MY GRANDPA AND I shared a love of horses. At the age of twelve he had supported himself by working in a livery stable. Then, years later, when he’d married and could afford to, he raised Shetland ponies. I have a favorite photo of my dad as a young boy astride his spotted pony, Jimmie. Years later, no longer spotted but white with age, Jimmie became the pony on which I learned to ride.
One Friday night when I was ten, Gramp took me with him to the local horse auction, which was held in a huge, long barn. The spectators and buyers sat on bleachers along the length of one wall—drinking, smoking, laughing, and cussing like I’d never heard before. Along the entire length of this barn, opposite the…
