No, I was never a three-year-old runaway

Intrepid Ms. Fluffster, ignoring the camera, at the cottage with her family

According to Fluffster family lore, I ran away from home when I was three.

It’s time to set the record straight: I didn’t run away. In fact, I believed my family had gone off to the cottage without me, and I had to catch up to them.

When I was three, going on four, we lived in a house with a small back yard in the heart of Toronto. Getting out of the city in the summer was a Big Deal. So it was with excitement that I heard my parents planning another trip to the cottage where we’d spent an exciting vacation the previous summer. For weeks, I pestered them: “Are we going today?” The answer was always no, not yet.

One morning, still in my pyjamas, I was next door playing on the neighbour’s swing set, equipment we didn’t have in our back yard. My mom had always encouraged us to play outside, so I was usually either in our yard or the neighbour’s. That neighbour kept an eye on me from her kitchen window whenever I showed up in her yard while her own kids were at school. Her swing set drew me there, but I often stuck around hoping to taste-test her fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies!

I didn’t pay much attention to which family members were still in my house when I scampered outside after breakfast. An adult would always show up if I needed one.

When I’d had enough of the swing and no cookies had appeared, it was time to find out what was for lunch at home. I walked into the house and called out. Nobody answered. I wandered around downstairs. Nobody there. Not old enough to know the difference between weekends and weekdays, it didn’t occur to me that my dad was at work and my brothers at school. Oma (my Dutch grandmother) was upstairs in her bedroom but didn’t hear me calling, and my mom was out grocery shopping.

In my mind, the empty house meant that everyone must have left for the cottage without me! I wasn’t upset, but I had to catch up with them.

Out I went, still in my pyjamas, but not before picking up my new change purse with two pennies in it (my mom always took her purse whenever she went out). That bright red change purse, a gift from Oma, had one side that was clear plastic so I could always see how rich I was.

After about two hours, I’d wandered at least three and a half kilometres from home when a family finally stopped me near Runnymede subway station. A pre-schooler in her pyjamas walking along busy Toronto streets had to attract attention sooner or later, even in the late ‘50s when free-range parenting was the norm.

Google Maps screenshot of the most direct route from our house to Runnymede Station; I don’t recall the exact route I took.

The mom of the family opened the passenger door of their car, asked where I was going, and offered me a ride. Climbing onto her lap, I said I was going to the cottage, and proudly showed off my change purse. They drove up to the first police car they came across, and a policeman took me home. At three, I hadn’t yet learned about stranger danger. But my parents had taught me to memorize my address and telephone number, which I proudly recited to anyone who asked for it.

Exactly what happened after I got home, other than some uncomfortably tight hugs from my relieved mom and Oma, is blurred in my memory. But I clearly remember getting a lollipop from the policeman on the way home. That’s what really mattered.

Memories of a capricious pony

Ms. Fluffster, in cowboy hat and Western gear, riding her pony at a Southern Ontario horse show

The year I turned 13, I fulfilled my dream of owning a pony. I’d longed for one ever since I met the girl with a pony who’d moved into a neighbouring farm a year earlier.

She became my best friend and as teenagers we spent long hours together on horseback. She still rides horses. I now have a lower-maintenance bicycle. No carrots or petting required.

My family knew I wanted a pony more than anything. I’d started saving up, but it would have taken me years to collect enough money. So my mother decided to surprise me when I got back from a visit to relatives in Montreal.

The afternoon I got home, my two brothers gleefully announced that they’d bought me some ducks. I was suspicious, since I’d never expressed any interest in ducks, but played along when they steered me to the “duck coop,” a little-used shed with a window at floor level, through which I spotted brown hooves.

Inside was a five-year-old pony named Lightning. Beside myself with delight, I begged to ride him right away. For months, I’d been riding my friend’s pony bareback, so I knew I was ready.

Minutes later, we trotted off. Lightning broke into a gallop as we neared a fence where we’d have to go through a gate. I tried to slow him down but failed. Charging towards the gate, he made a sudden U-turn. Over the gate I sailed, landing hard on the other side of the fence while he trotted back to his shed (and dinner). I limped home, only my pride seriously injured.

Too late to do me any good, I remembered being warned that some ponies use stunts like these to throw their riders.

We negotiated a truce after that first misadventure. I discovered that food was the best way to manage him. If I let him stop to eat grass regularly, he’d let me stay on his back.

I never liked riding fast, preferring an easy gallop at best. When my friends raced, Lightning and I would fall behind. He didn’t mind being a little behind, but if the others got too far ahead, he’d take the bit between his teeth and defy my efforts to slow him down.

Still, whoever named him was being hopeful. He sped up only if he got hungry or fell too far behind the pack. His usual slow-as-molasses pace suited me just fine.

When hungry or bored, he’d sometimes lie down and roll over mid-ride, forcing me to scramble off his back and out of the way, a trick he once played as we rode down Main Street in the Santa Claus parade. The spectators found it funny. I didn’t.

Despite his quirks, he was an affectionate companion who greeted me with a friendly nuzzle every morning. For nearly four years, we spent most of our waking hours together. As I got to know him, I learned how to pick up on his warning signals — and avoid being thrown.

In our second summer together, we started winning ribbons at local horse shows. We were at our best in trail class, which involves manoeuvres like jumping low rails, backing up between posts (see below), and negotiating a gate (opening, passing through, and closing). One summer we got the season trophy in this category, winning enough ribbons/points to beat out all competitors.

I have one unhappy memory from our time together. Lightning got hit by a car one foggy evening while my mother and I were out for dinner. When we got home, my brother said that a stranger reeking of alcohol had banged at the door, complaining that a herd of horses had charged at his car right in front of our farm. My brother went to show him that our two ponies (Lightning and my sister’s pony, Misty) were standing in their field. In the near-dark, they couldn’t see the new break in the fence. The man staggered back to his car and drove away.

The next morning I found that break and confirmed that our ponies had indeed escaped, encountered the car, and returned. Further evidence? Lightning’s mutilated and still bleeding muzzle, which required veterinary care. The wound was too ragged to stitch, so all we could do was apply salve and hope it would heal. He was left with an unsightly hole above one nostril that whistled whenever he exerted himself (admittedly not often). Nursing him back to health took several months.

When I was 16, we sold the farm and moved to a small town near Toronto, so we had to sell Lightning. I was heartbroken, but thankful that the new owners of our farm decided to buy him along with the property. He got to stay home and keep eating grass.