On February 13th my brother Jarvis’s odometer ticked over to 40. Dad and mom brought Jarvis home to my turf when I was all of 18 months old and I’m sure our first fight took place shortly thereafter. Fighting was what we did. We never conversed we disputed, disputed absolutely anything and everything the other said, did or thought about saying or doing. We embraced any and all opportunities to fervently like what the other disliked and dislike what the other liked.

One of my favorite stories from our childhood occurred when we were about10 years old. Since we were so good at sharing Jarvis and I thought it a good idea to go halfsies on a Shetland pony that our Dad’s boss, Buck Guthrie, had for sale. For $100 bucks a piece we got a saddle and Suzie, a cantankerous 20 year old pony that hated little boys. We were the only kids in Lignite with a horse in our backyard. Motorcycles, go-carts, unicycles, throwing stars, and an ill-tempered pony…our parents went to great lengths to rid themselves of us but like a bad rash we came back time and time again.

When Fall rolled around it was decided that Suzie should move out to our grandparents farm where she could hang out in the barn during the winter months. Someone also decided that instead of hauling her in a trailer we, Jarvis and I, would take turns riding Suzie the 12 miles from town to the farm.

Suzie didn’t hate little boys equally. She harbored a special disdain for Jarvis and was quite creative in her attempts to dislodge him from her back. Suzie would stand stock still until the backside of Jarvis’s Toughskin jeans touched the saddle. That was her signal to become erratic, unmanageable, and generally unpleasant.

Suzie twisted, turned, bounced, and tried to bite Jarvis’s feet as he took the first leg of our ride to the farm. His first leg was more of a foot…30 feet to be exact…then Jarvis dismounted and said, “Your turn, I’m done.” He wasn’t done for now, he was done for the day and set out with dad in the pickup to wait for Suzie, and hopefully me, at the farm. I’m sure he fantasized about both of our demises while he lounged at the farm working his way through a half-dozen of Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.

It wasn’t a smooth or pleasant ride by no means but Suzie and I made it to the farm. I checked her into her new digs and gingerly hobbled up to the house for some salve for my southern region and a tall glass of ice cold Tang to wash the trail dust out of my throat. Although it didn’t dampen her hatred of little boys Suzie seemed to enjoy roaming around the farm. She especially liked all the new obstacles at her disposal for smearing Jarvis out of the saddle. The upturned wings of the cultivator seemed to be her favorite.

Winter rolled around and on Christmas Day we were at the farm when Dad came in and broke the news to Jarvis and I that Suzie had died. One would think that a little boy’s pony dying on Christmas Day would be cause for sadness but you never attempted to ride Suzie. Jarvis and I bundled up and went out to pay our last respects.

Seeing his former tormentor lying there Jarvis was overcome by the desire to settle the score once and for all. He approached Suzie like Charlie Brown approaching a football and delivered the hardest kick an 80 pound 10 year old can muster. The kick was solid but so was Suzie and Jarvis howled and hopped around clutching his foot. Suzie got him one more time. I suppose the moral of the story is don’t kick a dead horse…especially in North Dakota in December.

Happy Birthday Jarvis…may the rest of your ride be smooth.