Folly Farms 24 Angels
The first time I sat on a horse was at the early age of 2 years old—you could say that started it all. Growing up with horses teaches you a lot about life: patience, authority, observation, compassion, and so much more. Yes, I had my own horse, and one could say I was self-taught in how to ride, but it didn’t stop there.
My mom has nearly 40 years in the horse industry, so it was natural that while school was out for the summer, I was spending my time at the stables that she managed. Working with show horses and watching riders during their lessons taught me more just by sitting there watching. I was always eager to do anything—whether mucking stalls, brushing and tacking up a horse, or hosing them down on a sweltering hot day. It didn’t have to be actual riding.
Seeing this, the summer camp director asked me at the ripe age of 8 years old if I wanted to help out with the camp kids. The answer was immediately yes! We had about two dozen horses that we would use for camp lessons and activities. I would help teach how to make their grain, scrub water buckets and feed buckets, assist with getting the right tack for the horse the campers were riding—if there was grunt work to be done, I did it. In exchange, I would get a free week of camp, seeing as I was so young.
As I got older and was legally allowed to be paid, I grew more into the role of camp counselor. This involved stepping more into the roles of teaching riding lessons with a group of campers, planning activities, and coordinating chores with them. My favorite group of campers to teach was our 2–5-year-old group we called “Tiny Trotters.” Seeing a small child’s eyes light up and fall in love like I did—and being able to be 1:1 with them while they learned the basics of riding—made me fall deeply in love with teaching.
This was my life from 8 to about 17. As usual, life moves on, and I went away to college, coming home for Christmas break like normal. But what I didn’t know was that December 28th, 2017—my freshman year of college, first break home—would be a day my life changed, and a chunk of my heart would die that day.
I remember it clear as day, how it happened. I woke up like normal. My mom was making breakfast and Dad was sitting at the table, finishing up to head to work. Me, still half asleep, walked into the kitchen to see what Mom was cooking when she stopped and looked at me, pointing at the TV set on top of the refrigerator, and said, “Folly’s on fire.”
I looked at her, not fully comprehending what she said, and asked, “What?” She repeated it again and pointed to the TV. Looking at the screen, I saw what my brain couldn’t understand. On the screen was the barn I had grown up in, with fire trucks lining the long driveway that cut through the stable’s property. There was caution tape in front of the arena doors.
This building was metal, so I looked confused and said, “It doesn’t look like it’s on fire.” Mom said, “It sounds like something happened with the hot water heater in the middle of the barn, and the actual fire didn’t go far—just mostly burned the viewing area and feed area. They got it knocked down before it went past the first stall.” Our eyes were glued to the screen.
I had to go to another barn I was working at for the winter break, but Mom said she was going over to see what they needed help with. I asked her to call me the minute she knew what was going on.
I went to work, teaching a winter camp with some kids at the barn. I felt my phone ring and stepped out while they were cleaning their tack. The only words my mom said when I answered the phone were, “All of them.”
Confused, I asked, “All okay? Or all gone?” “All gone,” she said.
It took everything in me to not fall down right there and burst into tears. We both just sat in silence on the phone before I needed to get back to the campers. Saying our goodbyes, I hung up and just stood there—gutted. Horses I had grown up with, and the ones that built my teaching career, were gone in one swift moment.
Knowing I couldn’t let the kids see me upset, I shoved it down and went back to them. We went through the day, but once it concluded, I knew I needed to go see the barn for myself. Mom had warned me that they were all still inside, as they were making arrangements to either bury or cremate them.
Parking and walking down to the barn, it all looked normal—outside of some smoke soot on the roll-up door that was down and caution tape at all the entrances. There wasn’t a soul around besides myself.
Curious, I walked around the side of the barn to see if the side door was open—it was. Pushing it open a bit more, I stepped inside. Why I did this I have no idea, but it felt like something I needed to do.
Looking down the aisle, you could see a hoof sticking out a door here and there. As I walked down the aisle, I looked at each of them lying there, as if they were all napping. Turning around and walking down the other half, I stopped when I got to one stall—a horse I had ridden while she was being reintroduced into work after an injury. She was lying up against the wall, as if she had tried to claw her way out of the stall. Looking at her and huffing, I thought—that’s the fight this horse had, and I wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Walking back to the side door, I just stood there looking down the aisle, and I swear I felt their souls. They were still there, milling around, not wanting to leave this earth quite yet, not understanding what had happened and why they had to leave.
I thought about everything that I had done in this very barn, and how all that had literally gone up in smoke.
Walking back to the front of the barn and just standing outside staring at it, the owner’s husband walked up and asked how I was. Responding, “I have no idea. These horses were my life,” he just looked at me and nodded. We both just stood there, staring at the barn. It just didn’t seem real.
This is something that affected not only myself, but rocked a whole community. Anyone that was tied to these horses lost a part of themselves that day.
A memorial was held later in the year, once arrangements had been made for them all. Dubbed “Folly Farms’ 24 Angels,” it inspired my tattoo. It seems fitting that these horses were the start to my career and were among the first to shape who I am—so why not make them my first tattoo?
The “24” stands for the 24 angels we lost that day. Flanking both sides are horseshoes, which several horses had pulled before burial to make a memorial piece in honor of them. December 28, 2017—a day my life changed, a date I never wanted to forget—rounds out the bottom.
A tattoo paying honor to these beautiful creatures. It’s something I look at often and remind myself that we don’t know what tomorrow could bring—but we also never forget those that molded who we are today.
Folly’s 24 angels will always be with me, but they left a hell of a hole in my heart.