By: Veni Harlan

The other day a friend asked if she could borrow my hunt saddle. I pulled it out of the coat closet and removed the blue and white cloth cover. What a beautiful saddle I thought to myself. A rich coffee brown, Swiss-made Stübben in perfect condition. What could be more perfect? It was by far, the nicest saddle I had ever owned and I had spent quite a time choosing it. As I carefully placed it in my truck, I waxed nostalgic, thinking all the way to the barn about the many quiet hacks I had taken in this saddle on my grey Arab, Chance. The Stübben was my first show saddle and it had carried me to our first ribbons and a regional top 5. It was my security at the gate when my heart was pounding so hard with fear I thought I’d faint away. In this saddle, I had galloped thru disappointments, worked out relationships, and frequently forgot all the worries of my day, real
or imagined.

A young girl was untacking her jumper…”Nice saddle!” she cooed. “Whose is it?” Oh it’s mine.” “Really? Well I’ve never seen you in it.” “I just don’t use it much.” I acknowledged. “So it’s for sale?”
“For sale?!” I exclaimed. “Never! I LOVE this saddle. Why would I want to part with it?!” The thought had simply never entered my mind. “Well maybe because you’re always in that black thing.” she said with a snicker, pointing to my dressage saddle.

It was true. I was a dressage convert and never rode in anything but a used Crosby Freestyle I’d picked up in Ft. Worth. The Crosby wasn’t quite the fit of my Stübben but I was determined it would carry me thru training level. THEN, I explained to the gal in the cross ties,
then I would reward myself with a lovely new dressage saddle. “So like I said, when are you going to find a home for that Stübben?” she teased. “Gosh, well… uh… I guess I should think about that.” I
said quietly. I didn’t know why but the idea of selling this saddle was as disagreeable to me as throwing out an old photo of my first dog. But I’m a sentimental fool about a lot of things, especially
saddles.

Another woman chimed in… “Well if you’re not using it… I mean, how many saddles do you need?” “Uh, well, I actually have three.” “Three!” rolling her eyes in mock surprise. “Yup three. I still have
the saddle my Grandfather bought me out at the old Sylvester’s on Airline Highway when I was 10 years old. I thought it was just about the fanciest, most fabulous, cowgirl-looking saddle in the whole wide world. And when I rode in it on my first horse, a patient Palomino, I felt exactly like Roy Rogers on Trigger.”

We all laughed but it was true. I had spent the better part of my childhood and adolescence in a suede covered seat with a braided cantle, day dreaming in a field, on a big gold horse named Pal. I
smoked my first cigarette and pretended to be a stunt rider in that saddle. I saw my life flash by me when I got a bit too much slide out of a sliding stop, and Pal and I fell over backwards. Somehow
good fortune landed me next to my horse and not under him. We both stood up and looked at each other, like what in the world happened. I glanced at the saddle, thought about what had just
occurred, and then passed out cold. In those days I could grab the horn and swing into the seat without touching the stirrups, something that would probably land me in a hospital today. I met my first crush in that saddle, a boy with a shaggy bay horse. I don’t remember his name but the horse was “Brownie”. We herded the neighbors cows and barrel raced. When my Dad delivered a Jersey calf to our barn, I tied a rope to the saddle horn and tried to lasso the poor thing. I was a skinny,
awkward, tongue-tied girl on the ground but in that saddle I was the coolest. At that time I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere other than in that rose carved saddle on a golden horse, drifting thru a grass pasture, without a care in the world. Haven’t sat in that saddle for many years now but tell me, how do you part with a thing like that?

After a great deal of angst, I will indeed find my beautiful Stübben a home and later the Crosby. A new black saddle will carry me to more memories, friends, and maybe a ribbon or two. But the cowboy saddle from Sylvester’s is not going anywhere.