. I swear he was laughing.
While I lay there resembling Ralphie's little brother in "A Christmas Story" -- unable to get
up due to the bulky layers of clothing and my rubber riding boots that prohibited me from
bending my knees, I found my mother (the nurse on duty for our event) did not fawn over
and pity me for a duration I felt was satisfactory, given that (a.) I was nine years old and (b.)
had never fallen off before. It turns out I was not the only casualty during that "exercise." In
fact, of the fifteen Pony Clubbers who started the race, only three had finished. Well, five
had eaten their cookies but were too short to remount, so ended up trotting their ponies in
hand back to the finish line. The other ten of us had become dislodged from our
transportation and were spitting out arena dirt while seeking our mounts.
Most of the falls were similar to mine, a simple crow hop or two that launched us into what
we thought would be lore of the National Finals Rodeo for that year. Another pony had
proven her proclivity toward Grand Prix stadium jumping by sailing over the arena railing
with a foot to spare. Yet another, who was actually an ex-reining horse, took his rider's
"WHOA!" to heart. He was simply doing as he was told, driving his hocks into the ground
and sliding to a stop. And sending his rider headlong in the arena wall.
There were no serious injuries that day. And almost 20 years later, I gaze at my wedding
photo hanging next to the Pony Club poster, and notice that two of my bridesmaids -- one
who rode the arena jumper and one who rode the reiner -- were Pony Clubbers who lay in
the dirt next to me on that cold January day,..... and still remind me of that poster's motto: "A
Tradition of Magic. The Company of Good Friends."
