PrintThe college I went to was elegant, expensive and academically ferocious. Did any of that factor into why I chose it? Of course not. It had a stable on campus and the Head of the Riding Program was kind enough to let me work off my riding fees.
“Head of the Riding Program” sounds a lot more glamorous than it was—she was the entire riding program, except for an elderly groom who’d been working at the stable since forever.
Our horses were re-claims: A posh lesson barn in a nearby city would send us their sour, spoiled or cranky lesson horses because with us they got less work, a change of scenery, and some first-class reschooling. They were nice, as far as lesson horses go, but they were, however, lesson horses.
There was Patches. He was, obviously, a pinto. The less said about his conformation, the better, but he was a good soul and tried his heart out. To say that he was heavy on the forehand was rather an understatement, and anyone who drew Patches for a dressage lesson was in for a rough time and a subsequent trip to the school chiropractor. He would, however, do his best to jump whatever you asked him to. He looked a little odd when we spiffed him up for shows, since even the most skillful braiding job couldn’t disguise the fact that he wasn’t exactly blue-blooded.
And there was Petunia. Petunia was small, round and fuzzy, but again, she tried. With proper and aggressive riding, she could get around a three-foot course in reasonable form, and she would cheerfully gallop her little legs off for you on a cross-country course if you asked. Time was never an issue with Petunia—you knew there were going to be time faults. But you got around, and she brought you home safe because, after all, that was her job.
Confetti and Gloribee were both fruitcake mares. Either of them could do a passable dressage test if there were no distractions (blowing leaves counted), and they could usually get around a simple hunter course leaving most of the poles up. To say they did any of this with grace, style or elegance would be blatant falsehood, but they did their jobs safely and reliably and were honest about it.
The Silver Spoons
There were a couple of financially well-off girls in our group. Jenny came from a society background, and she brought her own horse to college with her.
Party was tall, dark and handsome, and he did the equitation, regular working hunters and open jumpers at all the big shows with equal élan. He was also a pet and a pleasure to care for. He would try to sit in your lap and purr if you petted him.
Party was so far above the standard of our school string, and Jenny was such a brilliant rider by our standards, that we were in awe of the pair of them. They warmed up over jumps that we couldn’t touch on our best day. And they were both sweethearts.
Helene, on the other hand, was the classic poor little rich girl. Her parents had bought her a horse that cost more than her entire college tuition. They refused to let her keep it at our college because the barn was “not what the horse was used to.”
So they kept it with Fancy Trainer. Fancy Trainer required Helene to use another horse for practice, so that “she wouldn’t ruin her good show horse.” Helene was not allowed to take the horse out of its stall, or even pat it without permission.
