A Christmas Wish with Four Legs

Once or twice a month, my best friend, Jodi Jones, and her older sisters, Cheryl and Dena, took us horseback riding at Livestock Stables in Hampton, Virginia. The little horse ranch was tucked behind Mercury Boulevard, right in the middle of the city. For five dollars an hour, we could trade the neighborhood streets for time on horseback. To me, it was money well spent—even if the horse occasionally had other ideas.

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We usually paid for about two hours of riding, but somehow spent most of the day there. For me, two hours on a horse was never quite enough. For the horse, it may have been plenty.

Almost every time we went, I was assigned a horse named Pal. He had a friendly name, but his welcome left something to be desired. Whenever a new rider started climbing onto his back, he would slobber excessively and fling the slime backwards onto the unfortunate person attempting to mount him. Apparently, the five-dollar riding fee included a complimentary shower.

Pal’s enthusiasm for riders was another matter.

As long as the barn remained out of sight, we generally got along. Once it came into view, however, our leisurely outing became a race for home. The moment Pal spotted the barn, he took off toward it at full speed, with me hanging on for the ride. I might have been holding the reins, but there was no question who was making the travel arrangements.

Even those wild returns to the barn did nothing to discourage me. I wanted a horse of my own. A pony would do just as well, I decided, and since the ranch rented stalls, I could see no reason why my plan should not work. Before long, I had settled on a Shetland pony.

Early one year, I announced to my parents that a pony was all I wanted for Christmas. Mine was a Christmas wish with four legs, and I was already imagining the hours we would spend together. Then, with the confidence of someone who considered the important part settled, I began preparing for its arrival.

My babysitting money went toward grooming supplies and equipment. Each purchase made the pony seem a little more real. I was not merely wishing anymore; I was getting ready. I had taken care of the shopping. All my parents had to do was provide the pony.

Daddy watched these preparations with considerably less enthusiasm.

“You’re wasting your money,” he told me whenever I brought home another purchase. They were not buying me a pony.

He could hardly have been clearer. Unfortunately, I had found a much more pleasing explanation for his warnings: he was trying not to spoil the surprise. Daddy said no. I heard, “Act surprised on Christmas Eve.”

By December, I had become an expert at turning every discouraging sign into good news. No presents with my name on them appeared beneath the Christmas tree. To anyone else, that might have suggested a reason to ask questions. To me, it confirmed everything. Why would my parents bother with little gifts when they were giving me the only thing I wanted? Besides, wrapping a pony would present certain difficulties.

In our family, Christmas presents were opened on Christmas Eve, following the German tradition. Before the gifts came the long-distance telephone call to Oma and Opa Meyer’s house. It was a direct-dial call that would have cost between $15 and $20, even with the cheaper nighttime rates. Long conversations were reserved for special occasions, and our family chose Christmastime to catch up. The telephone passed from one family member to another as everyone exchanged Christmas wishes and family news. The call usually lasted about an hour.

That familiar family ritual was part of our Christmas, but that year I could scarcely wait for it to end. Every conversation stood between me and my pony. I appreciated family togetherness, but surely we could be together a little faster.

At last, we gathered around the tree. My heart was pounding as my brother began opening his presents. Then my parents lifted the Christmas tree off what I had assumed was a table concealed beneath the tree skirt.

It was not a table.

It was an organ.

My Christmas wish with four legs turned out to be an organ with four legs. Technically, they got the leg count right. That was about as close as the two gifts came to having anything in common. At least my parents wouldn’t have to rent it a stall.

I remembered being at the music store and playing on an organ, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought my parents would purchase one for me. I didn’t want an organ—ever! In my mind, trying one at the store was a long way from asking to bring it home.

For months, I had imagined a Shetland pony waiting for me. I had spent my own money preparing for it, dismissed Daddy’s warnings, and interpreted an empty space beneath the tree as a promise. Now, in place of the animal I had already made mine in my imagination, stood an instrument I had never wanted. My grooming supplies were not going to be much help.

I began to cry.

Let’s just say my reaction did not go over well. My parents were upset with my behavior, and I later learned that they had paid more than $1,000 for the organ. They had given me an expensive gift, while I had spent months convincing myself that I was getting a pony. 

Eventually, I learned to play that damn organ, and it did not take me long to figure out how to annoy Daddy with it. “Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In” became my selection of choice. I played it over and over, day after day, until he finally told me to stop playing altogether. Those saints had marched through our house more times than Daddy cared to count.

The instrument I had not wanted had, for a time, become the instrument he did not want to hear.

Even though we eventually moved to Texas, I never owned a horse or pony. What stayed with me was the memory of those long days at Livestock Stables, Pal’s decidedly unfriendly greetings, the telephone making its Christmas Eve rounds, and the astonishing moment when the tree was lifted to reveal my gift.

Looking back, I can see that Daddy told me the truth from the beginning. I simply preferred the surprise I had invented.

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All primary source information referenced was obtained from a variety of published and archival materials, including books, historic newspapers, U.S. census records, vital records, probate files, and land documents. These sources were accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, as well as through local, state & federal archival repositories, libraries and private collections. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

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