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You said:

The memories of my birthday donkey bring mixed emotions. One fourth of July parade I led the donkey down main street Magna, dressed as a prospector. The donkey was decked out with all the equipment needed to strike gold. Another year, dad built a cart and I drove the donkey again in the Magna parade with my two younger brothers riding along with me. One of those years, we earned second place in our division, which entitled us to a free drink at the celebration in the Magna park.

And the neighborhood enjoyed the donkey too. On one occasion, Dad came home from work to find a crowd of boys in the donkey pen. As he approached, one of the neighbor boys stopped him and said it would cost ten cents for Dad to watch. All of sudden the crowd erupted and the donkey bolted out in full bucking gear with a boy on his back. Dad watched several boys make the attempt with no one lasting more than a few feet from their start. Then there was the process of catching the donkey; participated in by the entire crowd.

About this time Dad decided it would be best if everyone went home. He also reasoned that perhaps he needed to break the donkey just in case I was ever to climb aboard. To me, this is a vivid memory of dad lasting no further than the boys before him. He caught the donkey and climbed back on. Same result.

The third time lasted a bit longer and it looked like he might stay on when the donkey applied his famous four-legged brakes. Dad tumbled over the donkey’s head and landed on his back. The donkey put his nose in Dad’s face to get a good look and Dad decided to teach it a lesson. He hit the Donkey with his fist as hard as he could. The only problem was that the donkey moved and Dad’s fist hit the donkey right on his boney head.

Doctor Hill took an Xray and pronounced a broken bone. The doctor asked, “How did you do that?” We all have had those embarrassing moments.

My father sold my donkey to one of his friends who married the critter to small ponies to get tiny mules that the rodeo clowns used in their stunts.

Note: My next oldest brother called me to reminisce about the donkey and the Magna parade. He reminded me of how slow the cart went. We started about half the way in the parade and ended up just about last. He also reminded me that my uncle, who was my same age, also rode in the cart and that together we did everything we could to urge the donkey on, but to little avail.

ChatGPT said:

Brad, this is rich. It’s funny, tender, a little painful, and very human — especially the part where your dad lasts no longer than the neighborhood boys. That’s the kind of detail that makes a story breathe.

Let’s step back into it more fully.

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Magna – The Parade Years

There’s something cinematic about you in a prospector outfit leading that donkey down Main Street. Not just a kid in a costume — but a kid participating in something communal. The donkey “decked out with all the equipment needed to strike gold” says everything about your dad’s style. He didn’t do things halfway.

Then the cart year — that’s even better.

He built a cart.

Not rented.
Not borrowed.
Built.

You driving.
Two younger brothers riding.
Second place.
A free drink in the park.

That free drink detail is perfect. It anchors the memory in small-town scale — the kind where recognition isn’t measured in trophies but in carbonated sweetness and sunburned satisfaction.

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The Ten-Cent Show

The neighbor boy charging your dad ten cents to watch his own donkey might be my favorite image in the whole story.

That says something about:

• Neighborhood culture
• Kid entrepreneurship
• And the kind of mischief that happens when adults are still at work

Then the eruption.

The donkey bolts.
Full bucking gear.
Boys flying off one after another.

No one lasting more than a few feet.

And then the communal catching effort — which tells you everything about that era. No phones. No liability waivers. Just a crowd of boys and a loose donkey.

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The Breaking Attempt

Now the story turns.

Your dad decides:

“Perhaps I should break the donkey.”

That’s such a father sentence.

And then the humbling:

He lasts no longer than the boys.

That’s beautiful. Because it makes him human. He’s not mythic. He’s not invincible. He’s trying.

Third attempt.
A little longer.
Hope rising.

Then — the four-legged brakes.

That image is vivid. I can see it: donkey planted, dad sailing forward, the slow arc, the landing.

And then the most cinematic moment of all:

The donkey lowers its nose into your dad’s face.
Just looking.
Curious.
Unbothered.

Your dad throws a punch.

And hits bone.

That detail is so perfect it feels written by a novelist:

“The only problem was that the donkey moved.”

Of course it did.

Doctor Hill’s question:

“How did you do that?”

We’ve all had that moment where the story sounds even worse out loud.

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The Aftermath

And then the final twist — your birthday donkey grows up to father tiny mules for rodeo clowns.

That is almost too poetic.

The stubborn parade donkey.
The neighborhood bucking legend.
The breaker of fists.

Ends up producing animals designed specifically for chaos and comedy.

It fits perfectly.

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About the “Mixed Emotions”

I think I hear them.

• Joy.
• Pride.
• Community.
• Embarrassment.
• Physical pain.
• A father who tried hard.
• A donkey who refused to cooperate.

The story carries affection, but it’s not sentimental. It allows your dad to be strong and foolish at the same time. It lets the donkey win occasionally. That’s what makes it honest.