Rhode Island Reds are a sturdy breed of chicken — reliable layers and never temperamental. When my brother, Charlie Marder, was 9, he began his entrepreneurial career with two dozen Reds that he hatched in an old incubator. The next batch arrived in a shallow cardboard crate and matured quickly. Within a year, he was firmly in the egg business.
He collected eggs from the nests daily and set them in cartons for sale at his roadside stand, 55 cents per dozen. He saved his profits in a cast-iron piggy bank.
His financial independence made him an obvious choice to ask for an interest-free loan: $150 borrowed in May to be paid back in full no later than Aug. 1, signed and dated after sober deliberation.
With his stack of singles and jar of quarters plus the $100 I had saved from birthdays, report cards, and the tooth fairy, I began my search for a horse. I had been boosted up on my first horse, Molly, at George Miller's barn on Fireplace Road at age 3 and never forgot the musty, intoxicating smell of her mane. As soon as I learned to read, I immersed myself in horse stories, imagining myself galloping bareback aboard the Black Stallion.
My horse shopping was limited to biking distance from our home in Springs. I pined for Silky, the dark bay horse the Talmages owned across the street, but he wasn't for sale. Two miles down the road, I found a cream-colored, brown-speckled pony staked to a post in the yard. The prospect was stunted, thick-barreled, and short-necked, with a large head and a wrinkled pink nose. Wisps of hair dangled from his tailbone.
I knocked on the door, and an elderly man emerged. I explained my mission. He told me that he was too old to ride "the little brute."
"Would you sell him?" I asked.
"How much do you have?" We stared at the animal in question, swishing his meager tail in a vain effort to ward off flies.
I laid out my bills and jar of quarters.
"Yes," he said. "That looks about right."
The farmer gave me a faded red nylon halter and a lead rope with a broken snap. I tied on the rope and pulled the pony along next to my bike.
I had found a mildewed cavalry saddle, a Western pad, and a string girth in the loft of the barn behind our house. With a bridle constructed from buckles, pieces of leather, and a snaffle bit, I was ready to tack up. I coaxed the pony into the stall and waited for him to drink from a red plastic pail. Then the training began.
The pony clenched his teeth as I pulled on his jaw and pressed the bit hard between his teeth. As he opened his mouth, I wedged in the bit and slid the bridle over his ears. With one arm through the reins, I slipped the old pad and saddle onto his back as he circled me in the stall. Once I had tightened the girth, I turned over the water pail, stepped up, and leaped onto the saddle.
Startled for a moment, he braced his front legs as I clucked and kicked lightly. He lurched forward, pressing his side against the wall. I hiked up my leg and sat quietly waiting for his next move. After a half-hour he walked around the tiny stall, sometimes stopping on command.
I progressed from stall walks to riding him on our circular dirt driveway. He zigzagged along as he reached for the lush yard grass. From my horse library, I chose "Learning to Ride, Hunt, and Show" by Gordon Wright as my basic text. I propped the book on a large rock. At first he pinned back his ears, his short tail slapping against his sides in protest.
According to Gordon Wright, the rider was to cluck, squeeze the leg, and then, if followed by no response, apply stick. The pony was barely moving. I swatted him with a branch. He shook his head, then trotted forward around the driveway. In the ensuing weeks, we worked our way through the book, chapter by chapter.
The pony lived in a paddock next to our garden. My mother, Norma Edwards, an avid gardener, threw oversized cucumbers over his fence. The pony leaned on the boards begging for the garden leftovers. We called him Cucumber.
Once Cucumber trotted and cantered under duress around the circle, I began his jumping career, Chapter 4. His disdain for flatwork did not extend to jumping, which seemed to genuinely excite him. He was willing to hop over benches from our picnic table and fallen limbs I dragged into the yard, but soon his schooling progressed into the neighborhood. I scouted for houses with no cars in the driveway and pointed him at the hedges or yard fences along Fort Pond Boulevard.
These outings were short-lived as Cucumber, the oddly colored pony, and I, a local kid, were easily recognized, and my mother was called. Restricted to our yard again, I constructed a haphazard course of boards and garbage cans.
After working through the last chapter, I believed I was ready to open my own business. Our house was around the corner from the Springs School, providing ample foot traffic for walk-ins. I charged $2 per lesson. The children from my brother's egg business signed up. One of my early customers, Lisa de Kooning, enjoyed her lesson so much that her mother advanced me $20. I soon paid back my brother and was making a profit.
With a chain-lead shank, Cucumber reluctantly cooperated as I jogged next to him, chanting, "Up down, up down, look up, heels down." Yet Cucumber was too cocky to tolerate beginners for long and proved very untrustworthy. Once I removed the shank, he would rub off 6-year-olds on the big oaks in our yard. In spite of Cucumber's lack of professionalism, my client base grew. Parents would happily pay to keep their kids busy at the barn all morning.
I bought an old-school horse for $125 from a local dealer. He carried my students, allowing me to take Cucumber to shows at Stony Hill. He was an Appaloosa, an untraditional color, not well thought of at the time for English riding. I was undeterred. With his mane tightly braided in rubber bands and his wispy mud tail, I entered the large pony hunter division. Three-foot jumps were easy. He had the scope and athleticism to teach me what the book could not.
Before long, we were collecting blue ribbons. My dream was to show at the Southampton Horse Show (later reincarnated as the Hampton Classic), but on the eve of the show, he binged on cucumbers. I spent the next day walking him through a bout of colic.
Six years later, Cucumber followed me to college. He died of old age after many seasons of fox hunting in Maryland. I have him to thank for my love of and addiction to horses, and for the 60 years of horse bills that followed.
Sue Ellen Marder O'Connor is retired on her sister's horse farm in Wake, Va., and spends summers in Springs. She was a teacher for 42 years, the last 20 at the Springs School