Mucking around can lead to best of times

Growing up on Long Island was a privilege. The best times for my family were when I was ages 5 to 13, from 1957 to 1965.

We lived on a 9-acre property called Tanmor Farm, owned by my dad’s parents, in Syosset. My parents, younger sister Kathy and I stayed in a small, four-room house.

Dad and his brother, Carl, were trying to realize a dream of breeding and raising thoroughbred racehorses. At 8, I had chores like mucking the stalls and feeding and watering the three horses before Dad got home from working at Uncle Carl’s butcher shop. I loved the horses and my responsibilities. Soon, I was begging for a pony. After all, I received no allowance for my chores.

Not long after, Dad said he found a pony we might get. At a horse farm in Woodbury, a couple was selling “Checkers,” stubby-legged and brown and white with a big head and a brown eye and a blue one. I thought he looked ugly, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Dad said I should try a ride, and I jumped on. Never having ridden a horse, I was game and settled in with a slow walk. Feeling confident, I kicked him with my heels. Checkers took off like Secretariat. I held on for my life, grabbing the saddle horn and squeezing him with my legs. Checkers must have sensed my inexperience and tried to buck and rub me off against the fence alongside the road. I finally got him to stop. He must have been tired, and I was thankful I wasn’t dumped off.

When I returned to my dad, he asked, “How was he?” Fearing I’d never get a chance at another pony, I responded, “He’s good,” even though I thought he was bad. Dad paid $50, saddle and bridle included. Off we went, with me holding Checkers in the back of the couple’s 1959 Cadillac convertible, with the seat removed. We rode through the village of Syosset, with onlookers along Jackson Avenue waving and laughing.

Weeks later, a woman asked Dad if she could board her gray pony, Frisky. A deal was struck, and I could ride and use Frisky in exchange for boarding. Wow, two ponies, and Frisky was fast! We had pony races — My cousin Carl rode Checkers, and I rode Frisky (Checkers always lost). Carl and I also played “cowboys and the U.S. Calvary.”

Soon, Dad asked, “Why not sell pony rides?” Next to my house, just off Jericho Turnpike, we put up a sign on Sundays and were in business. Carl and I walked the two ponies and got 25 cents per ride. Summer Sundays earned us an average of $15 ($150 today), and it was fun, too. Dad made me split the money with Carl although I did all the work. Dad won. “He’s your cousin,” Dad said.

After three summers, we had outgrown the ponies and discovered baseball was more fun. So, Checkers and Frisky spent their days grazing in the fields.

We don’t see roadside pony rides anymore. Liability must have become an issue although we never thought of it. We had no helmets or straps for the kids or for us.

Times change, and my life had a big one in 1965. Grandpa died, and Tanmor Farm was sold, gone forever. It’s become Pond View Drive, now with eight homes — where we played and sold pony rides on summer Sundays.

Reader Gerard Porcelli lives in Farmingdale.