Life Matters - August 6, 2025
Black Tiger Esquire. The coal black Shetland stud colt acquired the first two words of his moniker in Grandpa Esh’s neat white-painted barn with the sliding-door horse stalls one summer evening many moons ago. Perhaps Tiger, as he came to be known for short, sensed the excitement of three young Amishtown boys and didn’t care for the vibes threatening his so far pleasant and predictable life. By his mama’s side with her sweet milk, either in Grandpa’s cozy barn, hay in the loft, feed in the bin, being fed twice a day, or in Grandpa’s green pasture with its spring-fed stream turning the small water wheel that turned the pump jack with its gentle rhythmic klack, pumping water to Grandpa’s barn and to he and Grandma’s just as neat and just as white doddy haus. (grandpa house)
Whatever was going on in that coal black stud colt’s active brain we didn’t know. All we knew was that Grandpa Esh had told Dat that we could have him free of charge! He was getting too big for his mama, and Grandpa, much as he hated admitting it, was getting to old to handle this one, a problem wherein time was only widening the gap. It wasn’t getting any better. So here we were, three boys, sure we could handle what we weren’t sure about. Not only sure, excited and sure. Older brother David could see over the 4 foot high boarded bottom half of the 8 foot high stall panels, I could see mama pony’s head and the top of colt’s if I stood back a bit. Not sure about Paul, Dat probably picked him up. Us three boys and Dat were with a Mennonite neighbor who had brought us with his pickup truck and stock trailer. You see, we were taking this coal black pony home to the east-side Amishtown Lapp farm! Once there we could tame and train him! My feet fairly tingled with excitement!
The taming could begin right here. Right? Wrong. David and I, with Paul peering past us, slowly slid the roll door open about halfway. And stopped. The excitement may have been reciprocal, but the vibes were not. This pony’s vibes were defiant, as if daring us to remove him from his nonchalantly mellow dapple-gray mama. We reached out cautious hands. Black ears went back. Black lips curled, revealing the gleam of white colt teeth! A black form lunged at us with bared teeth! The stall door slammed shut, sealing the pony from his intended victims as his intended victims put the proverbial seal on his well-earned name that was to stick in the coming years. That’s right. Tiger. Black Tiger. David added the Esquire years later, I suppose to add flair to the document he wrote up in giving his share (which may have been a 100% share) to Paul and I on Christmas Day 1972, one week before his 16th birthday. I was 12 years old. Paul was 11 the day before Christmas.
In the meantime we had won over Tiger’s confidence with feed, apple and carrot treats, gentle hands and voices. Or perhaps his confidence was in himself, in being able to master his masters. Whatever the case may be we (as in big brother David) had trained him to ride and drive, which is a story all by itself! Tiger put many miles on himself and the pony cart with us three—sometimes more—riding in the cart. He put even more miles on himself with one of us three on his back.
Tiger was well under control. Most of the time. But when he was not, he was not. One of those “nots” was when the strength of his powerful neck over-powered Paul’s or my still developing arms when on his bare back and approaching within sight of the barn around feeding time. We would bounce and slide forward onto his withers at times, at which point the pony was the master of his master!
But all this pulling and sawing, besides work on the farm, was developing my arm muscles and the day came when the master mastered the pony. Or so I thought. Tiger had a trick he hadn’t told me about. He began pulling a fast one on me! At the point where our downhill, blacktopped farm driveway leveled out, about where the white board fence began, Tiger’s head would suddenly go down, getting slack on the reins, his head would shake violently, and then he would take off as I desperately hung on to his bare back with my legs and with just as much desperate fear, grabbed up the slack and pulled on the reins. But something was amiss! Nothing worked! And the rest was a foregone conclusion! Tiger’s unshod hooves were going too fast to not slip and fall on his side at the blacktopped 90 degree curve leading to the barn! And so he did. I learned after a few such spills to always spread my legs apart as he went down, still straddling him when he got back up. As we moseyed on to the barn I was never quite sure who was mastering whom.
But the day came when my brainy brain mastered Tiger’s, well, brainy brain. I determined to see what happened when his head went down and he shook it so violently. So when he inevitably did it again I clamped onto his mane with my left hand and leaned right as far as I dared. It was far enough. Far enough to see the side lever of the jawbreaker bit was clenched tightly between Tiger’s healthy top and bottom teeth! I had a lightbulb moment, sat up straight, jerked the leveraged lever sideways out from between Tiger’s teeth, pulled back and…mastered Tiger’s mad rush for the barn! The mighty Tiger was tamed.
Sometimes we may be blinded by fear when the answer is simple.
The dismantling of federal teachers unions may have a simple answer when teachers master their own fears, committing all to the grace of Almighty God. Thereby removing the only real lever the NEA and the AFT clench in their equine-influenced ‘teeth’.
As quoth Winston Churchill – “Fear is a reaction; courage is a decision.”
Life Matters!