Back in the halcyon days
before Velcro, FM radio and the riding lawnmower, my parents went to yard
sales. Every spring Saturday morning
they would rise early before we kids got out of bed and join hundreds of other
eager Charlotteans in the happy hunt for a bargain. Today, somebody’s old junk would become
someone else’s new treasure.
With satisfied smiles my
parents would return delightedly displaying a used fish bowl bought for a dime,
or a three-dollar real pushmower, or a ten-dollar old banjo. And even more valuable items we would now be
proud owners of, like a radio headphone or some ankle weights, would be placed
in a position of honor on our breakfast table. The trophies collected much attention that day
but eventually began collecting dust in our big ol’ basement for years to come.
But not today. This Saturday Dad brought home the bargain of
the century.
“G’morning, everyone! Look at what we got today.”
Peering up from our cereal
bowls, we paused.
“I got a horse. His name’s Dan. Got a great deal on him. He’s beautiful!”
Our mouths dropped, cereal
and milk spilling out onto the table below. Out the door was a horse
trailer. And in it, a horse.
We crept to the door and quietly peeked in. Shadows in the dimly lit trailer obscured our view. The air was thick with the smell of wet hay. We covered our noses and peered deeper into the darkness. A deep, snorty breath broke the silence. Then a shuffling sound and as Dan turned to look at us, we saw it immediately. Dan was a one-eyed horse! No wonder Dad got a deal, we thought.
While out visiting yard
sales, my parents had seen Dan behind a fence in a small yard a few blocks from
our house. Eager to fill the vacant acre
in our backyard left empty by the retirement of our previous two ponies, Dad
approached the owners. Leaning against
an aging split rail fence that held a sign, “Horse For Sale”, cool in the summer
shade of a stand of pine trees, Dad bargained expertly for his prize. The owners, who were English and moving back
to the old country, relayed Dan’s story.
Before Dan was blinded in one
eye by a large pine cone that had freakishly fallen and irreversibly damaged
his cornea, and before Dan had been gelded to, as his English owners politely and
properly put it, temper his stallion-like behavior, Dan had been Tap
Dancer. Progeny of Northern Dancer. The same Northern Dancer who in 1964 won the
Kentucky Derby, the Queen’s Plate AND the Preakness Stakes. The same Northern Dancer who despite his
small stature set records on and off the track by winning 14 of his 18 races, commanding a $1 million
dollar stud fee and siring 357 foals. Of the 19 horses in last year's Kentucky Derby, 18 were related to Northern Dancer. His
semen, breeders say, was worth its weight in gold. Dan’s
father was a celebrity. And a prolific stud.
Tap Dancer looked like his
legendary ancestor. He was a quarter
horse, with short, stocky legs that made it impossible to believe he could outrun the larger horses. Only 15 hands tall, brown and with white
markings, he carried himself proudly, no doubt aware of his famous pedigree and
still having a little stallion left in him.
But he had to turn his head to see.
Dad closed the deal, never
sharing with us exactly what his latest yard sale prize cost him, but no doubt
thrilled to get him. And the Brits even
threw in some feed and a saddle. Tap
Dancer was ours.
That summer, like every
summer, it was my responsibility to cut grass. I
called our home “Grassland” because there was a lot of it. To stay in shape, I would put on my red yard
sale ankle weights held together by blue shoelaces because Velcro had not been
invented yet. And to break the monotony
I would strap on my football helmet-sized yard sale headphones, extend the
antennas, and listen to AM radio. To
find that weak AM signal I would tilt my head like Dan turning his head to
see. On rare days, with my head at just
the right angle, I could pick up a soul music FM station, WGIV, “the black spot on
your dial”, and really cut to the music.
Then, dragging out the old
pushmower I would commence the chore of cutting Grassland. The backyard was so large that by the time I
got it cut it was time to do the front yard again. But Dan was a hungry grazer so with his help,
I could now do the job in half the time.
Watching me push that mower over brilliant green grass and around piles
of his horse droppings, my red ankle weights glowing, my head tilted and
singing loudly to music from the BeeGees, Dan would stop munching the grass long enough to raise
his roped neck from the ground and stare at me with his one eye. He must have been fascinated. And, I think, because of our shared interest
in grass cutting, we bonded.
Saddling up a stallion, even
one who has been castrated, can be an ordeal, but not near as challenging as
riding one who can’t see. Dan allowed me
to brush and saddle him and eventually ride him. A few times he would bolt, his DNA
resurrected, running hard with me frantically hanging on like a baby baboon on his mother's back. His muscles rippled as he snorted wildly. He'd dodge trees and holes that would appear suddenly in his restricted
vision until, getting tired of carrying someone who weighs twice that of a
jockey, he would run broadside into a tree, knocking my leg loose and
eventually me to the ground. Then he would eat some more grass.
Because of Dan, I learned about being a stable hand and was able to convince my son when he was young that before I met his momma, I was a cowboy. And years after Dan was gone and I had left for college, Dad bought a riding lawnmower. No doubt he got a good deal on it at a yard
sale.
