Tribute to My Horse Riding Patron

She rode fast like the Pony Express, and a cigarette dangled from her lips. Her long, red fake nails defied picking hooves and tightening girths. If she wasn’t working her day job at the local mental health center, riding in the fox hunt, or playing in her church’s hand bell choir, she could be found mowing her vast yard on a John Deere. She lived in Wayne, Illinois, her name was Cindy, and she was my riding patron. She gave this horse crazy and horseless girl a chance eons ago, and for that I am grateful.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw Cindy, maybe 25 years ago? I have thought about her frequently throughout the years, especially lately as I joined a fox hunt myself and finished my book Horses Adored and Men Endured in which she is a minor character.

I hoped she was still alive, and had even Googled her name a few different times over the years.

Not finding an online obituary was comforting.

Last week during my spring break I played detective, working on a passion project, trying to piece together some facts about the beloved author Marguerite Henry of Misty of Chincoteague fame. While in Illinois for a few days visiting my family, my mom and I drove over to the village of Wayne to try to track down any longtime residents who might still be around who remember the 10-year period when Misty lived in Marguerite’s backyard from the late 1940s-1950s. We stopped by the small police station which looks like it’s in an old white house, and I went inside to introduce myself and find some leads.

While I chatted with the chief and a sergeant, a man stepped inside who clearly was on friendly terms with the officers. I didn’t recognize him at first as they greeted each other, but realized he was Cindy’s son!

She had two sons–both quite a bit older than me–I remembered their names, but couldn’t connect which name went to which man. I guessed correctly and said, “I’m Susan Friedland–I rode your mom’s horses–Jim Dandy and Peanut, way, way back.”

He remembered me, and we caught up. He didn’t say anything about his mom,  so I awkwardly asked, “Is your mom still around?” even though my heart already knew the answer.

He shook his head and said she was gone. She had a difficult last nine years with dementia and was unable to speak. He joked that he thought she was just mad at him and giving him the silent treatment, so he sent over a family friend he knew she loved. When that man was also unable to elicit communication from her, then he knew it was genuine.

I was a painfully shy child, and I don’t remember meeting Cindy for the first time, but I do know it was a result of her and my parents’ involvement in local politics. An invitation to ride was extended, and somehow I was bold enough to accept the offer. The first ride was with her and my older sister Linda, who helped make the whole experience less intimidating.

Cindy showed us her red tack room in the pasture which actually looked like it had been a chicken coop. We grabbed nylon halters with matching leads and crossed through the fields to catch the horses. I had been to horse camp, but really was not competent in tacking up a horse, so Cindy was there and assisted.

At the end of our first ride she told me to call her if I wanted to ride again, and I was welcome to come out any time. I memorized her phone number and grew comfortable calling and asking permission to ride. The summer before my seventh grade year I rode almost every day.

In a way, Cindy’s horses became my horses too. She was usually working when I would get dropped off to spend the day at the barn. Except there was no barn–her horses lived in her pastures year round. The horses were in their 20s and still going strong.

There were a handful of other girls around my age who boarded their horses at Cindy’s. The girls and I had all-day riding adventures ranging from epic trail rides to swimming with the horses in a nearby water hole to jumping coops in the hunt fields. We even rode across the street to Lamplight Equestrian Center to have proper riding lessons with an event trainer a few times. I could tell the trainer didn’t like me, therefore I didn’t like her. I sensed her disapproval of my rubber riding boots and lack of a fancy mount. When I told the trainer my parents had agreed to let me join the nearby Pony Club she poo pooed the idea telling me I needed a new saddle, new boots and my own horse.

Nevertheless, Cindy approved of me and invited me to ride in the hunt with her as a guest. I went hilltopping once and what made the biggest impression on me was the formality and sound of the hounds.  I rode fast like Cindy that day.

She invited me to another hunt, but I wasn’t able to go. She also told me about a little one day event and said I could take Jim Dandy in it. I declined since I had no clue about dressage or how to jump a course in an arena.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t go–what mattered was being invited. Finding someone inclusive in the equestrian world, a world that can often be incredibly exclusive was a gift.

A few times Cindy rallied us girls to go water skiing on her boat. A group of about six of us spent the day on the lake and had pizza at Kelsey’s Roadhouse on the way home.

Cindy didn’t have daughters and her sons were older and preoccupied with girlfriends. I think she genuinely liked hanging out with fellow females or she thought of us as her children too.

One time she organized us to all go riding and she brought her camera with a big lens and took pictures of us jumping. The photo of Jim Dandy and me jumping the white birch fence–I’m devoid of any proper form–is a memento from that day. You can see it if you scroll up.

There was a time gap when I no longer went to Cindy’s (maybe it was because I had started my first job working at the grocery store to save up for a horse?), and I found out the other girls had moved on from horses to boys and Cindy’s remaining two horses were struggling health wise and were put down on the same day.

Cindy’s gorgeous fields were empty and overgrown.

At a certain point, my teenage bank account was plump enough to buy a horse. Before I purchased my green 3-year old Quarter Horse (that could be a book in and of itself), I called Cindy to see if I could board him at her farm, she said yes. Of course she would.

My green, solitary gelding and I turned into a bad situation and I found another horse patron via my mom’s beauty salon. I moved my horse to her home so he could have companionship and I could get help with someone experienced with young, green horses.

A few years later, I had two horses and for reasons I can’t recall now, I moved them back to Cindy’s.

Whenever I asked, her answer was always yes.

Eventually I found a hunter/jumper trainer who honed my years of backyard riding into something more functional and pretty, and taught me the basics I didn’t know that I didn’t know. And so I moved my horses to a boarding and training facility, leaving Cindy and her farm one last time. I might have gone back to visit her and say hello once or twice, but at this point I can’t recall.

Cindy’s horse lifestyle has been on my mind. The first time I went out with the hunt last fall I literally laughed and cried in the saddle. I was grateful to have on my sunglasses. In a way I recaptured the freedom and joy of my earliest riding memories, before I knew proper arena etiquette and the concept of counting sides. Riding through the open ranch land at the base of the mountains, reminded me of riding through the open prairies of my Illinois. Is it any wonder I got hooked on hunting?

I wish I had a way to thank Cindy once again. Her generosity and encouragement are still precious to me. I hope I can be a Cindy to another horse lover, an aspiring, young equestrian at some point soon.

Thank you for reading.

Question: Have you had a riding patron–someone who gave you wonderful opportunities with horses when you were first starting out? Have you been able to encourage a newbie in their riding “career?”

Join my email list for horse-centric people like us. Click here to get the scoop about fun new products, horse stories and equestrian inspiration via twice-a-month emails. No spam.

Trot along with us on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.