Six months into lessons with this woman:
Instructor: “Hey, you didn’t clean the bridle. Why didn’t you clean the bridle like I told you to?”
12-year-old me: “You never told me to?”
Instructor: “Of course I did. You’ve been supposed to clean the bridle every lesson the whole time.”
12-year-old me, starting to cry: “You never told me to before!”
My mother (who was at every. lesson. until I was 18): “She’s right. You’ve never mentioned cleaning the bridle before.”
Instructor: “Don’t be idiots. It’s my policy. Just because you’ve never done it before, that’s not an excuse. You should have been doing it the whole time. Stop crying - I don’t like crying kids - take the d@mn sponge and clean it.”
Yeah, thanks. That was one of the final nails in the lid of the coffin of the relationship with that witch. Others “features” of her program included the unfriendly 16h3 total greenie she had me riding (we were not allowed to canter because “he doesn’t know how”) that she wanted us to buy (!! I was 12 and had only been riding for 2 years!) and the time she sent me up the (bare) hill alone to catch a horse as the storm clouds that produced the 1994 Desoto-Lancaster tornado rolled in. (The punchline to that night was that by the time I got the horse back down the hill and through the three paddocks full of horses I had to walk through to get back to the barn… the skies opened up and we didn’t have the stupid lesson anyway. Stopped for dinner on the way home, tornado hit while I was in the shower. Yikes.)