Soda Pop

By Frances Samuelson

Soda Pop is a story about a pony and the children who owned her. The pony begins life with Mya, a young girl, on a large ranch owned by her grandparents. Mya begins training Tinkerbell, as the pony is known, within days. Her Uncle Rusty helps her with the training from the outset. When Myas grandfather dies suddenly, the family decides to shut down the ranch. Rusty sells off the stock, and by mistake, friends take Tinkerbell to the auction.

Tony works for his father as a trainer at a horse trading stable. He works with Windy, as he calls the pony, and soon has her jumping. Tony falls in love with the pony, but his father sells Windy to a colonel from Fort Sam Houston.

The colonels son, Clayton Jr., wants nothing to do with the pony. He never even names her. On the first day of him riding her, Clayton Jr. falls off, and Clayton Sr. orders her to be sold for dog meat.

Instead of selling her, Hank, a stable hand takes her to his niece near Junction. There, Sarah calls her Jasmine and uses her to herd goats. A major flood takes Jasmine away.

Soda Pop ends up in another auction and is bought by Teresa for her son Joshua. This is to be her forever home, and Mya, from the first of the story, is the vet who takes care of her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514490273

Frances Samuelson

The author of Soda Pop graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a BA in English. She has contributed to local newspapers. She has owned horses, ponies, a mule, and a donkey from an early age. She competed in dressage, Western pleasure, driven dressage, and competitive trail. She was also a 4H leader who taught basic horse care and riding. She particularly enjoys ponies and draft horses.

Book preview

1

Beginnings

T HE TWO PONIES alternately shimmied the hides on their backs, swished their tails, and stamped a foot against hoards of buzzing, biting flies. It did little good, but the attacks were not quite maddening enough to drive them into the tepid mud of the pond for relief. They stood head-to-tail under the lacy shade of the massive oak in the middle of the pasture.

The older of the two was rounder and slightly shorter, a blue roan with a black mane and tail and one white hoof. Her other hooves were black. Small black specks showed here and there on her shoulders and hips. The AXA brand on her right hip barely marred her elegant coloring.

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The filly, slightly taller but more slender than the mare, was a loudly marked paint. Her head was chiseled ebony, from which one blue eye shone like a beacon in a midnight sky, while a dark brown eye was nearly camouflaged in the black of her forelock. Her lush black-and-gray mane and tail bespoke of Shetland pony blood that was refined by an ample dose of her quarter horse ancestry. A white patch on her left shoulder interrupted the blue roan of her body. One could imagine it was an upturned US map. White showed as well on several legs below her hocks. Pink skin showed faintly through the shortest white hairs on her lower legs. She carried the AXA brand as well.

Around the ponies, the dried, broken leaves on the ground crackled and splintered even more whenever one of the ponies or one of the forty-odd goats shifted to a more comfortable position. Nearby, two nearsighted armadillos snuffled through the inches-deep layers of mixed leaf litter and goat and horse manure, searching for grubs and worms. The deep saucer of earth under the tree, carved by many decades of hoof steps, curved upward at the edges of the tree’s drip line.

Of all the creatures taking shelter under the canopy of the huge oak, only the armadillos and the flies seemed oblivious to the heat. The goats panted, while the horses dozed with their heads down and one hind foot cocked. Birds barely stirred when a whisper of breeze moved the branches on which they sat. Mostly, they sat silent with beaks open.

This summer was harsh, even in the dry Texas Hill Country, where summers were often harsh. It hadn’t rained to speak of for months. As resilient as many of the plants that lived in the hills, purple nightshade and lantana that had grown in a swath around the oak’s outer rim drooped. The grass had long since been grazed or trampled out of existence. Broom weed covered what had once been the grassy parts of the pasture, dotted here and there with cactus. The goats had long ago stripped the ancient oak of every leaf within reach to a height well above that of a tall man. The small thicket of scrub oak at the bottom of the pasture was bare—a dime-store display of unused switches. Wisps of yellow hay lay like broken pick-up-sticks in irregular patches near the fence on the upper slope of the enclosure—the only evidence of anything edible for the livestock.

Between the great oak at the top of the slope and the bare scrub oaks at the bottom in a crease in the land, an earthen dam held muddy slurry. Normally the pond was a shining jewel of water, even in high summer. The springs that fed it had gone dry for the first time in generations. A gleaming but battered enormous metal trough now stood near the pasture gate to hold the animals’ drinking water. The sun beat down on the nearly empty trough and heated the water in it until it was barely drinkable.

Suddenly, all the livestock stirred to life at the distant sound of two old black trucks bouncing around the edge of a stand of cedar trees on a dusty, rutted two-track road. The first came to a stop at the gate as a tallish slender ten-year-old Xavier jumped from the running board and ran to open the wire gap for Rusty and Aitor to drive the trucks through. The boy quickly stabbed the two ends of the cedar pole into the two wire loops that secured the gate closed before the animals could swirl out through the opening.

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Xavier jumped back onto the running board and clung there as Aitor steered the tank truck toward the trough. The second truck, a flatbed, edged around the first, moved farther out into the pasture and ground to a halt. The somewhat taller twelve-year-old Mya, sitting on the stack of hay bales, clung to the rope that held them steady.

As soon as the hay truck stopped, Mya jumped up and seized the end of the thick sisal, tugging on it with all her weight. Her long straight sable-colored hair swung with her movements. When the rope popped loose, she freed the machete that was wedged between the bed of the truck and the back of the cab, and she began hacking at the baling string on the hay bales. Rather than dropping the strings, she pocketed them.

The door of the cab thudded shut after the tall slim red-haired driver, Rusty, poured himself out of the seat. The copper-colored shock of his hair was the source of his name in both of his family’s languages: Gori in Euskara, or the language of the Basque, and Rusty in English. Watch out, girl, before you heatstroke yourself, Rusty warned.

I’m just fine, Uncle Rusty, she said between panting breaths. I can do this by myself, but you can take the strings if you want. You always tell me that if the horses eat the strings, they could die of colic when they become lodged in their intestines. Better yet, move the truck down to the next spot while I toss out the hay.

The girl began kicking at the compressed squares of hay loosened from the opened bales. Rusty did as he was bidden; he stirred the engine back to life and eased the truck forward by several lengths. Before he could kill it again, the girl had gotten another two bales of hay onto the ground at the back. He nudged the truck forward, this time gently shoving two anxious goats out of the way with the bumper. At the end of a dozen truck-lengths, the girl dropped the last two of twelve bales onto the ground. Rusty watched, grinning from ear to ear, in one of the two serving-tray-sized mirrors that stuck out on either side of the cab.

Way to go, Mya. Where did you learn to shove hay off a truck so good? Rusty asked as he slid off the high seat of the truck.

I guess it comes natural. I have to shove Xavier out of my room all the time. Why are brothers such pills, anyway? Mya asked with a swish of her long brown hair.

Comes with the territory, I guess. But whatever kind of training it took, just keep it up. Mirth crinkled the edges of Rusty’s deep-set eyes. Looks like you’ll be spending more time this summer shoving hay than riding.

Aw. Why, Uncle Rusty? You know I came up here to ride, Mya answered petulantly.

Shucks, I thought you came up here to visit your grandparents and your best uncle because you loved us so much. Rusty kicked at a loose rock. Now I find out you only love Bluebell and Tinkerbell. I guess we just feed you and take you places and entertain you and take care of your horses while you’re off playing princess in the city.

First off, she shot back, you’re my only uncle.

And?

You know I’d live here all the time if Mom would let me. I don’t know why she won’t, Mya said petulantly. There’s a school here that I could go to.

You know perfectly well why, Rusty said with a grim expression. Things have changed a lot since your momma an’ me were kids growin’ up out here. Ranchin’ is how we made our livin’, but the whole world is different now, kiddo. You’re a part of that world, an’ you need to live there and learn its ways. You can’t make a go of it out here anymore. This here drought is just the icing on the cake.

I don’t want the life out here to ever end, Mya answered, kicking at her own loose rock for emphasis. I’m gonna go to college an’ become a vet an’ come back to take care of all the animals for all the ranchers out here.

All right, tell you what. You can ride with me when I check fences and doctor the stock. Would that do it for you for now?

Yup.

No whining or complaining? Rusty pressed.

Nope!

Deal! I’d hoped you’d say that. Then Rusty shouted up the hill at the others, Hey, Xavier, how’s that water comin’? Y’all ’bout done fillin’ that trough?

"Yeah, Uncle Rusty. Boy, this thing holds a ton of water. Xavier struggled to recoil the heavy water hose onto the brackets on the side of the truck bed as the old man watched.More than that, Buckaroo, Rusty answered as he and Mya joined the other two at the water truck. OK, here’s your first math problem of the summer. Who can tell me just how many gallons there are in a ton of water if each gallon weighs eight pounds and, part two, how much all that water weighs in tons if the trough holds about eight hundred gallons?"

Aw, Uncle Rusty. Sometimes you’re just no fun. Xavier wiped his brow as he finished with the hose.

Keep complaining, Xavier, and Mya will have it figured out and get the prize.

What’s the prize? asked Mya expectantly.

Quiet, Mya, and do your math.

Two hunnert ’n’ fifty, she shot back.

Yeah, an’ aroun’ three tons, answered Xavier with a satisfied grin.

All right. Now, each of you tell me how you got your answer. You first, Mya, since you answered first.

OK. A ton is two thousand pounds, and two thousand divided by eight is two hundred fifty.

Perfect! Now you, Xavier. Rusty posed with his most professorial face.

Three tons because two hunnert ’n’ fifty times three is seven hundred fifty gallons.

OK, but I said the trough holds eight hundred gallons. What gives?

Well, you never fill the trough to the brim, so I had to guess.

You got me there, squirt. Say, how’s about a Popsicle each for your prizes? Hey, Pop, Rusty asked over his shoulder, you up for a Popsicle?

Bent at the waist to their level, Rusty winked at both children and elbowed Xavier. He whispered exaggeratedly, loudly enough for his father to hear, A Popsicle for Pop. Get it? Get it?

Mya groaned. Uncle Rusty. When are you going to grow a funny bone?

Don’t need to. I’m wayyy funnier than the average bear, Rusty said in his best Yogi Bear voice. Smarter too.

Drop it, Mya, Aitor grimaced. You’ll just encourage him. I’ve tried to work some sense into that boy since he was born, but it never took.

OK, Aitatxi, answered Mya, knowing that Aitor appreciated her use of the Basque word for grandfather.

Hey, Aitatxi, I didn’t know you liked Popsicles.

Yup, even I was a kid once. Hard to get the Popsicle away from a kid on a hot day. I guess this qualifies, he said as he shoved his battered, sweat-stained straw hat to the back of his head so he could wipe his balding forehead. Mya watched her grandfather and considered how much the old man was the epitome of an old-time rancher. Under his battered straw hat, the failing sunlight showed the deep wrinkles of much work and old age. His gnarled knuckles and bowed knees were further proof of a life lived hard. The grubby, worn clothes implied poverty that the old trucks and the worn terrain did nothing to dispel. His appearance belied his status as a respected elder of the community. In better light, his blue eyes showed intelligence and kindness.

The four of them turned toward the waiting trucks, but Mya jerked to a halt. I can’t leave without saying hi to my best ponies.

Mya worked her way back to where the ponies stood eating hay as fast as they could. Bluebell and Tinkerbell barely looked up from their meal, so she gave each a quick pat and turned back up the slope to leave.

Suddenly, she sprinted for the gate, hollering over her shoulder, I get the red one!

Xavier tried to beat her to the gate, but he had been outmaneuvered. I get the purple one.

* * *

Well, Mya, were the ponies glad to see you? asked the grandmother, Babesne, when the foursome returned to the house.

They were too hungry to care, Amuma, but they looked great, Mya answered with a big hug, using the Basque word for grandmother.

Babesne, in a threadbare, faded dress, met them on the porch with a tray of lemonade in a large pitcher and five tall ice-filled aluminum tumblers. She hobbled, swaying from side to side as she crossed the porch, and set the tray on a small white metal-topped table that stood in front of a large open window. Then she poured the tumblers brim-full. She sighed heavily as she settled into one of the dozen rusting metal porch rockers and watched each person take a drink before sipping from her own.

As Mya watched her grandmother struggle with even the little parts of her day, the girl agonized over what the injured hip had cost the old woman. After a long active life as a rancher’s wife, Mya knew that Babesne hated to see the reminder of her hobbled condition in the eyes of others. Long trips to town in the battered pickup made her hip and back ache something awful. It had meant that socializing, even with her sisters, was out of the question unless they came to her.

The house was ringed with a porch that was nearly as deep as it was wide, following the irregular contours where parts of the house jutted out along the sides. The roof extended well beyond the edge of the porch so that, should it ever rain again, one would be protected. For now, it offered a shady refuge from the glaring sunset. In years past, the two ancient pecan trees in the yard had extended the shade far out into the yard, but lack of rain had parched these trees too. Most of the leaves scuttled across the nearly bare ground in front of a whisper of breeze. Mya has decided to become a working hand this year, declared Rusty.

Is that right, Mya? Babesne held her granddaughter at arm’s length to examine her with a critical eye.

Yeah, Amuma, we did come to visit, and if Rusty needs help, I guess I should pitch in.

"You won’t become txamisuek jota?" asked Babesne with a final look of concern.

Never! Mya remembered that the Basque words referred to the particular brand of loneliness that befell Basque herdsmen that inhabited the farthest reaches of the hill country. It meant literally struck by sagebrush.

What are your plans for the summer, Xavier? asked Babesne with a wry smile.

"Well, I’ll help Aitatxi catch fish for supper every night."

You know, said Babesne with a sigh, I only let him go fishing after all his chores are done.

"That too. Hey, Aitatxi, can I learn to drive the tractor this year? I can even help you work on