How I Met My Beloved Buttercup

I met my Buttercup for the first time at our county fair.

The county fair was one of the most important times of the year for my mother’s side of the family and a magical highlight of my childhood. It was only fitting that that is exactly where I met my beautiful pony Buttercup for the first time.

My mom and dad met at Central Michigan University. My dad, a city kid raised staunchly catholic, learned to embrace farm life hours away from his own childhood stomping grounds along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan.

My mom was the oldest daughter of the oldest son of well-known and well-respected farmers. My mother’s mother was a force. Grandma Margean knew everyone and volunteered for everything. She was a descendant of the original settlers of our town – born from French aristocracy. Grandma valued education, her family, and rural life.

My mother’s parents taught her the importance of community involvement, heritage, and tradition. Those qualities have been passed down from generation to generation in family.

As a little girl, I was so proud of the fact that during fair week my grandparents and my great-grandparents assumed residence in a room (or was it considered an office?) with Dutch-doors under the grandstand. I can still see my great-grandma Edith smiling and leaning over the bottom door chatting with friends or waving to us as we approached.

The belly of the grandstand was always a very busy place. Lots of adults milling around, the low hum of adult conversation. The grown-ups were catching up on the latest news or visiting with friends they had not seen in a while.

Each year when the fair rolled around and we went to say “hi” to my great grandparents in that hallowed location under the grandstand in their important Grange office,  I would do my best to try to remember how many doors down from the end of the grandstand would be the door that found my family elders. It was about the 6th door down.

My great-grandparents seemed so official in their grange office.  I did not know what made them important to the fair, but I knew that they had significant roles. I was so self-conscious; a kid being allowed in such a particularly important space. And yet, I was so delighted that I had the ability to be around such clearly important adults.

In a small way, it gave me a sense of ownership of the fair. I belonged at the fair. I sensed that the fairgrounds would always be a special place in my life.

As a young girl of 4 or 5 years old, fair week and all of its wonderment, was a time in life that was imprinted into my brain.

As some kids can close their eyes and “see” a map of the school playground (and for the record, I could too), the layout of the fairgrounds was firmly imprinted in my mind. It was the most magical place on earth.

I knew where I could find the Kiddyland rides every year. I was slightly annoyed if they moved the merry-go-round even a few feet from its “regular” spot. I knew where the first aid station was (my cousins had made a few trips there after mishaps running around the barns, animal pens, and equipment scattered haphazardly throughout the fairgrounds). I knew where the best cotton candy stand was. But most importantly of all, I knew where the pony rides were located.

Each day that I arrived at the fair, I could see the red and white striped tent when it was still so far away it was just a speck in my vision. It was a circular tent – not too tall – brilliantly located near the 4H horse barns. I mean, how special was it to see the fortunate 4-Hers riding their noble steeds in the exercise arena and be able to walk a few short steps to pay a few coins to ride one of the pony ride ponies? Those pony ride ponies stayed busy all week.

I didn’t get to ride the pony ride ponies every day, but I was granted my dearest fair week wish at last once during the week.

In the days leading up to the grand event, I would sneak glances at the options ahead of me as we passed by the pony rides on our way to another activity or event.

When the magical day arrived and I was finally allowed to ride a pony ride pony, I wondered if I would be riding the short black pony with the white star on its forehead? Maybe I’d get to ride the spotted pinto with the long mane. Or, perhaps, I’d get lucky to snag the tall dapple-gray pony with the red saddle pad.

As I stood in line, I carefully watched the kids in front of me take their turns getting lifted into the saddle of the pony “gifted” to them for their five minutes of glory; child and pony attached to the slow, circular spinning walker.

When would it be my turn?

I would count the kids ahead of me and count the ponies. I would try to figure out which pony would be “mine.”

I felt bad hoping for one pony over the other, but the excitement and thrill of my upcoming ride caused me to eagerly anticipate riding the most beautiful pony. In the end, when it was my turn to be lifted upon the noble steed that was endowed to me for a few minutes based upon nothing but chance alone, THAT pony was the most special pony in the whole world and for those minutes spent upon it’s back, it cemented my love, passion, and appreciation for life with horses and ponies.

Year after year, the fair was the highlight of my childhood.

Eventually, as elementary school-aged kids, my cousins and I skipped school for the week. The rationale was that we needed to take care of our ponies! Our fair was always in mid-September, just as the school year kicked off. We spent our days tending to our animals, checking to see if any of us won a Best of Show on any of our numerous 4-H still projects, and hoping that our club would win the “Cleanest Barn” award each day.

But long before I was an elementary school aged kid skipping school to care for my fair animals, I was still a little girl who needed a pony.

Looking back now, I know that the date on the calendar said September 15th. However, at the time it was just another day for me as a 7-year-old impatiently waiting for school to end so that my mom and I could make our way to the fair to spend the evening with our extended family.

As I got off the school bus at my grandparents, I expected that my mom would hurry me along to get ready to head to the fair. Yet, she did not seem to be in a hurry on that particular day which I found to be entirely frustrating.

September days were getting shorter. The beginning of fair week always still felt like “summer” with its hot days and warm nights. By the end of fair week, “autumn” had set in. Shorts at fair week kickoff turned into heavy jackets by the last day. I could not imagine why my mother was not getting around more quickly so that we could savor each minute of the dwindling daylight at the fair. I knew that she loved our time at the fair as much as I did.

To my surprise, her delay was simply because she was waiting for my dad to get home from work to go with us to the fair!

My dad was a regular fair attendee on the weekends, but during the week, he usually stayed home and kept the homestead pulled together as my mom and I were off enjoying ourselves.

I was delighted to have my dad with us on this particular afternoon. I had so many things that I wanted to show him at the fair – from my favorite ride to the WORLD’S LARGEST CROCODILE to the new lemonade stand by the racetrack.

As we jumped into my dad’s truck, I was full of anticipation of a fun time.

The best part was that I knew that no matter where we parked upon arrival, we had to walk past the 4-H horse barns. This meant that I could catch a glimpse of the horses and ponies being exercised by their lucky owners in the 4-H horse exercise arena and show my dad the pony that I rode on the pony rides nearby.

I knew that the pony that I rode on the pony ride was not technically “mine” but to me the little brown gelding with the flaxen mane and tail was mine in my heart. And I hoped that he remembered me. He probably didn’t remember me. I was just one kid in a long line of kids to sit on his back. Yet I still hoped that I was as special to him as he was to me. I could not wait to show my dad the pony that I rode.

To my surprise, on our way to whatever destination my parents had planned for the evening (I was a kid, so I didn’t ask questions about the evening’s agenda. I just always followed along, lost in my own thoughts and happy to be at the fair, my parents stopped at the 4-H horse exercise arena.

There I was. Up close and personal with the dozens of 4-Hers riding their horses and ponies. I had never been this close before!

If I had wanted to, I could have reached through the fence and touched the horses and ponies riding past me. I knew enough about horses to NOT do that, though.

The fence that kept them all in had two rails. The top rail was the height of my forehead and the bottom rail was even with my belly. The fence was the perfect size for me to lean my head against the top rail, grasp onto the lower rail, and stare in wonderment at the marvelous sights of those horses and ponies walking, trotting, and cantering around and around. It was a dustbowl of glory.

Kids’ were chattering and laughter filled the air. Some kids had saddles on their horses, but most rode bareback. How brave they were! How happy they seemed! They could jump off their own pony, switch with their best friend, and jump on another horse bareback! I was so engrossed in the wonderment in front of me that I did not even bother to eavesdrop on my parents and their conversation with a man standing near them.

Hearing my name repeated over and over brought me out of my trance. The man standing with my parents asked me if I would like to ride Buttercup. I did not know how to respond so I said nothing and just stared at the man. I caught a glimpse of my parents smiling.

Apparently, they approved of my riding Buttercup because they did not intervene.

Who was Buttercup?

I figured that if my parents were there and they didn’t tell me “no” then I should say “yes” and see what happened.

“Yes,” I replied. “Who is Buttercup?” I asked.

I did not receive an explanation.

The man signaled to a girl in the exercise arena to bring her palomino pony over to us. Kolby was the girl. The man was her dad. And Kolby was riding the most beautiful creature that I had even seen in my life. A tall palomino pony. She was huge compared to the pony ride ponies. (I felt a pang of guilt that the little brown gelding with the flaxen mane and tail would mind that I was shifting my loyalties to the tall palomino pony in front of me).

I reached out and stroked Buttercup’s neck. She was beautiful. Her palomino color was so deep, she was actually dappled. She had a long white mane and big brown eyes. I gazed at her in awe.

So much was going through my mind. Did the man really ask me if I wanted to ride Buttercup? It cannot be true. I must have misunderstood. OR, I wondered, am I really going to ride this majestic creature?

In all honesty, I was just content to stand there and pet Buttercup’s sleek neck. I could have stood there all day, just carefully petting her like I was touching an exquisite piece of crystal.

I tried to memorize everything about her as quickly as I could before she evaporated from my presence: the way her hooves looked and how her ears perked forward. How she smelled of horse sweat, and fly spray, and dirt, and fairy dust.

As I was struggling to make sense of the situation, my mom, the man, Buttercup and I made our way to the center of the exercise arena.

Before I knew it, my mom was lifting me up and into Buttercup’s saddle. Buttercup was taller than any of the pony ride ponies…. X2! And she held her head higher. I was thrilled and unsure. Butterflies in my belly.

I grabbed the saddle horn and …. just sat there. Not sure what to do. Frozen.

My previous rides had always been on short ponies that made endless circles with zero cues from me. Those ponies knew what to do, and my job was to just sit on the pony ride ponies.

What does a REAL rider do in this situation? I did not know. I had never before been a real horse rider!!

So I did what all new horse girls do when they are unsure, nothing. I sat in the saddle atop Buttercup with a death grip on the saddle horn with one hand and a death grip on the reins in the other hand. I didn’t move a muscle. (Looking back, I am sure that I was probably  leaning wayyy forward in the saddle like all newbies do with my heels sky high in the stirrups).

I looked at my mother. She was smiling. I relaxed a little. The man said, “go ahead… just click to her. Buttercup will take care of you.”

I clicked a pathetic click.

Nothing happened.

I tried again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

Then, a little louder and flapped my stirrups. And with that, off we went. Swallowed up in the river of all of the other kids on their horses and ponies. Walking around the exercise arena.

As Buttercup made her way through the traffic, I tried to relax. I started to breathe. I think I had been holding my breath since the moment I landed in the saddle. I am surprised that I had not passed out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the man and my mom watching us and chatting. My mom had her arms crossed and her head tilted as she watched me ride Buttercup. Like she was studying our performance. At 7 years old, I was sure that my mom knew everything about everything. Especially horses. I hoped that I was doing okay atop Buttercup.

I felt like an imposter in that exercise pen, riding someone else’s beautiful pony. I wondered if the other kids knew that I did not know what I was doing. But they did not seem to notice me. They were all too busy with their rides, their games with their friends, and their own fair time shenanigans.

I started to let myself pretend that Buttercup was MINE, and this was all normal. That this amazing scene was simply how I lived, riding my pony with all of the other kids.

My death grip released on the saddle horn. I started to sit up straight. I started looking straight forward at where Buttercup and I were heading (instead of over at my mom in the center of the arena for reassurance).

Outside of the exercise pen, I noticed other non-horse owning kids walk up to watch all of us inside of the exercise arena with our horses and ponies. I hoped that they assumed that Buttercup was mine and that I was an experienced horse girl. Just for a moment, I wanted to be admired. Respected. Envied. All because I was riding the most beautiful pony in the world.

I did not want my time on Buttercup to end. I loved her. I would never forget her. It was the greatest 10 minutes of my young life.

As much as I recall every second in the saddle atop Buttercup, I do not remember our ride ending. I do not remember getting lifted off the saddle. I do not remember my final stroke of Buttercup’s neck. I do not remember taking mom’s hand and walking out of the exercise arena. I do not remember walking away. 

I do remember looking back and catching a final glimpse of Buttercup; my brief final view of her as she was quickly swallowed up by a sea of 4-H horses and ponies in that busy, dusty arena.

Fair week continued per normal with the sights and sounds I had grown used to. I still kept my eyes trained to the pony rides. The little brown gelding with his flaxen mane and tail was still making circles with an endless line of kids waiting to climb upon his back. I still hoped that he remembered me. My time with him was special.

But now my eyes were also diverted to the 4-H horse and pony exercise pen, hoping to catch a glimpse of Buttercup.

For the rest of the week, I never saw her again. Although I asked my mom about her endlessly. I hoped and prayed that the man and his daughter, Kolby, knew how special and beautiful she was. And cherished her as I cherished her. I can still see the image in my mind.

Eventually, fair week ended, and we packed up grandma’s motorhome, collected our open class entries (which in included quilts and antiques. We let the fair employees toss our vegetable displays into the garbage bins. They were rotted by now, anyway.), and we drove away from the fairgrounds only to dream of, and plan for, next year’s fair.

My ride on Buttercup in the exercise arena seemed almost like a dream by the end of fair week. I was not even sure it really happened. Or that she really existed.

The Grange office under the grandstands was empty. My family elders went back to their regular jobs and daily duties. I went back to school the Monday after fair week. It was hard to transition from the enchantment of fair week to the grind of being a regular old student. Like Buttercup, it is like fair week had been a dream. In typical kid fashion, I shifted my focus to the realities of being a mainstream student in a typical public school trying to figure out how to not be terrible math and whether I had even the slightest bit of athletic talent.

Only a handful of the other kids in my school had experienced what I had experienced during fair week. I knew that we were the lucky ones. We all walked around like disconnected zombies that first week back. At the time, I did not know what a “horse show hangover” or “fair week hangover” was, but we definitely had it.

My mom was busy. She was back to work as a second grade teacher and trying to catch up on the giant pile of fair week laundry.

My dad, a high school teacher in another district, seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time fixing up one of the barns in our backyard after work. He always had “projects” to do in the yard, but he seemed to be particularly focused on one little barn as of late. I figured he was fixing it up for my mom’s retired, ancient Appaloosa horse named Shiloh. Or maybe we were getting another group of piglets to raise? I was not sure. My attention span was easily diverted from adult responsibilities.

I was starting to get my groove back a week or so after fair week when my life changed forever. In the most amazing way possible. In hindsight, I am glad that I did not know what was coming

After school one early evening at the end of September, I think it was a Wednesday, I recall walking across the yard picking up sticks and throwing smelly walnuts into a large pile.

I noticed a truck and trailer making its way down our long, winding driveway. It was a truck and trailer that I had not seen before. I figured this must be the delivery of pigs my dad had been fixing the little barn up for. (I thought having pigs from time to time was fun. They were obnoxious, kind of cute, and full of energy. At that point, I had not connected the pigs we cared for and raised to the freezer full of pork. I was blissfully naïve. To this day, I hate ham. I think it is a subliminal revolt to having raised pigs at home.)

The truck and trailer had almost made their way up our driveway when my mom emerged from the house. She had a bounce in her step. I was a little puzzled.

I said, “Somebody’s here, mom.”

She gave me a knowing smile.

The truck and trailer made a slow, big circle in our yard to turn around and parked under our towering walnut tree.

First, a man who looked familiar, but I could not specifically place, got out of the truck. Then, a young girl exited the passenger side of the truck. As she rounded the corner of the truck, I realized that it was Kolby. The girl from the fair. I rode her pony. I was so baffled. Why were they at our house? Did they have pigs, too?

I followed my mom as we all slowly made our way towards the back of the trailer.

I heard short clips of the adult conversation… “…her name is Marcee…” “…we’re excited for you…” The adult chatter continued…. “…easy to load…” “…. yes, we brought some hay to transition…” As I heard bits and pieces, I was trying to solve the puzzle in my mind. And then I heard the man say, “…Buttercup just had her feet trimmed a couple of weeks ago.”

Buttercup?

I grabbed my mom’s hand.

“BUTTERCUP?!” I asked.

I held my breath and broke away from the group. They were still pleasantly chatting by the truck. I had to see what was in the trailer.

As I made my way to the back of the trailer, I could see two rumps standing quietly. A gray rump and a palomino rump.

These were not pigs. These were real, live PONIES.

Kolby and her dad, and my mom met me at the back of the trailer. I was speechless. I was afraid to ask who these ponies were and if the palomino rump, was in fact, Buttercup.

I was either not breathing, or breathing really fast. I just needed someone to explain to me what was happening.

“…. yes, that’s Marcee…” the man told my mom. “She’s going to be Kolby’s new project. Kolby needed something a little taller than Buttercup. We just picked her up on the way here.”

Then the man turned to me, and said, “Buttercup is excited to see you again.”

I nodded, silently. I could not form words. I am sure that my eyes were as big as saucers. I did not move, fearing that I had the potential to stop the momentum of the moment.

I watched as Kolby’s dad and my mom opened the back of the trailer and backed Buttercup out into our yard.

When Buttercup was off of the trailer, she stopped and looked around. Her ears perked forward, and her head was held high, just as they had when I met her at the fair a couple of weeks before in the 4-H horse and pony exercise arena.

I was vaguely aware of my dad standing off to the side with his camera taking pictures.

My mom held onto Buttercup in the yard. Buttercup was casually eating grass on a long lead rope as my mom talked to Kolby’s dad about Buttercup’s feed schedule, vaccinations, and so on. 

Kolby walked into the side of the trailer that Buttercup had just vacated and reached over to give Marcee a pet on her slim, sleek, gray neck. Then, she closed the back of the trailer. I figured that Kolby was probably dreaming of her new partnership with Marcee.

Kolby looked at me and asked, “You’ll take good care of Buttercup, right?”

Looking back, I am sure it was a difficult thing for Kolby to do, to say goodbye to her pony even though she had a beautiful new pony already in the trailer waiting for her. I now understand the bond that we form with our equine partners. Today, I have empathy for Kolby at that moment, but at the time, I was so overwhelmed with Buttercup being at my house that I didn’t understand the significance of her question.

I assured Kolby that I would do my very best. I would take very, very, very good care of Buttercup. I would brush her when she was at my house, and I would spend hours in the barn with her while she was at my house. But I was still putting the pieces together.

I leaned in and quietly asked Kolby, “How long are you leaving Buttercup here for?”

Kolby smiled and replied, “Forever. She is yours now. Your parents bought Buttercup for you.”

It was still difficult to comprehend what was happening. I was afraid to confirm this unimaginable fact with my parents for fear that Kolby was wrong. Other kids do not always get their stories straight.

Within a few minutes, Kolby and her dad climbed back into their truck and started their way back down our long, winding driveway. Marcee’s gray rump became smaller and smaller as they disappeared off into the distance. I held my breath, hoping that my parents did not realize that Buttercup was still in OUR yard. Although, it was my mom that was literally holding onto her with the pink lead rope.

“Well, let’s show Buttercup her new stall!” my mom said.

“Is she really mine?” I asked.

“For as long as you love her,” my mom replied.

As we walked towards the little barn that my dad had been fixing up, I realized THEN that the renovation was not for pigs, but for the most beautiful palomino pony in the world. And I had no idea of the adventures that awaited Buttercup and me and how she would impact the person that I would become.