From the Archives: A Rich Man's Silver

When I was a barn manager for a CEO who lived on a private estate with a well-manicured Spanish style 12-stall barn, arena, hotwalker, and decent-sized individual turnouts – life was pretty good. I was paid a modest $15 dollars an hour to make sure all the horses were fed, groomed, turned out, and exercised. I also managed all the shopping (no budget at the Tackeria - basically every horsewoman's dream), the farrier schedule and the veterinarian needs.

During the "off" season, day-to-day life was easy. The boss was generally not around and didn't ride much with no one in town to impress. During the winter show season, it was a different story. His horses were a status symbol and a way to attract business and beautiful young brunette women.

He was an older gentleman, but still living a bachelor lifestyle. He would have various women stay with him for a few weeks at a time and cycle through old and new girlfriends. Sometimes, I'd have to get horses ready for her and a friend. Other times, I'd have to ride with her in the arena.

For these purposes, he had two ex-champion reining horses - one a paint and one a pure white mare he liked to refer to as "his little white Mercedes". They used to stroll through the Wellington trails with ease while the other riders were riding gigantic, hot-blooded "Dumbbloods" (his term) whom you'd often see flying off the trail without their riders, scattering on asphalt, clearly not meant to be in this environment but forced into it by people with money who could not be told "no".

The paint was a little chunky medicine hat named Bean. When I once asked where the name came from, he responded, "He's just Bean".

At the time, it confused me. But now that I'm older, I get it.

Bean was that trusty horse that you could ride into battle on. Nothing phased that compact paint - his favorite gate was walk, and he had a mean set of sliding breaks when you needed them.

I can remember the first time I experienced a reining stop. I was cantering down the side of Wellington Trace at a full-on gallop, loving his smooth stride and feeling comfortable with his chill demeanor, knowing he wouldn't spook at anything. When decided I was ready to slow down, I pulled back on both reins in one hand (I used to ride him in an English saddle with a Western bridle), and Bean immediately tucked his hindquarters and sat his haunches down to the ground. We slid a good 15 feet in the grass. Me, in my typical hunter seat, flew forward on his neck from the momentum and just barely stayed on.

Lesson learned. Do a break check before you go galloping off.

One day while I was doing chores, I could hear the boss calling my name from the entrance to the barn. He had just returned from a trail ride with his girlfriend. They were both still mounted, him holding out his hand, palm up with his pointer finger motioning for me to "come here".

"Cat, come here. Jennifer has something she'd like to say to you," he explained.

As I approached with a warm smile, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for whatever this woman felt the need to say to me. She never spoke to me like a human. I did not expect this conversation to be any different.

She hesitated, and looked to him for help. I could tell he was enjoying making her uncomfortable, and he refused to speak, gesturing for her to go ahead.

"It's just that...like...the silver on this saddle it really dirty and it's like really expensive and it's just really a shame," she said.

They both looked to me, waiting for a reaction.

"I understand, I will clean it right away. Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked, forcing a smile that must have looked pretty convincing. She looked genuinely confused by my lack of reaction.

She, quite literally, sat on her high horse, on a little paint horse that was show-ring-ready (I know, because I groomed and tacked him for her) and she had the audacity to go tell me to polish a this man's silver that did not belong to her.

"No, I guess that's...it?" She said, and looked to him for confirmation.

He turned to me with a smile, "Thanks, Cat."

I nodded, turned on my heel, and booked it back to find silver polish. Crispin, my lead groom, immediately met me to help.

"What do you need? What can I do?" he said.

Crispin was one of those guys that always knew how to be in the right place at the right time. He was one of the best people that ever worked for me. I still cherish the mug he made for me back home in Mexico, where he vacationed every year for three weeks during the quiet months. He wrote "Catalina" on it, which was an inside joke between us barn hands when a temporary groom decided it was acceptable to simply re-name me, and rather than trying to correct a man so full of himself, I just went with it.

"I need silver polish. Crispin - you never told me those saddles had actual silver on them! How much do those cost?" I said, my eyes wide and my stomach a bit in knots.

I knew very little about the Western discipline and even less about how expensive the tack can be.

"Oh, yeah, those are custom saddles. I don't know - like $15,000, maybe $20,000?" he said with a shrug, as if that wasn't an obscene amount of money for one single saddle.

"Dollars? Each? Oh my..." I said, my mind trailing off. I started to look around the barn, assuming everything I touched was outside my realm of cost comprehension.

I was in uncharted territory. Did I really belong here?

I spent the rest of that afternoon polishing every piece of silver I could find in the temperature controlled tack room. And it wasn't until I was halfway through that I finally cracked a laugh and I smiled to myself: the fact that he made her say to it me. Because he knew how hard I worked day in and day out, and he knew that I came from humble means, just like he did, and in reality, he could care less if his silver was polished.

And in that moment I felt proud. Proud of the position I earned; a position in which I was responsible for his nearly one dozen prized and well-loved horses that were collectively worth more than most people's life's fortunes.

Proud to work for an owner who cared more about the welfare of his equines than the state of his silver.

Proud of the measly salary that paid almost all of my bills.

Proud of my ability to navigate even the toughest social situations with grace.

Because that is the horsewoman way.