If you grew up on the Miramichi, in the 1960s or earlier, chances are you either lived on a

farm or knew someone who did. Daddy raised cows and pigs and heaven help you if you

wandered too close to Grammy’s chickens in your bare feet. What you stepped in was

cold, stinky and stuck between your toes.

I think that’s where my fascination with birds ended.

When it came feeding time for the cows, Dad would send my brother and me out to the

pasture to bring them into the barn. We thought we were great herders, always getting the

job done.

Now that I think about it, It was our old shepherd, Jip, who drove them through the gate

from pasture to pasture and kept them together. We just rode our pretend horses, yelled Yee Haw, and believed we were the greatest

cowboys since the Cartwrights.

When the cows were in their stalls, the neighbourhood kids gathered in the pasture for a game of baseball.

Sometimes, the cow patties were perfectly situated to serve as bases, sometimes, it was like the cows had a

mischevious  sense of humour and relieved themselves in between bases, making sliders a nasty necessity.

Those were the days of mixed teams, when boys and girls played on the same team, equally skilled.

When the game was over, we all saddled up our pretend horses and rode off into the woods where we galloped along old

logging trails until dark. It was no Ponderosa, but it was our own perfect ranch.

Dad used to have a horse, but Old Tony moved on to the great ranch in the sky before I was old enough to remember him.

So like all kids our age who grew up watching Bonanza, we tried our best  to convince him to get another one.

Tony had been a farm horse and that sort of life was dying out with the new prospects of modern industry.

Dad  had no practical use for a horse anymore.

Gradually, my brother and I  put our imaginary horses out to pasture and opted for bicycles.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Our younger sister was getting old enough to appreciate Bonanza and I guess she saw herself as being Little Joe Cartwright too.

But Donna, a product of the 60′s generation, was a lot more determined than her older siblings.

The same pleading blue eyes met Daddy every day after a long shift at work.

Donna wasn’t giving this one up.

Finally, he made her a deal. She could have a horse but there would be conditions.

She must find her own horse, make her own contacts  to purchase hay, and take total responsibility for the animal.

She was floating on the proverbial cloud nine.

Donna took Daddy’s response to heart and started her three times a day ritual.

Our local radio station had a program called “The Trading Post.”

Three times a day, the audience could phone in and advertise anything they had to buy, trade or sell.

It was Donna’s summer break from school and she made it a point to be within earshot of

Mom’s kitchen radio each time The Trading Post was on.

One  day, we were helping Mom paint the kitchen. As always, when my four

sisters and I got together, we were a noisy lot.

Somehow, Donna still managed to hear the radio program.

“Woohoo!” she yelled. “Someone has a horse for sale.”

We all stopped and stared as she danced her way to the phone, singing over and over to

herself the contact number. We stayed quiet, straining to hear her phone conversation in

the next room.

Finally, head hung low, she returned.

“So?” I asked what was on everyone’s lips.

“Well,” Donna began slowly, “It’s a spring horse and they only want ten dollars for it.”

“Ten dollars? Now that’s ridiculous. What does it have, only three legs or something?” I

laughed.

Donna’s face was red as a strawberry as she looked up.

” It has a weak spring.” She grinned.

First there was silence, and then snickers followed by knee-slapping laughter. They were

selling a toddler’s Hobby Horse.

I guess she tethered her imaginary horse out in the back  pasture beside ours that day because she never mentioned him again.

But the next day, wondered aloud if Daddy would get her a new bike.