My Dad Bought me a Pony (WARNING: Longer than average post)

My dad bought me a Shetland Pony when I was just six years old. It has taken me a very long time to realize just how great I had it as a child. After all, isn't it every kid's wish at some point to have a pony?

The memories of the actual purchase of the pony, though still vague, have only returned to me now as I sit to write this. To my six-year-old senses, it seemed that we traveled quite a distance to the rural home of one of my father's acquaintances in order to buy the pony. Those kinds of excursions always seemed fraught with the discomfort of summer heat in a cramped and bumpy truck cab and accompanied by the sometimes painful pokes and prods of an older sibling (most of my pain usually came from one sibling in particular). Still, it is somehow impossible to remember those summer drives with my dad and my playfully abusive brother with anything other than fondness. It was clear even then that the strength of my father's hand could overcome almost any discomfort with just a simple pat on my knee or by resting securely on my small shoulder.

Unfortunately, I can't say that at the time I really felt a lot of excitement at the prospect of my very own pony. A familiar excitement returns to me now, however, when I think of the fine saddle that came with the pony. The saddle was just the perfect size for a six-year-old boy. It was black, with capped stirrups, and it had silver finishings around the saddle strings and along the skirt, stirrups, and fenders. It had already seen some use and showed some obvious wear. Yet, I could clearly see myself astride that saddle in the next Fourth of July parade. I would be the pride of the parade - no one could overlook such a fine incorporation of virile youth, equine beauty, and elaborate ornamentation.

Infatuation with that fine saddle soon turned into love for my pony, Rocky. We shared some great times together, the most memorable of which include playing cowboy outlaws with my brother and his friends in a nearby field and pretending to be Billy the Kid when my father took me and my brother on a horseback trip to The Kid's actual hideout. Looking back now, I feel less of an attachment to Rocky than I do to the events we experienced together. But Rocky was there, and many of those memories may not have been possible without him.

I'm not sure exactly what prompted my father to buy the pony - in mid-summer, it didn't seem to have any association with any holiday or with my birthday. Perhaps the beauty of the event is that there was no obvious reason for the purchase other than a father's desire to share a joyful hobby with his sons. At the time, I had no concept of what that pony represented to my father. It only became apparent two short years later, when we sold Rocky to help finance my oldest brother's two-year church mission to Portugal, that it might have actually been a financial sacrifice to purchase and maintain the pony. It is only now as I begin to raise my own young family that I am beginning to realize why my father may have made that sacrifice for me.

Just yesterday, Jill congratulated me for purchasing Lizzie her first pair of skis for Christmas. It might seem funny that she congratulated me when the skis are intended for Liz, but I'm sure it is obvious to her that the present is much more exciting for me than it probably will be for Liz. I really am excited to give Lizzie the skis - I can't wait for her to open them at Christmas, and I can't wait to see her reaction. But even if she doesn't get as excited about the skis as she does about the Pretty Ponies we have for her, it won't bother me too much. I'm excited about the skis, but I'm even more excited to spend time on the slopes with Liz, sharing with her something I enjoy so much myself. What I'm really looking forward to is creating happy memories with my little girl.

It is because of this new perspective with a young family that I think I can better understand my father's motivation for buying me that pony when I was so young. I believe I know now what joy he must have experienced then: the joy in anticipation of the time we would spend together riding horses and pretending to be wild west outlaws. Looking back at that time, I find myself experiencing a new joy -- a deeper, more vigorous joy, intensified by my increased understanding of my father's love for me and amplified by the love I have for my own children.

Just a couple days ago (Dec. 3rd), we passed the tenth anniversary of my father's death. I dedicated his grave ten years ago today. It is difficult to believe that ten years have already passed, especially because I don't miss my father any less than I did when he died. Of course, my life has been busy since then, and I've had no other choice but to move on. It's funny how time forces you to focus on the necessities of life. I may not remember the pain of his passing quite so frequently, and yet the pain, when I do remember it, is no less intense.

I long to share with my father the new joys I have found over the years: a beautiful wife and beautiful children. I long to share with him my new understandings of the world and my place in it. Most of all, I long for the strength in his touch from a pat on my knee or a warm embrace.

Here are some of my favorite memories with my dad:

• Best bedtime story teller ever - my favorite was about how he tipped over his teacher's outhouse with his teacher still in it
• Camping in the Southern Utah desert - Billy the Kid's hideout, shooting at empty soda cans
• Buffalo roundup and calf counting on Antelope Island
• Coaching my basketball and soccer teams as a child
• Playing basketball in the driveway
• Accompanying him to visit elderly people in the neighborhood
• Bucking hay together (so strange how such an unpleasant task can seem so enjoyable now)
• Skiing at Alta together
• Even though I'd already been accepted to other universities, he drove my application to BYU on the last day for submission