One time, when we were going up to Cornell to see Grampa Hayden, there was a guy trying to get a wagon, loaded with manure, through some mud. It was mired down, close to the hubs. The horses were see-sawing, lunging against the harness out of sync, and the guy was whipping them. I could see they were scared.
Dad stopped the car. He was in his dress clothes. This old guy was half again bigger than Dad was. Dad stepped over the fence and told that guy to quit whipping those horses.
That old guy’s expression was surprised, but he quit.
Dad walked up and took the lines out of the old boy’s hands. He went up to the front of them horses and talked to them for ten minutes or so, petting them and calming them down. Then he went over to the side of the wagon and hollered “GIT UP.” The two horses hit the tugs even and walked the load out.
I was proud he was my dad.