Beware the pony czar ... and stuff
All these appointed governmental “czars” that have been foisted upon us in recent months — many of them apparent bottom feeders according to their resumes and past and present associations — are nothing new to me as I had my first dust-up with assigned authority run a muck way back when I was single digits in age.
About the best thing that could happen to us town kids was to have your parents rent a pony for a period of time during the summer. The next best thing was to have a neighbor kid’s parents rent one ... or maybe that was actually the best thing after all, as you would not have to do the feeding, watering and shovel stuff.
So the neighbor kids’ dad got them a pony with an attitude problem for a month. Actually I think the pony had issues his entire life, but nasty attitude or not, we were all having a ball, the pony notwithstanding, taking turns riding this surly beast around. And when I say around, I don’t mean around town or even the neighborhood. Oh noooo! We rode it in a rectangular pattern around a garden in their backyard as that was the only place allowed. This undoubtedly further ticked off the pony. Well it was better than pedaling our bikes, although it required much the same energy to get the animal moving, and peace, harmony and a spirit of cooperation in sharing the rides, for the most part, abounded ... until SHE showed up.
SHE was a cousin of the neighbor kids and for one afternoon was thrust upon us by the dad. SHE was very polite and charming when adults were around in an Eddie Haskell, “Leave it To Beaver” kind of way. As SHE was older than the rest of us, maybe 12, the dad put her in charge of the Nasty Pony Ride domain — even though we had gotten along without her influence perfectly well all the time before with very little parental yelling out the window to remind us to keep the pony watered and that we should be shoveling stuff and not slinging it at each other.
After the adults were out of earshot, SHE took over and laid down the law on how we had to qualify for a ride. As the newly appointed Pony Czar, we did not, of course, call her that but before the day was done we came up with a situation appropriate nickname for her that not coincidentally involved equestrian body parts. SHE made up rules and regulations as SHE went along like any decent latter day czar who is either wholly clueless as to their duties or just following orders from above like your common garden variety Nazi. Up to this point, we all thought the dumbest thing in the backyard was the pony.
All rides would be limited to three laps, clockwise, and if we had any intent at all to indeed ride the freaking psycho pony, we had to sit and wait in a neat line in the shade of the nearby tree, in alphabetical order. Yeah, like we could figure THAT out. Of course we had been doing much the same thing all along, but the thought of someone just showing up and ordering us around pulled the rebellion trigger in my head. I don’t know if it was the first time that trigger had been pulled, but sure as heck was not the last ... obviously.
I told her I did not want to sit under the tree; SHE put her hands on my shoulders and said that I had to. I said, “I don’t wanna and keep your pony ride spoil’n girl cootie hands off me.” SHE then said I would no longer be able to ride the pony if I did not sit under the tree. I said, “I don’t wanna.” SHE suggested that I just go home then. I said, “I don’t wanna.” See even back then I was good with words and snappy comebacks.
We were all used to and accepted parental and adult authority, but now here comes some appointed underling with no experience or credibility on how to even remotely supervise a handful of alphabetically challenged grade-schoolers and one belligerent pony walking clockwise for three laps around a backyard garden for an afternoon. But as I reflect upon it now, she would be perfectly qualified to serve in the current administration as the National Healthcare Czar, or perhaps Speaker of the House.
Funny ... but I don’t remember if I actually ended up riding the pony that day, but I do recall being extremely angry, running about yelling, “Girl cooties! Girl cooties!” and throwing stuff. I guess I have been throwing stuff ever since.
Duck!
Short thought: I SAID DUCK!
Hal Adkins resides in LaMoille. He can be reached at halaphoto@live.com.
