I don’t think I posted this last year so here is a Christmas Horse story. My wish is that everyone associated with Final Furlong have a safe, warm and joyous Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!
P.S. It’s mostly about horses that I know from the Standardbred world but it has Thoroughbreds in it and others and was written by a Thoroughbred writer…enjoy
Stan Bergstein’s
In Harness
This column was written 36 years ago by a renowned Thoroughbred writer named David Alexander, in a magazine called Thoroughbred Record. Both David and the magazine are gone now, and I hope–in the spirit of the holiday season–that wherever they are they will not mind that I have changed the breed and names of the horses and some of the context.
A Christmas Fable
The old stallion and mare sidled up to the new pasture fence with hesitation. The place seemed familiar, yet somehow strange. The grass was greener than either had ever seen, when suddenly a stranger lumbered up and greeted them.
“Welcome,” the newcomer said.
“My name is Big Towner,” the stallion said, “and this is…”
“I know, Silk Stockings,” said the homely bay who met them. “I ought to know you both. I’m your great-great-great great–I always lose count of the ‘greats’–but anyway, you’re both descendants of mine. Almost everybody here is. My name is Hambletonian.”
“Are you the gatekeeper?” Big Towner asked.
“Mostly,” Hambletonian replied. “I’m on duty whenever one of my descendants is coming up. That’s all of the time, as far as harness horses are concerned. Eclipse takes care of most of the Thoroughbreds.”
“What is this place?” Silk Stockings asked. “I must be lost.”
“It’s called The Green Place,” Hambletonian said. “Most of the horses that get lost come here. We have to send some back, of course.”
“Why?” Big Towner asked.
“Because they don’t belong here,” Hambletonian replied. “They didn’t race on heart alone, but on stuff pumped into them. The Big Guy didn’t blame them, but rather the people who trained and owned them–but he turned them back anyway.”
“Who’s the Big Guy?” Silk Stockings asked.
“You’ll find out,” Hambletonian answered.
Then he lowered his muzzle and pushed the gate open.
“You might as well come in. You understand you’re on probation, though. The Big Guy makes his decisions about new arrivals every Christmas. You won’t have long to wait.”
“I’ll bet The Big Guy is Messenger,” Big Towner said, as he moved inside the gate and gazed over the emerald-green expanses that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Hambletonian snorted, “You’d lose your bet, boy.”
A big gray trotted up. “Is it my time on the gate now?” he asked eagerly.
“Not yet, Greyhound,” Hambletonian said. “Old Fig’s on duty next.”
“Who’s Old Fig?” Silk Stockings asked.
“His real name was Figure,” Hambletonian replied, “but down there they called him Justin Morgan, after his owner. Here he is now.”
A very small, dark bay with a round barrel, tiny feet and furry fetlocks came bustling up to the gate. “Okay, okay, I’m here ready to take over. I have a million things to do, a load to pull, a field to plow, a race to run, a trot to trot. No time to waste.”
In the weeks that followed, Big Towner and Silk Stockings met hundreds of horses. Some were famous, and some were their ancestors, and a few were even their own sons and daughters.
They met a snorting white stallion named Bucephalus who had been approved for The Green Place by The Big Guy, even though it was rumored by some that he was cursed by the deadly sin of pride, because he had carried a conqueror named Alexander.
There was another gray who limped, because he had stepped on a rusty nail back home just before he became lost forever. His name was Traveler, and he was a war horse in the days when a man named General Lee had owned and ridden him. There were other soldier steeds, two of them descendents of the hustling little stallion Justin Morgan. One was Phil Sheridan’s black Rienzi and the other a horse called both Fancy and Little Sorrel, who had been the mount of “Stonewall” Jackson.
Big Towner and Silk Stockings found Hambletonian an amiable sort, despite his proud, aristocratic bearing, and they grew especially fond of a gorgeous trotter named Uhlan, who some said was the most beautiful horse ever to come to The Green Place. They asked him, as they did all the others, “Who is the Big Guy?” and the answer always was the same: “Wait until Christmas.”
They were nervous. Big Towner doubted he could ever find his way back to Pennsylvania and Hanover Shoe Farms, and Silk Stockings worried that she would never find Delaware again if The Big Guy didn’t approve them.
Finally it was time. Thousands of horses gathered on a hillock In the vast paddock on a starry night, and Hambletonian told Big Towner and Silk Stockings to be quiet and humble, that The Big Guy would be there any minute.
And he was, standing suddenly in a blinding blaze of starlight. Big Towner choked back a whinny of derision and whispered to Hambletonian. “Is he The Big Guy? He’s so little. He’s not even a horse. What did he ever do?”
“He’s a donkey,” Hambletonian said. “He carried a woman heavy with child to a small town on another night when the stars were bright–a long, long time ago.”
