Steel mills dominated my life when I was a kid growing up in a small town in Western Pennsylvania. If you didn't work in the mills, your Father, Uncle or Brother did. They worked and lived a life where every dime was treated like gold because you never knew how long the next Steelworker's strike would be. The Men worked overtime and the Women worked tirelessly to make a home for the family. The kids played in the streets, grew up, and left town. During those years before I joined the outward tide of young people, my Mother used to buy her fruits and vegetables from the Ponyman. He was a man named Guido who drove a wooden buckboard pulled by a brown and white horse named Tony. The wagon, heaped high with produce of every sort, looked like a rolling salad bar. At every little turn and bump, bits of lettuce and carrot green would bounce off leaving a trail of color in the brown dirt street in front of our house. Tony was just an old, tired horse, but to us he was a thoroughbred, a Warhorse, Bucephalus, Trigger. We were kids being raised two blocks from a steel mill, what did we know about horseflesh? To us Guido and Tony were as grand as a float in a Fourth of July parade. There were still a lot unpaved streets in our town, even as late as the 1950's. Every time a truck carrying forty thousand pounds of steel from the mill would thunder by, clouds of dust would lift up and leave everything covered with a fine grit that blackened curtains and ruined paint jobs. Every Summer, the town would send around trucks to spray the street with oil. It helped to keep down the dust, but it raised the hackles of every mother in the neighborhood who had to wash all of the filthy clothes. Our Summer days were filled with playing in the oily streets and waiting for The Ponyman. Guido was an Italian immigrant who had cerebral palsy. He had some trouble moving and talking. Driving the cart was an easy job for him: his wholesaler would load the produce on the wagon and Tony knew the route by heart. His customers, the Mother, would select and weigh their own vegetables and then drop their money into the straw basket that sat next to him on the seat while he smiled and said, "Thank you", as best he could. None of the kids ever made fun of Guido. Guido came by every day, Tony leading the way. Turning here, stopping there, never missing a beat. They never had to announce their coming with a bell or by calling out. The kids in the neighborhood took care of that. Guido and Tony were a daily treat that we all looked forward to with much anticipation. Guido always let us pet Tony. He trusted us and we trusted Tony. I don't remember ever seeing Tony nip at the fingers of any child who'd petted him too vigorously or who wanted to get a closer look at his teeth. That Tony was one smart horse. He knew that he had a sweet deal going. The wagon wasn't that big and Guido never tried to make him hurry or go up any steep hills, and a lot of the kids would agitate for their Mothers to buy an extra carrot or two to feed Tony - not a bad life. They made their rounds in good weather and bad, except in Winter when Guido would go on unemployment until the Spring. We never knew where Tony went in Winter. We used to speculate that he would move into Guido's house and live with him. It would only be fair, we thought. One day, during the Summer of 1955, when it was about 95 degrees and very humid, we saw Guido and Tony coming up the street. About halfway down the block Tony made his usual stop in front of Mrs. Ushman's house. While she was making her selections, her daughter, Donna, gave Tony a drink from a large tin bucket. We couldn't hear what was being said, but Tony's whinnies carried. Donna was trying to be funny. She was lifting up the bucket and pushing Tony's mouth and nose under water. He let out a snort and shook his head. Donna jumped back, dropping the bucket, splashing herself and Tony. He reared as much as his harness would allow and jerked forward pulling the cart into Mrs. Ushman who screamed and fell down onto the oily street. Guido grabbed the reins and tried to calm Tony. By now, the other kids and me were all running down the block toward the cart. This was some unexpected excitement on an otherwise dull Summer day. We were just two houses away when Tony reared again, took a tenuous step to one side, and cried as his front legs slipped in the oil and he fell into the street. His brown and white chest dipped into the oil and his blazed muzzle turned to the side brushing into the black street. Guido jumped down from his seat, moving faster than anyone had ever seen him move before. He lifted Tony's chin from the ground. Tony snorted as Guido wiped at the oil with his light blue apron. We gathered around the two of them as Guido took off his apron and put it under Tony's head to protect him from the oil. Guido struggled to his feet and started to unfasten the harness. Tony's body shivered as the straps loosened and he collapsed over onto his side, let out a quiet snort and died. Guido went back and sat down in the street next to Tony and whispered something quietly into his ear. One of the neighbors must have called the police. We could hear the siren getting louder as the cruiser approached and in a reflex action known to all young boys and girls, we scattered. I hid behind the rose bushes across the street, out of sight but within earshot. When the police car pulled up Mrs. Ushman began to yell at the officers. "Get this dead horse out of the street. It's a health hazard. It'll draw flies." "Well, what do you propose we do with it?", said the officer. The other policeman strolled over to the cart and helped himself to a peach. He took a bite and, with the sweet juice running down his chin, walked over to Guido who was still sitting next to Tony. "Jesus, Guido, he's a mess. What happened?" "He die...too hot...he die," said Guido, looking up at the man standing over him eating the peach. "Too bad Guido, but, you gotta move him out of the street," he said as peach juice dripped from his fingers down onto the oil smeared face of the dead horse. When the police car pulled into our street faces looked out from behind the curtains and then disappeared again. There is no gossip value in a dead horse or the sadness of an old Italian immigrant. A half-hour later three Black men came with a short flatbed truck. They put some ropes around Tony's middle and dragged him up a ramp made of planking and laid him on the truck bed. They tied the cart to the back of the truck, turned onto Fourteenth Street and slowly drove away. Guido rode with them in the cab. All four of them jammed together with Guido on the outside by the window. As they turned the corner I could see Guido looking up into the Sun, his mouth a slit, his eyes shiny. Over supper that night my Mother asked me why we had all run away when the police car came. "Well, we thought they might think we'd done it, or something," I said. "Did you?" "No Mom, honest. Tony just stood up on his hind legs and then fell down. We weren't even near him." "Good." The town paved our street soon after that. |
The Ponyman |
Life And Death On A Dirt Covered Street |