Shaw's Pride




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" September 25, 2003 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" You are receiving this newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. To subscribe send a blank e-mail to subscribe@write2theheart.com. ------------------------------------------------------------ Bob has shared the story of The Pride with us. Today he writes about the horse’s shaky beginnings. ------------------------------------------------------------ Shaw’s Pride By Bob Shaw ------------------------------------------------------------ Grampa was more of a doer than a dreamer. But he did have one dream. He wanted to own a Thoroughbred. He’d heard about a racehorse over in the next county that was for sale, so together with a good friend, went to check it out. Lang turned out to be a pretty sorry looking anything, much less a thoroughbred. But her papers proved she was just what she was supposed to be, and, she was in foal. Grampa’s friend was the first to see what could be, and what might be. The breeding papers showed the bloodlines, and told a story to someone who knew how to read them. It was like reading a road map, eventually leading back to one of the greatest thoroughbreds that ever lived, Man O War. He took her home to the little farm in Southern Illinois that day. She seemed to fit right in with the place, and everyone was surprised by her They temperament. She was the gentlest mare they had ever seen. As time went by, she’d become friends with everyone on the farm, even ‘Ol Jack, Dads Irish Setter. Seemed like the old dog went out of his way just to keep an eye on her. It was the middle of June, 1940. That morning, Dad and Jack were the first ones to find her. Running back to the house, Dad told Grampa that Lang was down and in trouble. Everyone rushed out to the barn to help. After an unusually hard foaling, a Colt was born. As it turned out, nature can sometimes be cruel. The Colt had a very large head, its legs were folded in a yoga style, and there was no way it could stand to eat. Grampa stood looking at the freak of nature, knowing that his dream was crushed. He went out the door of the stall, and headed for the house. Dad and Gramma were busy with the newborn, trying to clean him up and get him to breathe right when Grampa came back from the house with the pistol. It was the hardest thing he ever had to do, and with tears in his eyes, he said the animal was suffering and for them to go back to the house. Dad and Gramma started pleading for his life. Dad had always wanted a pony to help with the work on the farm, and if he could save it, it would be his. With both of them working on him, Grampa gave in. "Just don’t come to me," he said. After giving a few suggestions, he left them to their chore. It took a lot of work, and a lot of sleepless nights, but after almost 10 days, he was on his feet. It would be a long time before he’d resemble anything that looked like a thoroughbred, but at least he had his chance. After a couple of years on the farm, he’d grown and was muscled up from the chores and just plain fun. There’d been a lot of illness, with a tendency toward pneumonia. But with each setback, he’d come out of it bigger and stronger. It seemed like he was thriving on the farm. He enjoyed the daily runs, especially the ones at the fairgrounds. The farm ran right next to the grounds, and they had a dirt racetrack that was used during the county fair, once a year. Several horses were boarded there several months out of the year, and once in a while, a friendly race was stirred up between the colt and some of the boarders. Grampa watched the horse with more and more interest, and decided to send in his papers. Trying to pick out a name for the thoroughbred, and talking it over with a friend, Dad happened to mention that they needed a good name for him, and that he was real proud of that colt. Then and there, they agreed on the name, Shaw’s Pride. Now, The Pride, as he was being called, was five years old. He’d tried a few races without much luck. The county fair was in town, and toward the end of the week, one of the featured races came up short of the required number to run. Someone happened to remember Dad’s thoroughbred pony, and called Grampa to see if he’d be interested in running the horse. After thinking it over, he figured it wouldn’t hurt anything, so they put him in the race. Dad told the jockey not to use the whip. "He responds to your voice,” he said. "Just talk to him.” He looked at him like he was just some goofy kid, and let it go. Leading the big horse to the starting gate went uneventful. When everyone was set, the bell sounded and the gate flew open. The loud speaker shouted, "They’re off," and all but one horse left the gate. The Pride had little training with the starting gate, and had bolted when the door flew open. Precious time was lost as the jockey gained control of the frightened horse. As they came out of the gate, the jockey started using the whip. The Pride started slowing and veered to the side. Dad smiled, and was probably the only one to see the whip sailing over the fence into the infield. As the jockey leaned forward, speaking to the horse, he could see his ears rolling back seeking out the source of the voice. "Let’s go boy, lets go get ‘em.” As The Pride rounded the turns, he came closer to overtaking the pack. By the time they were in the final turn, he’d caught up. Going into the home stretch, he was gaining on the lead horse. Heading for the finish line, they were neck and neck, battling for first place. Going under the wire, it was too close to call. Anxious moments passed while everyone waited for the camera to determine the winner. The crowd stood and cheered as the tote board announced the winner, and for the first time, Shaw’s Pride was led to the winner’s circle. It was the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last. Two things happened that day. Dad lost his pony, and Shaw’s Pride learned he was born to run. He was "in the money" with 24 wins, and many second and third place races in his short career. He was named Illinois Champion Thoroughbred of 1947, with over $40,000 in purse and prizes, a large amount of money in those days. As a youngster, I can remember the big horse getting close to the fence to give me a ride. My small hand was completely safe when I’d give him his daily apple, which he loved. He stood 16 hands tall. Probably the biggest anything I ever saw, and he was my friend. The Pride was put to rest in 1954, on the farm he loved, and was buried close to the brick home that still stands today. It was known by many as the house that Shaw’s Pride built. Bob Shaw CapeRabbit @ semo.Net You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses and email harvesting programs. Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com ---------------------------------------------------------------- Bob has written many stories for Write 2 the Heart. They can be found in the archives. He and Ronni would love to hear from you. -------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers -------------------------------------------------------------- Pamela, Just wanted to say I'm in total agreement with your story It's Never to Late. What a powerful message that is needed in this day and age. I'm glad that you are sharing the truth and growth that only the Lord can provide. Blessings, Annettee Budzban Pamela is just into mid-life...wait until you see the next big number before the 0! But so true about God's love. It is there for the taking, and many people are much older than Pamela when they finally realize this. Think of the person who is dying and in their last precious moments realize there has to be someone or something beyond this life. Many people know and believe in God, the next step is making Him Lord of their life and allowing Him to direct in each decision and each day. Sounds like Pam has made that decision. "Only one life will soon be past; Only what's done for Christ will last." A great aim! Blessings, Diane DEAR CHERYL...... COULDN'T HELP BUT JUST ROAR OVER THE PRETTY RED PJ'S. YOU COULDN'T HAVE TOLD IT ANY BETTER. WHO TAUGHT YOUR DEAR HUSBAND THE ART OF HUSBANDLY TACT? YOU'RE A LUCKY PUP DARLIN'......KATHE CAMPBELL --------------------------------------------------------------- Military Prayer Reminder --------------------------------------------------------------- As you read over this list of names, please take that moment to pray for these young people and their families: Chris Speir Tim Speir Alan Thaddeaus Howard Todd Holland Graham William Julie Sagel Jessie Marshal Thompson Jason Eric Hernandez Kristin Danielson Ken Prieur Ryan Please continue to pray for our country, our leaders, and our troops at this time. If you have loved ones in the military, or who are being called to go overseas, send their names (first and last or first only) to be included in our prayer reminder. --------------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner My home has become video game heaven. There is a different game system hooked up to every TV in this house. At first it was to find one that the younger grandsons could play without the older hogging all the game time. Now it’s just easier to send each child to a different room to keep down arguments. But as soon as one child laughs or giggles with enjoyment, all the others have to run to that room to see what they are missing. Maybe I need soundproof walls. God Bless, Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2003 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors.