Author’s Note: The following is a true story, though a few of the details might be incorrect. At the time these events occurred, it was roughly 1974 when I was about six, maybe even younger. It’s possible that the animals in question were cows, not horses, but I elected to go with horses in this retelling because I think horses are funnier in this context. Some exaggeration is likely. I tell this story with humor in mind, but also with deep reverence for my grandpa.
As some of you know, my mom was from Mississippi and was raised on a farm out in the middle of Red Dirt Road Nowhere. After graduating, she moved to Indiana where she met my father – a Pennsylvania boy – and made her family in the Hoosier state.
When I was a kid, we would take family vacations to visit her parents on their farm. It was always an adventure for my brother and me since we were northern boys and not at all accustomed to life on a southern farm.
In addition to the farm being home to multiple kinds of poisonous snakes (rattlesnakes, moccasins, copperheads, coral snakes, and so on) it was home to a variety of chickens, grouses, cows, pigs, and horses. Oh, and lots of black widow spiders and fire ants.
My grandfather’s farm also had several ponds and a creek running through it. When we would visit, my grandpa would sometimes take us on his big farm tractor and we’d go out fishing in one of the ponds. Some of my earliest and best fishing memories are tied to those ponds and my family there.
On one rather notable trip when I was about six, we came across a pair of horses that were…well, I thought they were wrestling.
They weren’t wrestling.
Apparently, the noise from the tractor’s motor startled them, causing the male to dismount (clever verb usage there, eh?). The female—or the one losing the wrestling match insofar as I was concerned at the time—bolted. And man oh man could she ever run. She was out of sight before you could say, “Jack Robinson.”
Her beau, however, stood his ground. He stood there, snorting, shaking his head and looking about as angry as I had ever seen *anything* look in any of my six long years on the planet. My grandpa told us both to stay on the tractor and to just be still. Apparently, horny horses interrupted mid-coitus can be quite dangerous. He proceeded to talk to the horse in hushed tones, telling it to move along now. My dad and I were glad to oblige and sat on the tractor, not making a sound.
That is until the horse turned to the side. That’s when I noticed that he was sporting the largest penis I have ever seen. The enormity of it caused my jaw to drop to my chest, grab my daddy’s arm and ask, rather loudly: “daddy, do you see the big, the big black THING on that horse? How did it get that big?!?”
Now, I must tell you that my grandfather was a very kind and religious man. He also was a southern Baptist minister and gentleman who always had time for his grandchildren. However, he was not the kind of guy with whom you discussed the likes of horse penises.
My dad was mostly successful at stifling his laughter while he flashed me a furtive look that said, “Not now, please, son, NOT NOW.”
However, I was not to be deterred. I craned my head around my dad’s shoulder so that I could make eye contact with my grandpa who was still sweet talking the pissed off horse, and said, “Grandpa, how did that horse get such a big, black…THING?!? Look at it!”
I think my dad darn near had a stroke and rolled off the back of the tractor at that moment. My grandpa turned about 12 shades of red before he snatched the shotgun from his lap, fired it into the air, and scared the horse off. Without a word, he put the tractor back in gear and off we went—home that is.
Apparently, once the topic of horse penises is broached on a fishing trip in Mississippi, said fishing trip comes to an immediate and explosive conclusion.
