The Lemon Drop KidNote: I have had a lot of favorite horses down through the years; Sun's Delight, The Super Stock, The Pusher, Reve's Little Boy, Pride's Secret Threat, and many, many more within the Walking Horse World. Outside that realm, I have always loved Secretariat, Seattle Slew, Yorktown, Imperator and a handful of unmentionable, un-famous horses that few know but me, but who have incredible rags-to-riches tales and even include a few old nags owned by yours truly. Several years back, I read about a horse in the 1950's that became so popular with the general public, that he actually graced the cover of Sports Illustrated in the year 1957. What was even more fascinating to me, was that he was not a race horse, he was a Saddlebred. I dug around to find all I could about this horse and the more I found on him, the more intrigued I became. I loved his name. I loved his story. I loved his color. I loved his era......and so another horse became one of my "favorites".......even though I wasn't even born at the time he was popular. Here's the latest bit of info I've been able to dig up on "The Lemon Drop Kid"..........the horse who set the standard for the Fine Harness Saddlebred. What you may find interesting, is that The Lemon Drop Kid was once "a lemon"..........
The following is an excerpt from an article from the November 11 Edition of Sports Illustrated written by Alice Higgins who was covering the American Royal Horse Show in Kansas City:
Only four years ago the triumphant fine harness horse on this week's cover, The Lemon Drop Kid, entered an auction ring in St. Louis and changed his destiny. As he burst into the arena, catching a wheel on the gatepost, the horsemen gathered to appraise him nodded sagely; what they had heard was true. The Lemon Drop Kid, spectacular as he looked, was as wild as a March hare—which was why he was up for sale.
As Lemon worked that day he did more things wrong than right, and the bidding was slow. It finally crept up to $5,500 and there it stayed. The auctioneer pleaded and wheedled, but the high bid made by Irene Zane, manager of the Sunnyslope Farms, held. Crushed, Floyd Shofner, the horse's breeder and owner, took the microphone and flatly announced, "No sale. I'll take him back to California before I let him go at that price. Why, $7,500 would be rock bottom." Irene Zane looked across the crowd at Jay Utz, Sunnyslope's trainer, who raised his eyebrows in question. Both trainer and manager turned and looked at Mr. R. B. Christy, the farm's owner, who was seated in the stands. Christy looked at the rafters, then slowly nodded yes.
By any proved standard, Mr. Christy's gamble was a long one. Back in Puente, California, where Lemon was foaled, he started life as a disappointment. Not only was he a washed-out beige in color, but he had a blemish from the way he had been carried. Floyd Shofner, for the first time in his 25 years of breeding, dropped a foal from the futurity. The son of Cameo Kirby and Miss Chatterbox was a dud.
But appearances were deceiving. By the time Lemon was a yearling Shofner and his daughter Ella Mae looked again and saw something highly explosive in the youngster. His color had deepened—he was now a rich, golden chestnut, with a flaxen mane and tail—and his motion was as brilliant as his coat. The blemish had disappeared. He had been named Master Chatter at his birth, but his appearance was so arresting that the Shofners felt a new name was needed. Damon Runyon provided it—The Lemon Drop Kid. As Runyon readers will recall, The Lemon Drop Kid laughed last.
Naming him, however, turned out to be a far easier task than breaking him. Lemon had few law-abiding inclinations. In fact, he left a trail of broken buggies and jog carts that would have dismayed a man of lesser faith. But, under Trainer Marty Mueller, Shofner's trust was justified. As a 3-year-old shown by Mueller, Lemon was a sensation. "Not as far as his manners went...," Mueller recalls, "but there was that something about him that made you sure you had your hands on the best in the world every time you touched him.... He's a horse that is always trying to do better."
But before Lemon could go on trying to be better, Mueller departed to go into business for himself, and the Shofners were left once more with their problem. Their new trainer was afraid of Lemon, so the horse quickly reverted to his earlier, lunging habits. He was too wild in his ways for Ella Mae in ladies' classes, so Shofner faced the cold facts: the gelding whose looks and way of going caused such rare tingles of excitement was so full of the devil that few men dared to sit behind him. Shofner decided to sell.
So when R. B. Christy made his purchase in St. Louis and took Lemon home to Kansas, Trainer Jay Utz faced the challenge of finding the key to a great performer who was used to having his own way. Besides his wild lunges, Lemon also had the unpleasant habit of grabbing one side of the bit. Jay set patiently to work. When the weather was bad he rode him. "It was like being on a horse that was trying to climb a ladder," he recalls. Most of the time, however, he drove—for, despite the advice of experts who claimed that Lemon's mane and tail should be trimmed so he could be shown as a walk-trot, Jay was determined to keep him in fine harness. "He's not a horse you can force," he explained. "You've got to talk him out of things.... He sure keeps me thinking."
Then came the spring, and Lemon, 5 years old and no longer a junior, was ready for open classes. It was decided to go to Topeka and discover if Lemon behaved as well in company as he did in his own backyard.
The debut was agonizing. Once there, they barely got him into the ring. It was one of those nightmare evenings where everything went wrong. Lemon stood shaking in the shafts with an advanced case of stage fright. His tail switch slipped and had to be retied. Then the overcheck broke and there was time only for hasty repairs with a shoelace before the class was called. But, once in the ring, everything was right. Lemon, as the saying goes, went as if the ground weren't good enough for him, and he has been going that way ever since.
Undefeated in championship classes since 1955, Lemon, now 8, faces more years of triumph and glory. In fact, some enthusiastic horsemen predict that he won't be defeated for another four or five years. Once, two years ago, he was placed second in an open class, a decision so questionable that the audience booed the winning horse and fellow exhibitors chastised the judge.
All success brings changes, and Lemon is no exception. He has been transformed from a Peck's bad boy into a prima donna who could give even Maria Callas some lessons in being temperamental. No tie stalls for him, as are sometimes offered at small shows where he is exhibited solo as a special treat: he must have a box. And once, when he was placed in a box stall with no tail boards, he spent the night busily rubbing his tail against the stone wall until he had an embarrassing bald spot. Lemon had to wear a wig until the hair grew out.
He is just as particular about his stablemate as he is about his stall. He has developed a grand attachment for a five-gaited mare named Stonewall's Princess, and when she isn't there he paces and nickers in lordly anguish. But heartbreak turns to outrage if, when the mare is returned to her stall, she is fed and watered first. If his peevish squeals for attention are ignored he becomes more vehement and kicks the walls of the stall. If this rouses no interest he turns downright sulky and gets to work methodically shredding his blanket.
Saucy and serious
Lemon also gets a deep satisfaction out of teasing new grooms. He will leave the stall with newcomers like a perfect Little Lord Fauntleroy, but then, as quick as a snake, he will clamp his teeth on arm or shoulder. He doesn't really bite. He holds on long enough to see how easily they scare.
When it comes to showing, however, Lemon is all business. Every piece of tack, each strap, must be exactly where he wants it. If the backhand is a little too far forward, he'll twitch, twist and shrug until he gets it just right. Then, like a boxer on the ropes, he starts warming up, lifting first one leg and flexing the muscles in the forearm, next the other, until he is hitched. Then—into the show ring.
And on the rail, owners and trainers whose memories are long and jealousies often sharp, run down the list of fine harness immortals—Vanity, Noble Kalarama, Regal Aire—and acclaim The Lemon Drop Kid as greatest. They may sigh with envy but they watch him with pleasure and affection. Everyone knows it will be a long time—if ever—before there's another like him.
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