A Shetland pony can be an obstinate cantankerous little horse, I was Eleven years old when my parents purchased one such animal for me. Tim the Shetland pony was a blue roan and a whole lot smarter than an eleven year old green horn. I helped my father build a paddock to house Tim close to our house, and had to do all the work of keeping Tim myself. My father was an excellent horseman in his own right so my and Tim"s progress was well guided and watched over.

Sure lots of children my age living in a farming area had a horse then it was no big deal. What I remember was the lessons I learned from keeping a horse and from Tim.

One of my jobs during the weekend was to collect pine cones for the house fires during winter. Our home had a small chip fire in the kitchen that heated the hot water and could be used to cook on. It also had a large open fire in the lounge.
On Sundays during the Autumn dad would help my fit a split to Tim. A split sack is two chaff sacks  laid over the horse's back lapped and stitched together so to make two large bags on either side of the horse, to access the sacks a opening was cut to make a pocket on both sides. Then held on with a surcingle strap.

I also had a small sugar sack with food and a bottle of cordial tied to the front. Once this was ready I would walk Tim up the road across an old wooden bridge over the Tadmor river then onto a gravel road. We would follow this road for about half an hour Tim grazing the roadside and me dreaming of what ever eleven year old's dream of.  We then would turn away from the river and into a large pine forest crisscrossed with four wheel drive tracks. Once I found a spot with windfalls or pruning I would retrieve my tomahawk from the split sack and start filling the sacks with cones.
The tomahawk was my pride and joy I still have it, re-handled several times over the years but still with its original head. I remember saving my pocket money for months to buy it from Mr Shirtcliff's store. Every time I use it it reminds me of the value of working towards a goal and what my parents taught me by making me save for it.
In the world we live in now parents would be critisied for allowing an eleven year old to buy and tomahawk. In the same vein sending a young boy off into the bush with with an axe and a horse possibly wouldn't go down to well ether.
It took hours of scrambling over windfalls and knocking cones with the back of my tomahawk to get both sacks full. All the while Tim would follow me grazing as he kept me in sight. If I left his sight he would whinny and start urgently looking for me. All I had to do was call out and he would settle down only after getting right up to me and pushing with his head. We both looked out for each other, I remember it being very reassuring that someone else was with me miles from anyone.

Once the sacks where fulled and my lunch was eaten and more importantly to Tim all grass was sniffed tried and eaten, we would turn for home.

When I returned home dad would help me undo the sacks and drag them to the woodshed and tip them into a large wooden bin.
What did I get for a Sundays work, mum and dad would thank me and comment on the amount I collected .  I was making a contribution to our family and the appreciation was genuine. Was I paid for it? no I was not this never entered my mind it was my input in to the collective family

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