After losing my horse in a barn fire, I found solace in support from friends.
By Stephanie Vaagen
EARLIER THIS YEAR, MY 2-YEAR-old colt, Cole, was one of nine horses that died as a result of a barn fire in Lewiston, Idaho. Barn owner and AQHA Professional Horseman, Joe Smith, lost two of his stallions in the fire (see "A Friend In Need," Just Between Us April '07). It was devastating, but the community rallied to show support, and the Northwest Interstate Quarter Horse Association voted to donate the proceeds from their upcoming schooling shows to help Joe and others who lost horses in the fire. Participants brought items to the show to donate, along with a determination to support those of us affected by the fire. The first show was held on February 10, just two days after the fire.
The morning of the show was one of the hardest of my life. Lewiston was wrapped in a blanket of fog, which I found fitting. Grief still sat just below the surface when I met up with my friends from Joe's barn to finalize plans for the show, which would begin later in the day.
As we waited for Joe to arrive, I took a phone call outside. His truck turned into the drive as I was hanging up. He looked as though he'd been pulled through a knothole, his swollen face showing the price he was paying for his lifelong love of horses.
After saying hello, I pointed out the gifts for him in the back of my truck, items donated by my family and another client of his. He nodded, and a shadow crossed his face. I knew he was thinking of the equipment those gifts were replacing. He said thank you, and mentioned that a client had called that morning while heading up to the Lewiston Round-up Grounds, which had become the foster barn for Joe and others affected by the fire. He was going to tell them to brush down a couple of the horses, until he remembered that he didn't even own a brush.
Then his voice broke, and it seemed his face twitched, and that was all it took to push me over the fine line of grief and solace that I'd been walking all morning. My eyes teared up and I reached out with a hug. He ducked away, stepping quickly toward the back of his truck, where he took a moment to gather himself.
Later, during the show, I lost my composure again. An 11-year-old friend had arranged to have an envelope delivered to me, knowing I would honor her request to deliver the envelope to Joe personally. "No one is supposed to open it except Joe," said an accompanying note. I stuck the envelope under my arm and walked up to the show office, where we were gathering donations and cards, then looked at the envelope again.
In typical kid fashion, the envelope was sealed with at least 15 pieces of tape. It jingled with coins and was bulky with cash and maybe a letter or drawing, or both (I'll never know for sure). On the outside, in little-kid writing, was Joe's name. On the other side, it read, "Please don't tell my mom or dad how much I gave you." That was it--I was a goner. The tears welled again, and visions of my young black colt dying in the fire filled my head. I turned and fled the office, making my way back to the barn, to my horses' stalls. Leaning against the cold steel rails of a stall door, I let my tears fall unchecked. It just didn't seem right, or fair. There should be one more horse here, I thought sadly. There should be three horses, not two.
I don't know how long I stood there. I'd lost track of time and was surprised when another trainer came around the corner. I tried to hide my tears and make a getaway, but he grabbed my coat and swung me around for a bear hug.
"I am so sorry about your colt," he said, squeezing me once more before letting go.
"Thank you. Me, too," I replied.
That small gift of a hug at just the right time lifted me so that I could at least function again. In fact, it was the best gift I've received in a long time. I straightened up, dried my face, and walked outside to what was then a partly sunny sky.
Toward the end of the day, while packing up to head home, I saw Joe get up on a horse that was giving his rider some trouble. It was good to see him riding again. A little later, while walking to my truck, I saw him leave the arena, riding the same horse, with a phone glued to his ear. At that moment, it seemed as though something was righted. Something had put us on the path to "normal." We were going to be OK. We would make it, and this summer, in spite of everything, we'd all be back in the show ring, doing what we love to do.
EARLIER THIS YEAR, MY 2-YEAR-old colt, Cole, was one of nine horses that died as a result of a barn fire in Lewiston, Idaho. Barn owner and AQHA Professional Horseman, Joe Smith, lost two of his stallions in the fire (see "A Friend In Need," Just Between Us April '07). It was devastating, but the community rallied to show support, and the Northwest Interstate Quarter Horse Association voted to donate the proceeds from their upcoming schooling shows to help Joe and others who lost horses in the fire. Participants brought items to the show to donate, along with a determination to support those of us affected by the fire. The first show was held on February 10, just two days after the fire.
The morning of the show was one of the hardest of my life. Lewiston was wrapped in a blanket of fog, which I found fitting. Grief still sat just below the surface when I met up with my friends from Joe's barn to finalize plans for the show, which would begin later in the day.
As we waited for Joe to arrive, I took a phone call outside. His truck turned into the drive as I was hanging up. He looked as though he'd been pulled through a knothole, his swollen face showing the price he was paying for his lifelong love of horses.
After saying hello, I pointed out the gifts for him in the back of my truck, items donated by my family and another client of his. He nodded, and a shadow crossed his face. I knew he was thinking of the equipment those gifts were replacing. He said thank you, and mentioned that a client had called that morning while heading up to the Lewiston Round-up Grounds, which had become the foster barn for Joe and others affected by the fire. He was going to tell them to brush down a couple of the horses, until he remembered that he didn't even own a brush.
Then his voice broke, and it seemed his face twitched, and that was all it took to push me over the fine line of grief and solace that I'd been walking all morning. My eyes teared up and I reached out with a hug. He ducked away, stepping quickly toward the back of his truck, where he took a moment to gather himself.
Later, during the show, I lost my composure again. An 11-year-old friend had arranged to have an envelope delivered to me, knowing I would honor her request to deliver the envelope to Joe personally. "No one is supposed to open it except Joe," said an accompanying note. I stuck the envelope under my arm and walked up to the show office, where we were gathering donations and cards, then looked at the envelope again.
In typical kid fashion, the envelope was sealed with at least 15 pieces of tape. It jingled with coins and was bulky with cash and maybe a letter or drawing, or both (I'll never know for sure). On the outside, in little-kid writing, was Joe's name. On the other side, it read, "Please don't tell my mom or dad how much I gave you." That was it--I was a goner. The tears welled again, and visions of my young black colt dying in the fire filled my head. I turned and fled the office, making my way back to the barn, to my horses' stalls. Leaning against the cold steel rails of a stall door, I let my tears fall unchecked. It just didn't seem right, or fair. There should be one more horse here, I thought sadly. There should be three horses, not two.
I don't know how long I stood there. I'd lost track of time and was surprised when another trainer came around the corner. I tried to hide my tears and make a getaway, but he grabbed my coat and swung me around for a bear hug.
"I am so sorry about your colt," he said, squeezing me once more before letting go.
"Thank you. Me, too," I replied.
That small gift of a hug at just the right time lifted me so that I could at least function again. In fact, it was the best gift I've received in a long time. I straightened up, dried my face, and walked outside to what was then a partly sunny sky.
Toward the end of the day, while packing up to head home, I saw Joe get up on a horse that was giving his rider some trouble. It was good to see him riding again. A little later, while walking to my truck, I saw him leave the arena, riding the same horse, with a phone glued to his ear. At that moment, it seemed as though something was righted. Something had put us on the path to "normal." We were going to be OK. We would make it, and this summer, in spite of everything, we'd all be back in the show ring, doing what we love to do.
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