Continued from Part 1: Asa Bird—A Lesson In Responsibility
I walked into the kitchen that evening prepared to apologize, but I never got the chance. It wasn’t until a few days later that Asa and I got a chance to talk. It was not a good feeling that I was carrying in my stomach.
Almost every barn I've visited claims they don't have a hierarchy amongst the workers. “We all do stalls together in the morning,” so many managers have told me, magnanimously.
That manager, I’ve found, is always wrong.
There are days when, like a butler, I just follow Anne around.
I fade into the background. I am quiet, but ready to leap forward and hold a horse or raise a jump in a second. I learn to know how Anne wants her saddle set, how tight the noseband should be, how she expects to be given a leg up. (Not on 1, 2, 3, but now!)
The man was still as he sat in his golf cart. His body looked sinewy, but also old, like an elastic band that is drying up. His voice however, as it came over the loudspeakers, was strong. “Where did they go?” he asked.
The crowd looked around. The kids the man was enquiring about had been absorbed into the grandstands, but now they were being summoned back. They were teenagers acting as jump crew, and they had obviously, mistakenly, believed the session over.
“Where are they?” His voice was louder now, not angry, but accusatory and demanding. “I told them not to leave.”
Lauren slowed her chestnut gelding to a walk and turned to look at me. She had to squint because of the glare. Behind her were 100 acres of rolling grassy hills with jumps, banks and ditches scattered around. Behind me the sun was beginning its descent, tired after a morning of baking the already brown grass.
A working student position is hard to get. It’s not the best way to learn to ride. It’s not the most efficient way. And it’s certainly not the easiest way. But for some people it’s the only way.
To become a great rider (not just a good rider) one has to ride great horses. I’ve heard people say they’re improving because they’re riding all the tough horses—the horses nobody else wants to ride. They will become great at riding those kinds of horses.
Ironically my exodus from Mr. Hinnemann's farm has proven to be the most important chapter of my stay so far.
It was only because of my unexpected exit that two weeks later I found myself working for Ingrid Klimke. I think it's not uncommon that the most traumatic event will bring about the greatest transformation. And, like a colt being weaned from his mother, I was forced to find a new pasture for myself in the big, big world.
I left Mr. Hinnemann’s suddenly on a Monday evening last month. This is the true story of how it happened.
The day before I left was a day like every other, not notable in any way, except for two details. The first was that it was a Sunday. On Sundays the stable is half-staffed, which is brilliant when it’s my day off.
What am I doing here? And by here, I mean in small-town Germany working my butt off for a man who is regarded as a world-famous rider, but whom I fondly like to refer to as the Lord of the Manor.
After three weeks here I am fed up. I’m working 12-hour days. I get one day off every two weeks. I’m not learning anything. Mr. Hinnemann is hardly even talking to me, much less helping me. I’m not getting paid. And I don’t speak German.
By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy. You may also receive promotional emails from The Chronicle of the Horse. You can opt out at any time.
For Customers
Company
Terms of Use
