I was five years old when we moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the Alley Pond Park Garden Apartments in Queens. It was a big change. In Brooklyn, I had shared a bedroom with my Grandma Minne. In Queens, I now shared a room with my little brother, Ira.
Above: Tara by the entrance to the Alley Pond Park apartment. Our door was the one straight ahead after you entered the little foyer.
Right: Tara and Ira at about the age this story took place.
Above: Ira, Mom, Tara standing in our parent’s bedroom which was right next to the one Ira and I shared.
One evening, soon after we moved in, our father came home with a surprise for our new bedroom. He had bought us a children’s lamp—but this wasn’t just any lamp. The base was a cuddly stuffed silver horse. The wires and rod that held the lampshade ran right through the horse’s tummy and out its back. It even came with a little free-standing silver pony. To me, it was the most magical lamp imaginable.
We placed it proudly on the nightstand between our two twin beds. Unfortunately, stuffed animals do not make sturdy lamp bases. The lamp kept toppling over. Eventually, my father declared it unsafe and took it apart. The stuffed horse became mine. Ira received the pony. I was thrilled.
I named my horse Silver, after the horse I thought Roy Rogers rode on his Saturday morning television show. I loved those cowboy programs, and Roy Rogers was my favorite. In the early days of television, Saturday morning cowboy shows were a ritual for many children of my generation. Years later, I learned that Roy Rogers’ horse was actually named Trigger—but by then my horse had already become Silver, and that name stayed.
Roy Rogers and Trigger
A typical Saturday morning lineup of cowboy shows. in the 1950s I watched them all!
Silver went everywhere with me. He was packed into my college trunk (though I never took him out, I always knew he was there). He moved with me to Milwaukee. He stayed with me after I got married. And yes—he is still with me today, although he is definitely showing his age.
As for Ira’s pony—its story took a different turn.
Having an older cousin was wonderful, but sometimes it led to mischief. Not long after the lamp was dismantled, my cousin Harvey Rich—four years older than I was and nearly eight years older than Ira—came to visit. I adored Harvey. He felt like the big brother I never had.
Harvey and his father, about the time of this story but before a tug-of-war turned a little stuffed gray pony into family history
Somehow, he and Ira got into a tug-of-war using the little gray pony as the rope. Harvey teasingly said he wanted the pony. Ira refused to let go. Harvey pulled. Ira pulled back.
“Harvey, STOP!” I cried. I didn’t want the pony to get hurt.
Neither of them listened. Back and forth, back and forth—until SNAP.
Harvey was left holding one half. Ira held the other. Harvey felt terrible. Ira cried. I don’t remember how the day ended, but the little pony did not survive.
From that day on, I became very protective of my horse, Silver. And perhaps that is one reason he is still with me today.
Do you still have something special from your childhood that somehow survived the years? Tell us about it in the comments.
