| Biographical Non-Fiction posted January 17, 2018 |
  |
Stoney was a legend in Dad's mind
The Man Who Rode a Dead Horse
by Deniz22
My Dad was a natural story teller, and some of his stories were actually true.
Given such natural talents as Dad's, a little embellishment is allowed, even in true tales, by fair-minded folks.
They are like the little sprigs of parsley on the dinner plate; no one swallows them, but they add artistry to the presentation.
Stoney was a farmer neighbor in a little town in rural New Hampshire. It was so small, I can remember as a little boy, folks would run out of the house to wave at a car passing by on the dirt road. Then we would shake the dust off our clothes and go back inside so the grown-ups could talk about the event for an hour or so.
The length of time would depend on whether the occupants of the car were known, or strangers. Known folks often wouldn't have wanted to hear those conversations. Peccadilloes of such were common knowledge, and discussed at length, accompanied by shakes of the head and a laugh or two. Ironicly, strangers were apparently considered perfect, above reproach ... unless and until they became friends and neighbors.
My Dad's stories of Stoney, of which this is only one, fascinated me. Rugged individualism is frowned on these days, but Stoney stood out even when it was applauded. So I was all ears when Dad told how Stoney rode a dead horse to its grave.
Seems the poor horse died of old age in the pasture on a winter's day and froze stiff. He lay there all winter, and finally, Stoney decided to ride him to a more appropriate burial ground before spring. The pasture was soon to be put to use by the cows, and one doesn't take a chance on spoiling their milk with an unpleasant equine encounter.
So Stoney hitched up a team of horses to their dead companion and dragged the rigid body down the icy "main" road; (read "only road"). Never one given to walking when he could ride, Stoney stepped on the uncomplaining dragee, and rode standing on his one-dead-horse-hearse to the burial place.
No Roman General, riding in the finest of chariots, could surpass Stoney's majestic composure, as he stood (literally) true to the old Yankee maxim; "Buy it cheap, wear it out, sell it dear".
There was no market for dead horses, but getting one last ride out a dead horse will do for the last part of the Yankee rule of thrift.
My astonished Dad met the funeral procession on the road, and that's why you are reading this story today. That, and the $100.00 prize, of course.
True Story Contest contest entry
My Dad was a natural story teller, and some of his stories were actually true.
Given such natural talents as Dad's, a little embellishment is allowed, even in true tales, by fair-minded folks.
They are like the little sprigs of parsley on the dinner plate; no one swallows them, but they add artistry to the presentation.
Stoney was a farmer neighbor in a little town in rural New Hampshire. It was so small, I can remember as a little boy, folks would run out of the house to wave at a car passing by on the dirt road. Then we would shake the dust off our clothes and go back inside so the grown-ups could talk about the event for an hour or so.
The length of time would depend on whether the occupants of the car were known, or strangers. Known folks often wouldn't have wanted to hear those conversations. Peccadilloes of such were common knowledge, and discussed at length, accompanied by shakes of the head and a laugh or two. Ironicly, strangers were apparently considered perfect, above reproach ... unless and until they became friends and neighbors.
My Dad's stories of Stoney, of which this is only one, fascinated me. Rugged individualism is frowned on these days, but Stoney stood out even when it was applauded. So I was all ears when Dad told how Stoney rode a dead horse to its grave.
Seems the poor horse died of old age in the pasture on a winter's day and froze stiff. He lay there all winter, and finally, Stoney decided to ride him to a more appropriate burial ground before spring. The pasture was soon to be put to use by the cows, and one doesn't take a chance on spoiling their milk with an unpleasant equine encounter.
So Stoney hitched up a team of horses to their dead companion and dragged the rigid body down the icy "main" road; (read "only road"). Never one given to walking when he could ride, Stoney stepped on the uncomplaining dragee, and rode standing on his one-dead-horse-hearse to the burial place.
No Roman General, riding in the finest of chariots, could surpass Stoney's majestic composure, as he stood (literally) true to the old Yankee maxim; "Buy it cheap, wear it out, sell it dear".
There was no market for dead horses, but getting one last ride out a dead horse will do for the last part of the Yankee rule of thrift.
My astonished Dad met the funeral procession on the road, and that's why you are reading this story today. That, and the $100.00 prize, of course.
Given such natural talents as Dad's, a little embellishment is allowed, even in true tales, by fair-minded folks.
They are like the little sprigs of parsley on the dinner plate; no one swallows them, but they add artistry to the presentation.
Stoney was a farmer neighbor in a little town in rural New Hampshire. It was so small, I can remember as a little boy, folks would run out of the house to wave at a car passing by on the dirt road. Then we would shake the dust off our clothes and go back inside so the grown-ups could talk about the event for an hour or so.
The length of time would depend on whether the occupants of the car were known, or strangers. Known folks often wouldn't have wanted to hear those conversations. Peccadilloes of such were common knowledge, and discussed at length, accompanied by shakes of the head and a laugh or two. Ironicly, strangers were apparently considered perfect, above reproach ... unless and until they became friends and neighbors.
My Dad's stories of Stoney, of which this is only one, fascinated me. Rugged individualism is frowned on these days, but Stoney stood out even when it was applauded. So I was all ears when Dad told how Stoney rode a dead horse to its grave.
Seems the poor horse died of old age in the pasture on a winter's day and froze stiff. He lay there all winter, and finally, Stoney decided to ride him to a more appropriate burial ground before spring. The pasture was soon to be put to use by the cows, and one doesn't take a chance on spoiling their milk with an unpleasant equine encounter.
So Stoney hitched up a team of horses to their dead companion and dragged the rigid body down the icy "main" road; (read "only road"). Never one given to walking when he could ride, Stoney stepped on the uncomplaining dragee, and rode standing on his one-dead-horse-hearse to the burial place.
No Roman General, riding in the finest of chariots, could surpass Stoney's majestic composure, as he stood (literally) true to the old Yankee maxim; "Buy it cheap, wear it out, sell it dear".
There was no market for dead horses, but getting one last ride out a dead horse will do for the last part of the Yankee rule of thrift.
My astonished Dad met the funeral procession on the road, and that's why you are reading this story today. That, and the $100.00 prize, of course.
 Recognized |
Full disclosure: Any embellishments of this true story are my Dad's. I'm saving mine for my stories. :)
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Deniz22 All rights reserved.
Deniz22 has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
