A Pony Named Honeymoon

by Timothy F. Rogers

She was my first love.

Honeymoon was like a gift from on high: a chance to fulfill my wildest dreams. I’ll never forget my first impressions coming into Bamberg the night before my birthday, being happy to be there, and -- oh yeah, there was one more gift to receive before bedtime. We had to go outside for this one, into a quarter of our yard which had been fenced off to make...a...corral? And there she was: a beautiful paint, brown and white, tall (about 15 hands), with as pretty a voice as you could imagine. A Tennessee Walking Horse, I would learn. Not registered, in as much as her lineage had been mixed, probably with a quarter horse. But with enough Tennessee Walking Horse in her to lapse into that unmistakeable gait that came at the appropriate speed. A close friend discovered her on his trip to Tennessee for his ‘honeymoon,’ hence the name.

I grew up with that horse. I truly loved her. As with all love stories, we had our hot and cold moments. But whenever I would leave, and return to her, whenever I would call to her in the pasture and she would come to me, it would melt my heart. Honeymoon.

My first actual crush lived on the same block as the Bamberg house. Her name was Tan Brabham. She was 12, and a good deal taller than I was. She was also the proud owner of a riding horse -- a strawberry rhone gelding she named ‘Rick’ after Ricky Nelson.

Now, when I first acquired Honeymoon, I had quite a problem learning the ropes of horsemanship. Size differential was a factor, and getting on and off the horse was quite difficult. Likewise, coordinating commands of ‘stop’ and ‘go,’ ‘left and ‘right’ presented a challenge for a 9-year-old.

Pap talked it over with Mr. Brabham, and they concluded that a switch in ownership would work well. They talked it over with everyone but me. I wasn’t about to trade off my prize. I would learn the ins-and-outs of riding and caring for my charge; I would grow into being big enough to handle my pony.

So, gradually, boy and horse grew together, through the neighborhoods of Bamberg and surrounding areas. The length of the trips got longer until one day Pap said,

“Why don’t you ride that gal down to the ClearPond? There’s a lot more room down there. Plus, there’s friends to be made.”

Now, ClearPond was a 100-acre, spring-fed, cypress-surrounded, clear-water lake whose origins were a mystery to the Native American man who first fished it for its red breast centuries ago. Pap had acquired one-quarter interest in ClearPond, plus an adjoining several hundred acres, which he farmed. Included was a big pasture on which he raised a herd of beef-cattle.

ClearPond is about ten miles below Bamberg on the highway. It was possible to reach ClearPond from Bamberg and solely traverse dirt roads after leaving Sand End Cemetery. So, that was the trail we plotted.

After numerous dry runs, we were ready. I had memorized the route by then, and Pap had enough confidence to trust me all alone. It was early harvest season, and I passed white fields of cotton, corn and a new crop called soybeans. There were plenty of shotgun houses, and not many modest brick Pap called ‘luxury’ homes paid for by the government. Unlike the previous year, the weather was gentle and you could tell it had rained recently. Dogs followed behind me. I saw several deer, some turkey, bob white quail, doves, but no fellow travelers, and absolutely no automobiles. It was as if it was quite normal to see a sub-teen white boy riding by on a beautiful horse a little too big for him.

That summer was filled by countless day trips down all the roads in the area. We got to know all about the ClearPond from a horseback perspective. Honeymoon loved it, especially when she did the shake-off as we reached dry land once more. Luckily I was not thrown off.

Outstanding among all my journeys of the season was the trip to the Edisto River house and back. Once again, the jaunt was marked by great weather, mostly without paved road. One exception to the rural theme was Hunter’s Chapel Baptist Church at about the halfway mark. My dad held a revival at the church, but I knew it best as the location of mandatory attendance at church by Pap, enforced by his mom. The prize was the baseball game after church. Pap was the catcher.

Honeymoon was impressed with the River house, especially the swim and the current. We stripped down and took a swim across the River and back. On ‘the hill’ we toweled down and loaded up for the trip back.

Meanwhile, back at ClearPond, all was well. I explained my plan to Honey, but she knew exactly what was going on. When I reached the last turn, I just let her have her head, and she just free-styled it all the way home, past the cypress and the moss, past the cows and Meanness the Mule, then pulled up at the house, ready for a drink of water and some supper.

It had been a long, full day, and, just like the summer, it was over in a minute.

Just a memory now, but a good one; made better by my pony!