When I was five, I had a best friend who was seven. When our parents were playing tennis, we'd sometimes trundle off and rifle through the old man's glove-box, looking for any small change - forgotten 1 cent and 2 cent pieces. For three cents, you could buy a whole box of matches, so that was the game.
Once enough dusty old copper was fished out and the matchbox was got, it was off down the creek adjacent to the tennis courts for an adventure. It was relatively wild down there, shrouded in greenery so we had some cover. There, we'd proceed to build a tiny little campfire.
We never got busted and never lit a fire that got out-of-control and we always had fun. One memorable day we wandered further afield and were befriended by two young females who'd been riding their ponies nearby.
Their folks had an agistment, adjacent to the creek, where they could also exercise their ponies. We were told a very sad story about one of those poor creatures that had been tethered to a big ol' park bench, once-upon-a-time, when a thunderstorm rolled across the valley.
The poor thing got spooked by the storm and took flight, dragging that park bench behind him, until someone managed to catch him and calm him down. Those two kids, both in their early teens, I guess, told us how, whenever they rode that pony they had to be very careful. Any time the poor thing came within cooee of a park bench it would lose the plot completely and throw whoever was riding him.
The two were grooming their ponies after their ride, when we showed up. They were puffing away like two old hands and they offered us both a durry. So, there we were, two little kids, chatting with two teen cowgirls and two ponies, smoking cigarettes, as best we could, and sharing friendship and tall stories.
It's a treasured memory. I'll never forget those two and that dear little pony - a profound lesson about a much bigger picture - a beautiful, friendly, doe-eyed creature, with a lifelong challenge, who was dearly loved and cared for by two very kind and understanding young people.
They weren't smart enough not to smoke, and neither were we, sad to say. But it was the Sixties, the Marlborough Man was still healthy, young and handsome, and plastered across the big screen, and our television screens, like a movie star - someone to look up to - and we were just a couple of wayward kids looking for adventure.
Four decades later, copper coins had become a worthless anachronism; what was once semi-rural parkland had become a lifeless, choked-up industrial labyrinth; and, finally, I'd quit smoking for good.
Once enough dusty old copper was fished out and the matchbox was got, it was off down the creek adjacent to the tennis courts for an adventure. It was relatively wild down there, shrouded in greenery so we had some cover. There, we'd proceed to build a tiny little campfire.
We never got busted and never lit a fire that got out-of-control and we always had fun. One memorable day we wandered further afield and were befriended by two young females who'd been riding their ponies nearby.
Their folks had an agistment, adjacent to the creek, where they could also exercise their ponies. We were told a very sad story about one of those poor creatures that had been tethered to a big ol' park bench, once-upon-a-time, when a thunderstorm rolled across the valley.
The poor thing got spooked by the storm and took flight, dragging that park bench behind him, until someone managed to catch him and calm him down. Those two kids, both in their early teens, I guess, told us how, whenever they rode that pony they had to be very careful. Any time the poor thing came within cooee of a park bench it would lose the plot completely and throw whoever was riding him.
The two were grooming their ponies after their ride, when we showed up. They were puffing away like two old hands and they offered us both a durry. So, there we were, two little kids, chatting with two teen cowgirls and two ponies, smoking cigarettes, as best we could, and sharing friendship and tall stories.
It's a treasured memory. I'll never forget those two and that dear little pony - a profound lesson about a much bigger picture - a beautiful, friendly, doe-eyed creature, with a lifelong challenge, who was dearly loved and cared for by two very kind and understanding young people.
They weren't smart enough not to smoke, and neither were we, sad to say. But it was the Sixties, the Marlborough Man was still healthy, young and handsome, and plastered across the big screen, and our television screens, like a movie star - someone to look up to - and we were just a couple of wayward kids looking for adventure.
Four decades later, copper coins had become a worthless anachronism; what was once semi-rural parkland had become a lifeless, choked-up industrial labyrinth; and, finally, I'd quit smoking for good.
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. That's what he gets for settling in such a cultural desert!
