Mom and Dad were riding in the front seat of our car, and Loretta and I were in the back seat. It was a lovely June afternoon. A Sunday. The kind of day that if colored pictures were put into dictionaries and you looked up June, this is what you’d see-a deep blue sky with puffy white clouds, sparkling sunshine, and tall green grass waving in the breeze. And yet, as we drove along the country road, I still couldn’t quite believe it.

We were on our way to

the pony farm. For as far back as I could remember, I had wanted a pony. Whenever we had a turkey

for Thanksgiving or Christmas and my mother

asked if I would like to make a wish with the wishbone, I’d wish for a pony.

Every time someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday or for Christmas, I always answered, “a pony.” On every birthday, each year with one more candle to strengthen the wish-I wished for a pony.

If Mom and I accidentally said the same thing at the same time (such as, “pass the butter, please”) and then we said the rhyme: “Needles, Pins, Triplets, Twins; What goes up the chimney? Smoke; Your wish and my wish shall never be broke.”

You guessed it. I

wished for a pony.

Unfortunately, each time I mentioned the subject, my mother always answered the same way. “You’re too young to have a pony.”

“Why am I too young? How old is old enough?” I’d ask. “You know I’m afraid of horses,” my mother would reply. “Why are you afraid?”

“I don’t know-because they’re so big. I was always afraid of the workhorses when I was a little girl.”

“Did the workhorses ever hurt you?” “No. But

when we put hay up in the barn, someone had to drive the team to pull the hay fork. And that was my job. And I was always terrified.”