My dad would have turned 104 this year, and as May arrives, I find myself returning to one particular spring – the year we moved from Richmond, Illinois, to Oregon, Wisconsin. I was in fourth grade, old enough to know the thrill (or fear) of new beginnings but young enough to simply adapt to change. What I remember most is how quickly our new neighbors made us feel welcome.
One of the first to stop by was Bill Mann, who lived a few farms down Highway A. He was the kind of neighbor every rural community seems to have – steady, friendly and always ready with a good story. He cared for horses and ponies, and during one of his visits, he told my dad, “Every young girl should have a pony.”
Dad didn’t argue. He had been raised around horses, and though he didn’t talk about it much, my grandfather – the one I never met – was a horse trainer. Horses were in my family history.
That fall, after we were settled, Mr. Mann walked a sorrel pony named Ginger to our farm. She lived in the lane that led to the woods, sheltered by a lean-to shed. Ginger helped me adjust – to a new home, a new school, new friends – and helped me learn the responsibility of feeding and caring for her. I spent hours brushing her, riding her and simply spending time in the lane by the woods. It was, without question, one of the best seasons of my childhood, even though I missed my grandparents and Richmond friends.
What I didn’t notice – in all of my fifth-grade enthusiasm – was that Ginger was changing. Dad did. He watched her with the quiet, practiced eye of someone who had grown up around horses. He didn’t say anything. He simply observed, letting the season unfold.
Then, one morning the following spring, he told me to walk down the lane. I remember the cool air, spring flowers and the way the sun filtered through the trees. When I reached the woods, Ginger wasn’t alone. Standing beside her, still on wobbly legs, was a newborn foal. I named it Cinnamon.
I rode my bike to Mr. Mann’s farm and gave him the biggest hug and told him about my surprise – two for one – a surprise no young girl ever forgets.
Ginger and Cinnamon were the first of many ponies and horses that shaped my growing up years. The real gift was the time spent with my dad training Cinnamon. He never made a lesson feel like a lecture. He simply showed up beside me – steady, patient and sure – the way he did in every part of our lives. He taught me how to read a horse’s ears, how to move with calm intention, how to reward softness and redirect stubbornness. Without ever saying it, he taught me how to pay close attention.
As I think about him turning 104, I realize that the story of Ginger and Cinnamon isn’t just a childhood memory. It’s a reminder of the way rural life shapes us – through neighbors who show up, animals that teach us responsibility and wonder, and parents who pass down knowledge in quiet, patient ways.
That spring gave me more than a pony and a foal. It gave me a sense of belonging, a connection to my family’s past and lessons that still guide me today. I’m grateful for my dad, who knew that sometimes the best surprises arrive quietly, waiting down a lane to the woods.
