When my dad, Travis, was just a sprout, he desperately wanted a horse, but my grandmother Mary kept saying no, it was too dangerous. Finally though, when he was 11 or 12, she agreed. She told Earl what she expected and one day Earl came home with a horse trailer containing Travis's horse. He was large, and a mangy white color. Travis was not particularly impressed, but he was a horse, his own horse.
After a few days, they got to know each other well enough, and he decided to set out for town to show his friends. Off he went that morning. Then, couple of hours later, Mary saw him walking back down the dirt road, dejected.
When he got home, she asked "Where's the horse? Did he throw you?" "Of course not" Travis replied. "He dropped dead right in the middle of the road!"
My grandmother Mary felt so bad that she let Earl pick the next horse. This one was black, and apparently very nasty. He bit everyone and kicked everything. His name was Horsefly. He was impossible to ride, or even approach.
Finally, after Travis had been thrown several times, they all agreed that going from one extreme to the other was not a good idea. This time, they would let Travis make the choice.
They sold Horsefly and Travis found a little 2-year old filly that he named Pony. She was a pretty girl, sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail. My dad was the one who broke and trained her. I loved her. She died at age 30, in 1952.