I remember my first visit to the barn- it was enormous and full of smells I didn't recognize, but the warmth of the sun streaming through the skylights and the dust dancing in the beams, mixed with horses whuffling through their hay and the occasional nicker through the stall bars intrigued me more than I rememembered. A barn cat sat sleepily on a hay bale, and a scruffy little shit of a dog sat in the doorway and barked his head off at us. The office was dark and dusty, and I could see the lines in the desk where items had been shuffled, the arena sand leaving it's mark everywhere. I remember you laughing with a handsome man with a mustache, a shiny brass nameplate on the door, and then I was shuffled off to a lady named Molly. Molly would teach me how to ride for the first year of my horse life. She would also suck, which you probably knew, but I wouldn't know until later.
Molly led me to an old, shaggy pony, who stood sleepily, back leg cocked as he rested the weight of his head on the crossties, a set of chains hooked to the wall to keep him from wandering as he waited for his next rider. He smelled of sweat, and leather, and that enchantining horse smell than any child knows when they've fallen head over heels for all things equine. His name was Valentine, and I would soon find out, he was not much of a lover- more of a fighter. But I loved him with all my heart. He would allow me to clumsily climb aboard him, the smooth english saddle slippery and unsupportive under my weak legs. He would allow me to bumble and bobble as he trotted lazily in circles, controlled only by a cotton rope connected to Molly as I learned balance, steering, and the basics of how to ride a horse. I don't remember much about Molly, except she talked to whoever else was in the arena at the time, ate her dinner while sitting on a jump once I learned to steer by myself, and talked some more- I learned little in the time I was with her, but I did learn, mostly by figuring things out myself. Soon enough I was cantering about, though not without eating dirt at least once a lesson, because as I learned, so did Valentine- the better rider I was, the less he liked me. He hated to work. So in my early days, he was a patient teacher, never once trying to unglue me from his back. A year later, he taught me some of the best lessons I've ever learned- how to stick to a cantankerous, writhing, bucking, blindly running horse and how to get them back under control. And damn, after riding that pony for a year, I could stick. Like glue.
About a year into my horse career, there was a horse show. And Molly asked if I wanted to ride in it. I was ecstatic! A horse show! I could ride in two classes, one to show off my walk-trot skills, and another to show off my walk-trot-canter skills. I was on cloud nine and told my parents that I was going to be in the horse show! I was 8 or so, so I didn't know that shows cost money, nor did I know that the show was right smack in the middle of labor day weekend when we were already scheduled to be in Michigan for a getaway. I also had no idea that I needed to wear special clothes, but thankfully showed up in my fake rubber riding boots and the breeches I had gotten for Christmas. Molly had not prepared me, and my dad, who never mentioned any of this to me up to that point, was furious. And my dad, the dashing, smooth talking, high powered sales guy, went right over Molly's head to yours to complain.
When my dad set out to find you, my part of the show was done. The realization that I did not have show clothes caused a wonderful woman I had not met before, Mrs. H, to set out to find me a riding shirt and jacket. We never found the shirt, but the white one I had worn would work. She got one of the girls to loan me a jacket, helped me get the number I was to wear around me, helped me saddle up my pony named Frosty. I'm sure you don't remember him, but Frosty was an ancient reminder of what a pony used to be, who coughed so hard at every step that he would jerk me out of the saddle. Molly had forgotten to sign me up for Valentine, and two kids can't ride the same pony at one time, so I was assigned Frosty, who I thought was ugly as ponies went, and who my dad mumbled was a nag. Mrs. H got me to the show ring and showed me the ropes in about 30 seconds flat- stay out of the way of the other horses, circle your horse if you don't have room, pass on the inside only, and remember to breathe. Molly was nowhere to be found. Mrs. H became my dad's fast ally and had already earned "hero" in my book. She sat on the rail and gave me tips from the fence, told me where to go and what to do, and only because of that wonderful woman did I ever survive those two classes. I even managed to score a ruffly green sixth place ribbon, which I got an enthusiastic hug from Mrs. H for. I loved that woman instantly. She became the "show mom" mine never was. And if my dad was furious when we showed up, he was lit from here to Hades when the classes were over. When all was said and done, Molly showed up from no where to ask how it went. I remember my dad pulling her aside, his lips pinched thin and white with anger as he said something quietly to her so I could not hear. To this day, I don't know what he said, but I imagine whatever it was, Molly never forgot it.
I had little interaction with you until this point. I only knew you were the one who rode the fancy horses and jumped the big jumps in the arena while I desperately tried to get out of the way. You were always very nice and loved to call me "pony jockey" when you said hi, mostly because I think you just knew me as the quiet kid who rode the ponies, and had no idea what my name really was. But the nickname stuck, and for years my mom called me that affectionately, or "PJ" for short, and I eventually even put it on my vanity plates on my first car. The moment I really met you will forever be seared in my mind.
When we found you, you were gracefully piloting a big bay horse around an impromptu arena in the pasture, manuvering around other horses with ease. My dad motioned you over, and my heart was racing in my chest. I hated it when my dad was confrontational, hated it when he caused a scene, hated the feeling of inferiority that he loved to inflict upon people when his anger took over. I didn't think I'd ever be able to ride a horse again at this barn, would never be able to show my face after the embarrassing drama my father was about to cause, and I could feel the blood rising to my face before you even walked your horse over to the fence where we stood. My eyes unable to meet yours, my dad introduced himself and me, and began his tirade bitterly, but in control. I will never know if, at that point in time, he knew how much this dusty little haven in the middle of suburbia meant to me, or if he was aware of my averted eyes and flushed cheeks, or if he just momentarily lapsed into a different person, but the drama never happened. My dad stayed calm and uninsulting as he explained the unprofessionalism of the entire situation we had just endured. And as he spoke, it slowly dawned on me that he was trying very hard not to embarass me in the one place in life I had found unadulterated joy. I was able to look up, and I went hot again as I realized you were not looking at my dad, but staring intently at me. I met your eyes, which showed kindness and pride and a whole lot of other things that I had never seen before, but what struck me most is the way you handled my dad. And from that point on, you had my, and my dad's, undying respect. The image of you sitting astride that gorgeous bay, wearing your tidy navy blue riding jacket and your velvet helmet faded brown from years of use, your large inquisitive eyes made dark with mascara, earning my dad's respect- well, it's worth a lifetime of memories.
From that point on, you became my trainer. You had to undo many things that Molly had managed to screw up, and when I look back, I think that my riding skills would have been so much better if I had just started with you in the first place. But you gave me so many opportunities that I will never understand completely. I was an ok rider, never a great one, though I could stick to pretty much any horse you wanted me to ride and you knew I would ride any horse you would offer me. I was soon working Sundays, my parents driving me to and from the barn so that I could sweep, clean saddles and bridles, groom horses, scrub buckets- if it could be done in the presence of horses, I didn't complain. I just did it, and I did it as best I could. Sundays evolved into working at horse shows, where I would get paid $50 to work an entire weekend cleaning stalls, getting horses ready, and most importantly, eating and sleeping horses. Working shows evolved into teaching riding camp during the summer, some of the most joyous times of my life. All of these opportunities are ones that my parents could never have afforded had you not taken me under your wing. I remember asking if you would finally ask my parents to buy me a horse when I was enamored with a little chestnut horse I showed as "Chicago Style". You promised to ask, and in a round about way, you did, but you also understood that it was a horse or college for me- and though you asked my dad in a teasing tone, I knew in my heart that it had to be college, and so did you.
As for my parents and horses, my mom never got it, never enjoyed it, and would almost always sit out in her car reading while I rode. My dad, always traveling the midwest and hardly ever home on Wednesday evenings when I rode, would stride into the barn in his shiny black leather shoes and Men's Warehouse suit, almost like a reverse cowboy. The women would swoon and blush, envious of the man who would step into the dusty, sandy arena in such attire to speak with you at length about me during my lesson. My dad loved every minute of it, and totally knew what he was doing. I think you swooned a little, too, and I remember when I was a teenager telling you once that you should date my dad. You laughed, and gently reminded me that he was married to my mom, and I kept my mouth shut about that never stopping him before. To this day, I still wish you would have dated my dad. And married him. But that's the kid in me that still dreams of happily ever afters.
When I went to college, I came home more infrequently, but found myself with a project horse the last summer I did work at the barn. He was a maniac. Everyone fell off of him but me. I loved him and asked if I could take him back to school with me and train him. I ended up buying him for $1000, to be paid in $100 increments. His name became Toby, and I still have him to this day- a clumsy, poorly built, permenantly injured thoroughbred that, with my luck, will live to be 50 years old. I love him, but he is a financial burden, and a constant reminder of a rash decision made with my heart when I was 19 years old. But he is also a constant reminder of all the good things you instilled in my life, and for that, I am grateful. When I graduated from college, I thought I could come back to the barn as a customer, no longer a working student, but an adult with a paycheck that could keep her horse at the barn, show up and ride, and then leave when she was done. No boots to shine, no tack to clean, no manure to scoop. Turns out, I didn't make that much money, and found out fast and hard that I will probably never make enough money to keep up with horses as I had grown up with them. So, I moved my horse from your barn, and as time marched on, my involvement with them became less and less, except for visiting Toby out at his retirement farm.
The lessons learned throughout the years have not been lost on me. I was raised in the barn by a wonderful, kind-hearted, hard-working, independent and fair woman. You gave me things my mother never did, taught me things I never would have learned had I not decided that I would fill the hole my best friend left with the horses that she loved. You gave a shy, gawky little girl the chance of a lifetime and taught me more about myself and who I wanted to be than anyone else on this earth. From you, I learned equality, fairness, the joy in a day's hard work, how to deal with difficult people, how animals' comfort always comes before your own, how to handle the public, how skill and good manners can cut through politics, that you are your own boss, that you can be tough and gentle at the same time, and so many other things that I could list them for hours. I also learned that you can't please everyone, that some people will forever be wrapped up in their own little world, oblivious to the way things should be or the way things can be. I learned tolerance from you, and when the other kids wouldn't give the Mexican workers the time of day, I tried my hardest to speak with them, albeit in choppy high school Spanish, but they knew I respected what they did, and when I did come back to visit, was always greeted with sweaty hugs and genuine smiles from all of them.
Not too long ago, I was driving down the street your barn is on now, and there you were, slowly walking back from your mailbox, your hair pulled back in a pony tail that I would know anywhere in the world. I should have stopped, but I didn't. My heart in my throat, I just drove on, a flood of memories rushing through my head. Why didn't I stop? I suspect its mostly because I'm always afraid I have not lived up to what you used to see in me. Or maybe I haven't lived up to what you hoped I would become. Or maybe I fear you're not the hero I still see in my head, the one the 8 year old little girl looked up to more than God himself. I don't know. I should've stopped. Life is short, and who knows when the next opportunity will arise.
I know I'm rambling now, and really, the point of this letter is to say thank you. For everything. I am who I am mostly because of you, and you were and are the absolute biggest influence on my life. Thank you for giving me the opportunity no one else would.
PJ
