A great loss….

Last Monday, the world lost a great man.

I went to the Midwest Horse Fair today, for the first time in several years, and I took my niece with me. We were anticipating a day of horsey fun and shopping, and maybe running into a few old horsey acquaintances that I hadn’t seen in a while. We had all of those things, but the news I got from Kim, one of those old friends, hit me like a fast-moving freight.

"Did you hear what happened? George Thompson died last week."

I felt like someone had shot me. I mean, we all knew he was getting older, but I guess when someone has had as great an impact on your life as he has had on mine, you always expect them to be around forever. Kim and I both started crying when she told me, and then her husband Jim had to go find us tissues so we wouldn’t drip all over the TWHBEA(Tennessee Walking Horse Breeder’s and Exhibitor’s Assoc.) display booth. People were looking at us like we had dropped out of an alien aircraft; two women sniffling and crying in the middle of the coliseum. We talked for a bit and then I walked on, my heart in my throat and tears in my eyes.

It was not as nice a day as I had hoped it would be.

I was just a punk kid when we moved to George’s barn. I knew nothing about Walkers except what I’d learned in books and magazines, and my  dad’s TWH mare, June, tolerated my arrogance and ignorance with as good of grace as any horse could muster. We had moved to his barn so I could work with a trainer, and it was the beginning of one of the most profound experiences of my life.

The first day we were there, as my dad and I unloaded our mare from the trailer, George walked out of the barn and declared in his soft southern drawl, "What a beautiful mare!" Up to that point we’d heard from other TWH enthusiasts that our mare was a conformational nightmare and couldn’t walk a lick and we’d dreaded hearing it from a real expert. But he never had anything but positive things to say about our girl.

George Thompson was my hero from that moment on.

I can still see him in my mind’s eye; his skin dark and weathered from the wind and sun, a black-and-silver Thompson Stables baseball cap perched above dark eyes that glint with good humor, and a set of ancient brown work overalls stained and patched from work and wear. He was a jack-of-all-trades; you could usually find him working in the workshop, driving a tractor in haying season, sitting calm and relaxed atop some green colt or shoeing one of his plethera of extraordinary horses.

And they were extraordinary. I have been around a lot of horses since my days of working with George and I have never worked with as many gifted, kind, intelligent and talented horses as I did riding with George. His stallions were well-mannered and kind, the soul of courtesy, just like their owner. He always saw what was good in every horse and even the shy ones or late bloomers blossomed under his gentle hands. George took colts that were green as grass and older horses that couldn’t gait a step and with a bit of time and perseverance turned them into some of the best trail and show horses in the industry.

I never saw him yell or raise a hand to any horse. I never heard him speak an unkind word, about any person or any horse. I never saw him impatient, or angry, or spiteful. He was a model of good sportsmanship. At shows he always rode his best, supported his fellow horsemen, and never complained about unfair judging or blamed his horse. He always had a smile for everyone he met and a helping hand for anyone in need.

He taught me how to gait a horse. How to time them up and build their gait until they walk. He taught me how to set heads, engage hindquarters, extend strides and lift front ends. How to relax and ride through seat and fingertips, how to make it look easy. He also taught me to love the animal for what it was, to keep up hope in the face of adversity, to be happy with my successes and learn from my failures, and to root for the underdog. He did all of it with a minimum of words and a few suggestions, that same smile on his face and with that same calm drawl. I think there was a part of me that fell in love with George Thompson, and that part will always love him. He gave me gifts I can never repay.

I have always believed that if I lived up to even a quarter of the person that George was I would consider myself lucky. He knew and had forgotten more about horses, and about life, than I will ever learn. I was blessed to have known him.

He will be sorely missed.