“Neither
Dad nor I even wore coats that balmy morning; we’d be in
the
big town by noon; Dad said to let the
horse trader enjoy a fine
lunch
before we negotiated with him; said people were more
agreeable
when their bellies were full. Pretty smart farmer!
“Dad
added that we ought to be home for evening chores by four.
“We
met the horse wrangler about 12:30; he looked sleepy. We
looked
his remuda over and there were two, maybe three, we
found
serviceable for our needs. Then, to the negotiating. Hmm!”
“Fine
animals,” the grafter opened,
suddenly recovered from his
supposed
relaxing fine lunch fare. Selling was
his business! Hmm?
“That
big bay, there,” he pointed to a critter a day or two older than
Ole
Methuselah, “Good horse.” He paused and spit. “Fifty bucks!”
“Dad
winked at me; I got the message: ‘The
game is on!’ Uh! Oh!
“Well,
Mr. Brunkiser,” Dad began. It pays to be respectful and polite, like.
“I
think he might pull a plow---Maybe?...If he wasn’t blind!” Dad smiled.
The
horse trader cast his eyes toward the ground as if in surrender.
“Okay,
Pops!” he opened, trying to intimidate,
“Which one you like?”
The
game went on for several minutes. Then, Dad said, “No!” We left.
“‘What
happened?’ I questioned dad once back on the wagon headed
home,
empty handed. “That bay mare was nice; you didn’t try for her.”
“Man
insulted me, son. No need for such behavior. Anyway, too expensive.”
I
knew my father to be a man of few words; I accepted our plight.
“We’ll
take another look come spring.” He made it final. Amen!
We
had barely gotten started when the wind turned icy-cold from
due
north; it cut right through my thin shirt; even dad shivered, a bit.
“We
won’t make home afore the snow flies,” he allowed. Right! Again!
We
pulled into the farm yard as dusk was ushering in the night; Freezing!
Come
spring, we went north for our plow horse; found a ‘Good” one!
Uncle
Freddie finished his tale. “Let’s catch us a whitetail!” He invited.
Amen!
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