“There,” said Julia as she tugged my arm. Though small, my two-year-old pulled with a force strong enough to make her mom stumble. At the far side of the fairgrounds, a pony ring loomed in the distance. Target acquired, my daughter dragged me past the Ferris wheel.
Regaining my footing, I bent to meet Julia’s eyes. “We will have a look.” With a solemn nod, she relaxed her grip. Hand in hand, we walked across the field towards the ring.
Even from a distance, the ponies looked beaten. Tufts missing from their dull coats, an air of despair amongst them as they continued an endless circular march.
“Pony!” she repeated again and again.
I saw the $5-a-ride sign, noted that the ride would last about 3 minutes, and was sure that I didn’t want the scruffy “groom” running the show to touch my daughter.
“Please!”
I hesitated. We’d already spent almost all the cash on hand on cotton candy and a ride wristband that didn’t work for ponies. At some point I needed to say “no.”
“Mom!”
I flashed back to all the bounce houses, putt-putt golf courses, and, yes, pony rides of my youth. That I did not get to go on. Of all those times as a kid when it was “too expensive.” Times where I really wanted something. How I learned not to ask anymore.
Julia stopped talking, silently pled with her eyes.
I hoisted her to my hip and headed toward the mini “big top” tent. Beckoning us inside, the carny offered a smarmy tobacco stained smile. No other human was there, just the ponies walking riderless in an eternal loop.
Julia’s eyes sparkled. Closing mine, I envisioned the magical creatures she saw. Mighty mustangs flying across vast ranges. Trusted companions for endless adventures. Furry friends for life.
With a deep breath, I mustered a semi-confident, “Okay. Which do you want to ride?”
Without hesitation, her finger snapped to attention, shooting toward the smallest, dingiest beast in the lot. Of course.
I made eye contact with the ragged man still leaning against the tent pole. Blowing a plume of spoke, he dropped his cigarette and slowly ground it into the dust. Meandering toward us, he pulled the pony wheel to a halt. I extracted the five out of my pocket, handed it to him, and did not wait for permission to enter the ring and place my daughter on the weary brute myself. The man followed, a leather loop dangling from his fingers. As my eagle eyes watched every move, he attached it around my daughter’s waist, ensuring she kept her seat in the worn saddle.
Backing away, I watched as Julia pet the pony’s coarse black mane. A dormant ear pricked to life as she leaned forward to whisper. Squeezing her arms around its neck, Julia nuzzled her face into its coat, her short blond pigtails moving back and forth as she snuggled closer. The gray patches on the pony’s side relaxed as the animal visibly exhaled, and the man in the plaid shirt raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. Apparently, I had a horse whisperer on my hands.
Out of the side of my eye, two parents materialized to set their kids on other ponies. Though one child howled his protest and another repeatedly kicked her pony screeching “Giddy up,” it was as if the volume was turned off. Julia was oblivious to it all.
The wheel jolted, and the animals moved once again in their circle. Muggy July air seemed to freeze mosquitoes mid-flight as the animals proceeded in slow motion around the grooved path.
Gazing into the distance, Julia sat taller. An Indian princess on her steed.
