The Red Pony, Steinbeck’s novella written during the 1930s, still finds its way into the hands of middle school students. I may have read it myself at that age—though, if I did, it obviously didn’t leave much of an impression.
I’ve now read it three times this year (it’s short, and a pleasure to reread), and each time I’ve tried to imagine how it would have been received by my approximately twelve-year-old self. It’s hard to say for sure, but my guess is that I probably would have found it boring. A story about a young boy, living on a ranch, who learns difficult lessons about life through his interactions with animals and a couple of old men? (Yawn.)
In fairness to myself, a lot of things occupy one’s mind at that age, including baseball cards and recess. Nonetheless, if I did in fact read it all those years ago and found it less than captivating, it might have been because the subtle treasures of the book were simply over my head. Despite its innocent sounding title and short length, The Red Pony is a surprisingly deep and profound story. Adults should definitely read it.
Broken into four sections, The Red Pony features young Jody Tiflin, who is ten years old when the story opens. He lives on a small ranch with his parents, in northern California, along with their competent and trustworthy ranch hand, Billy Buck.
As far as characters and setting go, that’s pretty much it. No urban metropolis, no sprawling cast of characters. Things are simple. Time on the ranch is marked by the ringing of Mrs. Tiflin’s triangle each morning to announce bacon and eggs.
With this minimal framework, Steinbeck adeptly introduces and intertwines a number of universal themes — not least, death and meaning. By the end of the novella, one feels as if a little bit of clarity has been brought to the kinds of challenges faced in childhood, adulthood, and old age. (To repeat, adults should definitely read this book.)
A particularly striking theme is the fallibility of adults. In the book’s first section, titled “The Gift,” Jodi is given a red pony by his father. Instructed to take very good care of it—or else have it taken away—Jodi relishes the responsibilities of caring for the pony, which he names Gabilan. It is his pride, his love, his hobby.
When it comes to learning the ins and outs of raising Gabilan, Billy Buck is Jodi’s natural resource. A friendly and skilled ranch hand, Billy is happy to offer guidance to the young boy. And Jodi, eager to learn the ropes, is happy to receive it.
As the months go on and Jodi admires the pony’s beauty and maturation, a chance occurrence changes everything. After getting Billy Buck’s assurance that it won’t rain in the afternoon, Jodi decides to let Gabilan stay outside in the corral, while he’s at school.
As luck would have it, the weather takes an expected turn in the afternoon, and down pours a steady sheet of rain over the hapless pony. A bad case of strangles follows, and Jodi, along with Billy Buck, are confronted with a gravely ill animal.
This, of course, is a tremendously powerful event in Jodi’s life. Will his beloved pony, something he cares for and loves, die in front of his eyes, as he looks on helplessly? And how could this happen in the first place: wasn’t he told by the very trusty and competent Billy Buck that it wouldn’t rain, and that Gabilan would be fine?
Returning again to my childhood, I’ve tried to think about what might have been the first occasion where I realized that adults are not perfect sources of knowledge. I’m at a loss for one particular event, but it’s thought-provoking to consider that, once upon a time, I did indeed consider my parents (and other trustworthy adults) as essentially omniscient, infallible beings. What they claimed was true, was true. What they said would or wouldn’t happen, would or wouldn’t happen.
It’s a double whammy for Jodi that these difficult lessons have to be digested at the same time: the frailty and temporality inherent in an living thing, and the eye-opening realization that adults—even the most well-meaning, loving, and wisest of them—don’t know everything.
Steinbeck revisits some of these themes in section three, and even wraps them up in a similar narrative: Jodi and a traumatic event with a beloved animal. But in sections two and four, the focus is less on Jodi and growing up, and more about themes of old age, meaning, and the irreplaceableness of what one calls “home.”
Though not nearly as old as either of the two characters who are knee deep in these predicaments—a wandering farm hand who has returned to where he grew up, and Jodi’s grandfather, who can’t stop reminiscing about the long-past adventures of his youth—it’s always been a worry of mind that I will lose even the most tenuous grip on a level and type of meaning that will keep me reasonably happy and emotionally afloat.
The case of Jodi’s grandfather, which plays out in section four, is somewhat of a balm to these worries: not because he overcomes his existential crisis (the narrative isn’t concerned with that), but because of the way Steinbeck so clearly lays out his plight and illuminates what is ultimately the largest and most pressing predicament of any human life: finding purpose.
For Jodi’s grandfather, the highlight of his life was leading a band across the American west; it was a time of exploration, rugged and dangerous living, and showcasing a particular kind of manly virtue. But when the mountains were reached—when no further travel was possible—purpose and meaning faded away.
Assuming I did read The Red Pony in middle school, I certainly couldn’t have grasped, in even the slightest way, the complexity and depth of the grandfather’s crisis of meaning. As a child, one doesn’t yet know that human finiteness will ultimately spar with an inborn longing to achieve a kind of transcendence.
But that’s part of what makes The Red Pony such a worthwhile story to read. From the youngest reader to the oldest reader, there are gems of insights and clarity to be gained.
Spectatio 