Equine Epiphany II - Friendship
The other day as I was preparing to ride I couldn’t help but think about how many times I’ve taken the very same saddle out of the tack room and placed it on a horse’s back. While I ran my hand over its faded leather, feeling its lack of flocking, a flood of memories came washing over me. So much of who I am was created during those formative years as I was learning to become a horsewoman and a person. As I mentioned in the first Equine Epiphany my earliest experiences with my first horse Ute taught me about seeing the best in those we love and how accepting them with an open heart can make all the difference. That is a lesson that cannot be learned in school but only by observation and experience. I was most fortunate to have an example set by my Mother. So in this new wondering, I plan to explore the topic of friendship and how that fundamental time influenced the kind of friend I am today.
In June of 1985 Ute, a mess of horse with “good legs and a gentle eye” was brought here to his forever home. He was, at the time, the first and only horse to roam these pastures. Our novice horse owner brains missed the fact that horses are herd animals. We assumed that Ute would have a wonderful life but never considered that it would be a lonely one. Fortunately for all of us, there was another Quarter Horse gelding living across the street. Many mornings during those first months I would be awakened by the sound of whinnies and thundering hooves. Ute and his new friend Micky would be racing along their respective fence lines. At least the two of them had each other in that limited capacity. However, the new bond was broken as quickly as it was formed. Micky’s owners sold the farm and the horse wasn’t part of the deal.
My mother, bitten by the horse bug, was already planning her next purchase. She had her heart set on owning an Arabian. She set to work meticulously researching bloodlines and pedigrees. But in the meantime, Ute wouldn’t have to be alone for long. Mom had a close friend named Bridget who had a horse named TC (short for Tiffany Carrot) and he was in dire need of pasture life. TC was a sweet flea-bitten Thoroughbred gelding who could make anyone feel like a confident rider. Bridget loved him dearly and shared him freely. Many times my mother, brother, sister, and I would visit him at the stable and treat him as if he was our own. So when TC needed to be removed from an environment that was causing him to have allergic reactions we didn’t hesitate to get a stall ready for him. The poor old horse had rubbed himself raw in an attempt to deal with the itching. With his arrival, we also got to see much more of Bridget and her beautiful and loyal Irish Setter named Ginger. Yup, in case you’ve forgotten Ginger was also my Mom’s name.
TC was no longer young but he was reliable, mild-mannered, and very well trained. He was just what Ute needed to help him become his best self. The two gray horses enjoyed their pasture life often looking like bookends as they grazed side by side. TC, away from the irritants, quickly recovered and a grateful Bridget and energetic Ginger became frequent visitors. It was the first time in my young life that I had ever seen my Mom with a friend that was not a family member, neighbor, or townie. They had met a few years prior at the stable while in the same group riding lesson. She and several other stable gals made Mom’s life richer. They even traveled to England together for a two-week equestrian vacation. But it was the elfin Bridget with her heavy Irish brogue that would have the greatest impact on our lives. We just adored her.
Bridget was otherworldly. She was wealthy, fun, adventurous, and extremely generous. Mom loved to tell stories about Bridget’s fearlessness during their riding lessons. Somehow the dainty Bridget was always so relaxed that she never fell off a horse even when the situation called for it. Maybe, at times, her admiration had a hint of jealousy. After all, the free-spirited Bridget could do whatever she wanted while Mom was an overburdened mother of six. But it was Bridget who came to our home and not the other way around. She would spend hours in the barnyard with me grooming the horses and riding while Ginger ran around, a vision of grace with her flowing silky auburn coat. And it was Bridget who was purchasing tickets for all of us to go watch the National Horse Show at Madison Square Garden. She introduced us to the kind of riding I would one day aspire to do. It was apparent that she wasn’t just Mom’s friend. She was becoming part of the family.
As their friendship deepened the truth of Bridget’s loneliness came out. Her husband Hans, a world-traveling German businessman, was often away. Bridget would jokingly ask my mother if she could have one of her kids and promised to spoil whoever she got. Of course, at the time only three of us were still minors but none of us were willing to be given away.
The more Bridget was around it became clear that all her gaiety and magnanimity were just parts of the mask she wore. In her pursuit of happiness, she purchased a new horse, Maximilian, a huge and very talented warmblood. Max was the kind of horse an Olympic-level equestrian should be riding (not a petite often mellow pleasure rider). But Bridget had a trainer who was more than happy to stroke her ego and take her money. Meanwhile, TC was living out his days with Ute in the pasture. The two of them happily healed and thrived together. They became inseparable. (I even wrote about an incident in which TC became lame on a cold winter’s day. You can read that story in the post Fire and Ice.) About a year after his arrival Bridget wanted to give TC to us but my mother didn’t want to accept him. She had finally found the Arabian of her dreams and wasn’t ready to own three horses. TC was sold to a group of friends and his initials would then stand for Three’s Company. I’m not going to lie. I was sad to see him go.
Life continued with some minor changes. Mom stopped taking riding lessons at the stable and started riding more at home. She now had her pretty little liver chestnut Arabian mare to ride. Bridget was boarding Max at a fancy private barn and was working with a trainer. They still spoke a lot but didn’t see each other as often. Their lives had taken them in different directions but somehow deep down I now believe there was something more to their distancing. But I was too oblivious in my youth to notice anything.
Then about two years later Mom received a phone call from Hans. She was devastated to learn that her dear friend had taken her own life. Hans had come home to find both Bridget and Ginger lifeless in the car. The cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. At twelve years old I could not understand why someone as spirited as Bridget would commit suicide. Mom explained to me that she was a very sad person because all her money could not buy her the one thing she truly desired. You see as much as my mother may have envied her friend’s freedom, Bridget was envious of her friend’s maternity. She may have had a life of luxury and travel but my mother had the one thing she could never have - children. Bridget, unable to bear her own, was denied each time she tried to adopt. How could someone with Bridget’s means and love not be given a child? She was deemed unfit to adopt. All those stories about Bridget’s relaxed and fearless riding were only half-truths. The other half was that she often showed up drunk to the lessons. Poor Bridget. But why take the life of the dog she loved so dearly? Hans informed my Mom that Ginger’s health was failing. Bridget was so heartbroken over the impending loss of the closest thing she had to a child that she decided to end both of their sufferings. I can’t speak for the other Ginger involved but I think the loss of her friend’s life made my mother appreciate the one she was given.
Now you might be wondering what my old saddle has to with this story. Well, once the initial shock wore off Hans reached out to my mother again. This time it was with an offer that was hard to refuse. He was certain that Bridget would want me to have Max and all other equine-related items. Unfortunately, Max and his tendency to free jump out of pastures were just too much for us to take on. It would be a few more years before my parents would regret turning him down, but at the time it was the right decision. Hans understood but insisted on my having all of Bridget’s other items. I was already the same size as her and all her britches and boots did not go to waste. The boxes of bits and bridles were used for many years to come on the various horses that would become part of my life. But my most cherished item was the soft and supple black leather Bates saddle. That saddle fit both Ute and me like a dream and carried me through more competitions than I can count. Even now I will choose that saddle over any of the others I have cluttering my tack room.
I can’t help but reflect upon that time of my life and the impact it had on me. I gained so much from knowing and losing Bridget, much more than an expensive saddle and premium riding apparel. I acquired a deep appreciation for familial bonds, for the luxury of never being lonely (even when I choose to be alone). As an adult, I can recognize my children for the gifts that they are (even when they are driving me crazy). But mostly I witnessed an example of true and accepting friendship because not once did I ever hear my mother speak ill of her friend out of jealousy, anger, or pity. There was only admiration and adoration.
However, it was the ages-old but simple lesson that happiness cannot be bought that always stuck with me. I wish my Mom was here so I could ask her how the loss affected her. I would ask her if it made her appreciate her life more. Did she finally treasure her 25th reunion “Most Kids” award? I remember when she got it. She was upset because she felt unaccomplished. Did she grieve enough or did her busy life make it so she had to force her feelings way down deep? I could relate to that. It’s not easy to sloppy cry and wail when you have children to care for. I would want to know if she was angry with her friend for taking her life. I would want to know if she felt any guilt. Did she know Bridget’s state of mind and did she try to help her friend or did she lovingly turn a blind eye to her problems? Sometimes we don’t acknowledge what is right in front of us for fear of embarrassing or insulting the other person. Of course, I could have tried to ask these questions while Mom was still alive but I was a self-involved twenty-something-year-old. I wasn’t dwelling on the past and pondering the bigger questions. But now I am the age my Mom was when we lost Bridget so naturally, I have a better point of view on the complexities of adult friendships.
This reflection comes right before my best friend’s birthday. I think about her and some of my other closest friendships. These are the women I adore most in this world. These are the people with whom I could easily spend my days laughing and commiserating. I’m sure they know I’m always available with a listening ear and an open heart. But I wonder if I would have the courage to ask the tough questions. If I saw my friend drowning in sorrow could I pull her out of it? Would I even recognize the signs? I’d hate to have that experience as another thing I have in common with my mother.
But I will end this rumination not with sadness but with hope. As I learned during the days with Ute and TC roaming the pasture, companionship is life-affirming. I watched those two horses rely on and protect one another. When Ute was being trained TC was leading him. When TC was lame Ute was nudging him to the safety of his stall. I’m sure Ginger and Bridget had a similar relationship but I just wasn’t privy to it. They were from two different worlds brought together by a common interest but bound together because they completed each other. How nice would it have been if they were given the chance to grow old together? I can picture them laughing, covered in dust and horsehair, enjoying each other’s company and their shared love of horses. I hope I have the chance to continue to make memories and grow old with my dearest friends.
Mom (far left) and Bridget (center) with their “gang” during their trip to England.
